The light inside the Black Tower was as it ever was—constant, pale, and unnaturally even, bleeding directly from the smooth walls and embedded geometric crystals. There were no shadows. Almost no variation in temperature. The air, which usually smelled of old paper, dry dust, and the ozone tang of faint energy currents, now carried a much heavier, suffocating whiff of the tomb.
Erika slid slowly down the cold wall, sitting with his back pressed against the smooth material that seemed to breathe faintly with a sluggish life of its own. The adrenaline from the horrors outside had long since receded, leaving behind a deep, viscous exhaustion and a hollow, echoing void in his chest.
Reality, much like the ubiquitous, merciless cold light in the Tower, shone directly into the corners of his soul he least wished to examine.
The right to live? He thought of the ruined border village, the Sanctum's freezing stone floors, every near-death gasp during his training, the novice clerics who vanished without a sound during the Angel's Descent ritual. His life had never belonged to him. It was merely a 'resource' the Sanctum harvested at will, a 'variable' Inquisitor Wolfgang had assessed for tactical value. And now, he was nothing more than a mobile, moderately dangerous 'anomaly' in the eyes of the Black Tower Sorcerer, Quinn.
Even the basic right to die seemed denied to him. Dying in the Sanctum meant becoming literal fuel for the 'Circuit'. Dying here would likely make him another 'specimen' on Quinn's workbench. His death would hold no meaning, no dignity—only 'utility'.
Maybe… the mistake had been made much earlier. Maybe when Balthasar first selected him, he should have just bowed his head, closed his eyes, and surrendered to the slaughter, exactly like the other numb, broken survivors.
Obedience.
The thought churned his empty stomach—not with burning anger, but with a freezing, absolute helplessness.
"What are you staring at?"
The voice made Erika flinch. He looked up to see Loren approaching. The noble youth crouched down before him. Loren's complexion had improved slightly since their time on the scorched earth, though dark traces of shock still lingered in his eyes. However, his ingrained aristocratic instinct—the desperate, animalistic effort to maintain composure and find a foothold—had clearly regained ground.
He held two smooth, dark, thick-skinned fruits. "Here," Loren said, offering one to Erika.
"You look terrible," Loren added, his brow furrowing. His eyes held genuine concern, but also a distinct, undeniable thread of… estrangement. The kind of estrangement one feels toward something utterly incomprehensible.
To Loren, the narrative was brutally simple: they had survived a terrifying attack by heretics, and were now harbored by a powerful, eccentric Sorcerer. He couldn't see what Erika saw. He couldn't feel the terrifying resonance of the Marks, much less understand the ontological despair born from glimpsing the sickening truth behind the Sanctum's power.
Erika looked at the offered fruit, then slowly up at Loren's face. It held fear, confusion, and forced composure, but at least… it was whole. It belonged to a living, breathing person. No matte metal casing. No parasitic cables burrowing into the skull.
An absurd, incredibly bitter thought struck Erika: Perhaps, through all the blood and madness... my clumsy struggles actually allowed Loren to stand here right now, looking at me with human eyes? Is this the first time I've genuinely protected someone? Even if it was just a byproduct of my own pathetic survival?
The thought brought no warmth. It was like striking a single, damp match in the middle of an endless winter night, only to catch a brief, pathetic glimpse of his own frozen, dying fingers.
Erika's mouth twitched. He desperately wanted to bridge the widening chasm, but his throat was swollen shut. He just shook his head very slowly and took the dark fruit. It was cool and hard as a stone.
Loren didn't expect a real reply. He sat down heavily beside Erika, took a hesitant bite of his own fruit, and predictably scrunched up his face in disgust. "Gods, what is this thing…" he muttered, chewing mechanically, forcing it down. Survival instinct ruthlessly trumping aristocratic palate.
Silence spread between them, filled only by the almost inaudible, rhythmic hum of unseen energy flowing deep within the Tower's veins.
"Nothing," Erika finally rasped out, trying and failing to form a reassuring smile. "Just… tired."
Loren leaned in closer. His voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper, barely suppressing a frantic, nervous excitement. "That Sorcerer… Master Quinn… he just asked if I wanted to be his assistant."
Erika's breath hitched.
"He said," Loren continued, a feverish light flickering in his eyes—the desperate spark of newly discovered utility—"since I didn't complete my first Marking ritual, my body is a 'blank slate'. I might not have Sanctum power, but I can do basic recording, organize texts, or help maintain the Tower's structural arrays."
Loren scratched the back of his head, embarrassed by his own enthusiasm but unable to resist adding, "He said my observation skills aren't bad, and my hands aren't too clumsy."
Erika watched him in quiet horror. As Loren spoke, his words came faster, his face lit with a brightness akin to a drowning man grasping a rotting piece of driftwood. The terror, the arrogance, the vulnerability… the cataclysm had scraped it all away, revealing a highly adaptable, primitive core.
Loren hadn't been completely broken by the truth outside. Instead, amid the smoking ruins of his worldview, he had instantly found a new vine called 'utility' to desperately cling to.
