The room was too white.
Not the sterile, clinical kind of white found in hospitals, but the soft, coaxing kind meant to look calm. The sort of calm that never lasted.
Irina sat on the couch with her legs crossed, gloved hands resting on her knees. The smell of sandalwood clung faintly to the air from a diffuser in the corner, too sweet for her liking. Across from her, Doctor Levin adjusted his glasses, a quiet man with gray at his temples and a tone that made every sentence sound like a slow exhale.
He slid the first photograph across the table toward her.
"What do you see here, Irina?"
The image was abstract with smears of black and crimson, paint bleeding upward like smoke. Irina tilted her head, studying it for a long beat.
"Fear," she said finally. "Or maybe… not fear itself. The moment before it. When your body hasn't caught up yet."
Levin nodded once, sliding it aside. The second picture was more defined: a human figure rendered in jagged charcoal, faceless, its head bowed. She felt her throat tighten, breath catching for half a second before she managed to speak.
"Control," she said quietly. "Someone taking it away. Someone making you… less."
He didn't comment, only replaced it with the third. This one was a simple photograph: the sunlight cutting through forest canopy, bright and dappled. She looked at it, and for a moment, her expression softened.
"Relief," she murmured. "The kind that doesn't last."
Levin watched her, then gathered the photos with delicate precision, stacking them back into his folder. "You've made progress in identifying emotional associations, Irina. That's good. Let's talk about recovery. How have the last few weeks felt?"
She leaned back, exhaling through her nose. The couch creaked beneath her weight.
"Like I'm walking underwater," she said.
"Every time I close my eyes, I see it. Them holding me down, Markus…" Her voice caught, a hairline fracture in the otherwise composed tone. "The Faceless. The man with the red eyes. All of it."
Levin's pen scratched lightly against his pad. "And what happens when you see it?"
Irina stared past him, eyes fixed on the pale wall behind his head. In her mind, the world bled back to that field with the rain, the cold, the smell of scorched grass and blood. Markus's weight in her arms, his coat heavy with mud, his skin already cooling.
Her fingers curled against her knees. "I... I try to breathe through it. Tell myself it's over... but it never feels like it is."
He nodded slowly. "You're processing trauma, Irina. That's natural. The others—"
"The others aren't like me," she snapped, the edge of her voice surprising even herself. She swallowed hard, then continued lower, more controlled. "They're… upset, sure. Mourning. But they're not angry. Not like this."
"They are," Levin said softly. "They just carry it differently."
Irina's jaw tightened. She let out a bitter laugh, more breath than sound. "If they're angry, then why aren't they saying anything? Why are we pretending? Why are we letting the whole world believe he died of colon cancer?"
Her voice cracked on the last two words. The room, once so still, seemed to tilt. The next sound, the crash, was sudden.
Her hand had slammed the small table beside her without thought, and the thing flew halfway across the room, scattering pens and the framed photo of Levin's family. Wood splintered as it hit the wall. The echo lingered.
Levin didn't flinch. He simply waited.
Irina's breathing came shallow, her heart pounding hard against her ribs. She ran a hand over her face, sighing deeply, the sound weighted with exhaustion.
"Sorry," she muttered. "Didn't mean to—"
"I know," Levin said gently. He crouched briefly to retrieve the frame, brushing off the glass. "You're asking why we lie."
Irina looked away, jaw working. "We call ourselves protectors, but we hide the truth from the people we're supposed to protect. Markus deserved better than some clean little obituary about fighting quietly."
Levin straightened, setting the cracked frame aside. "You know why they're doing it," he said.
Her eyes flicked up to meet his. There was no defiance left in them now, just a weary understanding she didn't want to admit.
"Yeah," she said quietly. "I know."
Outside the window, the city glowed faintly in the late afternoon haze, where Boston was alive and unaware, flags for the upcoming Hero's Day fluttering on the distant skyline.
Irina pressed her palms together, fingertips trembling despite her control. "They think if the people saw what really happened, they'd stop believing in us..."
Levin didn't answer. He didn't need to.
She closed her eyes, hearing again the rain, the whisper of the Faceless in her skull, the hollow quiet after Markus's last breath.
The clock ticked quietly above the door. Irina didn't realize how long they'd sat in silence until Levin glanced at it, pen poised midair. Their session was over.
He didn't rush her. He never did. He only said, gently, "You've done enough for today, Irina."
