Thane's POV

The collapsed academy greeted him with the smell of rot and old paper.

What had once been Malethar's pride — a center of learning that rivaled the capital's universities — now tilted at a thirty-degree angle into the earth. Thane had to brace himself against walls slick with something that might have been condensation or might have been worse.

Careful, Whisper murmured, its voice like cold silk in his mind. The shadows here aren't behaving properly. They're... heavy.

"Corrupted?" Thane tested a door, its wood swollen and warped like a drowned corpse.

I don't know. And that frightens me more than knowing would.

The admission sent ice through Thane's veins. Whisper never admitted fear. Never showed weakness. If even a shadow spirit was unnerved...

The first intact library made him pause. Not from the books scattered like dead birds, but from the systematic destruction. Someone had been here — not recently, the dust had long resettled — but with purpose. Preserving some texts while reducing others to ash.

"Binding magic," he breathed, seeing the pattern. Every surviving book dealt with the same subject. "They were researching the Seal."

His hands trembled slightly as he pulled a journal from beneath scattered papers. Not from fear. From something worse — recognition. How many of his mother's books had he destroyed in similar fashion? Keeping only what supported his beliefs, burning what challenged them?

Focus, Whisper hissed. Your guilt serves no purpose here.

The journal's pages crackled like autumn leaves:

"Day 12: The project proceeds. Master Corwin insists we can create an artifact to bind anything — oaths, magic, even souls. The theoretical framework is sound, but the cost..."

"Day 23: First prototype tested. Subject was compelled to speak only truth while holding the Seal. Side effect — the wielder was similarly bound. Truth cuts both ways, as Corwin says."

Thane's blood chilled. A weapon that would force honesty from both user and target. What truths had he buried so deep even he'd forgotten them? What would spill out if—

Stop, Whisper commanded. You're spiraling. We need information, not introspection.

But Thane couldn't stop his hands from shaking as he read the final entry:

"Day 45: The Seal is complete, but Corwin has hidden it. Says it's too dangerous, that forcing truth from demons might reveal truths about ourselves we're not ready to face. He's taken it to the lowest levels. May the gods help whoever finds it."

Interesting, Whisper mused with dark amusement. Your brother's masks would shatter. But then again... so would yours.

"I have no masks," Thane said automatically.

The lie tasted like ash.

He pocketed the journal and pressed deeper, each step an exercise in balance as floors tilted at impossible angles. In what had been the astronomy tower, star charts covered every surface — but these weren't mapping the heavens.

"They were tracking the Seal's resonance." His finger traced the notation, all pointing toward the eastern quarter. The military district. Where Avian hunted.

Of course. It's always a race with him, isn't it? Even when you don't know you're running.

A sound froze his blood — wet meat dragging across stone. Thane pressed against the wall, peering around the corner with breath held tight.

The thing had been a scholar once. Tattered robes still clung to a form that had too many joints, fingers stretched into claws, books literally fused into its flesh like scales of knowledge and madness. It moved with the purposeful shamble of routine, following paths worn by centuries of repetition.

Don't let it touch you, Whisper warned, genuine panic threading its voice. If the corruption spreads to me... to us...

They waited, pressed against stone that felt too warm, until the creature passed. Its trail of black ichor hissed against the floor, eating shallow grooves in stone. And it was heading down. Toward the depths. Toward—

"It remembers where the Seal is," Thane whispered.

Then we follow. But carefully. Your mother's stories never mentioned what happens when heroes get corrupted, did they?

The descent became a nightmare of wrong angles and twisted geography. More scholars wandered the halls, all moving with that same horrible purpose. All heading down. Down to where architecture merged with its neighbor, where academy bled into military district like a wound.

Finally, Thane emerged onto what had been a viewing balcony, now a precarious ledge. Below, the central laboratory rose through the devastation — seven levels that anyone could see, and who knew how many buried beneath.

"Level Seven," he breathed, remembering the journal. "Where mistakes go to hide."