They had fallen into the abyss together, but Loren was already frantically figuring out how to build a comfortable nest on this dangerous cliff face. Meanwhile, Erika was still bleeding and suffocating from the sheer velocity of the fall itself.
Loren buzzed pleasantly about arcane knowledge and Tower architecture. The words buzzed in Erika's ears like distant insects. Loren saw a new dawn, a new hierarchy to climb. Erika, standing at the edge of that hopeful glow, saw only deeper, writhing shadows. They sat shoulder-to-shoulder, yet they stood on opposite ends of the same scorched battlefield—one seeing salvageable golem wreckage, the other seeing silently burning, soul-erasing silver fire.
Erika realized with startling, icy clarity: On this brutal path of survival, he was actively losing the last remaining companion who could even begin to 'understand' him.
The air in the corridor suddenly grew heavy.
There were no footsteps. Quinn was simply there.
He had changed out of his blood-and-ash-stained clothes into clean, dark grey attire. The soft fabric did absolutely nothing to mask the bone-deep, radiating coldness of the man. He stood before them, his posture deceptively relaxed, his face a mask of disturbing, metallic calm—the kind that only arrives after all violent emotions have been thoroughly locked away.
He didn't clear his throat. He just stared at Loren. The silent estrangement between the two boys shattered instantly under that oppressive weight.
Loren scrambled to his feet.
Quinn's tone was brisk, devoid of inflection. "Third door on the left down that hall. Inventory. There's some 'miscellany' inside. Sort it. Make a detailed list." He paused, his grey eyes narrowing fractionally. "Do not touch things you don't recognize. Unless you don't plan on needing hands tomorrow."
Loren nodded vigorously, almost eagerly accepting the holy crusade to escape Quinn's immediate presence. He threw Erika a quick, forced smile, then practically sprinted toward the doorway, quickly swallowed by the shadows.
Now, only Erika remained, sitting on the cold floor, with the Sorcerer looking down at him.
Quinn didn't speak. He took a few deliberate steps forward and, without warning, crouched down directly in front of Erika.
The action shattered the unspoken safe distance between predator and prey. Up close, Erika could see the deep, stormy grey of Quinn's eyes and the fine, exhausted lines at their corners. The lingering scents of stale tobacco, old paper, and frozen blood clung to him.
Erika's spine pressed hard against the cold stone. His fingers unconsciously dug into the floor. His throat was bone dry, but he didn't dare look away, nor did he dare make any sudden move that might trigger a kill response.
Quinn examined him in absolute silence for several long, agonizing seconds. His gaze moved methodically from Erika's pale face down to his neck, assessing a damaged piece of weaponry. Finally, he stood up.
"Come," Quinn said. A flat, unreadable command. He tilted his head toward a heavy wooden door.
Erika pushed himself up on shaking legs and followed silently, like a condemned man walking to the block.
The room beyond was Quinn's private quarters. It held zero luxury. The space was shockingly modest, exuding the function-over-form, chaotic practicality of a long-term, solitary dweller.
Yet, upon entering, Erika's gaze was irrevocably captured by a massive oil painting hanging opposite the simple bed.
The canvas was old, the paint flaking at the edges, but the colors within remained fiercely, unnaturally vivid in the dim room. Three figures stood against a backdrop of towering bookshelves and fiercely glowing crystals.
On the left was a tall, lean man in flowing robes, his hand resting casually on a floating Great Book. He wore a carefree, arrogantly bright smile, gazing at infinite possibilities.
On the right was a rigid man, upright like a sword in the dirt. His steady smile radiated reliable determination, his hand placed firmly on a heavy, iron-bound Great Book.
And between them, set slightly back, was a woman.
She had cascading dark hair and a fair face heavily shadowed by an inescapable melancholy. Her smile was a polite, forced lift of the corners of her mouth. Her distant gaze seemed preoccupied with something unseen. Her pale hand rested protectively on a third, ancient Great Book, its cover patterned with shifting symbols.
Three Great Books. Three people.
Erika's eyes were nailed to the painting, magnetically drawn to the woman's profoundly melancholic face.
"Sit," Quinn's voice sliced through the stupor.
The Sorcerer had already taken the high-backed chair behind his cluttered workbench. He pointed to a hard wooden stool opposite him.
Erika obeyed automatically, sitting stiffly. The small, enclosed intimacy of the bedroom made the atmosphere exponentially more dangerous.
Quinn watched the boy's extreme tension. The corner of his mouth twitched—not a smile, but a deeply weary understanding. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his long fingers interlaced.
"Stop shaking," Quinn said, his voice dropping an octave, low and resonant. "If I wanted to open you up, you'd already be in pieces on the floor grating."
He let the silence stretch. Then, slowly, deliberately, Quinn's storm-grey eyes drifted downward, locking dead onto Erika's arms.
Exactly where the twin Sanctum Marks throbbed faintly beneath his pale skin, like ticking time bombs.