Time in Orthid did not pass as it did in other worlds.
Ethan did not know how many minutes — or hours — had passed since the kidnapper had disappeared over the edge of the roof. The chains continued to tighten around his wrists, the cold metal biting into his skin with a persistence that bordered on cruelty. The sun, pale and distant, did not move in the dark sky. Only the neons flickered, tireless, as if the city itself were a mechanical heart beating in the void.
Down below, in the square, the body of the judged woman remained on the ground.
Ethan watched with a mixture of helplessness and rage. People passed by her — dozens, hundreds — and none stopped. Some looked away, as if the body were a minor obstacle in their path. Others, the more apathetic, stepped on her arms or legs without even lowering their gaze. The woman did not react. She did not move. She just lay there, her eyes open to the sky, her expression as empty as a doll from which the soul had been ripped.
Ethan pulled at the chains again. Useless. The metal would not give.
"Damn it," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "Damn, damn, damn."
It was then that he saw the second woman.
She emerged from one of the side streets, walking with a haste that contrasted with the slowness of the other passersby. She wore dark clothes, like everyone else, but the mask covering her face was different — not porcelain, but a thick black fabric that completely hid her features. She approached the body of the judged woman without hesitation. She knelt. She touched her shoulder with a delicacy that seemed out of place in that world of stone and neon.
Ethan held his breath.
The black-masked woman lifted the judged one with an ease that suggested strength, or perhaps training. She wrapped her arm around her shoulder and began walking toward the building where Ethan was held — the "Pleasure of Origin." The crowd did not react. Some looked, but their gaze was empty, indifferent, as if the scene were too common to merit attention.
The two women disappeared through the door of the brothel.
Ethan was left alone, chained, staring at the door that had closed behind them. His heart beat faster. Anger was still there, but now it mixed with something colder — curiosity, perhaps, or the hope that the judged woman would be saved.
The sound of footsteps on the roof brought him back to the present.
Ethan turned, his body tense. A woman approached him with slow, steady steps. She wore simple, dark clothes, and the mask covering her face was of white porcelain — but with three pink streaks running from the top to the chin, one in the center and one on each side, like painted tears.
"Don't move," she said, her voice tired, as if she had said those words a thousand times. "I'm going to free you."
Ethan did not answer. He just stood still, his eyes fixed on her, as she approached the chains with a small key of dark metal. The sound of the lock opening was a physical relief — his wrists were freed, the pain flowing back into his numb hands. The woman knelt to release his ankles.
"Lady Uthuryar is waiting for you," she said, standing up. "Follow me."
Ethan rubbed his wrists, feeling the blood returning to his fingertips. Anger was still there, but curiosity was stronger. He stood up, his legs trembling with the effort, and raised his hands in a gesture he hoped would be one of surrender.
"I won't fight," he said, his voice hoarse. "Take me to her."
The woman of the three streaks tilted her head, a gesture that could have been approval or weariness, and turned toward the trapdoor in the center of the roof. She opened it with a dry pull, revealing a dark wooden staircase descending into the building's interior.
"Come," she said, and began to descend.
Ethan followed her.
The interior of the "Pleasure of Origin" was a world apart.
The walls were of such an intense red that they seemed to pulse — not paint, but a soft, almost organic material that absorbed the light of the neon lamps and returned it distorted. The air smelled of incense and perfume, but also of something denser, more human — sweat, perhaps, or the smell of bodies that had forgotten themselves.
Ethan was struck by the warmth. After the metallic cold of the roof, that environment seemed almost welcoming. The red walls, the dim lamps, the muffled sound of music coming from somewhere — everything seemed to invite forgetting.
Until he saw the couple.
They were leaning against a wall, in a poorly lit corner. The man, with his back to Ethan, moved with a mechanical, almost animalistic rhythm. The woman, facing him, had her eyes closed and her expression empty — not of pleasure, but of absence. As if the body were there, but the mind was elsewhere.
Ethan quickly looked away, but the image was already burned into his retina. And with it, the memory came.
Ana.
She was on top of him, her knees pressing against his hips, her dark golden hair falling over his face. Her cold hand touched his chest.
