Orrin Vale didn't look surprised to find blood in his sitting room.
He looked pleased.
Mireya stayed on her knees, one hand braced on the carpet, the other tight around her knife. Her ribs still screamed with Stellan's cut—mirrored pain that wasn't hers, but lived in her bones anyway.
Stellan stood between her and Orrin, palm pressed to his side, jaw clenched. His face was blank in the way Mireya had started to hate.
Orrin smiled at both of them like they were gifts.
"You're fast," he said. "And stubborn. That's rare."
Stellan didn't answer.
Mireya forced her voice steady. "You trained your guards for Silence."
Orrin's brows lifted, pleased she'd noticed. "Of course I did. You're not the first Silent I've met."
Mireya's stomach tightened.
Orrin's gaze dropped to Stellan's bleeding hand. "And you're a Pulse. Even rarer."
Stellan's voice came low. "What are you."
Orrin spread his hands, palms open, like a priest about to bless a meal. "A patriot."
Mireya snorted. "You turned a clerk into a fox."
Orrin's smile didn't move. "I freed him."
Stellan's Pulse-sight flickered up without him meaning to. Mireya felt it like pressure behind her eyes.
Orrin noticed. He always noticed.
"That look," Orrin said softly. "You see the world's weakness and it makes you angry."
Stellan's jaw flexed. "You're grafting people."
Orrin nodded once. Simple. Proud. "Yes."
Mireya's fingers tightened on her knife. "Why."
Orrin stepped closer.
Not into Stellan's blade range—he wasn't stupid. Just close enough to make the room feel smaller.
"The ruling class is soft," Orrin said. "They inherit titles, not teeth. They fear dirt. They fear pain. They fear dying."
He tilted his head, studying Mireya. "You don't."
Mireya's voice went flat. "Say your point."
Orrin smiled again. "Beasts don't apologize for survival."
Stellan's eyes narrowed. "So you make nobles into beasts."
"Not beasts," Orrin corrected, patient. "Better nobles."
He lifted one finger, like he was teaching children.
"Beast-magic is honest. It makes the body stronger. Faster. More resilient."
His gaze slid to Stellan. "And it gives hunters like you something you've always wanted."
Stellan didn't move. "What."
Orrin's voice stayed warm. "A world with fewer monsters."
Mireya's laugh came out sharp. "You're manufacturing them."
Orrin's eyes brightened. "Only during the transition."
Stellan's jaw clenched. "They suffer."
Orrin shrugged, gentle. "So does surgery."
Mireya's stomach turned. Not from nausea—disgust.
Orrin's gaze flicked to her throat. To the garrote bruise, still angry under salve. "You were born for this work, Mireya. You and I both know it."
Mireya's eyes went cold. "Don't talk like you know me."
The bond flared—pressure behind her eyes.
Lie.
Stellan heard the hitch in her breath. He didn't look at her, but his shoulders tightened.
Orrin watched that reaction with open fascination.
"There it is," he murmured. "The Concord."
Stellan's voice went rough. "Don't call it that."
Orrin smiled. "Why not? It's beautiful."
Mireya's fingers trembled once from pain and rage. She clenched them still.
Orrin stepped toward the cabinet she'd opened, glanced at the empty space where the letters had been.
He didn't look angry.
He looked proud.
"You took my proof," he said. "Good. You understand value."
Mireya's jaw flexed. "Your 'proof' is corpses."
Orrin turned back to them. "Proof is whatever convinces the right people."
He tapped his own chest once, right over his heart. "I used to believe in bloodlines."
He paused, almost thoughtful. "Now I believe in blood."
Stellan's eyes narrowed. "You think power should be inherited by teeth."
Orrin's smile widened. "Exactly."
Mireya's voice cut. "And the Treaty."
Orrin's gaze sharpened with interest. "Ah. You do know what you stole."
Mireya didn't answer.
Orrin leaned in, voice soft. "Legal immunity. Field trials. Clean hands."
He looked almost reverent when he said it. "Permission."
Stellan's grip tightened on his blade. Mireya felt the mirrored pain spike and swallowed it.
Orrin's gaze slid to Stellan's wrist. To the faint edge of the brand mark peeking under his cuff.
His tone gentled, like he was speaking to an animal he meant to keep.
"And you," Orrin said. "You've already been tagged."
Stellan went still. "What."
Orrin's smile turned sharp. "A leash. A label. A way to pull you when they want you."
Stellan's face stayed blank, but Mireya saw the flash behind his eyes—anger trying to stay contained.
Orrin lifted his hands again, palms open. "I'm offering you a better kind of leash."
Mireya's voice went low. "And what are you offering me."
Orrin turned to her fully, like she was the real prize. "A place."
Mireya stared. "In your kennel."
Orrin laughed once, genuinely amused. "In my laboratory."
Stellan's voice went flat. "No."
Orrin didn't look at him. "You don't speak for her."
Mireya's smile was thin. "He doesn't have to."
Orrin's eyes gleamed. "You're wasted in the Ministry. They use you like a tool. I would use you like a—"
"Like a trophy," Mireya finished.
Orrin didn't deny it. "Like the next step."
He stepped closer again, careful.
"The Concord wasn't a mistake," Orrin said. "It's evolution. Two talents braided into one weapon."
Stellan's jaw clenched. "We didn't choose it."
Orrin's voice softened, almost pitying. "Choice is a luxury. Design is better."
Mireya's hand tightened around her knife.
She didn't plan it. Planning was slow.
She just moved.
A fast rise off her knees, knife driving for Orrin's throat.
Stellan reacted at the same time—blade shifting, body lunging to cover her—
And the Concord backlashed.
Hard.
Mireya's vision flipped—room tilting sideways—then snapped into Stellan's eyes for a brutal heartbeat.
She saw her own arm mid-strike from his angle.
At the same time, something slammed into Stellan—
Mireya's pain.
Her throat burn. Her ribs. The panic she'd been holding down.
Stellan's knees softened as if his body had been yanked by strings.
Orrin moved like he'd been waiting for that exact failure.
He didn't dodge like a frightened man.
He stepped in, caught Mireya's knife wrist with two fingers and twisted.
Bone protested.
Mireya bit back a sound, but her Silence wasn't ready—her control had slipped in the inversion.
Stellan heard the tiny grunt through her ears anyway.
He tasted her blood again, sharp and hot, as the knife edge nicked her palm.
Orrin pushed Mireya back with casual force. She staggered, breath tearing loose.
Stellan lurched forward, trying to recover—
The mirrored pain spiked again. Stellan's cut flared, and Mireya dropped a hand to her ribs, swaying.
Orrin's smile turned delighted.
"Yes," he said softly. "It reacts."
Mireya bared her teeth. "Get away from—"
Orrin lifted a hand, not threatening. Almost gentle. "You felt that swap."
Mireya froze.
Because she had.
For one heartbeat, the rules had inverted. Sight. Pain. Everything wrong.
Orrin's eyes shone like a man watching his favorite theory prove itself.
"You can't kill me yet," Orrin said, calm as prayer. "You need me."
Stellan's voice came low, dangerous. "For what."
Orrin turned his head slightly, like he was listening to something that wasn't in the room.
Then he smiled with something like devotion.
"For him."
Mireya's stomach iced over.
Orrin said the name like it was a blessing.
"Aderic."