How does one categorize this sensation?

Jord—ugh—used to ramble about guardian angels and shoulder-perched devils. One whispering virtue, the other vice. Ultimately, he'd insist, the choice was yours.

Presently? I felt like both.

Hovering over Sergiy's psyche, phantom fingers cradling his frayed nerves, murmuring directives he mistook for epiphanies.

In a way, I was living through him—tasting a whole different world. I even managed to pull him out of his fear spiral. I told him—gently—that maybe what he was feeling was just his affinity acting up. That this was Pact-building, after all. No one walked in here expecting to return in one piece. They had a gold core right here, damn it.

...Okay, I had no idea if that last part was even true, but he needed something to hold onto.

The suggestion took root.

His eyes stopped twitching like nervous butterflies every time I looked at him. Still jittery, yeah—but less so. Progress.

While all this was going on, I was also mentally mapping the areas Sergiy passed through. My awareness radius around him was still limited, but it gave me enough to piece things together.

From what I could tell, Sergiy was inside some kind of barracks. The Iron Pact, from what I understood, was part-academy, part-military faction within Varkaigrad. Its gates were open to all sects, standing as a neutral militaristic force—initially for the five major sects, but its influence had spread to the outer and even remote sects of Vraal'kor.

They had an actual system in place. Anyone could enter, regardless of background—as long as they were talented.

...Of course, the ones who benefited the most were still those from higher birth. Those who could actually afford to cultivate a core beforehand. The entrance requirement was Peak Black Core.

If you had one, you walked in with a massive advantage. Naturally, most seats in the academy ended up filled by people who already had a leg up.

After two years of training, these recruits graduated and became full-fledged Enforcers, tasked with maintaining peace not just in Varkaigrad, but across all of Vraal'kor. From what I'd heard, they got dispatched all over—responding to natural disasters, monster waves, even the occasional Parda anomaly.

Risky job. But then again, so was everything in this world.

I wasn't sure what Sergiy's background was, but something about his mannerisms felt… posh. Noble, maybe.

There was one thing I found myself curious about, though: The stars on their uniforms.

They looked like rank markers. Sergiy had one—fresh graduate, probably. Milan had four, so clearly more experienced. And Andrej—the guy who'd held Sergiy prisoner before—had eight. That made him a serious authority figure.

I remembered Vorak had six marks, at least from what I'd seen back in Vasilisa's office. Pretty high, if you asked me. Then again, I didn't know the exact nuances of the Pact's weird little hagiarchy, so I just kept watching Sergiy.

He left the barracks and made his way toward a larger building. A few wounded enforcers crossed my perception bubble around him, and I came to a reasonable conclusion—it had to be the medical ward.

If Vorak had been framed the same way I was, then he was probably in trouble. That was the natural consequence, after all. But honestly, I was mostly just curious now, given how little I actually knew about anything Iron Pact-related.

Sergiy passed through a stone archway into the ward. Just as I expected, it was full of injured enforcers. Rows of beds sectioned off by curtain partitions made the place look like a tent camp, and the healers were scrambling through it all trying to keep up. Sergiy's eyes flicked from curtain to curtain as he moved, clearly determined.

But I could feel the shift in him as he reached the final bed. No Vorak.

That lined up with what I'd already suspected, but still—where the hell was he?

Sergiy finally turned to the guard posted by the door.

"Oh, that old man?" the guard said, blinking like this was common knowledge. "He was taken a while back."

Sergiy brightened. "Did he wake up? Got treated then?"

"Oh, no. They moved him to the holding cells. Only after he regained consciousness."

The horror that hit Sergiy was almost visceral. I didn't get why he was so shocked—wasn't that the obvious outcome? He should've assumed it.

I nudged him again, planting another suggestion: I should ask for more information.

Because really, we didn't know jack about what was going on. What was the Pact doing? No matter how I turned it over in my head, I couldn't make sense of it. I'd been careful. Always. Why was I suddenly declared a terrorist in league with Vor'akhs? And Vorak too, just because he helped me?

And how did they even know? How had they planted evidence in my room? What kind of evidence gets you slapped on a wanted list without so much as a question?

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No matter how hard I banged my head against the puzzle, nothing added up.

What was the motive?

But questions like these only get answered if someone goes looking.

And that's where Sergiy came in. Subtle manipulation was my best shot at peeling back the curtain on the Pact.

And oh boy, did it work.

Vorak was currently locked in a holding cell, getting tortured for information about the Vor'akhs—and me. Were they collectively concussed?

This baffled me more than the frame-job. Veritas extract, truth serum existed. Rare? Yes. Costly? Undoubtedly. But the Pact swam in resources – no conceivable deficit.

So why such theatrics? Why brute-force agony when suspicion alone should've mandated cleaner, quieter methods? Barbarism felt… inefficient. Counterproductive. Almost performative.

It was almost like they wanted to send a message… or maybe the guard was just lying. But it worked on Sergiy. His face paled as the man kept talking—worse still, he looked proud of it.

"Can't believe we had a Vor'akh rat right beside us all this time, haha."

Sergiy felt the same way I did—anger. A flash of it, raw and wild. Almost enough to yell. Mortal emotions were so damn fragile.

I must calm myself. Focus on breathing.

I whispered the suggestion into his mind, subtle and steady, and just as I intended, it placated him. His shoulders slackened, his jaw unclenched. He bowed and left without a word, stepping out of the medical ward.

Meanwhile, I sank into thought.

What if Vorak had uncovered something? Some rot at the core of this city. Something real. Something the Pact didn't want known.

