The lullaby didn't belong down here.
It scraped through iron and stone anyway—one thin line of melody shoved into a scream. A child's song broken into pieces and thrown at the walls until the walls finally answered.
Mireya followed it.
Not running. Not hesitating. Just moving, fast and quiet, Silence tight to her skin so her steps didn't exist.
Blue lamps watched from the walls.
Iron doors lined the corridor like teeth.
The song rose again—ragged, desperate—then cut off as if someone's hand had clapped over a mouth.
Mireya stopped at the next door.
She didn't touch the lock yet.
She listened.
Micro-sounds: breathing on the other side. Too calm for a prisoner. Too steady. A chain shifting once, then still. Fabric moving—someone sitting up slowly.
Mireya slid her knife tip into the viewing slit and lifted the cover a fraction.
Light spilled in.
A small room. Stone. A cot bolted to the floor. A girl on the cot, hands folded in her lap like she was waiting for tea.
Mave.
Alive.
Her hair was tied back neatly. Too neatly. Her cheek had a faint bruise, old enough to be yellowing. Her eyes stared forward, unblinking, calm in a way that didn't match the iron ring in the wall beside her.
Mireya's stomach went cold.
Mave's gaze shifted—slow, precise—straight to the slit.
Straight to Mireya.
And she smiled.
Not wide. Not relieved. Not scared.
Practiced.
Like someone had taught her what to do with her face.
Mireya closed the slit cover again, carefully. No metal clink. No scrape.
She breathed once through her nose.
Then she reached for the bond and shoved a single image through it—hard, clean.
MAVE. CELL. NOW.
—
Stellan was still aboveground when the image hit.
Crowd noise. Guard shouting. Tess swearing at someone who deserved it. A baton cracking against wood.
Then, suddenly—
A small stone room.
A cot.
Mave's face too calm.
His chest tightened so hard he couldn't breathe for a beat.
"Mave," he said out loud, and it came out raw.
Tess snapped her head toward him. "What."
Stellan didn't explain. He grabbed her elbow—hard enough to make her hiss—and pulled her into the shadow between two stalls.
"We're done here," he said.
Tess's eyes narrowed. "You're done. I'm having fun."
Stellan's voice went flat. "They have my sister."
That wiped the humor off her face.
Tess swallowed once. "Where."
Stellan closed his eyes for half a heartbeat and reached through the bond—Mireya's corridor, blue lamps, iron doors. He found the direction like a pull in his ribs.
"Below," he said. "Palace sublevel."
Tess exhaled through her nose. "Of course."
Stellan's Pulse-sight flared up, reading the guard lines. Reinforcements had moved toward the riot. Good. That meant fewer eyes on service gates.
Tess jerked her chin toward a side street. "This way."
Stellan followed.
They moved fast through back lanes, cutting between warehouses and shuttered shops. Tess knew the city like it owed her money. Stellan trusted her feet more than he trusted his own mind right now.
Because the bond kept flickering.
Mireya's hearing bled into him—drips, hums, the faint whisper of chains.
And beneath that, a new sound, close and wrong: a soft chant rhythm under stone.
Stellan's jaw clenched.
"Chapel," Tess muttered, as if she heard it too. Maybe she didn't. Maybe she just recognized the smell on the air as they neared the palace wall—incense that didn't belong outside.
They reached the east service gate.
Two guards posted there.
Not hollow. Not edited. Real.
But distracted—heads turning toward the distant riot like dogs hearing a whistle.
Tess stepped into the open with a basket in her hands.
Stellan didn't ask where she'd gotten it.
She smiled at the guards like she belonged. "Delivery for the alchemical wing."
One guard frowned. "We didn't—"
Tess cut him off, voice sharp and offended. "If you want to explain to the Confessor why his oils are late, be my guest."
The guard's face tightened at the word Confessor.
He reached for the basket tag, squinting at the stamp.
Stellan moved.
He hit the guard behind the ear with the heel of his hand—fast, controlled. The man went down without a shout.
The second guard jerked, reaching for his blade.
Tess smashed the basket into his face.