"Hit me," she had said, with that perverse smile he had learned to fear and desire. "Not hard. Just to remind me that you're mine."
Ethan felt the heat rise to his face. Shame mixed with pain — a dull, old pain that had never healed. Ana was dead. All of them were dead. And he was there, in a brothel of another world, watching two people do what he and Ana had never done.
The woman of the three streaks noticed Ethan's blush. She laughed — a low, almost maternal sound — as she closed the door of the room where the couple was, isolating them from the corridor.
"Are you a virgin?" she asked, with a curiosity that did not hide her amusement.
Ethan felt the anger rise to his throat. Shame turned to irritation.
"That's none of your business," he replied, his voice harsher than he intended. "Just take me to this Lady Uthuryar."
The woman laughed again, but did not insist. She continued down the stairs, her light steps on the creaking wood.
Ethan followed her, trying not to look at the doors they passed — some ajar, from which sounds he preferred not to identify emerged. The heat of the building was becoming oppressive, and the smell of incense was no longer pleasant, but sickly, like a cloud of perfume trying to hide the rot.
When they reached the ground floor, Ethan saw the exit door.
It was made of dark wood, with iron fittings, and seemed to lead to the street. To the outside world. To freedom.
Ethan hesitated. One step, and he could be outside. He could flee. He could seek his mentor, the man who protected him, anyone who could help him.
But curiosity was stronger than fear. The kidnapper — Lady Uthuryar — had said his blood was special. Said the government of O would hunt him if they knew. He needed to know why.
"Come," said the woman of the three streaks, stopping before a door at the end of the corridor. "She is here."
The door opened.
The room was small, but welcoming — a lit fireplace on one wall, a dark wooden table in the center, two chairs, a red velvet sofa. The smell of incense was weaker here, replaced by the aroma of herbal tea and something sweet, like ripe fruit.
And in the center of the room, sitting in one of the chairs, a woman who looked like Luna.
Ethan held his breath. His eyes widened. His hand, which had reached for the doorknob, froze in the air.
"Luna..." he whispered, his voice failing.
The woman stood up. She was taller than Luna, and her hair — dark brown, almost black — was not silver. But her eyes... her eyes were the same. Clear. Tired. With a shine that seemed to have seen too much.
She laughed — a light, surprised sound, as if the comparison had caught her off guard.
"Does my beauty startle you so much that you compare me to the Moon?" she asked, her voice warm, with an accent Ethan did not recognize.
Ethan lowered his hand, blushing.
"It's not that," he replied, his voice trembling slightly. "It's just that... she reminds me of someone from another world."
The woman stopped laughing. Her clear eyes fixed on his with an intensity that made him mentally step back. She murmured something, so low Ethan barely heard it.
"One of my ancestors was a traveler... who knows, perhaps he slept with some woman in another world. After all, he was a great traitor."
Ethan frowned.
"What is a traveler?"
The woman raised an eyebrow. Silence stretched, and Ethan felt the stupidity of the question fall on him like a weight.
"Sorry," he said quickly. "That was a stupid question."
"It wasn't stupid," she replied, with a small smile. "It was honest. That's rarer than you think."
The woman of the three streaks, who had remained at the door, made a small bow and withdrew, closing the door behind her.
Lady Uthuryar sat down again. She adjusted her robes — a simple dark dress, without the adornments Ethan would have expected from someone with such power — and pointed to the chair before her.
"Sit down, Ethan. You have questions. I have answers. Not all of them will please you."
Ethan sat down. His legs trembled — not from fear, but from exhaustion. The adrenaline of the kidnapping, the execution, the liberation — everything seemed to have accumulated into a tight knot in his chest.
It was then that he noticed the judged woman.
She sat on the red velvet sofa, motionless, her eyes fixed on the void. Her expression remained the same — smooth, empty, without any trace of emotion. Her hands rested on her lap, inert, as if her body were a puppet whose strings had been cut.
Ethan felt a chill.
"She..." he began, pointing at the judged woman.
"Her name is Merá Fulta," said Dantella, her voice softer, almost protective. "And she needs you."
"Me?" Ethan recoiled in his chair. "What can I do?"
