The room reeked of smoke and wet fur—a stifling mix that clung to the lungs like a curse.
Shadows writhed in the dim lamplight as beastkin guards lounged by the doorframes, their muscled arms folded, claws drumming lazily against their biceps.
They didn't bother to hide their smirks; sharp fangs caught the glow every time their lips curled.
Karun walked between them as if taking a casual stroll through a garden path, his boots striking a measured rhythm on the stone floor.
The long black coat he wore swayed at his ankles, its folds concealing the faint shimmer of divine sigils etched into the lining.
His breathing was even, his expression calm—masking the pulse thundering beneath his ribs like war drums.
He had read the file. Every word burned into his mind like acid on parchment.
[Grade-school Siren. Female. Eight years old. Name: Lirielle. Status: Trafficked.]
He could still hear her voice from the recording—soft, broken fragments of a lullaby, the kind a mother hums to lull a child to sleep.
It had ended mid-note, slashed apart by a scream that still rang in his ears like shattered glass.
It had taken him three weeks to break this case open.
Three agonizing weeks clawing through the fetid underbelly of beastkin black markets, sifting through layers of lies and blood-soaked coin trails.
Three weeks of scraping information from cowards who'd sell their own kin for the right price.
He had pulled every string in Alus and nearly strangled himself with them.
Ministers who smiled in public but whispered "impossible" behind closed doors.
Clerks who demanded signatures in triplicate just to stall him.
Bureaucrats who hid behind paper shields, terrified of offending another nation, even when a child's life rotted away in chains.
Karun had begged.
He had threatened.
He had bribed men who smelled of wine and self-importance, and bled others who thought themselves untouchable.
He had called in favors so old they were dust, bending the will of people who prayed never to see Karun Verimer darken their door again.
And all of it—every sleepless night, every coin spent, every ounce of pride ground beneath his heel—was for one child.
One child.
One little girl whose song had been stolen.
But Karun knew better.
This wasn't just about Lirielle. This wasn't just one child lost in the maw of a savage trade.
No, this was a thread in a vast and tangled web—and someone out there was pulling it with bloody hands.
The thought ignited something deep and venomous in his chest, a slow, simmering fury that hissed behind his teeth like a caged serpent.
He smothered it, barely.
He still had a bigger part to play for now.
-***-
The mafia compound sprawled like a beast in slumber—fortified stone walls layered with enchantments that pulsed faintly under the night sky.
The gates hummed with beastkin warding sigils, a symphony of deterrents woven to repel divine interference.
Against anyone else, they would have been impenetrable.
Against Karun? They were nothing but whispers in the wind.
Inside, the place stank of power and predation. Chandeliers dripped pale light over velvet carpets soaked in old blood.
Predators in tailored suits lounged by polished tables, claws wrapped around crystal glasses.
Magic-tech weapons glimmered in display cases like trophies—tools bought with screams and broken lives.
Karun's boots made no sound as he walked through the heart of the den.
His gaze slid over cages stacked like shelves, each one a coffin of iron bars. His jaw clenched until his teeth ached.
They were small. Too small.
Elves with hollow cheeks, beastkin cubs trembling in filth, human children clutching each other for warmth.
Skin marred by lashes, bruises blossoming like rot.
No light in their eyes—only a gray vacancy that spoke of nights stolen, songs silenced.
And then—he saw her.
Lirielle.
Curled into herself in a rusted cage, sea-blue hair matted with grime, tiny arms mottled with bruises in shades of violet and black.
Her lips moved soundlessly, mouthing fragments of a song that had long since died in her throat.
Her eyes… gods above. Empty. Hollow the way only souls splintered beyond repair could be.
No child should wear eyes like that.
Karun's fists tightened in his coat pockets, nails biting his palms.
The fire in his chest roared, clawing at his ribs, begging to be unleashed.
For a moment, he saw himself tearing through these walls, ripping every beastkin limb from limb.
He saw rivers of blood and didn't flinch.
But he forced it down. He swallowed his fury like molten steel and walked on, because there were more.
So many more.
He reached the back chamber—a room of ledgers and contracts inked in blood. He knelt, pressing his palm to the cold metal floor.
"Sanctum Root."
The words left his lips like a verdict. Golden glyphs crawled across his skin, spiraling from wrist to throat, glowing with an authority older than the stars.
Sigils burst from his hand and spidered through the compound, threading into every wall, every lock, every breath of magic.
He felt them.
One heartbeat.
Then ten. Fifty.
Hundreds.
Children scattered like dying embers, clinging to life in dark corners. His jaw locked so hard his bones groaned.
"Bastards," he whispered, the word coiling with something darker than hate.
The traffickers had taken precautions—anti-divinity seals, blood wards, nullifiers designed to cripple godkin powers.
Against Karun, they shattered like glass.
Because Karun was not like the others. His essence bled through laws both mortal and divine, rewriting the rules in golden fire.
He marked every child with a trace of his soul—a luminous thread tethering them to him.
It was an act forbidden by protocol, a violation that would cost him dearly.
But Karun didn't hesitate. Rules weighed nothing against the life of a child. Against hundreds.
The mastermind sat waiting, as if the devil himself had summoned him.
A wolf beastkin in a white suit lounged behind an obsidian desk, cigar smoke wreathing his pointed ears.
His smile glimmered with arrogance.
"Well, well," the beastkin drawled, fangs glinting. "A godkin. And a rare breed at that. They sent their expensive little hound to us? Splendid!"
Karun smiled back. It was a dead thing, cold as winter steel.
"Oh, I'm not here to trade."
The wolf blinked. He never blinked again.
The floor erupted in glyphfire.
Radiant sigils bloomed like a thousand suns, devouring shadow, burning the mafia's empire to the bone.
Soundless light swept through corridors, turning stone to ash and steel to dust. The air split with a hollow thunder as the foundations ruptured beneath Karun's will.
Screams clawed at the night, but they were brief. Cleansed in holy annihilation.
Amid the inferno, Karun's voice fell like a hammer.
"Return."
Reality rippled.
The marks he had woven flared, and in an instant, every stolen child vanished in golden light—spirited away to sanctuaries hidden even from gods, guarded by the Union's finest healers and soul-menders.
When the flames guttered, only Karun remained—standing among ruins that hissed and smoked, ash spiraling like black snow.
Papers whirled through the air: ledgers, contracts, client lists—the bones of an empire of filth.
He caught them in one hand, eyes blazing with a calm so deep it froze the blood.
The world would think this was just another mafia fire. But Karun knew the truth.
The reality that powerful figures had some part in this despicable trade, and he wouldn't be able to bring them all to justice…