Sylas' first instinct is to rip open every lock and guide the prisoners out before the voices get closer. If he does, they'll be caught.

"Stay quiet," Sylas whispers. He closes back the lock, places back the lantern, and moves behind crates lying in chaos near a wall.

"You better get us out," the older woman hisses.

Sylas places his finger over his lips, ordering her to stop talking. He focuses on his breathing and Ether, moving it along its natural flow to fully hide his aura.

"Why did you take them now?! I haven't finished my experiments!" a well-spoken man barks.

"The master cares not for your personal experiments," an accented man answers. There is an animalistic growl that underlines his words, blurring them out. "But you'll have new ones soon."

"If this even works," the well-spoken man grumbles. "You failed to capture even one of them. They'll warn the others; the plan is ruined!"

"The master planned for this. It makes things faster, but do not change our methods."

"Because you think Karn will be gullible enough to let them in?"

"The cow is stupid," the accented man says. "But the master said it will be the soldier girl who will take them in. She cares for orphans in her city."

"And if she doesn't? Or place them in isolation because you've shown our methods?"

"We'll give the cow the opportunity to slaughter the goblins who carried the children. He won't realize that he's infecting himself."

"That's good," the well-spoken man comments. He sounds exhausted. "Did you give your men the tonic I made for their goblins?"

"Yes."

"Good, good." The well-spoken man enters first. He's human, but his head is pierced at the brow by a red crystal jutting like a horn. A dark red light swirls inside it. He removes his hooded cloak, revealing a naked, unhealthy torso covered in skin-carved text. The rune Sylas found on the goblins' necks takes the center of his back and is surrounded by circular patterns. He grabs a leather butcher apron from a coat rack and puts it on. "Place it on this table."

The second man enters, a large bag in his right hand. His green right hand. Sylas recognizes the armor he wears; he's the one he fought in their camp. He grabs the bag by the bottom and drops a large fang attached to a black organ onto a table.

The children whimper at the sound, making their cages rattle.

"Careful, you animal!" the human barks. He moves to inspect the thing, turning it around to see the side that impacted. It drips out translucent gunk that splatters over the wooden table. "This is a perfect specimen. Too bad we don't have more goblins to send hunting the beasts. Where is the other one?"

"They broke it," the green man announces.

The human's crystal horn light gets brighter. He grabs a vial on his desk and throws it over Sylas; it explodes against the cavern wall. Small objects like olives bounce on Sylas before rolling on the ground. The human's head snaps to the green man. "You imbecile! Have I not told you how priceless they are?! That they were worth more than your miserable life?! Who did you send?!"

"Goblins."

The human screams in rage. He grabs another vial and hurls it at a cage. "Get out!"

The green man leaves without another word.

"Hobgoblins. Why did he give me hobgoblins? Selfish, good for nothing," the human grumbles. He unhooks the lantern and places it on the table before him. After assembling his tools – a vial, a funnel, and a knife – he begins to cut into the organ.

Black blood oozes from the cut like tar. A stench of rotten meat rises. He breathes in deeply, nostrils flaring; his eyes close as he moves his head back, appreciating the stench.

The crystal in his brow pulses.

"Quiet," he tells it.

Sylas tries to control his breathing. Every breath pains him as the stench the man released mixes with the miasma of the room.

The man raises the opened organ over his funnel, dripping a green liquid into the vial. It fills a third of the way. He pulls the funnel, taps it twice for the last drops, and inspects the vial in the light. "Good, good."

The man moves to the table with the tome depicting the Minotaur heart eater. He flips the book to another page and reads aloud. "Three drops of Lichorand dew by the liter. One should be enough.

The children whimper again.

"Silence," the man snaps without looking at them. The crystal in his brow flares. He grabs a clay vial from his belt and drips a clear liquid into his concoction. Smoke puffs out of the mix as he stirs the glass vial. He returns to his tome. "Add the juice of Chimera Berry until the potion turns blue; dosage varies with concentration of the base. Then heat near boiling for three minutes."

The man looks around his desk, picking up and laying down vials in a hastening cadence. He rages and throws the last one at a wall. "I had them; I had them, I know it. Someone must have stolen it from me. Hobgoblins; it must have been the Hobgoblins, good-for-nothing thieves!"