She nodded faintly, pulling her gloves back on. The leather creaked as she flexed her fingers. The air smelled faintly of sandalwood and static from the broken picture frame. She could still see the faint scuff marks her strength had left on the wall.
As she stood, Levin added, "Try to rest before the debrief tomorrow. Don't isolate."
Irina gave a small, hollow laugh. "That's the only thing I'm good at."
When she left the therapy suite, the sterile white gave way to the polished metal and glass of Spiral Tower. The hum of elevators and distant chatter filled the space, echoing faintly through the atrium. Spiral Tower was always alive; its design wound upward in a column of light and motion, steel ribs twisting like a helix.
But to Irina, it felt more like a mausoleum than a headquarters.
She passed the memorial alcove where journalists were usually escorted during press visits where its holoscreens were muted now, looping old footage of the Valor Nine standing side by side. The sight made something in her chest tighten. Markus stood at the far left in every frame, always half-turned toward the others, like he'd never learned how to pose properly.
The hallway to the living quarters stretched long and dim, the glass panels along the wall faintly fogged by Boston's chill pressing against the tower's exterior. Irina's boots thudded softly against the polished floor, her reflection sliding past her in fragments.
She slowed when she reached the end.
Captain Gray's door was still sealed– access lights dim red. Someone had hung a black ribbon from the panel, though she doubted anyone had been brave enough to admit who. The lock shimmered faintly, keyed off-limits even to her.
He'd barely used the place. The irony hit hard. Markus had always joked that his apartment was "for show," since he preferred to disappear for days when the tower felt too tight. But sometimes, when he'd had a bad argument with his wife, he'd hole up here.
Irina's mouth twitched. She remembered the night he'd stumbled in drunk and set off the tower's security grid because he'd walked through the main door while the place was on lock down. The alarms had screamed across three floors, guards storming the corridor before The Mirror, real name: Chiara Bellafiore, talked him down. Chiara had handled him like a sister would, calm and steady while he swore he was fine.
Irina almost smiled at the memory, but it twisted halfway through.
A hand landed on her shoulder.
She spun slightly, muscle tensing before her mind caught up. The hand belonged to a man whose shadow nearly swallowed hers.
"Relax," came the gravel-edged voice. "It's just me."
The Pinnacle of Man.
Up close, he was as impossible to ignore as ever with broad shoulders straining against a crisp black suit, tie knotted tight, his slicked hair catching the cold light from the corridor. He always looked more like a Southie dockworker forced into church clothes than the leader of the country's strongest hero team.
"Status report," he said simply.
Irina exhaled, a faint hiss through her teeth. "I'm fine."
He arched a brow. The pause between them stretched, heavy with the quiet hum of the tower.
"Lie," he said. Not cruelly, just matter-of-fact.
Irina folded her arms, staring at the floor. "That obvious?"
His mouth twitched. "Your pulse jumps when you lie. I can hear it."
Of course he could. His hearing wasn't superhuman exactly, but it didn't have to be. The man had a way of listening that cut straight through you.
She sighed, shoulders slumping. "Fine. You're right. I'm not fine."
He didn't speak, waiting instead, the kind of silence that always pulled truth from her better than any question.
Irina's fingers dug into her arms. "I keep thinking it's my fault. That if I'd been faster, if I'd–"
"You'd have died beside him," he said, tone even. Not dismissive, just honest.
She met his gaze then. His eyes were dark, steady, and for a moment she saw the man beneath the symbol, the soldier who'd seen too many bodies fall beside him to lie about survival.
Something in her chest eased, but it didn't lift.
The Pinnacle nodded once, like he'd come to a decision. "Are you busy?"
The question caught her off guard. "Now?"
He nodded. "Now."
Irina hesitated, the air between them carrying that low hum of the tower's ventilation, the distant pulse of the city beyond. "No," she said at last. "I'm not."
"Good." He turned down the hall, his stride slow but certain. "Then come with me. There's something I need to show you."
She followed, boots echoing softly behind his heavier steps. The sealed door to Markus's quarters slipped from view as they turned the corner, its dim red light fading into shadow.
For the first time all day, Irina felt a flicker of something that wasn't grief. It wasn't comfort, either.
It was curiosity
And, buried deep beneath it, dread.
They left through the service corridors, which were narrow and had metallic veins of Spiral Tower that only senior members used. Their steps echoed faintly against steel and concrete, the air cool and dry, tinged with the faint smell of oil from the tower's magnetic shielding. A single corridor light flickered as they passed, buzzing low.
