Kade sat alone in his room.
Night had already fallen by the time his father sent him home. He'd moved through the streets under cover of darkness, careful to avoid people, careful not to be seen. The blood had dried by then, stiff against his clothes, dark and unmistakable.
Now he sat on the edge of his bed, motionless.
He searched himself.
Not his pockets. Not his room.
His mind.
He looked for regret. For grief. For even the faintest whisper of doubt telling him he'd acted too quickly, too brutally, too far beyond what was necessary.
There was nothing.
The absence didn't disturb him as much as it should have.
Kade was beginning to understand how his mind worked now. He hadn't become some hollow, unfeeling sociopath. That much was obvious. He still cared about Tina—about her safety, her recovery, her future. He still cared about his mother. Even about his father, despite everything Trent had done and everything he was still hiding.
But when Kade made a decision, something else happened.
Anything that might slow him down—fear, hesitation, moral friction—burned away.
Not suppressed.
Removed.
He wasn't numb. He wasn't empty.
He was focused.
A blade did not question its target once it had been swung.
The realization unsettled him.
He had spent most of his life wishing to be free of hesitation. Free of the invisible rules and social restraints that stopped people from doing what was right when it mattered. Now that wish had been granted.
And only now did the weight of it settle in.
Who was he to decide what the right thing was?
A few days ago, he'd been just another high schooler. One more face in the crowd. One more kid complaining about the world without having the power to change it.
Now he could feel his thoughts shifting. His morals realigning. His worldview recalibrating in real time.
He was aware of it.
And helpless to stop it.
Yet, deep down, he knew this wasn't something new being forced onto him.
His father had been clear.
Enlightenment amplified what was already there. It didn't create something out of nothing.
And a dual gaze turned the volume higher than it ever should have been.
So if this was what he had become after the amplification—
What did that say about who Kade Moren really was?
The front door downstairs opened and closed.
Footsteps followed—fast, uneven, panicked.
His mother.
Judging by the urgency in her steps, he surmised she'd been told about the incident.
Kade wondered what lie his father had spun this time.
Footsteps climbed the stairs in a hurry, then stopped just outside his door.
There was a pause.
A tentative knock.
Kade stood, intending to open it immediately—then caught his reflection in the mirror of his closet door.
Blood.
Still smeared across his skin. Dried along his arms. Dark against his collarbone.
He looked like something out of a nightmare.
"Hey, Mum," he called quickly. "Just—give me a few seconds. Let me clean up."
On the other side of the door, Theresa hesitated.
Her voice, when it came, was soft. Careful.
"Take all the time you need, sweetheart. I'm right here."
She thought he'd been crying.
The assumption twisted something uncomfortable in his chest.
Kade felt a flicker of guilt—not for what he'd done, but for the lies surrounding it. For the way he kept having to stand in the middle of half-truths and omissions, complicit whether he wanted to be or not.
Even if he tried to tell her everything, the Veil would erase it.
And even if it didn't, his father wouldn't allow it.
There it was again.
Choice.
Taken.
Decided for him.
It made him sick.
No one should be stripped of their right to choose.
Now that he was officially on this path, he would see it done.
He turned away from the door and stepped into the bathroom.
The bloodstained clothes came off first. He stuffed them into the bottom of the hamper, already planning to burn them later. Then he stepped into the shower and turned the water on cold.
Not to clear his head.
His mind had never been clearer.
The dried blood loosened and ran down his skin in dark rivulets, pooling briefly at his feet before disappearing down the drain. He scrubbed until there was nothing left.
When he finished, he shut off the water and stared at himself in the mirror.
Dark skin.
Wet, coiled hair clinging to his forehead.
Green eyes.
Sharper now. Colder. Stripped of the warmth they once carried.
His jaw tightened.
He dressed carefully, then adjusted his expression. Subtle. Just enough grief. Just enough loss.
He still didn't know what lie his father had told his mother.
He couldn't afford to contradict it.
Kade opened the door.
He barely had time to register his mother's face before she crashed into him.
Theresa wrapped her arms around him and broke into tears.
Her sobs came fast and raw, knocking the breath from his lungs as she clutched at his shirt like it was the only thing keeping her upright. If he'd been the boy he was a week ago, the impact might have sent him stumbling.
Now, he barely moved.
"Kade—oh God, I'm so sorry," she cried. "I'm so, so sorry you had to see that. Seeing your friend get hit by a truck like that… it's too much for anyone. Rex was like a son to me. Such a sweet boy. He didn't deserve this."
She kept talking.
Apologizing.
Grieving.
Kade held her.