Where your brother goes to find them. Look.

In the distance, a figure moved with purpose rather than shambling corruption. Avian, navigating the ruins with the confidence of someone who'd walked through worse. Leading a parade of horrors that followed like dutiful pets.

"He's drawing them away from his real path," Thane realized. Not running from them — using them.

Clever. Arrogant. Typical. We should—

The scholars below stopped mid-stride. Every one. In perfect synchronization, they turned toward the military district and screamed. Not pain. Not hunger.

Welcome.

Something had woken up. Something they remembered with whatever passed for their minds. Something that made even Whisper want to flee back to safer shadows.

Avian's POV

The military testing grounds were a monument to good intentions gone to hell.

Should have burned it all. Should have salted the earth and written 'HERE BE MONSTERS' in letters visible from orbit.

Bodies littered the parade ground like broken dolls — soldiers frozen mid-transformation, corruption crystallized in their veins. Some had sprouted extra limbs that never quite decided what they wanted to be. Others showed patches of scales, clusters of eyes where eyes had no business being, wings that were more tumor than feather.

"Volunteers," Avian read from a partially melted sign. The word dripped with irony that had probably escaped its writers. "They actually called them volunteers."

More like patriotic sheep who believed pretty lies about serving the Empire. Fucking waste.

The barracks told the real story. Bunk beds with restraints that had bitten deep into wood. Walls decorated with scratch marks that started with human fingernails and ended with... something else. Personal effects scattered like accusations — letters home that would never be sent, portraits of families who'd never recognize what came back.

One journal caught his eye, the writer's penmanship degrading from academy-trained precision to desperate scratches:

"Day 1: Proud to serve. The treatments will make us strong enough to face the demons."

"Day 5: It hurts. They say that's normal. Growing pains."

"Day 9: Henricks screamed all night. In the morning, he had scales. Pretty scales."

"Day 12: I can smell their fear. The researchers. They're afraid of us now. Good."

"Day 15: Not us anymore. Me. I. But what am I becoming? What am beautiful becoming?"

"Day ?: Words hard now. Thoughts like smoke. Hungry. So hungry. They lied. THEY LIED THEY LIED THEY—"

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The rest was just claw marks and what might have been dried tears.

Avian set the journal down with excessive care, jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth. He'd tried to stop this program. Begged, threatened, offered alternatives. They'd called him weak. Unpatriotic. A demon sympathizer.

Funny how being right feels exactly like being wrong when everyone's dying anyway.

The command building squatted ahead like a toad made of reinforced stone. Whatever had ended the facility had started here — reality itself bore scars radiating outward, as if existence had thrown a tantrum and nobody had cleaned up after.

Inside was a masterclass in ironic death. Researchers slumped at desks, some clutching final notes, others bearing wounds that suggested their test subjects had developed opinions about the testing. But one office remained sealed, protective wards still flickering with the magical equivalent of a dying battery.

The wards parted at Avian's touch like they recognized an old drinking buddy.

Or an old enemy. Same thing, really.

Everything inside was perfectly preserved, as if the occupant had just stepped out for coffee and forgotten to mention the apocalypse. Maps covered the walls — not just of the facility, but the entire city. Red marks for test sites. Black marks for failures. And one mark in gold, labeled with the kind of precision that suggested obsession: "Seal Chamber — Level Seven, Central Laboratory."

"Found you," Avian murmured, memorizing the route.

But the desk held treasures of its own. A final report, unfinished, blood spray for punctuation:

"The integration of demonic essence proceeds, but at terrible cost. Subjects retain human intelligence but lose human morality. They hunger for flesh, for suffering, for—"

"No. That's wrong. They don't lose morality. They invert it. What was good becomes repulsive. What was evil becomes delicious. We're not creating super soldiers. We're creating perfect predators with human intelligence and military training."