Dantella did not answer immediately. She stood up, walked to the table where a bottle of red wine and two glasses rested. She poured one for herself, another for Ethan, who refused with a gesture.
"Your blood," she said finally, sitting down again. "What I told you on the roof is true. Your blood is special."
"Special how?"
Dantella took a sip of wine. Her clear eyes, which so resembled Luna's, fixed on his with an intensity that made him feel naked.
"I can't tell you exactly why," she replied, her voice low. "Or perhaps the galaxy of O will be decimated. And I'm not joking."
Ethan felt his blood run cold. The way she had said it — so calm, so certain — left no room for doubt. She believed what she said.
"Then why did you kidnap me?" he asked, his voice sharper than he wanted. "Why didn't you ask for my help?"
Dantella tilted her head.
"If I had asked, would you have come?"
Ethan fell silent. The answer was obvious.
"And if it weren't for your blood," she continued, "I wouldn't have bothered you. You have nothing that interests me, besides that."
Anger exploded.
Ethan stood up with such violence that the chair fell backward. His hand shot to the table, grabbed the wine glass — the glass Dantella had offered him — and threw it against the wall. The glass shattered, the wine ran down the dark wood like blood.
"What's the difference between you and him?" Ethan shouted, his voice trembling with frustration. "He gives me things in return! He promised me revenge! And you... what do you offer me? Your body? Your friendship?"
Dantella did not move. She did not flinch. She just sat there, her clear eyes fixed on him, her expression as calm as the surface of a lake.
"I can bring back the people you love," she said, her voice low, but firm.
Ethan stopped. His hand, which had been raised to point an accusing finger, froze in the air.
"What?"
"He can't bring them back," Dantella continued, unflinching. "But what runs in your blood can."
Ethan heard the reference to the man who protected him, and knew, with a certainty that chilled him, that she was talking about him.
"The man who promised you revenge won't give you what he promised, Ethan," said Dantella, her voice now softer, almost maternal. "He lies. That's what he does. But I... I know how to help you. And the only thing I ask in return is that you save my friend."
She pointed to Merá Fulta, who remained motionless on the sofa, her eyes empty.
"What needs to be done?" asked Ethan, his voice lower.
"Just a little of your blood," replied Dantella. "Inject it into her. Her soul is still trapped, fragmented. Your blood can restore the connections."
Ethan looked at the judged woman. At her empty eyes. At the expression that was neither sadness nor relief — only absence.
He remembered the woman in the square. The dagger. The glow that had come from her eyes like the last ember of a dying fire.
"How?" he asked.
Dantella pointed to the table. On a plate, a short-bladed knife and a thin glass cup, empty.
Ethan picked up the knife. The metal was cold, heavy. His hand trembled, not from fear, but from uncertainty.
He cut the palm of his hand.
The blood ran, hot and thick. It filled the cup halfway. Ethan felt the pain throb, but did not flinch. He handed the cup to Dantella, who stood up and approached Merá Fulta.
"Drink," said Dantella, her voice a whisper. "Drink, Merá."
Merá obeyed. Her pale, dry lips touched the glass. She drank slowly, like someone learning to savor water after a long drought.
Ethan did not wait to see the result.
"Don't look for me," he said, his voice cold. "Don't try to kidnap me again. I don't want to know about you."
He turned, walked to the door, and left.
Dantella did not follow him. She stayed there, on her knees, holding Merá against her chest.
Ethan's blood began to take effect.
First, a tremor. Then, a sob. Then, crying — crying that came from so deep, from so far away, that it seemed to have been trapped for centuries.
"I feel..." Merá whispered, her voice failing. "I feel everything. It hurts... it hurts so much..."
Dantella held her against her chest, like someone hugging a baby after months without seeing it.
"I know," she whispered. "I know. But you're alive. You're back."
Merá's sobs filled the room, mixing with the sound of the crackling fireplace.
Dantella closed her eyes. Tears ran down her face — not from sadness, but from relief.
If you knew what you are, Ethan... she thought, her voice echoing in the silence of her mind. If you knew what your blood can do... you wouldn't have run away.
But he ran. And she didn't blame him.
After all, the truth was heavier than any chain.