Eggs and glass and oil exploded.
The guard stumbled, swearing.
Stellan grabbed his collar and slammed him into the gatepost, pinning him.
"Sleep," Stellan growled.
The guard sagged, dazed.
Tess wiped oil off her hands with disgust. "I hate improvising."
Stellan was already at the gate lock.
Pulse-sight flickered. Simple ward. He found the thrum point and pressed his palm to the metal until it clicked—like feeling for a heartbeat and finding the pause.
The gate opened.
They slipped in.
Tess pointed down a narrow stairwell tucked behind stacked crates. "That goes to maintenance."
Stellan didn't hesitate.
He descended.
The air cooled. Stone replaced wood. The hum of wards grew louder, like the palace had nerves under its skin.
Halfway down, Tess grabbed his sleeve. "Hey."
Stellan turned.
Her face had gone serious. "If you go in there and start killing, you'll never get her out."
Stellan's jaw clenched. "I'm not—"
Tess's eyes held his. "You're shaking."
Stellan realized his hands were trembling.
Not fear.
Rage.
He forced his fingers to still. "I can do this."
Tess's mouth tightened. "Try."
Stellan hated that word.
He used it anyway.
They reached a junction where the maintenance tunnel met older stone—Ministry bone. A conduit.
Stellan recognized it from Mireya's glimpses: the patched mortar, the hidden seams, the quiet that felt intentional.
He stepped in.
And the bond tugged so hard his stomach lurched.
Mireya was close.
—
Mireya kept watch outside Mave's door.
She didn't open it yet. Not without Stellan. Not without a plan that didn't end in screaming.
Her hands stayed steady. Her mind didn't.
Because Mave's eyes had been wrong.
Too calm. Too smooth.
Not drugged. Not sleepy.
Edited.
Mireya listened down the corridor.
Micro-sounds: nothing for a long beat. Then—
A footstep, distant. Slow. Heavy cloth moving. A lantern chain whispering.
Not guard boots.
A robe.
Mireya's throat tightened.
Confessor.
She turned her head slightly and caught it—barely—through the slit of blue light: a shadow moving at the far end of the corridor, tall, unhurried.
Coming closer.
Mireya pressed a hand to the stone wall, breathing slow. Silence tight to skin.
She reached for the bond, careful not to spike.
HURRY. Just that. A word-shaped push.
Then she heard it—another sound, closer now, from behind her.
Not the Confessor yet.
A softer footfall in the conduit direction.
Stellan.
Mireya didn't turn. She kept her eyes on the corridor while she felt him approach.
Stellan came to her side, breath controlled but tight. Tess stayed back in the shadows, knife in hand, eyes scanning.
Stellan didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
Mireya nodded toward the door. "That's her."
Stellan's hand lifted toward the viewing slit.
Mireya caught his wrist. "Don't."
Stellan's eyes flashed. "Why."
Mireya's voice stayed low. "Because if she sees you through a slit, you become a target before you become a brother."
Stellan's jaw clenched. He forced his hand down.
Mireya stepped to the lock and worked it fast. Pick. Twist. Feel. Click.
The door opened.
Stellan moved in first.
Mireya followed.
The room was colder than the corridor. Cleaner. Someone had scrubbed the stone with herbs to pretend it wasn't a cage.
Mave sat on the cot exactly as before—hands folded, posture straight, eyes calm.
Her gaze landed on Stellan.
She smiled again.
"Stellan," she said.
His name, spoken perfectly. No shake. No relief.
Stellan froze like he'd been struck.
"Mave," he whispered.
He took one step toward her.
Mave didn't flinch. Didn't lean forward. Didn't do anything a real sister would do after being taken.
She simply watched him, calm as a painted saint.
Stellan dropped to one knee in front of her. His hands hovered near her face, unsure where to touch.
"Mave," he said again, rougher. "Are you hurt."
Mave blinked, slow. "I am stable."
Stellan's eyes widened.
Mireya's stomach turned.
Stellan swallowed hard. "No. Mave—are you okay."
Mave tilted her head a fraction, like she was searching for the correct response.