He let her soak the clean shirt he'd just put on with tears and snot. He didn't flinch. Didn't tighten his grip. Didn't speak.
Hit by a truck.
That was the story—just how was his dad going to explain the gaping hole in his chest?
He buried the thought before it could surface.
This wasn't the time.
There was warmth in his chest as his mother cried against him—real warmth. Proof that he still felt. That he still cared. That his new state of mind could coexist with his softer impulses.
Eventually, her sobs slowed.
Theresa pulled back, wiping her eyes, then suddenly pressed a hand to her temple.
"Oh—God," she said weakly. "I nearly forgot."
Kade's focus sharpened.
"I came home with someone," she continued. "I saw her walking along the road. Just wandering. Completely out of it. The poor thing."
She hesitated, then added gently, "Tina's downstairs, sweetheart. I thought you two should be together right now."
She didn't wait for an answer, already turning back toward the stairs.
Kade remained still.
If Tina was here—walking freely—then his father had already ensured she wouldn't do anything reckless.
That much was clear.
He exhaled slowly.
He had never intended to run from this.
He would be leaving soon. Training. Distance. No return date.
Before that happened, he needed to face her.
To understand where she stood.
Even if she now saw him as a monster.
***
Kade descended the stairs, already hearing voices drifting from the kitchen.
His mother's—and another, quieter voice that he assumed was Tina's.
He almost didn't recognize it.
The voice sounded tired. Hollow. Like someone who had reached the end of patience, hope, and resistance all at once.
The sound tightened painfully around his heart.
Once again, he cursed himself for allowing her to suffer for so long.
He could only hope her mind wasn't beyond repair. That somewhere beneath the exhaustion and damage, there was still a trace of the smiling, vibrant girl who used to light up every room she entered.
The one who now existed only in his memories.
He reached the bottom of the stairs and stepped into the kitchen doorway.
The conversation stopped immediately.
Both women looked up.
Theresa was the first to react. She stood, crossed the room, and kissed Tina on the forehead before pulling her into a brief hug. Then she turned to Kade, gave him a quick peck on the cheek, and quietly excused herself, heading back upstairs.
The kitchen fell silent.
Kade and Tina stood facing each other across the room.
Kade assessed her without meaning to.
Her blonde hair had lost its sheen and volume, hanging limp around her face. Without makeup, her skin looked pale, dark circles etched beneath her eyes. The bruises lining her arms—once carefully concealed—were now exposed, as if hiding them no longer mattered. Her nails were bitten down to the quick.
She looked ruined.
Tina, meanwhile, was studying him just as closely.
There was no fear in her gaze.
Only sadness.
And not for herself.
The silence stretched.
Finally, Kade spoke.
"Who would've thought we'd end up like this," he said quietly. "I won't pretend to understand what you've been through. And I won't blame you if you hate me for what I did."
His eyes hardened.
"Just know this—if I had to do it again, the only thing I'd change is that I wouldn't have taken so long to take out the trash."
Tina didn't flinch.
She didn't react to his dismissal of Rex. Didn't react to the admission that he would kill him again.
Instead, she met his eyes.
"I knew something was different about you," she said. "Since that day in class. You started watching everything like it was beneath you. Cold. Detached."
She inhaled slowly.
"And while you were observing everyone else—you were being observed too."
Kade's brows lifted slightly.
She continued.
"Rex has been blackmailing me for almost a year. Long before whatever happened to you. He forced me to do things. Awful things. Right under your nose."
Her voice trembled, but she didn't stop.
"I tried to reach you. He wouldn't let me talk. He wouldn't let me message you. So I looked at you. I begged you with my eyes."
Her lips twisted bitterly.
"And every time, you smiled back at me. Completely oblivious."
Tears slid down her cheeks.
"After he finally broke me—then you noticed."
Kade's vision blurred.
"So tell me, Kade Moren," Tina said sharply, "who the fuck do you think you are to decide who lives and dies?"
The words shattered him.
"Who made you judge, jury, and executioner—when you're just as bad?"
Kade collapsed to his knees.
The sob that tore from him was raw and uncontrollable.
Because he knew.
Everything she said was true.
"You can lie to yourself all you want," Tina continued. "Say you didn't see it. That you didn't believe it. But deep down, you knew."
She wiped her face.
"And your refusal to acknowledge it makes you complicit."
Kade broke completely.
He sobbed like a child, shoulders shaking, hands clawing at the floor.
Tina looked down at him, tears still falling—but her eyes were distant now.
"You probably came here looking for forgiveness," she said. "Or something to make this easier for you."
She shook her head.
"I don't care that you killed Rex. He was trash. I've lived through worse than witnessing a murder. Including your creepy father."
