Ruben gasped for air, his lungs burning as if he had swallowed broken glass. The dust in the ruined hallway was thick, choking, but he didn't have time to cough.
A streak of red light slashed through the haze.
Ruben threw himself to the left, his boots sliding on the plaster debris. The crimson construct, a whip made of solidified blood, cracked the wall where his head had been a fraction of a second before, leaving a deep, smoking gouge in the mahogany wainscoting.
Rosette St. Jon moved through the destruction like a dancer on a stage. She wasn't winded. She wasn't sweating. She was perfectly, terrifyingly clinical.
"You are sluggish," Rosette observed, her voice cool and devoid of exertion. She flicked her wrist, and the blood-whip retracted, reshaping instantly into a curved saber. "Dario Kosta didn't oversea your training? I expected a challenge, not a warmup."
Ruben didn't answer. He couldn't. He was fighting a war on two fronts.
While he ducked and weaved, desperately trying to keep his vital organs away from her reach, his mind was split. He could feel the connection to his Ego, Forge, straining. He visualized the rooftop above, where Corbin was fighting a losing battle against gravity.
Go, Ruben commanded silently. Help him.
From the shadows of the staircase, three small, serpentine dragons materialized. They made no sound, whisps of amber light. Instead of attacking Rosette, they shot upward, aiming for the hole in the roof to swarm Lance Onida.
Rosette didn't even look up.
"Disrespectful," she murmured.
With a speed that blurred the eye, she spun. Her crimson saber extended, becoming a wide, sweeping crescent. The blade passed through the air with a hum of violent energy.
Snip. Snip. Snip.
The three dragons were severed in mid-flight. They didn't bleed, they simply dissolved into sparks of gold dust that rained down on Ruben's face.
"Focus on me," Rosette commanded. She lunged, the tip of her blade aiming for his heart.
Ruben parried with a conjured dragon scale, the impact jarring his shoulder, sending a shockwave of pain down his arm. He gritted his teeth, forcing a tactical map into his mind. She was fast, but she was arrogant. She was over-committing to the strikes.
He saw an opening.
Rosette swung wide. Ruben dropped low, sweeping his leg to kick up a cloud of blinding dust, simultaneously summoning a jagged dagger of dragon-scale in his right hand. He sprang forward, aiming to jam the hilt into her solar plexus, just enough to wind her, just enough to buy a second.
"Got you," Ruben wheezed, closing the distance.
Rosette stopped. She didn't block. She just turned her face toward him, her expression one of utter boredom.
Her eyes, those deep pools of blood-red violence, suddenly flared.
ZZEEEOW.
It wasn't a construct. It was raw, concentrated light. Twin beams of searing crimson laser fire erupted from her pupils.
Ruben yelled as the heat slammed into his right hand. The dragon-dagger shattered instantly. The skin on the back of his hand blistered and burned, the smell of singed flesh filling the small space.
He stumbled back, clutching his wrist, his vision swimming from the sudden flash.
"A Warlord sees everything," Rosette stated.
She didn't give him time to recover. The killing intent around her flared. The blood-saber dissolved and reformed in her hand as a long, heavy spear, the same style as Elise's, but made of her own unique crimson capacity.
She stepped in and thrust.
SHUNK.
Ruben cried out, a raw, guttural sound, as the spear drove through the meat of his left shoulder. It missed the bone but punched clean through the muscle.
The force of the blow lifted him off his feet. Rosette didn't pull back. She drove the spear forward, slamming Ruben against the wall. The energy construct pierced his jumper, the drywall, and the studs behind it, pinning him there like a butterfly in a display case.
Ruben hung there, his feet dangling inches off the floor, blood blooming rapidly across his gray hoodie. He grabbed the shaft of the spear with his good hand, trying to pull himself free, but the pain was blinding.
Rosette stepped in close. She looked him in the eye, her face inches from his.
"Sit," she whispered.
She raised her boot and kicked him, hard, directly in the stomach.
