The air in the shop was suddenly too thin to breathe, thick with the smell of death and Rhyian's terrifying presence. I stood frozen in place, staring at the ruins of my life: the shattered clocks, the two mangled corpses, the terrified silence from my son's room.
"Five minutes, Carys," Rhyian repeated, his voice low and devoid of compromise. "I am not moving from this spot, and I am not leaving without my son. If you resist, I will simply restrain you. The choice is yours."
He had already demonstrated the terrifying ease with which he could dismantle me. My lungs still ached from the pressure of his ghoul's grip, and the sight of his own brutal efficiency in killing his subordinates was a cold reminder of the power I was up against. This wasn't a choice; it was a surrender dressed up as an ultimatum.
I turned my back on him, refusing to meet his eyes, and walked slowly toward the apartment door.
"Stay right there," I warned, my voice hoarse. "If you cross that threshold, I swear I will burn this place down around us."
He said nothing, but I felt the immense, chilling weight of his gaze following me. It was enough. He was waiting.
I entered the small, familiar apartment, the scent of lavender and old paper a sharp contrast to the blood in the shop. Rowan was curled into a ball beneath his dinosaur-print duvet, his silver eyes wide and shining in the dim light of his room. He wasn't crying anymore; he was staring at the door, his small body vibrating with tension.
I dropped to my knees beside his bed and pulled him into my arms, hugging him fiercely. He buried his face in my shoulder, clinging to me with the desperate strength of a drowning man.
"It's okay, little mouse. It's over," I whispered into his hair, forcing calm into my voice. "The monsters are gone."
He pulled back, those silver eyes—Rhyian's eyes—searching mine.
"The big man... he killed them, Mom. Why? Who is he?"
I swallowed the lump in my throat. How do you explain the monster who is his father? The man who wanted him erased?
"He is... a very old friend," I lied, the words tasting like ash. "A very powerful, very angry friend who made a lot of mistakes. We are going with him now, Rowan. It's a game of hide-and-seek, and we have to go to the safest hiding place we know."
He blinked, his mind already latching onto the concept of a game.
"The safest place? Is it like a castle?"
"Something like that," I said, managing a grim smile. The Obsidian Gate. A prison built of luxury and cold power.
"We have to pack fast, honey. Very fast. Only your favorites."
I moved through the small apartment like a whirlwind. My brain was already calculating escape routes, contingencies, and weapons. Rhyian had given me five minutes, and I would use every second.
I grabbed Rowan's small backpack first—the one always packed for emergencies. A change of clothes, his sketchbook, his small, plush dragon, and a thick packet of crackers. Survival first.
For myself, I threw open the closet. I shoved three pairs of dark, practical clothes into a duffel bag, added my most vital tools—a lock-picking kit, a discreet vial of purified silver, and a small, heavy coil of copper wire (a useful material against energy-based supernatural threats). The Aethel in me had taught me to be prepared for everything.
I paused at the cello case, my fingers hovering over the latch. The mahogany was scarred and familiar. The instrument was my past, the symbol of the girl Rhyian had loved and discarded. Bringing it felt like inviting a ghost to dinner. But leaving it felt like abandoning the last piece of myself.
No, I decided, slamming the closet door shut. No sentimentality. I needed to be lean, practical, and lethal. The cello would only slow me down.
As I zipped my duffel, my gaze fell on the heavy, carved iron safe hidden behind a loose floorboard. This was the one thing I couldn't leave, and the one thing Rhyian could never know about.
I knelt, working the combination quickly, the tumblers clicking softly. Inside sat the remnants of my hunting life: a wad of cash, a fake ID, and the most dangerous item—a small, dark journal bound in cured leather.
This wasn't just a journal. It was my log of the seven years I had spent hunting his kind. It contained names, weaknesses, patterns, and the details of the creatures I had tracked for the very organization Rhyian was supposedly fighting. It also contained every single detail of my Aethel awakening, the strange biological shifts, the terrifying bursts of intuitive knowledge. It was my playbook, and if Rhyian ever got his hands on it, he would know the full extent of the power I wielded—a power that made me far more than the 'property' he thought he was claiming.
I tucked the journal deep inside my bag, under a false lining I'd sewn in years ago, and then stood up, breathing deep.
The five minutes were up.
I walked back into the main shop, Rowan clinging to my hand. He saw the bodies—Rhyian hadn't bothered to hide them—and gasped, but kept silent, burying his face into my side.
Rhyian stood exactly where I had left him, a statue in the ruined workshop, his posture radiating coiled intensity. He took in my duffel bag and Rowan instantly.
"Good," he said, the single word approving and cold. He didn't ask what I packed. He never asked for details. That was the height of his arrogance. He stepped toward Rowan. "It's time to go," he told the boy, his voice softened slightly but still authoritative.
"Where are we going?" Rowan asked, lifting his head.
"We are going home," Rhyian said, his silver eyes locking on Rowan. "A place where no one can hurt you."
Rowan looked skeptical.
"Are you going to be my bodyguard?"
Rhyian's gaze flickered to me, a flash of challenge.
"I am going to be much more than that."
He reached out his hand, intending to take Rowan's small hand. But I beat him to it. I pulled Rowan closer, lifting him onto my hip, shielding him.
"You touch him only with my permission," I stated, looking Rhyian dead in his eyes. The defiance was a deliberate, calculated risk. I needed him to know he had a fight on his hands.
A slow, terrible smile stretched across Rhyian's face, the kind of smile that promised pain and satisfaction in equal measure.
"Understood, Carys. Let's establish your boundaries once we are behind reinforced walls. The current threat requires us to move quickly." He gestured toward the gaping hole in the doorway. "We will not be taking the main thoroughfare. We are taking the routes of the court."
He didn't walk out. He simply reached out and placed a hand, cold and heavy, on the small of my back, guiding me forward.
"The rules are simple," he murmured, his breath ghosting over my ear, sending shivers down my spine despite my hatred. "Follow my lead. Do not speak to anyone. And do not, under any circumstances, run. If you attempt to flee, I will find you. And when I do, I will ensure your safety is the least of your concerns."
And with that threat hanging heavy in the air, he ushered us out of the ruins of my shop and into the chilling, rain-drenched night of Cinderfall City. The Obsidian Gate awaited.