The Pinnacle of Man said little. He moved with the calm certainty of someone used to silence. Irina followed a step behind, adjusting the collar of her coat as the heavy access doors hissed open.
Outside, the city met them with its evening chill.
They emerged from a discreet entry in a loading zone behind the tower, no crowds, no waiting reporters, only the distant hum of traffic echoing between the glass facades of the Financial District. The wet pavement reflected slanted light from passing cars, streaking white and gold. The air smelled faintly of rain and exhaust, the kind of Boston night that clung to the lungs.
Irina shoved her hands into her pockets. "If this is your version of a walk, I'm underdressed."
Pinnacle's mouth curved slightly. "It's a short one."
They crossed several blocks in silence, ducking through side streets and access alleys that would have looked forgotten to anyone else. He knew them all by heart. It was strange, watching a man that large move with such precision.
When they surfaced again, they arrived at Beacon Hill.
The air was warmer somehow, laced with the faint mineral scent of the river and burning incense that drifted from doorways. Brick row houses stood in neat, dignified lines, and between them, the hill sloped upward like the spine of something ancient.
Irina frowned. "We're in Beacon Hill...?"
He didn't respond.
She followed him up one narrow path that twisted between two older brownstones until it ended abruptly at a heavy wrought-iron gate, its design spiraling inward in geometric curls. At the center of the pattern was a sigil she didn't recognize: partly arcane, partly bureaucratic: the insignia of registered Sorcerers.
Beyond the gate stood the Sorcerer's Sanctuary.
It was smaller than she'd imagined with three stone buildings arranged around a circular courtyard, their surfaces weathered but alive with faint etchings that glowed pale blue under the moonlight. The ground itself shimmered faintly, runes woven into the cobblestone like veins of light. The smell of burning sage mixed with old paper drifted through the air, and every now and then, the wind carried the low hum of an unseen chant... something rhythmic and impossibly old.
She hesitated, eyes narrowing. "This place is off-limits to non-Sorcerers. You know that."
Pinnacle stopped just ahead of her, hand on the gate. "That rule never applied to the Valor Nine."
She gave him a long look. "Markus trained here."
"Yes," he said quietly. "For nearly fifteen years."
The metal gate unlocked with a deep click. Pinnacle pushed it open, the hinges groaning softly.
Irina stepped forward, boots touching the runic stone. The faint warmth pulsed beneath her soles, like the heartbeat of the earth itself. The place felt alive and yet, empty.
Her voice came low. "Why are we here?"
Pinnacle didn't answer right away. He gestured ahead instead, his broad hand sweeping toward the courtyard where the stone path divided into three directions. The center path led toward an open archway glowing with faint violet light, the same hue Markus's portals used to burn with.
"Come," he said.
Irina lingered for a heartbeat longer at the threshold, feeling that pulse again beneath her feet, like the place recognized her and then followed him through.
The glow from the archway spilled into a wide chamber lined with shelves of weathered books and jars that shimmered faintly from within. Candles floated in midair, drifting lazily like lanterns on an unseen tide. At the center of the room, a circle of young Sorcerers practiced, their hands weaving intricate sigils that glowed briefly before fading into the air like dissolving ink.
The low hum of incantations filled the hall until the moment they noticed who had entered.
One by one, their voices faltered. The air seemed to pause.
From the far end of the chamber, the Head Sorcerer lifted her gaze. She was older than she looked at first glance, her copper hair streaked with gray, her green robes layered with faintly glowing script. The staff in her hand was carved from oak and wound with silver filigree.
"By the gods," she murmured. Her tone carried equal parts surprise and wry amusement. "Michael O'Shae... If I'd known the Pinnacle of Man himself was visiting, I'd have prepared you dinner."
Irina blinked at the mention of "Michael". That was his name. She'd never heard it spoken aloud like that, stripped of the title that carried so much weight.
Michael smiled, that soft, practiced kind of smile that had diffused entire riots before.
"Always a pleasure, Fiona." His voice dropped just enough to suggest familiarity. "Don't let us interrupt."
Fiona O'Dare, the Head Sorcerer of the Sanctuary, arched a brow and gestured for her students to rise. "Children, you know your manners. Greet the guests."
The students, some no older than nineteen, straightened and offered respectful bows. Their movements were fluid, trained, yet every one of them stole quick, curious glances at Irina.