The air left Ruben's body in a dry heave. His vision went black at the edges. He went limp against the wall, held up only by the spear through his shoulder.
Above them, the sounds of battle ceased abruptly.
There was a rushing sound, a heavy thud, and then silence.
From the hole in the ceiling, Lance Onida drifted down. He looked impeccable, save for a little dust on his shoes. In his hand, he held the back of a shirt.
He tossed his burden onto the floor.
Corbin Monet hit the wood with a wet slap. He wasn't moving. His face was a mask of bruises, one eye swollen shut, his body limp and broken. He let out a low groan, but didn't try to rise.
"Caught this one," Lance said casually, dusting off his hands. "He has spirit. Zero technique, but plenty of spirit."
Rosette grabbed Ruben by the front of his hoodie. She yanked the spear out of the wall, Ruben screamed through gritted teeth as the energy dissipated, and dragged him across the floor. He stumbled, his legs refusing to work, until she threw him down next to Corbin.
"I have Rayo," Rosette reported, her chest heaving slightly, though she hid it well.
Ruben blinked, trying to clear the blood from his eyes. He looked up.
Elise Vogel was standing by the shattered bay window. Her gold-etched spear was lowered. Her face was a mask of cold fury. Beside her, Lea Lantern looked pale, her eyes wide and haunted.
"We failed," Elise said, the words sharp as ice.
Lance looked around the ruined room. "Where are they?"
"Gone," Elise spat. "Strahm triggered a structural collapse in the confusion. He took the boy. They vanished into the sewer network before I could clear the rubble."
Ruben felt the words hit him harder than Rosette's kick.
Gone.
Oscar was gone. The kid was back in the hands of the monster. The gamble, the desperate, stupid gamble to bring the Paladins here, had failed. They hadn't saved him. They had just lost everything.
Ruben looked over to the corner. Konrad Bach was sitting on a pile of debris that used to be his staircase. He held a handkerchief to a cut on his forehead. He looked old, small, and utterly defeated. His sanctuary was a crater.
"It's okay, Commander," Lance said, his voice uncharacteristically serious. "We secured the area. The local precinct is outside with Bruno and Kade."
"Have them set up a perimeter," Elise ordered, turning away from the hole where Paul had escaped. "I want a city-wide dragnet. Strahm does not leave this sector."
Heavy footsteps echoed from the foyer. A crowd of uniformed officers swarmed in, weapons raised, securing the room.
Through the parting sea of blue uniforms, Bruno Fernando entered.
He was a mountain of a man, he was slim but big enough to seem as though he was taking the entire space of the doorway. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing the heavy ink of ledgers and names tattooed across his skin. He looked at the devastation, the shattered clock, the holes in the roof, the blood on the floor, and let out a heavy sigh, smoke from his cigarette drifting from his nostrils.
"Quite a mess," Bruno rumbled, his voice like grinding stones.
He walked over to where Ruben and Corbin lay. He looked down at them, two boys, battered, bleeding, and barely conscious. He didn't look angry. He looked sad.
Bruno reached into his heavy coat and pulled out two sheets of thick, yellowed parchment paper. They were covered in an intricate script.
Lance raised an eyebrow. "Paper, Bruno? You didn't bring the cuffs? Or even collars?"
Bruno looked at the paper in his hand. "I didn't bring anything else," he admitted, his voice low. "Because I thought I would fail. I didn't think we'd catch them."
Lance kissed his teeth, shaking his head. "Always the optimist."
Bruno ignored him. He handed the parchments to Lea and Rosette.
"Tie them up," Bruno ordered. "Use rope. Then place the seals over their chests. It will nullify the connection to their Ego."
Rosette looked at the rope a frantic officer was offering her, then sneered.
"I don't need rope," she said.
She leaned over Ruben. Her red hair moved like living tendrils, snakes of crimson silk. They wrapped around Ruben's wrists and ankles, tightening with a strength that cut off circulation. She did the same to Corbin.
