The forest had grown too quiet.
Not the natural quiet of night settling into the branches, nor the strained hush of predators stalking prey. This was a stillness imposed. Pressed flat. As though the world itself feared to make a sound in her presence.
Minerva stood beneath the torn canopy where the battle had raged, white curls drifting gently in a breeze that did not touch the trees. The blackened,overturned earth was still damp with blood and melted frost. Lyle stood several paces away, chest heaving, the ooze within him pulsing faintly beneath his skin like something alive and impatient.
Sigmund Kilgowe lay painfully aware of the situation but unable todo anything to change it, he had run out of tricks. Roric himself was forced face-first into the soil, invisible pressure locking his muscles in place,Lyles authority still active. He could hear. He could breathe. He could do nothing else.
Minerva's clear blue eyes settled on her brother.
"You have failed," she said gently.
There was no anger in her tone.
No disappointment.
Just fact.
Lyle flinched as if struck.
"I— I captured him," he stammered, gesturing wildly toward Sigmund.
"He's-he's right there! The target is secured—"
She spoke over him without raising her voice.
"You were given fifty operatives."
Lyle's jaw tightened.
"Fifty trained agents to discreetly enter Aerthos. Your orders were clear. Infiltrate. Capture Grand Artificer Sigmund Kilgowe. Return without raising suspicion."
Her gaze drifted to the treeline, then back to him.
"Do you have any idea how long we have been attempting to capture him?"
Silence.
"He has been running across the continent for years," she continued softly. "Appearing. Disappearing. Crossing borders without leaving a trail. We finally cornered him just before he could flee to another continent."
Her eyes lowered slightly.
"And you turned it into a spectacle."
Lyle's breathing grew uneven.
"We got him before he escaped again!" he insisted. "You said it yourself— we cornered him!"
Minerva's head tilted almost curiously.
"I'm not surprised about your performance. To be honest, we never expected anything from you to begin with."
It landed heavier than a scream.
Lyle's fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms. The ooze within his veins thickened, dark rivulets rising under his skin like storm clouds.
"Is that what you all think?" he whispered. "That I'm useless?"
Minerva ignored the question.
"What of the Dishonored who died in your service?"
"They were expendable tools!" Lyle snapped. "Replaceable!"
"No," she corrected calmly. "Replaceable does not mean untraceable."
She stepped closer. The soil did not cling to her boots.
"They carried marks. Sigils. Equipment forged in Nordhelm. Even in their degradation, they can be traced. And now the Kingdom of Aerthos will investigate."
Her gaze sharpened, though her expression did not change.
"Because of your foolishness, I must now intervene."
She regarded him quietly.
"How long must I clean up after you, Lyle? How long must I wipe your ass?"
Something inside him broke.
He straightened abruptly, shoulders trembling.
"You think I don't see it?" he shouted. "The way everyone back home looks at me? Like I'm trash? Even you."
His voice cracked.
"My own sister. Just because you've broken through the Fourth Stage, become a Praetorian, you think you can look down pn me?"
The black liquid surged beneath his skin, veins bulging grotesquely along his neck and arms.
"Well I'll show you," he hissed. "I'll show all of you."
The corpses of Torvin and the two fallen Dishonored knights lay nearby, twisted and cooling.
Black fluid began seeping from their mouths.
From their eyes.
From torn wounds.
It crawled across the ground like spilled ink defying gravity.
Minerva did not move.
The ooze slithered toward Lyle, climbing his boots, fusing with the corruption already inside him. His body convulsed as it entered him, muscles expanding unnaturally, bones cracking audibly beneath stretching flesh.
He laughed.
High.
Manic.
"You see?!" he roared. "I'm not beneath you! I'm—"
He never finished.
In one blink, he was standing.
In the next, he was on the ground.
Skin torn open from head to toe as though invisible hands had ripped him apart. Blood sprayed across the blackened earth. His eyes bulged,his ribcage was exposed, organs twitching wetly in the cold air.
Minerva stood over him.
Her hand glistening with black, writhing mass .
She had extracted his corruption in one smooth motion. They hung between her fingers, arteries and veins glistening, still pulsing weakly as blood dripped in thick strings.
Lyle gurgled, eyes wide with disbelief. He tried to scream but only blood came out.
"How bold you've become," she observed pleasantly. " This corruption has made you brave."
She began compressing the writhing mass between her palms. The veins shrank and snapped inward. Arteries folded into themselves with sickening pops and wet crunches.
The mass grew smaller.
Denser.
Until it was no larger than a pill.
