"You're quieter than I expected."
That was the first complete sentence Ereon ever said to me.
It was my first day at the Altairs' house. I was still in the same clothes from the night before—stained, stiff, too heavy on my skin. After what happened, I couldn't speak. Couldn't move. I sat on the floor, huddled against the wall, staring at a glass of water between my legs that I hadn't touched.
The room was dark. The only light came from the hallway, slipping in through the doorframe and outlining where I sat like chalk around a body.
Then Ereon appeared in the doorway. The glow from the hall cast his body in shadow—just a shape, just a silhouette.
"You should cry," he said, his voice too calm. "Nobody would blame you after what you saw."
He stepped inside and sat on the edge of the unused guest bed. He didn't say another word for a while. Just sat there. Still. Watching. Like he was waiting for something that never came.
"Don't waste this pain, Cassian," he said at last. "It's the only thing in this world truly yours."
I didn't respond. I couldn't. I didn't even blink.
He stood and walked back to the doorway. Never looked back.
"Everyone has pain, Cassian," he said from the threshold. "You're not the only one grieving." He exhaled, slow and quiet, then added:
"Crying is only reserved for moments like this. So don't waste it."
Why the hell is Ereon here?
What is he doing? Why does he have a mask? What the hell is going on?
"Is Cassian here, Qassi?" Ereon's voice broke through the chaos—calm, steady, familiar in the worst way.
"Father, what is going on!?" Luca shouted, his voice rising with something like courage.
Ereon turned toward him, still calm. "Luca, my son, I'll explain everything later. For now... keep quiet."
As if we weren't kidnapped. As if this were normal.
Then he turned toward the door I was trapped behind. With a slow, practiced motion, he unlatched it. I crawled backward on instinct, heart racing.
He stood in the doorway like he had in the Altairs' guest room all those years ago. The hallway light behind him cast the same silhouette across the stone—tall, solid, faceless, like the memory had come to life.
His steps were slow. Heavy. The door closed behind him with a dull thud.
From beneath his robe, he pulled a candle and lit it against a hidden strip of cloth. The tiny flame flickered, casting shadows along the room as he knelt before me.
He didn't say anything at first—just looked at me. Looked at my face. Scarred. Bleeding. Broken.
Then he reached into his sleeve and handed me a folded piece of cloth.
I took it slowly, suspicious of every movement. Waiting for the catch.
But he did nothing. Just sat there as I wiped blood and dirt from my skin in the dim flicker of candlelight.
"I'm sorry, Cassian," he finally said. "That they hurt you. It was never supposed to be like this. They're just... a little too enthusiastic."
He let out a short, broken chuckle. One that sounded like it hurt to make.
"What is happening?" I asked. My voice cracked, hoarse from screaming.
He met my eyes. "Everything will be explained. But not yet. I need to do something first—for everyone's safety."
He stood again.
Without another word, he stepped toward the door.
But just before he left, just like before, he paused in the doorway.
Didn't turn around. Didn't look at me.
"Cassian," he said quietly.
"Remember the first time we talked?"
"This would be the time to cry."
Then the door closed.
And the lock clicked shut.
I sat there, knees to my chest, trying to make sense of anything. My thoughts spun in circles, crashing into each other without answers.
I crawled back to the door and pressed my eye against the cracks.
All I could see was Luca, still strapped to the chair. He looked drained, barely conscious, like his soul had been wrung out. Behind him stood the tall one—the exact, silent figure from our first encounter. Towering. Still. Like a doll posed by someone else's hands.
"What's your name?" Ereon's voice rang out from somewhere off to the side.
"I need you to remove my child from this chair."
Naqra's voice chimed in, high and gleeful.
"Don't bother speaking to him," she cooed. "The black-stitched ones aren't allowed words. Orders only. Cute, right?"
She skipped closer, craning her neck to look up at him. Then she reached up and tapped him twice on the stitched mouth of his mask.
"Say hi, Khatm~!"
He didn't flinch.
No tilt of the head. No shift in posture.
Just a sharp exhale—barely audible—A breath of annoyance.
The room fell still again.
But then I realized—Khatm hadn't moved. He didn't obey Ereon's command. He just stood there, still as stone. Waiting.
"Ereon. Our orders weren't to remove the boy," Qassi said flatly, breaking the silence.
"What are you talking about?" Ereon's voice cracked, panic crawling in. "That wasn't the deal!"
Qassi didn't flinch. "Our orders are to eliminate the remnants of the traitorous Altair bloodline," he said with a calm that felt rehearsed—like this was a line he'd waited to deliver.