Bruno stepped forward. He knelt beside Ruben.
Ruben looked up at the big man. He saw the regret in Bruno's eyes held an oppressive and incredibly solemn emotion he didn't understand.
Bruno slapped the parchment onto Ruben's chest.
Instantly, the cold fire in Ruben's veins, the connection to the Dragon's Forge, was snuffed out. It was gone. He felt hollow. Empty. Just a boy with a hole in his shoulder.
Bruno stood up, towering over the captured fugitives. He addressed the room, his voice carrying the weight of the law.
"The two suspects connected to the Gresham Incident have been captured," Bruno announced.
He looked at Elise, then at Lance and Rosette.
"Good work. But don't celebrate yet."
Bruno turned to look out the shattered window, into the fog where Paul Strahm had disappeared with the child.
"We still have a lot of work to do."
The truck smelled of oil, cold metal, and the stale, copper tang of drying blood.
It was a heavy, rhythmic rumbling that vibrated through the floorboards and up into Ruben's spine. He sat with his back against the cold steel wall of the transport container, his legs stretched out before him, ankles bound tight enough to cut off circulation.
The darkness was absolute. The blindfold tied around his head was coarse, scratching his temples, but even without it, the world felt dim. The seal Bruno had slapped onto his chest felt like a void, a cold, numb patch of skin where his connection to the Dragon's Forge used to be. It was like losing a limb.
But the physical hollowness was nothing compared to the noise in his head.
Gone.
The word bounced around his skull like a bullet in a steel room.
Oscar is gone.
Ruben let his head thump back against the metal wall. He grit his teeth until his jaw ached. It was his fault. It was entirely, one hundred percent his fault.
He had tried to be clever. He had tried to play 4D chess with people who were playing with live grenades. He had assumed that if he created chaos, the "heroes" would prioritize the innocent child. He had bet everything on the idea that the Paladins would be faster than the terrorist.
Stupid, Ruben thought, the self-loathing rising like bile. Arrogant and stupid.
He saw Oscar's face in the dark behind his eyelids. He remembered how the kid looked when they first found him in the sewers, shivering, so small, stepping silently because he was terrified of making a sound. He remembered the kid asking about his "medicine," scared that he was going to hurt people.
Oscar had trusted him. He had given the kid that small, golden dragon as a promise of safety. And now? Well now, he could still track that dragon, but the issue lies in his capture and the nullification affecting him now.
But it stung his heart, the idea of Oscar being dragged back into the darkness by a man who saw him as nothing more than a battery.
Ruben felt a tear leak from under the blindfold, hot and stinging. He didn't wipe it away. He couldn't move his hands anyway, they were bound behind his back.
"Ruben?"
The voice was rough, cracking in the middle. Corbin.
Ruben swallowed the lump in his throat. "Yeah. I hear you."
"You okay?"
"No," Ruben whispered. "I'm sorry, Corbin."
The truck hit a pothole, jostling them. The chains rattled.
"I didn't think it through enough," Ruben continued, the words spilling out fast, desperate to be said. "I just... I wanted to move fast. I hated waiting in that house. I hated feeling trapped. I thought I could manipulate the board, bring the Paladins in to do the heavy lifting. I should have known better. I shouldn't have involved them when the pressure was already so high. Now we're in chains, and the kid... the kid is back with him."
There was a silence in the dark, filled only by the drone of the engine and the hiss of tires on wet pavement.
"It's my fault too," Corbin said finally, his voice heavy.
"No, it was my plan..."
"Shut up, Ruben," Corbin interrupted, not unkindly. "It took us both to make this bad call. I didn't push back. I didn't add anything to it. I just said 'okay'."
Corbin shifted, the ropes creaking. "I realized something back there, when Lance dropped the sky on us. I rely on you too much. You do most of the thinking when it comes to these big fights, I do most of the punching. It works... until it doesn't. I let you carry the weight of the strategy, and when it went south, I didn't have a backup. I'm sorry for that. I should have been more than just a hammer."