Michael stepped forward with easy confidence, motioning toward her. "Allow me to introduce my colleague, Irina Kovalenko, known to most of you, I imagine, as Lady Valiant."
A ripple went through the group like wind through tall grass.
The young Sorcerers looked at her differently now, shoulders stiffening, eyes flicking between her and the floor. Their expressions hovered somewhere between awe and unease. Reverent, but heavy. They knew. They all knew.
Irina felt it like static under her skin. The memory of that night with the faceless forms, the smell of mud flashed so vividly she almost expected her hands to start shaking again. She pressed her palms together to keep them still.
Michael's tone softened. "She stood beside Captain Gray when he fell."
Silence deepened. The air itself seemed to dim a little.
Fiona stepped closer, her staff tapping lightly against the stone. "We heard the reports," she said quietly. "And we grieved. Markus trained here. He was family to this Sanctuary." Her eyes drifted toward the faintly glowing sigils on the floor. "His loss was… deeply felt."
Irina nodded faintly, unsure what to say. Family. The word landed somewhere between comfort and pain.
Then Fiona's tone shifted, gentler but curious. "What brings the two of you here tonight?"
Michael's smile didn't fade, but something in it turned. "We're here to see Markus."
Irina's brow furrowed. "What?"
The air in the chamber thickened. The younger Sorcerers exchanged uneasy glances, and Fiona's hand tightened around her staff.
"Michael," she said slowly, voice laced with caution. "You're sure?"
He nodded once. "Quite sure. I'm giving my colleague a lesson of her own." He glanced at Irina with a flicker of warmth that didn't entirely reach his eyes, then looked back to Fiona. "A necessary one."
For a moment, no one moved. Then Fiona sighed, long and resigned, as though she'd known he'd ask something like this eventually. "You always were fond of lessons that cut deep."
Michael said nothing, only gave a small, respectful nod.
Fiona exhaled, shoulders settling. "Very well." She turned to the group of students.
"Who among you would like to show the Pinnacle of Man and Lady Valiant to the chapel?"
Every hand shot up at once.
The sudden burst of motion broke the tension, laughter threatening to spill as students called out all at once which were half volunteering and half pleading.
"Professor, I've been there the most!"
"I know the chants better!!!"
"I helped clean the–"
Fiona closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. "Saints preserve me..."
Then, with a subtle flick of her wrist, a wave of invisible energy rippled outward. It brushed against Irina's skin like warm air. The room fell silent and the students' mouths moved, but no sound came.
"I taught you better manners than that," Fiona said dryly.
A few of the students blushed crimson; others ducked their heads in embarrassment.
Michael chuckled softly. "Still as patient as ever."
"Patience is an illusion," Fiona muttered, waving her hand again. The enchantment lifted, and the room breathed out as voices returned in whispers. "Eamon, show our guests the way, please."
A tall, sandy-haired student stepped forward, bowing deeply before gesturing toward a side corridor lit with soft amber runes.
Irina hesitated, glancing between Michael and Fiona. "See Markus," she murmured under her breath. "What does that even mean?"
Michael didn't answer. He only motioned for her to follow.
As they moved toward the corridor, Irina caught a glimpse of the younger Sorcerers watching them go, expressions half-curious, half-fearful. For the first time since Markus's death, she felt the cold edge of uncertainty settle into her chest again.
The further they walked, the quieter the Sanctuary became. The air grew warmer, thicker with the scent of sage and candle smoke that seemed to linger in the stone itself. Sigils glowed faintly like pulsing veins in a living creature. Each step Irina took echoed faintly, the rhythm of her boots swallowed by the hush.
Eamon led them through a series of arches, his voice never rising above a respectful murmur when he spoke the little gestures of courtesy, warnings about uneven stone or sudden drops in the steps ahead. His robes whispered as he moved.
Irina's thoughts drifted in and out, colliding with the silence like waves against the breakwater. She caught herself wondering if Markus had walked this same path barefoot, muttering theories to himself the way he always did with his head tilted, voice low, mind already six steps ahead of the world.
A bitter pang struck her chest. The last time she'd seen him truly laugh had been here, maybe. Or somewhere like it.
They turned one last corridor, and the light changed.
The ceiling opened into a dome and not open to the sky, but carved with runes that shimmered like captured starlight. In the center of the alcove stood a tree.