Then the man stops and turns, looking directly at Sylas.

Sylas cowers back behind his crate.

The man grabs the lantern and comes towards him. He reaches the crate and stops, placing the lantern before him to illuminate the ground. He bows and picks up a small black fruit from the ground. "There you are."

Sylas moves around the crate as the man picks up the fruits he scattered. Sylas unsheathes Hawryn's dagger. It's his opportunity to kill the man, free the captives, and make a run for it. All he has to do is step out and drive the blade into the man's back.

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The man hums to himself as he plucks another of the black fruits for the foot of the wall. He's close enough that Sylas can see all the loose strands of grey hair in his beard.

Sylas' feet stay glued to the ground. His muscles tremble instead of stepping forwards. Sweat beads at his temple and rolls down his back. He slaughtered goblins, and he killed a wolf; he even impaled a Skullgor and wounded a man. But that had been in the heat of battle. He never attacked a man who couldn't defend himself. He never killed a man.

The man is on his knees, back turned, muttering to himself.

Sylas' hand refuses. His wrist feels locked. His grip on the leather hilt slackens as sweat makes it slippery.

The man moves back to his desk, a pile of fruits cradled in one arm. He places them in a bowl and grabs a pestle to crush them. Liquid and chunks of fruit jump out of his mortar as he hums to himself in rhythm with the blows. He slowly strains the juice into his concoction, watching for the color shift.

Sylas sheathes back Hawryn's dagger. He will wait for him to finish and leave with the prisoners once he's gone.

The man grabs a utensil to place his vial over a candle. He flicks his fingers at the wick, and it bursts aflame. While he waits, he plucks a quill from an inker and writes in the tome. "Ten drops for a third of a liter extracted from an adult, ten-meter-wide specimen."

After snuffing out the candle, the man plucks the vial and turns it in the light. The liquid inside has gone from green to a deep blue with swirling strands of black.

"Good, good," the man mutters to himself. He brings the vial to his lips but stops. "Try it first."

His gaze slides from the vial to the cages.

The children try to shrink away from the bars. The metal chains whine as they dangle the cages.

Sylas' fingers twitch toward the dagger's hilt again.

The man walks towards the cages and stops in front of the nearest one. He pries a key from his belt and opens the lock before dragging the child out of it.

The kid screams in terror, clawing at the man's arm. His feet slip on the dirty ground, unable to push him away from his torturer. "No, please no! Help! Help me!"

"There is no one to help you. Just be a nice test subject and shut the fuck up!" The man grabs a rope and binds the kid's arms and legs to a chair.

"Please, I beg you," the kid says, staring at Sylas.

"Silence!" The man grabs a smaller fang from his desk and dips it into his potion. He grabs the kid's head and exposes his neck, raising his hand to strike.

"No," Sylas whispers. The word barely leaves his lips, but it feels like it snaps something inside him. Ether bolsters his muscles, and he steps out of hiding, unsheathing his sword.

The man freezes as the ripples of Sylas' aura reach him. The drop of liquid trembling on the fang's tip drops to the ground.

Sylas launches out from behind the crate, boots hammering the ground. He roars, "Let him go!"

The man flinches, turning with a snarl, his hand still clutching the kid's head. The crystal horn in his brow flares, throwing long shadows across the room. He drops his fang and extends his hand to stop Sylas' blade.

A memory flashes in Sylas' mind; he sees Grim holding his hand exactly like that, casting an inferno forward. He ducks to the side, just in time to avoid a spray of black miasma. Rolling to his feet, Sylas reaches the man and slashes down, striking his head.

The man goes limp and falls, letting go of the kid's head. His glossy eyes stare at Sylas, and his mouth twitches.

Sylas falls back, dragging his sword in his fall. It slides off his victim, dragging out chunks of his brain. The clatter of steel on stone as his sword hits the ground feels deafening. Sylas stares.

The man lies on his side, one arm twisted under him, the other flung out. Blood and pale, soft matter spill from the wound carved through his skull. He's dead. The realization lurches Sylas' stomach; he killed a man. He killed animals and monsters before, but seeing a human corpse feels like a stab to the guts. He clutches at the ground with his free hand, scraping his nails against the stone.

