The sharp click of the disconnected line cut through the oppressive air of the basement like a blade.
Felix Grayson had ended the call with the chilling, robotic efficiency of a machine programmed only for duty. It did not matter that he had just admitted, in his own cold way, to being Petra Marlowe’s friend.
"Miss Marlowe, I ask for your patience over the next two days. I will do everything in my power."
Then, nothing but static.
Under normal circumstances, the party dealing with kidnappers would try to drag out the call, hoping to extract every scrap of background noise, every slip of the tongue. But Felix had not hesitated. He had said what he needed to say, taken what he needed to hear, and severed the connection.
Miles away, inside the opulent living room of Victor Marlowe’s villa, Felix lowered the receiver. The space was packed shoulder-to-shoulder with Duskwardens, their breathing hushed as they awaited orders.
At his side sat Mayor Victor Marlowe, his features twisted in a grimace of silent, helpless fury. It was not just because this young investigator had effortlessly usurped his authority. It was because Felix's methodology was utterly, ruthlessly practical.
"Deploy all units immediately," Felix commanded, his voice slicing through the tense silence. "I want a sweep of every sector. Monitor any anomalies or sudden Voidstrider activity over the next thirty minutes."
He paced the floor, his eyes sharp. "Miss Marlowe’s final words were cut short. She said, 'This place isn't even...' I believe she intended to say, '...fit for humans.' Focus your search on the slums, tenements, and abandoned industrial blocks. Prioritize areas with the worst living conditions."
He stopped, turning his gaze back to the sea of uniformed men. "Your only objective is to locate her. Leave the Nightbound to me."
The rumor of a Lampbearer’s intervention had been leaked intentionally by Felix himself. He knew the psychological pressure would rattle the Nightbound, forcing them to make a desperate, sloppy move. And those extra, anxious actions would leave a trail straight to their hideout.
Even now, his net was tightening. The initial leak had already flushed out several low-level contacts associated with the cult-like syndicate. Those suspects were currently locked in the villa's holding rooms, shivering in terror as they waited for Felix to begin his interrogation.
Back in the subterranean dark of the basement, Dean Brennan pulled off his white half-mask, his face grim.
"You didn't say a damn word about dragging a Lampbearer into this," Flint Voss growled, his voice low and dangerous.
Dean glared at him, a sneer curling his lip. "What's the matter, Flint? Cold feet?"
"This isn't about fear," Flint grunted, shifting his weight. "It's about risk. The price just went up."
"You greedy bastard," Dean spat, wiping a hand across his forehead. "If the Lampbearer doesn't put a bullet in my head first, I'll pay you double."
"Deal." Flint gave a sharp, satisfied nod, then jerked his chin toward the heavy wooden door. "Now what? The things outside are tearing the street apart."
"We move," Dean said. He knelt on the damp concrete, pressing his palm flat against the floor. A low, guttural murmur escaped his lips, chanting in a language that made the air itself hum with static.
A second later, space buckled. A raw, dark-rimmed stone archway—barely four feet tall—rippled into existence right in the middle of the room.
Though Flint had seen the trick before, he still whistled in appreciation.
Ethan Kane’s eyes widened. Despite the cold, creeping dread of the Voidseep clawing at his chest, he could not tear his gaze away from the sheer impossibility of the magic unfolding before him.
Dean had asked Flint about a secondary safehouse moments ago, telling him to prepare for transit. Now, this impossible door stood open.
How? Ethan wondered. Was this the "gift" of a high-tier Duskwarden, or something far darker? He felt like a blind man suddenly thrown into a world of blinding light, where every new revelation shattered his understanding of reality.
Seeing Ethan stand, Dean glanced over his shoulder. "Where do you think you're going?"
Ethan blinked, caught off guard. "Aren't we leaving?"
"You're free to go, kid," Dean said, standing up and wiping the sudden sheen of cold sweat from his temples.
Ethan stared at him, the silence stretching between them.
Dean ignored him, turning to pack the gear, but Flint lingered, casting a brief, pitying look at the young man before letting out a soft sigh and turning away.
As Flint hoisted the heavy crate of Lumcores onto his shoulder, a shadow flickered across the room.
In a flash of desperate motion, Ethan lunged forward.
Before either of them could react, Ethan was behind the catatonic Petra Marlowe. His left arm snaked around her waist, locking her tight against him, while his right hand clamped firmly around her throat.
"What the fuck do you think you're doing?!" Dean roared, his temper already frayed to its limit by the Lampbearer's threat. To have this insignificant rat disrupt his plans was infuriating.
"I'm coming with you," Ethan said, his voice flat, dangerously steady. "Or I snap her neck."
Flint froze, utterly dumbfounded. He could not fathom how a kid who had been terrified of low-lives like Warren Calloway suddenly had the balls to threaten a high-ranking Nightbound operative.
Dean’s teeth ground together. He had completely dismissed Ethan, and honestly, he could not blame himself. Throughout the entire ordeal, the kid had been a ghost—silent, shivering in the corner while the titans played. In a crisis, nobody wastes attention on a lamb.
But Ethan was no lamb. He had remained silent because he was analyzing every scrap of information, weighing his odds. This desperate move was not madness; it was the only logical path to survival.
Dean’s promise of "freedom" was a death sentence. Ethan could hear the frenzied shrieks of the Voidstriders clawing at the street level. Flint had said it himself—the beasts were whipping into a frenzy.
Under normal circumstances, Voidstriders avoided the light of Lumcores. But after seeing Dean’s spatial magic and hearing the Lampbearer’s terrifying authority, Ethan knew his old rules no longer applied.