It shouldn't have existed. No sunlight, no soil. Yet its roots knotted into the stone floor as if the rock had made room for them. The bark shimmered faintly, silver shot through with streaks of pale green, leaves trembling as if stirred by a wind that didn't exist.
Irina stopped at the threshold, breath caught. "How…"
"The Heartwood," Eamon said softly, almost reverently. "Every Sorcerer who's studied here contributes a portion of their essence to it before they die. It keeps the place alive."
Michael's eyes lingered on the tree, his expression unreadable. "Even in death, still giving... Typical of Markus."
Behind the Heartwood, a set of tall bronze doors loomed. A faint hum emanated from them, so low it was almost beneath hearing.
Eamon stepped forward and lifted his hand, palm open toward the seal, his lips moved, shaping a phrase that rolled off his tongue with practiced ease. "Aperi portam, per lumen et memoriam!"
A tremor passed through the floor. The runes brightened, their lines bleeding white fire before softening into gold. The heavy doors unlocked with a deep, resonant click that seemed to vibrate through Irina's ribs.
Michael let out a small, honest grin. "Still fascinates me," he murmured. "Words alone commanding the physical world... Elegant. Almost… old-fashioned."
Eamon blinked at him, caught off guard by the warmth in his tone. Irina shot Michael a sidelong glance which was half incredulous.
The Pinnacle of Man, breaker of sieges and living symbol of raw strength, charmed by the intricacy of language and simple magic.
He caught her look and shrugged, almost sheepish. "What can I say? There's poetry in power you have to earn."
Eamon pushed the door open, and the smell of incense and dust spilled out. Candles floated in the air, their flames steady despite the stillness. The space beyond stretched longer than Irina expected, the air cool and dry, carrying the faint sound of water dripping somewhere distant.
Michael gestured for her to go first. "After you."
She hesitated a heartbeat, then stepped inside. The chapel was built from smooth stone, every surface inscribed with spiraling script. Alcoves lined the walls, each marked with a name and an emblem of the Sorcerer it honored. The air vibrated with the quiet hum of enchantments meant to preserve not bodies, but memories.
And at the far end, beneath a shaft of pale light cast through an unseen source, stood a single resting place newer than the rest.
Captain Markus Gray.
Irina's throat tightened. The candles nearest to his plaque flickered as if disturbed by her breath.
Michael stepped in beside her, his footfalls slow, deliberate. "Here he is."
Irina couldn't speak. The stillness pressed around her like water, thick with reverence and unspoken words. She thought of Markus's hand trembling in hers, of the rain washing the color from his face, of how even heroes were made of things that ended.
Michael's voice cut through gently. "You carried him to safety. You gave him the only thing that mattered... dignity."
She didn't answer. Her gaze stayed on the stone, the engraved letters sharp against her reflection.
The heartwood tree rustled faintly behind them, and Irina realized she could feel its pulse through the soles of her boots. Slow. Steady.
Markus Gray was gone. But in this place, his presence was everywhere.
Eamon stopped before the final archway. Beyond it, a soft blue glow flickered against the stone, steady as a heartbeat.
"This chamber is sealed," he said quietly, fingers brushing the edge of the arch. "Only the Head Sorcerer or authorized kin may–"
Michael cut in gently. "It's all right, son. You've done your duty."
Eamon blinked, visibly torn between respect and hesitation. "Sir, if this is about Captain Gray–"
"It is." Michael's voice softened, but it carried weight. "This is Valor business now. Wait outside. I won't ask twice."
Eamon hesitated, eyes darting to Irina as if for confirmation, but she could only offer a small nod. The young man swallowed and stepped back, bowing slightly before retreating through the arch.
When he was gone, the silence rushed in.
Michael exhaled, the sound rougher than before. "Come on, Irina."
She followed him into the chamber, her boots scuffing against the smooth stone steps that spiraled downward into a circular room.
The walls were lined with blue candles that burned without flickering, their wax untouched by time. They cast soft light over the floor, where faint runes pulsed in rhythm, as though they were alive.
At the center stood the tomb.
It was built into a raised stone dais, wide and solid, draped in a dark fabric embroidered with the insignia of the Sorcerer's Order; a circle within a triangle, surrounded by curling script that shimmered faintly in gold thread.
Irina froze at the edge of the pit, her throat constricting. "This is... this is where he's buried?"
Michael nodded once.