Ruben didn't know what to say. He nodded in the dark, though Corbin couldn't see it.
"Well," Ruben muttered, his voice hollow. "doesn't matter much now. We've been caught."
"Yeah," Corbin breathed out. "Seems that way. I wonder what happens next. Prison? Execution?"
Corbin took a deep, shuddering breath. It came out in short, jagged gasps.
"You know what's funny?" Corbin asked, a dry, humourless chuckle escaping him. "This... right now... sitting in the back of this truck, blindfolded and tied up..."
He paused.
"It feels like the first time we've actually stopped since it happened."
Ruben frowned behind the cloth. "Stopped?"
"Since the Reaper's Cart," Corbin clarified. "Since Dario died. Since we got teleported into that nightmare. Think about it. We haven't taken a breath. Not a real one. We've been running, fighting, hiding, sleeping with one eye open. Constant movement. No security. No home."
Ruben realized he was right. The last few weeks had been a blur of adrenaline and trauma. From the moment the world broke and their grandfather fell, they had been objects in motion, terrified that if they stopped, the reality of their situation would catch up to them.
Now, forced into stillness by ropes and seals, the weight of it all was finally settling on their shoulders.
"Our lives changed so much," Corbin whispered. "And we haven't been able to do a damn thing about it. We're just... drifting. Too weak to fight the current, and too involved in spaces people want us out of."
"We aren't weak," Ruben argued weakly.
"We are," Corbin insisted. "Compared to them? To Lance? Damn, even compared to Rosette we're behind? Like children playing dress-up."
Ruben heard Corbin shift again. The breathing changed. It became hitching, uneven.
Then, the smell hit him.
It was faint, cutting through the oil and the blood. The scent of salt.
Ruben went still. Corbin Monet didn't cry. He got angry. He got loud. He broke things. But he didn't cry.
"If he were here..." Corbin's voice was thick, wet. "If Dario were here, this would have been easy. We wouldn't be in this truck. We'd be... we'd be recruits. We'd be on a team. We'd be recognized as Paladins. I'd be on the road to becoming the Warlord, and you... well who knows what you'd be doing, but it wouldn't be far from me."
Corbin sniffed, a loud, unashamed sound in the dark.
"He was supposed to be the shield," Corbin said, his voice trembling with a grief he had been outrunning for miles. "But then... you hear what they say. Alfred Stein. The news. The 'Purge of Nine'. They say he was a monster. A butcher."
"Propaganda," Ruben said automatically.
"Is it?" Corbin asked softly. "Konrad said the same thing about the war. Maybe... maybe with everything that came out... he could really just be some maniac. Maybe we were raised by a villain, Ruben. And now that he's dead... we'll never truly know."
The doubt hung in the air, heavier than the gravity Lance had used to crush them. It was the ultimate orphan's fear, that the father figure they mourned was a lie.
"I want to know," Ruben whispered.
"Ruben."
Corbin's voice hardened. The tears were still there in the scent of the air, but the steel was returning to his tone.
"We are going to come out of this alive."
"Corbin..."
"No, listen to me," Corbin demanded. "We are not dying in a cell. We are not disappearing. We are going to get out of this truck, or out of that jail, and we are going to finish this. We are only leaving this city when we have done whatever we set out to do."
Ruben felt a flicker of warmth in his chest, a spark in the void where his Ego used to be.
"Get Oscar back," Ruben said firmly. "That's the job. We get him back, and we make sure he stays safe."
"Yeah," Corbin said, the word sounding like a vow. "We get the kid. And we clear our names."
The truck began to slow down, the gears grinding as it downshifted. The sounds of the city outside changed, less traffic, more echoes. They were arriving somewhere.
"We're stopping," Ruben noted.
"Let them come," Corbin said, his voice dry but steady. "We aren't done yet."