"Wait—what?" Ereon stepped forward. "Qassi, we've always been close. Please… kill me if you have to, but let them go. They don't know anything. They'll never be a threat—"
"Silence." Qassi's voice cut like a blade.
"Our orders are clear: bring you to the head of the Fomalhaut family—alive. No one else."
Ereon collapsed to his knees. He grabbed the fabric of Qassi's robes, clinging like a man drowning.
"Please, I'm begging you. This wasn't the deal. We were supposed to be exiled—together. You promised. You gave me your word, Qassi!"
Qassi finally looked down at him. "You thought I would betray the homeland like you did?" he sneered. "You thought I would disobey a direct order from the head of the Najmûn?"
His voice was venom. "You're a fool."
He slapped Ereon—elegantly, almost ritualistically. Ereon fell back, stunned, tears in his eyes.
Then his gaze shifted. He looked at me from the floor.
Desperate. Hollow. Hopeless.
Like I was supposed to save him.
But I couldn't move. I couldn't breathe.
I could only watch.
"Naqra. Take him. We're done here."
"Yes, gladly… my lord," she replied—her voice colder than usual, laced with something sharp. Resentment. Disgust.
As she stepped forward, Qassi added with unsettling softness:
"I'm not a monster. I won't make a father watch his child be slaughtered."
Ereon began sobbing, reaching back as Naqra dragged him away like trash.
"Please… Qassi, please—I'll do anything!"
And then he was gone.
I was shaking.
Were they going to kill Luca?
Were they going to kill me?
I didn't know what I was going to do. I couldn't get out—and even if I did, I couldn't stop any of this. The only thing left was to watch and hope.
"Khatm. Do your job. I'll handle the other one." Qassi's voice cut through the door like a blade.
Khatm moved forward, towering over Luca like an executioner. Just before I could see what he would do, a shadow crossed the crack in the door—blocking my view.
I backed up. Huddled against the stone wall. Waiting.
The door creaked open.
Qassi stepped inside—cold, composed, commanding. A man who truly believed the world belonged to him.
"You must be Cassian," he said. "Can you speak yet, or are you still too frightened?"
His voice sounded like a question, but it carried the weight of an order.
"Why the hell would I answer you?"
The words left my mouth before I could stop them. Brave. Stupid. Necessary.
Qassi smirked, unimpressed. "Doesn't matter. You'll die anyway."
He raised his arm—hand flat, fingers like a blade. The motion was slow, deliberate. He meant to take my head off in a single swing.
"Stay away from me!" Luca screamed out muffled behind the door.
"No! Please—don't hurt him. He didn't do anything!" I yelled, desperate to stall him.
"Perhaps," Qassi said. "But he's of Altair blood. And Altair blood must be purged—for the future of the Najmûn."
He stepped closer.
"Now die, you worthless Stillkin."
His arm came down like lightning—too fast to dodge.
"My lord—sorry to interrupt."
The voice rang from the door. Feminine. Breathless. Controlled.
His hand froze an inch from my throat.
"Speak. Now." His tone didn't rise. That somehow made it worse.
"Yes, forgive me," she said quickly. "If it's not too bold, the Alnilam family is seeking a new servant—a boy. This one might be the perfect fit."
A long pause.
"That minor house?" Qassi scoffed. "Irrelevant."
He looked at me again.
"Still... he's not of Altair blood. Just another useless orphan they took in."
He lowered his hand slowly, like death withdrawing.
"You're lucky, boy. Unlike the other."
Then he turned, stepped out, and locked the door behind him.
I crawled to the door without thinking—forgetting I was nearly executed seconds ago—and slammed my fists against it.
"LUCA!"
Nothing.
No answer. No voice.
I pressed my face to the crack again. The angle was tight, but I saw enough.
The chair.
The straps.
Luca's body tensed like a live wire, jerking against the leather.
Khatm stood beside him—unmoving, towering, a shadow in the flickering candlelight.
His hand reached beneath his robe, revealing a variety of tools.
Some were for tearing muscle.
Some for breaking bone.
Others—long, curved—designed for piercing deep into nerves and tissue.
He chose a pointed, hook-shaped blade—thin enough to pierce and disappear.
I watched it go in.
I watched it break Luca's skin.
Then the sound that broke me:
Not a scream.
Just a whimper. Guttural. Choked.
Like someone trying not to cry.
And Qassi?
He just stood there. Watching.
Like he was grading a science experiment.
I couldn't take it.
I couldn't breathe.
He's going to die.
He's going to die and I can't—