The air pressed against her ears, heavy and reverent. She clasped her hands behind her back instinctively, the way soldiers did at a memorial.
"Is this what you wanted me to see?" she asked quietly. "Because I don't–"
But Michael was already moving.
Her heart lurched. "Michael, wait... what are you doing?"
He descended the steps, calm, unhurried, the soles of his dress shoes clicking lightly against stone.
"Are you insane!?" she hissed, her voice bouncing off the chamber walls. "You can't just walk down there, it's sacred!"
He stopped in front of the tomb and glanced back up at her, his expression unreadable in the blue light. "Pay attention, Lady Valiant."
Before she could answer, he reached out and caught the corner of the fabric.
The sound it made as he pulled it back was soft, like paper tearing underwater. The embroidered symbol rippled once, the gold thread flashing dimly as if in protest, before falling silent.
Beneath it was a rectangular glass case. The candles reflected in its surface, their flames warring with the shadows inside.
Irina took a step forward, lips parting and then froze.
She expected stillness. The quiet dignity of the dead.
But what lay inside was wrong.
Markus's body, if it could still be called that, was discolored– his skin a bruised violet, webbed with thin, glowing veins that crawled like red lightning beneath the surface. His lips were drawn tight, teeth faintly visible. His eyes…
Her breath caught.
His eyes were open.
Completely void.
No color, no soul, only hollow black that seemed to drink the light from the candles around him.
Irina's pulse spiked so hard her vision blurred for a moment. The back of her neck prickled, and her stomach twisted in revolt. The temperature felt as though it dropped ten degrees in an instant.
"What… what the hell happened to him?" Her voice broke on the last word.
Michael didn't answer. He didn't move. He stood over the body with his hands clasped behind his back, eyes hard, expression stripped of all warmth.
His voice, when it came, was low and even with an edge of command buried under the tone.
"This," he said, "is what they don't want you to see."
Irina couldn't tear her eyes away. The faint hum of the chamber pressed into her skull, her breath coming too fast, too shallow. The man she'd fought beside, joked with, argued with, trusted... was right there. Yet every line of him felt foreign, corrupted, like someone had carved Markus Gray's shape out of something else entirely.
Her hands shook. "He's… he's supposed to be gone, not… not this…"
Michael finally looked up at her. His face was still calm, but his eyes had turned cold steel.
Irina stumbled back a step, her hand gripping the railing to steady herself. Her pulse roared in her ears. She wanted to look away, but... she couldn't.
Markus's empty gaze was locked on the ceiling, and for the first time since his death, Irina understood the weight of what they were truly hiding.
And the kind of lie she was now a part of.
Michael exhaled through his nose, a long, tired sigh that misted faintly in the cold air. He brushed his palms together as if to clear dust from them, an unconscious, futile motion, then stepped back up the stairs, his heavy shoes echoing softly in the chamber.
He stopped at the edge of the pit and looked down again at the glass case. The blue candlelight danced across Markus's warped skin, throwing ripples of violet shadow across the ceiling.
"What's happening to him isn't natural," Michael said, tone flat. Factual. "You don't need a Sorcerer's degree to see that."
Irina said nothing. Her mouth was dry, her breath shallow. The world felt oddly distant, like she was viewing it through water.
Michael turned his gaze to her. His expression wasn't cruel, but it carried a weight that left little room for argument. "You understand now why this can't leave the tower."
Irina's lips parted. She wanted to speak, to agree or refuse or scream, anything, but the words tangled in her throat. Her eyes stayed locked on Markus. The faint reflection of her own face looked back at her from the glass, pale and horrified, hovering over what used to be a man she'd trusted with her life.
She finally managed, hoarse, "He… he saved me… He saved half the city last year, and this is how they're burying him?"
Michael's jaw worked once. "This Faceless problem of ours will be a much larger one if we don't snuff it out quickly."
Irina laughed once, bitter and breathless. "I told you, Pinnacle of Man, we can't fight what we don't understand..."
"Exactly," he said, voice low but sharp. "If we don't understand them, and soon, it won't just be the Valor Nine or the rest of the super-abled who suffer. It'll be everyone. The balance we've built will collapse."
He pointed a ringed finger toward Markus's corpse. The gold caught the light, flashing briefly like a small sun.
"This," he said, voice iron. "This cannot happen again."