"I've recommended immediate termination of all subjects. General Aldric refuses. Says we're too close to success to quit now. The fool doesn't understand — we've already succeeded. Just not in the way we intended."

"If anyone finds this, know that what we've done here is unforgivable. The Seal was meant to control them, to force loyalty despite their transformation. But I fear we've only created monsters that can lie convincingly."

"May the gods forgive us. May our victims find peace. May—"

The blood spray was really quite artistic, if you enjoyed that sort of thing.

Avian pocketed the map, already tracing the route to Level Seven. But as he turned to leave, he heard it.

Breathing.

Not normal breathing. The wet, patient kind that suggested lungs had developed new and interesting chambers. Coming from the sealed testing chamber at the hall's end.

No. Those wards should have held. Nothing could survive that long without—

The breathing grew louder. Excited. Like a dog hearing its master after centuries of waiting. And beneath it, a voice that had probably started human:

"Visitor... after so... long... Come... see what we've... become..."

The door began to bulge outward, metal screaming.

Fuck this entire building and everyone who ever worked in it.

Avian ran. Not the panicked flight of prey, but the tactical retreat of someone who'd learned the difference between brave and stupid. Behind him, five centuries of containment finally gave up the ghost. The door exploded outward in a shower of metal and meat.

What squeezed through the frame had been three soldiers once. Now they were one thing, flesh fused and reformed into something that would make gods reconsider the whole 'creating life' business. Six arms that bent in too many places. Three heads that shared thoughts but not expressions. A torso that split and merged like wax.

And it was fast. Obscenely fast for something that shouldn't have been able to stand, let alone sprint.

"Wait... want to... show you... our glory..."

Hard pass on the glory showing, thanks.

Avian vaulted through a window, accepting the twenty-foot drop over whatever 'glory' meant to fusion-thing. He hit the ground in a roll that would have shattered normal bones, came up running. Behind him, the creature burst through the wall like it was made of tissue paper and broken promises.

In daylight, it was worse. The heads weren't aligned properly, giving it a full 360-degree view. The arms moved independently, reaching for things that weren't there. And it leaked. Constantly. A trail of something between blood and oil that hissed against the ground.

Then the corrupted scholars appeared. Drawn by their god's emergence, swarming toward it with cries of recognition. Of worship.

Of course they worship it. Monsters always recognize their kings.

The fusion-thing welcomed them, absorbing the scholars into its mass. Growing larger with each addition. Growing stronger. Growing more coherent, as if each new mind added processing power to its shared consciousness.

Avian used the distraction to gain distance, but a nasty thought occurred: what if it wasn't distracted? What if it was upgrading itself for the hunt?

He ran toward the central laboratory, the creature's hunting calls echoing behind. Not roars. Words. Growing clearer with each absorbed scholar:

"Come back... so much to share... so much to teach... about transformation... about truth..."

By the time Avian reached the laboratory, he had an entire parade following. But they stopped at the ward line, milling in confusion. The building's protections held them back like a fence made of 'no.'

For now.

The fusion-thing arrived moments later, scattering lesser corrupted with casual backhands. It studied the wards with six eyes that had definitely gained intelligence. One head tilted. Another smiled. The third began to speak in what sounded like mathematical equations.

It's calculating. Learning. Fuck.

Avian found shelter in a collapsed storefront, watching the creature work. Each probe of the wards was more sophisticated than the last. Each failure taught it something new.

The sun was already setting. An entire day gone, and they'd planned for only one. At this rate, the trial would fail on a technicality. 'Sorry, you found the Seal but died of old age walking back.'

We'll have to grab it and run. No time for careful study or—

The fusion-thing found something. One section of wards that flickered slightly out of sync with the rest. It pressed there, gently at first. Then harder. The light show was impressive.

"They'll be down by morning," Avian concluded.

Which meant tomorrow would be a race. Him versus Thane versus every corrupted nightmare in Malethar, all converging on seven levels of concentrated bad decisions.

Should be fun. If by fun you mean 'probably fatal.'

