Cursed-Soul

Moments passed like hours. Selara didn't dare breathe. Vael had stopped pacing. And Keiran's fingers clenched the windowsill.

And then—they saw him.

Asheron.

Dragged.

The guards marched him out of Keiran's building like a prize kill. His hat was gone. His half-cape was torn. Blood ran in a line from his temple, trailing down his cheek and jaw. They forced him to his knees before Armon—who stood like a king in shadow, silver rifle glinting under the moonlight.

Kennedy was beside him, eyes lit with triumph.

"I told you, didn't I?" Kennedy spat, stepping forward. "That rat's been sniffing too close to the cheese. It was only a matter of time."

Asheron knelt, wrists bound behind him. Despite the bruises, despite the cuts, he held his chin high, his eyes golden and unflinching.

"Loyalty," Armon's voice rang out over the square, "is not a choice. It is a demand. A law."

He slowly paced in front of Asheron, his steps deliberate. Every child, every worker, every soul in the square had dropped to their knees again—just like always. Heads bowed. Eyes shut.

Except Keiran, Vael, and Selara.

They watched.

This isn't right, Keiran thought. He saved us.

Armon turned. "This man harbored a rat," he said, not naming names but letting the words sink like venom. "He protected someone. And so, he shall serve as the example I promised."

He raised his rifle.

"No..." Keiran's whisper was a prayer to the glass.

Vael's eyes glowed. He didn't speak—but his fingers twitched.

Then—

CRACK.

A sudden flare. A sliver of flame sparked from Vael's fingertip—sharp and precise. It struck the rifle's barrel with perfect aim.

Armon stumbled, the shot firing upward into the sky.

The crowd gasped.

Guards surged forward.

But before chaos could erupt—

BANG!

The town's clocktower struck once, echoing through the still night.

Everyone froze.

Then Asheron... laughed. Soft, broken, but unmistakably a laugh.

"You think this is control?" he asked, blood on his lips. "You think this ends with me?"

Armon's face darkened.

"I'll rip the answers from your tongue."

Then—

"Take him," Armon said, voice cold and final.

Two guards yanked Asheron to his feet. His head lolled to the side, blood already soaking his collar. Yet even in that moment—surrounded, beaten, bound—he managed the ghost of a smile. Not for Armon. For someone else.

For them.

Keiran's breath caught.

Then the guards dragged him off, boots scuffing against cobblestone, chains rattling with every forced step. Armon stood a moment longer, then turned away, the sound of his cane tapping sharply against the stone as the night swallowed him whole.

The town began to breathe again—but it was a cold, shallow thing.

Back in Selara's room, no one spoke for a long time. Only the muffled noise of retreating soldiers, and the wind brushing through the cracked window.

Keiran stared out into the dark, jaw clenched.

"He knew," Selara finally said. "He knew they'd come."

"And he still stayed," Vael murmured. "He saved us."

"No." Keiran turned from the window, voice low, steady, shaking with quiet rage. "He bought us time."

Outside, the town sank into uneasy silence.

But beneath it all—beneath the factory, beyond the steel doors and the humming machines—

Chains clinked softly in the dark.

The room smelled of rust, dampness, and blood. A faint buzzing came from a flickering bulb overhead, casting an anemic light across the stone walls.

Asheron hung from the ceiling by his wrists, shirt torn, blood streaking his chest. Deep bruises bloomed along his ribs where iron rods had met flesh. One eye was swollen shut. His lips were cracked and bleeding.

And still—he smirked.

Another guard stepped forward, gripping a rod slick with red. "Still smiling?"

Asheron didn't reply. The smirk only widened slightly.

The rod slammed into his ribs again, and this time the breath choked out of him, teeth grit against the scream.

"Stop," a voice said.

Footsteps echoed in the corridor. Slow. Intentional.

Armon.

He entered with deliberate grace, his cloak trailing behind him like spilled oil. The guards immediately stepped back, bowing their heads.

Armon stood before Asheron in silence for a moment. Studied him.

"I had hoped it wasn't you," he said at last.

Asheron coughed, a ragged sound. "That sounds like sentiment, Armon. Didn't think you had any of that left."

"I don't," Armon replied, reaching forward and brushing a streak of blood from Asheron's cheek with a gloved hand. "But I do have... curiosity."

He circled him like a vulture.

"You were my finest scout. My shadow. The blade I never needed to polish."

Armon stopped behind him. "So tell me, Asheron. When did your loyalty die?"

Asheron chuckled. It was a weak, broken sound. "Around the time you started talking about gods."

There was a pause. Then Armon's fist crashed into Asheron's ribs. A crack—maybe a rib—echoed through the room.

"Blasphemy," Armon said softly.

The guards didn't move. They knew better.

Asheron swayed in place, chains creaking, but his gaze never wavered from Armon's face.

"You're afraid," he rasped. "All this... control. The soldiers. The shows. The 'selections.' It's desperation dressed up as dominion."

Armon tilted his head. "Am I afraid? Or are you just pretending your suffering means something?"

Another punch—this one to the face. Blood sprayed across the stone.

"I'm not the one bleeding," Armon said.

Asheron's head lolled forward, breathing shallow. But then, like a storm rising in silence, he smiled again.

"You're right," he whispered. "Not yet."

Armon leaned close. "Do you think you've done something noble? Do you think Keiran and his little band can change anything?"

"They already have," Asheron whispered.

The silence stretched.

Armon's face darkened. With a flick of his wrist, he signaled the guards.

"Keep him alive," he said, turning toward the door. "But only just."

The last thing Asheron heard before darkness took him again was the sound of iron doors closing behind Armon's retreat.

And then—the cold returned.

The basement swallowed him once more.

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But deep within his mind, through blood and bruises, Asheron smiled again.

Because he had seen it.

The fire in Vael's eyes.

The resolve in Keiran's voice.

The crack in the foundation of Armon's empire.

And he knew—

The storm was coming.