Irina drew in a deep, uneven breath. The air in the chamber felt heavy in her lungs. She let it out through her teeth, half-sigh, half-scoff. "And what exactly do you expect me to do about it? Not even the two of us together could stop those... those things."
Michael's gaze didn't waver. "You said Markus thought they shared a single mind."
She hesitated, brow furrowing as she tried to remember. "Yeah," she muttered. "He said it when we were fighting them. The way they moved... They weren't thinking, they... they listened without hesitation."
"To the cloaked man."
Irina nodded slowly, the memory cutting through her like glass. "He caught my blade," she murmured, almost to herself. "Bare-handed... like... like it was nothing."
Michael's eyes flickered briefly with something like concern, but it hardened fast into resolve. "Then stay alert. Don't act alone, and don't trust what you can't verify."
He stepped back down into the pit once more, taking hold of the fabric and shaking it out. The gold thread shimmered faintly as he lifted it over Markus's case.
"Let him rest," he said quietly. "For now."
He drew the shroud back over the glass. The insignia glowed once as it touched the surface, then dimmed to stillness.
The sound of fabric settling was the only thing that followed.
Neither spoke again as they climbed out of the chamber. The faint hum of the runes followed them, softer now, as if the Sanctuary itself was holding its breath.
Outside the archway, Eamon straightened immediately, hands clasped in front of him. "Everything all right, sir?"
Michael's expression returned to its usual calm. "As well as it can be. Thank you, son."
Eamon nodded, relief flickering across his face as he led them back toward the exit. The corridors felt narrower on the way out.
When they reached the courtyard again, Irina glanced once over her shoulder. She didn't speak and neither did he.
But she knew the sight of Markus; the color of him, the wrongness was burned into her mind forever.
And the weight of what they were now sworn to hide felt heavier than the grave itself.
They emerged once more into the outer courtyard, where the night pressed close against the high walls of the Sanctuary. The torches lining the arches flickered low, throwing uneven shadows that stretched and folded like restless ghosts.
Irina inhaled slowly, but the breath came thin. The memory of the tomb clung to her, especially with the sight of Markus's skin that wasn't his anymore. Every heartbeat oc hers seemed to echo the pulse she'd felt beneath the floor down there.
Michael stood beside her, silent for a long moment, staring toward the gates as if his mind was already far beyond them. Then, with a quiet sigh, he cleared his throat and tugged at the lapels of his suit jacket, straightening it as though trying to put the weight of command back on his shoulders.
"I'll be departing now," he said, voice low and measured. "I have other matters that can't wait."
Irina looked at him, brow faintly furrowed. There was still that faint stiffness in his tone, the kind that made every word feel like a choice. "You're not going back to the tower?"
"Eventually," he said. "But not tonight." He adjusted his cufflinks, glancing at the faint reflection of the courtyard lights on the polished metal. "There are conversations I need to have, and I'd rather not conduct them under the city's eyes."
The quiet between them deepened. A chill breeze swept across the courtyard and the ruffling of leaves filled the awkward silence between them.
Michael turned toward her fully now. The look he gave wasn't one of authority... it was almost paternal, the kind she imagined he saved for people he still believed in. "Irina," he said, "you've seen what I have. You know how dangerous ignorance can be. So heed my advice."
She blinked, jaw tightening. "Stay on guard. Don't... don't act alone."
He nodded once. "Good. And trust your instincts. They're sharper than you think."
Irina wanted to tell him that her instincts had failed her once already, that they hadn't saved Markus, but the words stayed trapped behind her teeth. She just nodded, a stiff, restrained motion.
Michael's expression softened. "You did what you could," he said. "You both did."
Before she could respond, he reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder. His grip was steady, firm enough that she felt the warmth through her coat.
"Keep your head clear," he said quietly. "The days ahead won't be kind to the uncertain."
And just like that, he released her. The gesture was small, but it left a weight in its wake.
Michael turned away, his footsteps steady on the cobblestone path as he crossed the courtyard toward the shadowed archway. For a man his size, he moved quietly, the faint creak of his shoes the only sound that lingered.
Irina stood there for a while, watching him go until the darkness swallowed the broad shape of his shoulders. The quiet settled in again, the kind that felt too big for one person to hold.
The night air bit against her face. She rubbed her arms, suddenly aware of how cold she was.
Michael's words hung in her head: this must not happen again.
But as she turned her eyes toward the sealed gate of the Sanctuary, a part of her couldn't help wondering if it already had...