The morning in the Ember Citadel did not bring a sun; it only brought a thinner shade of gray.
Silas stood by the iron gates of the Inquisition's inner sanctum, his breath hitching in the frigid air. Before him sat the Arbitress's carriage—a monstrous construct of obsidian and brass, etched with glowing runes that hummed with a low, predatory vibration. It was pulled by six nightmare-bred stallions, their eyes burning with flickering blue soul-fire.
"Keep up, rat, or the barrier will shred what's left of your soul," a voice boomed.
Captain Vane sat atop his armored charger, his black plate armor reflecting the dim light like oily water. He cracked a heavy leather whip in the air, the sound echoing like a gunshot against the stone walls.
Silas bowed his head, his face a mask of weary submission. "Yes, Captain."
As the procession began to move, Silas found himself positioned at the rear left of the carriage. He was on foot, carrying a heavy crate of alchemical cleaning agents strapped to his back. To any observer, he was a walking corpse, his footsteps heavy and uneven.
But inside, Silas was far from exhausted.
[System Notification: Proximity to "Void Entity" confirmed.]
[Target: Evelyn von Drich.]
[Extraction Efficiency: 1.2 Points/Min (Target is in a meditative state).]
Perfect, Silas thought, his eyes fixed on the dust kicked up by the carriage wheels.
He activated his newly acquired passive skill: [Heartbeat Control].
Immediately, his pulse slowed to a rhythmic, lizard-like crawl. His lungs demanded less air, and the agonizing heat in his muscles faded into a dull, manageable hum. He looked like he was struggling, his breath coming in ragged gasps for the benefit of the guards, but his internal state was as calm as a frozen lake.
Every minute that passed, a invisible thread of violet energy drifted from the obsidian carriage and settled into Silas's chest.
Hours bled into a day. The landscape shifted from the jagged spires of the city to the desolate, ash-covered plains of the Border Marches. Occasionally, the silk curtains of the carriage would flutter. For a heartbeat, Silas felt a gaze—cold, violet, and terrifyingly sharp—sweep over his back.
It was Evelyn. She was watching him, not with pity, but with the clinical curiosity of a scientist watching a bug that refused to be crushed.
"Captain," a voice drifted from the carriage, muffled by the enchantments but still crystalline. "Is the vessel still breathing?"
Vane glanced back at Silas, who was currently feigning a stumble. "He's a hardy one, My Lady. Most commoners would have collapsed three leagues back. He's pathetic, but he's persistent."
"Good," Evelyn replied, her voice dropping into a whisper that Silas's enhanced senses barely caught. "I want him alive when we reach the Marches. The heretics have tainted the soil, and I need a shadow to walk through the fire first."
Silas tightened his grip on the straps of his crate. He wasn't just walking into a battlefield; he was walking into a gold mine.