A glossy black sphere, faintly throbbing.
She turned toward Sigmund Kilgowe, who stared at her with cold, calculating terror.
She inclined her head politely.
"Its not everyday one gets to meet a living legend. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Minerva Lukas. One of the princesses of Nordhelm. Pleasure to make your acquantance."
Her smile was faint and perfectly courteous.
"I have been tasked with retrieving you, well since it would be difficult to smuggle the whole ensamble, parts of you."
Sigmund strained, trying to get up.
"You won't—"
She extended her hand toward his face.
"You will be put to good use," she assured him gently. "I assure you that so please, do not worry."
Roric, still crushed into the soil, heard the scream.
It began sharp.
Defiant.
It ended abruptly.
Cut short by a wet, tearing sound. Something thick and fleshy being separated. A final choking gurgle, then silence returned.
Minerva glanced at the small black pill in her hand.
"I was instructed to eliminate you brother," she murmured thoughtfully. "However, I cannot return my newly acquired items in such disarray."
Behind her, Lyle's ruined body twitched.
In his agony, he tried to reach for his own throat.
But he was interceptedbefore he could end himself and just like before, his scream was cut short as his flesh began to liquefy and his body was transfigured.
It flowed inward, collapsing like wax melting in reverse. Bones softened and cracked. Muscles snapped and dissolved. His body folded into itself, forming a crude, living container around something unseen.
The mass reshaped.
Solidified.
Minerva lifted the result with mild interest.
It was a box.
Roughly rectangular.
Made of flesh.
Tufts of white hair protruded from its seams. Eyes blinked from random surfaces. A nose twitched near one corner. A mouth sat at the center, stitched tightly shut with dark thread.
Roric finally felt the pressure lift.
He forced himself upright and turned.
Horror stole his breath.
"What… are you?"
Minerva fastened the grotesque box to her belt as though attaching a satchel.
Beside her lay a disfigured husk— Sigmund's remains stripped of whatever she had deemed important.
She turned toward Roric and bowed politely.
"I am Minerva Lukas," she said again. "Princess of Nordhelm."
Her eyes met his.
"Greetings, Uncle."
The word hit him harder than any blow.
Before he could process it, she was in front of him.
Her fingers pried his jaw open with impossible strength.
"I apologize," she said softly. "I was asked to leave no witnesses. Even if they are family."
She dropped the black pill into his mouth and closed his jaw.
He tried to spit it out.
Her hand covered his throat.
He swallowed then she released him.
He collapsed to the ground as she turned and walked away, fading into the darkness between trees.
The corruption bloomed instantly.
Black veins erupted across his skin, spreading like cracks in porcelain. His muscles seized violently. The whispers returned— louder than before. Insistent.
Consume.
Destroy.
Take.
He saw Elara's face.
He saw Alaric's face.
Elias laughter.
His daughter's small hands gripping his fingers.
"No," he rasped.
The veins thickened, crawling up his neck.
"You don't get to take them."
Memories surged.
Raizelle smiling beneath summer sunlight.
Jamie toddling across the courtyard.
The first time she called him papa.
He roared and forced the whispers back.
Forced the corruption inward.
After a while, the veins receded.
His breathing slowed.
He lay still.
Then the black lines faded completely.
Silence.
He pushed himself up slowly.
Then he opened his eyes.
They were entirely black.
No white.
No iris.
Only abyss.
He thought of Jamie.
And smiled faintly.
"It was you," he spat venomously.
"You killed her."
He did not know which voice spoke.
His grip tightened around his axe.
His body shot toward the city like a launched spear.
Jamie ran through the streets, weaving between knights and hunters who ran about to battle the last remnants of monsters trapped within the Zone.
"Papa?!" she called. "Papa!"
Fire had died out. Broken walls stood frozen in halted collapse. The Zone still clung faintly to the air, preserving what it could.
Knights worked in groups now, finishing weakened monsters one by one.
Jamie scanned rooftops.
"Papa!"
From above, he watched her.
Perched atop a fractured building.
Axe griped so hard it could shatter at any moment.
His black eyes tracked her every movement.
She looked so small.
So unaware.
The corruption whispered.
Kill.
Silence her.
Erase weakness.
It's her fault Raizelle died.
You must...
He lifted the axe slowly.
Drew back his arm.
Below, she turned in a circle, panic edging into her voice.
"Papa!"
His muscles coiled.
Then—
He stopped.
The word echoed in his mind.
Papa.
His arm trembled violently.
His jaw clenched.
"No."
No!
The muscles tensed as the blade flew foward.