Something roared in the distance. Not the fusion-thing. Something bigger that had been woken by all the commotion. Because of course there was something worse. There was always something worse.

As full darkness fell, Avian settled in to wait for dawn. No point trying to navigate a trap-filled laboratory in the dark. Better to rest, plan, and be ready to move fast when the sun rose.

Because dawn was all the time they had left.

And somewhere in that laboratory, Level Seven waited with its truth-telling prize.

Can't wait to see what truths it forces out of dear brother Thane. Assuming we both survive long enough to find out.

Thane's POV

The screaming had stopped, replaced by something worse — organized movement.

Thane watched from his perch as corrupted creatures of every variety converged on the laboratory. They didn't attack each other. Didn't compete. They moved like components of a single organism with the building at its heart.

This is bad, Whisper muttered, for once understating things. Very, very bad. They're not mindless. They remember being human. Remember working together.

"Then we use that," Thane said, though his voice lacked conviction. How did you use the memories of monsters against them?

He'd found relatively safe shelter in what had been a tea shop, its second floor giving him clear sightlines to the laboratory. The fusion-thing continued its patient assault on the wards. Each test more sophisticated. Each failure teaching it something new.

At this rate, it would break through by dawn.

"One day," he muttered, checking his supplies. "We planned for one day in the city."

The trial has a deadline. Seven days total. Three here, three back. We're already behind schedule.

"I know." Thane watched Avian in his own hiding spot across the plaza. His brother sat perfectly still, probably planning six different approaches. Always planning. Always three steps ahead.

Or is he? He looks as trapped as we are.

The thought was oddly comforting. Even the mighty Demon King could be cornered by circumstance. Even he had to wait for dawn like everyone else.

You could approach him now. Coordinate. Plan together.

"No." The refusal came instantly. "Tomorrow we're rivals. Tonight we're just... strangers waiting for the same sunrise."

Your mother would say—

"Don't." Thane's voice turned sharp. "Not tonight. Tonight I need to think clearly, and her voice in my head never helps with that."

But even as he said it, he could see her in his mind. Reading by candlelight, voice soft as she spoke of shepherds and dragons. Of heroes who weren't always strongest.

Had she known? When she looked at him with those warm eyes, had she seen what he'd become? Desperate for strength, willing to deal with shadows, ready to destroy his own brother for power?

Stop it. Guilt is weakness. Focus on tomorrow.

Tomorrow. When the wards fell. When every nightmare in Malethar poured into that building. When he and Avian would race for Level Seven and its terrible prize.

"A compass that forces truth," he said quietly. "From everyone involved."

What truths would it drag from him? That he hated Avian not for being the Demon King but for being stronger? That he'd twisted his mother's stories to justify his father's brutality? That deep down, beneath all the ambition and shadow pacts, he was still just a scared boy who thought strength would make the fear go away?

Those aren't truths. They're weaknesses. The Seal will show your strength.

Would it, though? Or would it strip away every lie he'd told himself, leave him naked and pathetic in front of the brother he'd sworn to destroy?

In the distance, something massive roared. The city was waking up properly now. Tomorrow would be worse than today. Tomorrow, they'd have to be perfect.

"Get some rest," he told himself. "Dawn comes whether you're ready or not."

But sleep wouldn't come. Instead, he watched the fusion-thing work at the wards. Watched corrupted creatures gather like pilgrims at a shrine. Watched his brother sit still as stone, probably having brilliant thoughts about victory.

Tomorrow, one of them would claim the Seal.

Or tomorrow, they'd both die trying.

Your mother would bet on you both surviving. Together.

"Then it's a good thing she's not here to be disappointed," Thane whispered to the dark.

But even as he said it, he wondered if she'd be disappointed at all. Or if she'd just give him that knowing smile and ask if he'd finally figured out what strength really meant.

He hadn't.

But tomorrow, the Seal would force its own answers.

Whether he wanted them or not.

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