The Lampbearer had given Dean a two-day grace period. Dean had immediately decided to relocate, knowing the hounds would sniff out this basement eventually. If they left Ethan here, it was not an act of mercy.
It was a clean execution.
The Voidstriders would break in, tear him to pieces, and swallow any evidence of where the Nightbound had gone.
Ethan knew his only real wildcard was the Voidseep inside him. If he were left to rot, it might trigger and protect him. But might was not good enough. Entrusting his life to an inscrutable, parasitic dark entity was no different than handing a loaded gun to a stranger.
Humans, at least, had predictable desires. The Voidseep was an enigma.
"You're begging for a bullet!" Dean spat, his chest heaving with rage.
"No," Ethan replied calmly, his grip tightening. "I'm fighting to stay alive. I won't be a burden. Once the sun rises tomorrow, if you still want to cut me loose, I'll walk away."
He kept Petra pulled flush against his chest, their bodies pressed tight. Yet there was no warmth, no intimacy in the contact.
Especially not for Petra.
Ever since Felix Grayson's voice had cut through the line, her soul seemed to have withered. Her eyes were hollow, her posture stiff and lifeless, as if the glittering porcelain world she lived in had been shattered into worthless dust.
Felix had not come to rescue her. He had come to execute a mission. Her survival was merely an acceptable byproduct, a secondary objective to be checked off if convenient.
And then there was her father.
Victor Marlowe had held the phone. The man who had been her absolute shield, her absolute authority. Yet, the moment the Lampbearer took control, her father's voice had vanished. Not a word of comfort. Not a single plea for her safety. Even when Felix casually discussed her grave, Victor had remained silent.
She had her answer. In the grand ledger of the city, her life was a negotiable loss.
The call had severed her life into two distinct halves: her protected, fairy-tale past, and the cold, violent reality of her eighteenth birthday.
She was barely conscious of the arm crushing her ribs. In her daze, the muffled noises of the basement echoed like they were coming from the end of a long tunnel.
Under any other circumstance, she would have felt physical revulsion at a slum-dweller like Ethan touching her. But now?
They were both just discarded trash.
"You're out of your mind," Dean growled. "Did you not hear the call? The negotiations failed! You're trying to leverage a hostage I have no reason to keep alive."
"If you didn't need her alive, you'd be running, not relocating," Ethan countered, his voice whispering right against her ear. "You need her for whatever comes next."
Dean hissed, stomping his foot in frustration. He hated being read so easily by a stray.
"Let her go," Dean commanded, throwing his hands up in defeat. "I'll bring you along."
Ethan did not budge.
"She's suffocating, you idiot!" Dean snapped. "I swear on the Nightbound Creed, I won't screw you over. Satisfied?!"
Ethan eased his grip slightly, feeling the girl shudder as she sucked in a ragged breath. But his arm remained locked around her waist.
"Can you trust me for once?" Flint intervened, his voice steady. "The Nightbound don't break their creeds. They have their own set of rules."
Ethan shifted his gaze to Flint. He wanted to believe the older gatherer, but he had not forgotten how Flint had stood by when Dean originally decided to leave him behind.
In that split second of distraction, Dean struck.
Crack.
The heavy, ornate pommel of Dean’s dagger slammed into Ethan’s forehead.
White pain exploded behind Ethan’s eyes, sending him staggering backward. Before his vision could clear, Dean had yanked Petra out of his grasp.
"I said I wouldn't screw you over, didn't I?!" Dean snarled, glaring at him before pointing aggressively at the rippling stone archway. "Get the hell in there! Move, or we all rot here!"
Ethan rubbed his throbbing temple, blinking away the spots in his vision. He looked at Dean, surprised. The man had reclaimed his hostage but had not slit Ethan's throat.
It seemed the Nightbound Creed actually held some weight, whatever it was.
"Right. Thanks," Ethan muttered.
Instead of jumping straight through, he bolted to the corner, scooped up the heavy crate of emergency rations, and hugged it to his chest.
Dean stared at him with pure, unadulterated disbelief, but did not waste time arguing. He grabbed Petra and stepped through the portal first.
Flint offered a weary, wry chuckle, gesturing for Ethan to go ahead before stepping through himself.
As the stone archway collapsed into nothingness, the basement door upstairs groaned. Less than five minutes later, the wood splintered inward under a tide of screeching, ravenous dark things.
Ethan marched through a narrow, shifting corridor of stone, the heavy crate of rations weighing him down as sweat poured into his eyes.
To his left and right lay an infinite, suffocating void. The path under their feet was the only solid thing in a universe of pure emptiness, illuminated by a faint, ghostly luminescence.
Ethan’s mind raced. He had assumed the portal would instantly deposit them at the next safehouse, but this strange, liminal space stretched on.
He finally understood why Dean had been willing to leave the food behind. It was heavy, awkward, and worth very little in the grand scheme.
But to Ethan, it was life. If he managed to slip away tomorrow, these cans would buy him the weeks he needed to figure out the Voidseep without starving.
Just as his lungs began to burn from the exertion, another shimmering archway appeared ahead.
They stepped through, emerging into the dim, musty interior of a shuttered commercial business.
A single low-grade Lumcore hung from the ceiling, casting long, dramatic shadows across the wide room.
"God damn it, Flint!" Dean spat, spinning around the moment he cleared the threshold. "Could you not find a place meant for actual human beings to live?"
Ethan stepped through the portal last, setting the heavy crate down with a grunt. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he realized why Dean was cursing.
Lined up along the far wall, a dozen pale mannequin heads stared back at them with blank, painted eyes, their synthetic wigs shimmering under the cold light of the Lumcore.
They were in a hair salon.