She stepped back.
"All I feel for you is pity."
Her words cut deeper than any accusation.
"You think you're a hero," she said quietly. "But you're not. You're just as bad as him."
She turned toward the door.
"You had no right to take his life."
She paused once.
"Tell your mum I said thank you for everything."
Then she opened the door.
"My family's leaving town," she added. "Have a nice life."
The door slammed.
The sound echoed through the house.
Kade remained on the kitchen floor, sobbing, alone.
***
Far beyond the troubles of Kade Moren's life—beyond the Veil and the world of men—lay Nox.
Deep within it, far past the frontlines where endless hosts of radiant beings clashed against seas of living shadow, stood a castle not built, but woven. Its walls were formed of structured light, vast and towering, stretching upward until they vanished into a glow-heavy sky.
Within that fortress lay a throne room.
A single figure knelt at its center.
It was a being of radiant light, unlike the countless Lucent waging war outside. Its form was more defined, more deliberate—a vaguely humanoid silhouette visible beneath layers of shifting brilliance. Even so, its radiance flickered, unstable in the presence before which it knelt.
Upon the throne sat something far greater.
A colossal humanoid form composed entirely of light, though not the blinding radiance of the battlefield. This light was soft and restrained, yet carried an unfathomable depth. To look upon it was to feel the weight of ages pressing against the soul.
The throne itself was stranger still.
It was forged not of stone or metal, but of humanity's hopes and dreams, bound together and shaped into purpose. Countless aspirations, sacrifices, and unrealized futures formed its foundation. What sort of being could harness such abstract concepts and reduce them to building material—and what greater being could sit upon them?
A voice filled the chamber.
It had no origin. It came from the walls, the air, the light itself.
"Speak."
The kneeling Lucent lifted its head.
When it spoke, its voice was many voices layered as one—young and old, male and female, countless accents woven into a single harmonious sound.
"Yes, my Lord Hope."
It lowered its gaze before continuing.
"As stated in my transmission, I was engaged in combat with one of the vile kin when a breach consumed us both. Upon arrival in the world of men, I encountered a human male and elected to bestow my gaze."
The light around it dimmed slightly.
"The vile kin exploited the moment. It delivered a decisive strike and, while I recovered, imposed its gaze upon the same human."
A pause followed.
"To my surprise, the human did not perish."
Another pause.
"He survived."
Silence settled across the throne room.
Then the voice spoke again, unchanged and untroubled.
"It is of no consequence."
The kneeling figure did not question this.
"Inform our pawns among the Enlightened," the voice continued. "The boy is to be observed. Nothing more."
The Lucent inclined its head. "As you will, Lord Hope."
Its radiance flared briefly before dissolving into the light of the chamber, vanishing as though it had never existed.
The throne room returned to stillness.
It did not remain so for long.
A point of darkness appeared in the air before the throne, like ink spilled upon a canvas. It swirled slowly at first, then faster, expanding as its presence deepened. Lord Hope did not move. Its colossal form remained unmoving as the darkness reached its zenith and collapsed inward.
From it emerged another figure.
A humanoid form wreathed entirely in shadow, darkness clinging to it like living flesh. Only its eyes were visible, glowing the color of freshly spilled blood. Its presence dimmed the brilliance of the chamber, bringing with it a crushing weight that pressed against reality itself.
Still, Lord Hope did not react.
This was neither new nor unexpected.
Once the figure fully materialized, a voice rang out—sharp and grating, like steel drawn across a whetstone. It was soaked in bloodlust, the kind that would shatter a human mind with sound alone.
"I trust you've received the news, bright bastard."
The shadowed being's contempt was unmistakable.
Lord Hope remained unmoving as its voice answered, calm as ever.
"Carnage. I believe we spoke about announcing your arrival. No matter. Yes, I am aware. A survivor of dual gaze. The first in centuries."
A pause.
"As I told my subordinate, it is of no consequence. He will end as the others did."
Carnage's eyes narrowed.
"You say that," it replied, "but you've already given orders to watch him. As cunning as ever, you shining bastard. I will do the same."
Without waiting for a response, Carnage dissolved into shadow, vanishing as abruptly as it had appeared.
Lord Hope remained alone upon the throne.
If any Enlightened—scholars like Trent Moren among them—who had studied the ancient records detailing the endless enmity between the Lucent and the Dreadbound were to witness this exchange, leaders speaking like old acquaintances while their armies tore each other apart beyond the walls, there was no telling how they would reconcile such a truth.
Or whether they could at all.
END OF ARC 1: THE COST OF KNOWLEDGE