He was a diviner—of course he'd be the type to see beyond the veil. And if he had any sort of mental barrier skill—like I'd heard some high-rankers develop—it might even dull the effects of a Truth Serum.

That would explain why they were torturing him instead. Why they'd stoop to such barbaric methods instead of the usual, quiet efficiency.

It felt like I was sitting on a goldmine.

I needed Vorak. Preferably alone. Preferably soon.

I cast one last glance at Sergiy and decided against using him any further. He was too weak. Not worth the effort.

I'd already considered breaking into the Pact's facility before. Back then, it was just for Iron—to find out what he was doing and how he was tied to the rot. But I could get those answers from Thibault now.

This? This was about Vorak.

If my theory held any truth, then that old man held the key to it.

I stood up. Brickfist looked up from the other side of the room.

"Need something?"

"Just take care of my clothes."

My bracer dropped to the ground as I phased through the table, reemerging in my half-dragon form.

Brickfist yelped and fell off his chair.

I moved first—tore off Thibault's regrowing limbs again, just to be sure. Brickfist looked horrified. Vyra cracked an eye open, shrugged, and went back to sleep.

Zoran hadn't slept yet. I could feel his sweet, trembling terror just from my presence. Good.

I stared down at Thibault's unconscious, limbless body. That should keep him in check until I returned. Or until Lysska got back.

In theory, I should wait for her. It would reduce risk. But it wasn't even midday yet. She wouldn't be back until nightfall. Too much time. I'd combust if I sat still that long.

No. I'd go now. A little reconnaissance run.

I grabbed an antidivination charm from my clothes and slid it into my jaw. Then I activated my Dimensional Lamina—and slipped into the Shadow Dimension, vanishing from the world.

***

"Hah… this girl," Lysska muttered, shaking her head with a dry exhale. Honestly, she couldn't even fault her. She didn't know what Jade realized that pushed the girl into making such a sudden decision—it felt oddly familiar. Almost like how Lysska herself would act when her little eyes delivered something useful out of nowhere.

Must've been another entry in the girl's growing list of uncanny abilities. Lysska had seen enough to start losing count.

Of course, trying to make sense of divinity through mortal logic was a trap in itself. Dragons—she'd worshipped them once. Back in her years among the Vor'akhs, they were revered as gods. While the Vor'akhs themselves were morally bankrupt, their devotion had been terrifyingly absolute.

Lysska couldn't pretend she was immune to it either. Part of her still marveled, even now.

Her gaze drifted around the room she sat in—a place soaked in opulence. Tapestries lined the walls, broad and towering, threaded with sinuous serpents of sickly green scales. Some wore ornaments, others bore the faded visages of old Saryn nobility, long since swallowed by history.

Then there were the mana cores—massive ones—taken from beasts deep in the dungeon. They glowed with mana still fresh, despite how long they'd been resting in place. The entire room practically hummed with it. The air was thick with energy, warm and pulsing against her senses.

The door creaked open. In stepped Lord Veyan, trailing a pair of servants balancing a tea set. They placed the tray in front of her, and Veyan took a seat across the table.

Lysska let a sharp, vulpine smile touch her lips, her tails giving a lazy flick behind her. "As lovely as your hospitality is, Lord Veyan," she said smoothly, "you do realize I have obligations. The lower district's already unraveling, and I don't much like watching fires spread from behind silk curtains."

Veyan picked up his own cup, the steam carrying a subtle sweetness that made Lysska's nose wrinkle. Poison. Not enough to kill—probably something milder. Still, he took a sip.

"Your life's at risk out there," he said calmly. "Master asked me to keep you safe, Lady Lysska. And frankly, there's no safer place than this room."

"A gilded cage is still a cage, my lord. It forces me to spectate the city's unraveling."

"Your eyes truly blanket the chaos?"

"Perhaps."

"Well, the answer doesn't change. Master will return by nightfall—I heard from her directly. You'll be free to leave then. I do appreciate what you've done, but Master's word is final."

Hah. Who knew the current Sablethorn Patriarch wore his leash with such polished devotion to the Flameclaw Matriarch? Devotion could fossilize into fanaticism. A lesson learned daily.

But Lysska could only close her eyes and stomach it—for now. She needed to get to Jade as soon as possible. Before the girl did something reckless. Or worse, something justified.

Those filthy bastards in the Iron Pact… and even the acting head of the Flameclaw clan, standing in for the Matriarch—they were all spinning the same twisted tale. A fabricated narrative, crafted for one purpose. Just a narrative spun from whole cloth to paint Jade as anathema. To box her in, isolate her, and when the time came, put her down. They wanted her corpse as proof. No politics, no games—just cold execution with a pretty excuse.

There was history here. Lysska could feel it in her bones. And it wasn't just about Jade being a dragon—though that alone would've been enough to set half the continent on edge.

Recently, someone had even pointed out the resemblance between Jade and Princess Vernia. And while there were differences—Jade's former body was thin, pale, with a frail look about it—there were enough similarities to raise eyebrows. If Jade were just a little more filled out, with blue eyes and black hair? She could almost pass as Vernia's twin. Lysska had originally dismissed it as nothing more than a stretch. But life had a way of hammering in the same lesson: coincidences didn't exist. Not when a dragon was involved.

Both the Pact and the Flameclaw elders reeked of something deeper than ambition: desperation. A fear-driven gambit, not calculated malice. They moved like prey cornered by a shadow only they could see.

Intel. She needed its cold blade.

Lysska's gaze slid to the window. A murder of crows scattered from the ledge like shards of shattered night.

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