The kids and women in the cages say nothing. They're watching him and the corpse. Some have their hands over their mouths. One of the youngest still whimpers.

Sylas retches bile onto the ground. His breathing becomes as hastened as his heart, catching in his throat as soon as it begins. A fog invades his mind, blurring his sight and filling his hearing with a whistle.

The long-healed scars on Sylas' arms and legs flare anew. Cold sweat trickles down his back. His nails press against the stone until it becomes painful. The whistle in his ears drowns out everything.

He wanted to be left alone, dedicated to his craft. But they had to take that away from him, as if he were a pawn to play with. And now he killed a man. Why? Why couldn't he have been left alone? In that moment he wishes to have never met Liliana, stepped in that damned garrison to train, or even been rescued from his burning village.

The boy bound to the chair screams.

Sylas looks up.

The man is alive, standing with his brain exposed to the air. The crystal in his temple pulsates faster than before, but its light dimmed. Grabbing the boy's neck once more, the man opens his jaws with a snap. His eye turns to the side, inhumanly looking at Sylas as it is dragged by gravity. This isn't a man but a corpse given a false life.

Sylas grabs his sword off the ground and jumps to his feet. The remnants of Strengthening propel him forward, and he impales the corpse through the chest. He pushes the blade to the side, carving a wound through both lungs. He had become good at killing, training with the guards and Storis for weeks. How could he have hoped never to?

The man goes limp once again, and the pulsating light in his crystal vanishes.

Sylas slashes at the crystal to be certain the man won't get up again. It releases strands of Ether that try to invade Sylas, but he jumps back and closes himself to them. They move away, carried by the surrounding flows.

"Get us out before you freeze again," the older woman hisses.

Sylas grabs the key from the man's belt and tosses it to her. While she unlocks her cage, he moves to the chair and cuts the rope to free the boy. "We need to go."

"Yes, we do," the older woman says as she opens the other woman's lock. "What in Seraphel's name took you so long to kill him? You should have stabbed him when he had his back turned to you."

Sylas doesn't answer. He picks open other locks while they free one another with the key.

The two women and ten children huddle together, waiting on Sylas. They look exhausted, weak, and starved, but they can all walk.

"Stay behind me," Sylas orders. He moves to the tome and rips out the pages on the parasite before tucking them under his gambeson. "Stay close. Keep to the wall."

Sylas leads them out of the lab and into the mineshaft, blade in hand. The rescued captives follow in a thin, shivering line. The women place themselves at each end, making sure the children move forward and stay together.

The mineshaft feels narrower on the way back. The torchlight seems weaker, and the shadows stare back at Sylas. Every distant goblin chatter makes everyone flinch. The older woman curses under her breath, sometimes at Sylas, sometimes at the dead man.

Sylas doesn't command her to be quiet. He can't. His mind is too scared to even utter a word. He checks the tunnel he missed on the way in and continues. They turn to the right towards the wolves' room and climb back up. Sylas freezes as he hears pained breathing coming from the room.

A figure steps into the moonlight, clutching his side. Hawryn gives Sylas a pained smile. "The fort is clear. I realized they left barely anybody up here when you tried your luck."

Sylas motions for the captives to move into the room.

"And the sergeant?" Hawryn asks. He changes his expression, trying to hide his pain as he sees the kids.

"Never here," Sylas answers. "We need to go back to Balmwood. The bags they carried were more kids infected with a parasite that will kill Karn."

"Fuck," Hawryn lets out. He looks at the captives one after the other. "You have to run back there. And no but this time. I'll take care of them; you get to Balmwood before them."

"They'll soon know they escaped," Sylas says. "If I leave you, you'll have to defend all of them alone."

"If you stay, hundreds could die," Hawryn retorts. He gets closer. "I'll take the long way; if they give chase, it will be to you. I'll set their wolves free into the tunnel before leaving; they'll have no riders to catch up to you."

Sylas knows in his heart that this is the only thing to do. But he cannot stop himself from thinking that leaving them is putting them in danger.

"You are no hero yet," Hawryn says, following Sylas' gaze. "Now do your duty and save the many."

"Don't die," Sylas says. He walks past the kids and leaves the room, breaking into a run towards the town.

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