Then she said, word-for-word, with the same cadence the edited guards used:
"Stability is our duty."
Stellan went still.
The bond tightened like a noose.
Mireya watched Stellan's face change—shock first, then something darker, uglier.
He lifted his Pulse-sight.
Mireya felt it through the bond—his vision shifting into rhythm.
Stellan's breath caught.
Because Mave's Pulse was there—warm, alive—
But smoothed.
No spikes. No irregularities. No fear flutter. No sister-chaos.
Her beat was steady in a way no living person's beat should be unless they were asleep or dead.
And inside that smooth beat sat something foreign.
A seal.
Not on skin. Not on the doorframe.
Inside.
Like an iron stamp pressed into the rhythm of her heart.
Stellan's voice came out hoarse. "What did they do to you."
Mave's eyes stayed calm. "I was blessed."
Stellan flinched at the word.
Mireya's mouth went cold.
Stellan's hands tightened into fists. Then loosened, trembling. He looked at Mireya—one fast glance, like he needed her to confirm he wasn't insane.
Mireya nodded once.
Yes. This is real.
Stellan looked back at Mave.
His voice dropped. "Can you feel it."
Mave blinked again. "I feel peace."
Stellan's jaw clenched. "Peace isn't a seal."
Mave smiled faintly, like he was being difficult. "It is mercy."
Stellan's Pulse-sight stayed up. He studied the seal's placement—how it braided into her rhythm, how it wasn't sitting on her Pulse but through it.
Removing it would be like ripping a thorn out of a heart without tearing the heart.
Possible.
Maybe.
But if he was wrong—
He'd kill her.
Stellan swallowed, throat working. "If I take it out—"
Mave's eyes didn't change. "Do not remove the blessing."
Stellan froze.
Not because she'd pleaded.
Because she hadn't.
She'd warned.
Like a guard reciting protocol.
Stellan's voice cracked, tiny. "Mave… please."
For the first time, something flickered behind her calm. A micro-tell. A tiny tremor at the corner of her mouth.
Then it smoothed again.
Mave reached out and placed her hand on his cheek.
The touch was gentle.
The gesture was perfect.
Too perfect.
"My brother," she said softly. "Do not make me unstable."
Stellan closed his eyes for half a beat.
Mireya felt his pain like a pulse in her own bones.
Choice.
Impossible choice.
Leave the seal in and take her out as a weapon wearing his sister's skin.
Or try to remove it and risk killing the real girl underneath.
Stellan opened his eyes and looked at Mireya again.
His voice was low, brutal. "Can you get her out like this."
Mireya's throat tightened. She hated that she had to answer honestly.
"Not if they can trigger the seal," she said. "Not if it's anchored."
Stellan's jaw clenched.
Mireya felt his decision trying to form—and failing. He was a hunter. He wanted clean cuts. This wasn't a beast. This was a person he loved.
A footstep sounded in the corridor outside.
Slow.
Unhurried.
Robe cloth brushing stone.
Mireya's head snapped toward the door.
The sound wasn't random. It had intention.
And it wasn't coming toward Stellan's position at the cot.
It was angling—subtly, deliberately—toward the side of the room where Mireya stood.
Mireya's Silence tightened instinctively.
The air didn't quiet the way it should.
Because the footsteps weren't careless sound.
They were chosen.
A man who walked like prayer.
Mireya's stomach went cold.
Confessor Iriant Sable.
She listened harder.
Two guards with him, boots lighter, trained.
But the center rhythm was the robe. The calm. The control.
And then she caught the line, spoken softly outside the door—meant for someone else, not for Stellan.
"Bring me the Silent."
Mireya's blood turned to ice.
He wasn't coming for the Warden.
He was coming for her.
For Vesper.
For the source magic they needed to manufacture more Concords.
Mireya's hand slid to her knife.
Stellan looked up, reading her face.
"What," he whispered.
Mireya didn't answer fast enough.
The footsteps stopped right outside the door.
And Mireya knew, with sudden certainty, that this was never just about saving Mave.
It was about taking Mireya back.