Free Read Divine Light System #3: A Litrpg Adventure From 50th Failure to Divine Deity

Chapter 27

"Always."

"Then reach for me. Not with your body. With your power."

"But we're too far—"

"Distance doesn't matter if we choose to be close."

He reached out. Not with his hand. With his light. Let it flow across the chamber toward her.

A bridge of golden radiance spanning the impossible distance.

Elena understood. She reached back with her lunar energy. Silver light meeting gold in the middle of the chamber.

They touched.

[SUN & MOON SYNCHRONIZATION: RESTORING]

[43%... 56%... 71%... 89%... 100%]

[DIVINE RESONANCE: MAXIMUM]

[NEW ABILITY UNLOCKED: TWILIGHT BRIDGE]

[BOND EVOLUTION: COMPLETE]

[THE GODS ARE DEFINITELY NOTICING NOW]

The power that surged between them was incredible. Not gold or silver but both at once.

A twilight radiance that was somehow stronger than either alone. Like the moment between day and night when both exist together.

The shadow chains shattered like glass.

Levi and Elena ran toward each other. Met in the center of the chamber. Their hands clasped. And light exploded outward in a wave that shook the very foundations of the mountain.

Vex screamed. His form flickering. "Impossible! The separation should have broken you!"

"We're not that easy to break," Levi said.

They struck together. Moving in perfect sync like they'd trained together for years. Levi's right hand blazing gold. Elena's left hand glowing silver. When they hit Vex the impact sent the Avatar flying across the chamber.

He crashed into the machine. The collision disrupted the extraction. Sparks flew. Dark energy leaked from cracked pipes. The false Mera's screams turned to static.

"You little—" Vex started.

Aldric moved.

The professor had been standing still. Watching. Waiting. Fighting the collar's commands with every ounce of will he had. Bleeding from his nose and ears from the effort.

Now he grabbed the control panel. Started entering commands with shaking hands.

"What are you doing?" Vex demanded. "I command you to stop!"

"I'm... trying..." Aldric was crying. Blood running from his nose and ears and the corners of his eyes. "But some things... are worth... dying for..."

His fingers hit the final sequence.

The machine reversed.

All the stolen essence. All the shadow energy binding the Fragment. It started flowing backward. Into the false Mera. The copy that had been nothing but a puppet.

Her eyes snapped open. But they weren't empty anymore. They blazed with silver fire.

"What—" Vex took a step back.

The false Mera stood up. The shadow chains around her dissolved like smoke. The cage shattered. And she began to change.

Her form shifted. Grew. Became something older. More powerful. More real than anything in the chamber.

Until standing in the machine's ruins was a woman. Maybe thirty years old. With silver hair that flowed like liquid moonlight. Violet eyes that held the depth of eternity. Wearing robes made of starlight. Wings spreading wide behind her.

"Hello little shadow," she said. Her voice layered with ancient power that made the air vibrate. "Did you miss me?"

"Selene," Vex whispered.

"Not quite. I'm just an echo. A fragment of the Moon Goddess's power given form by desperation and stolen essence and a foolish old man's genius." The woman smiled. It was beautiful and terrible. "But I remember. I remember everything they did to me. To Aseraph. To all the mortals who dared to dream of something better."

She raised her hand. Pure lunar power gathered around her fingers. Condensed into a spear of solid moonlight.

"And now I'm going to make sure you remember too."

She threw the spear.

It hit Vex directly in the chest. The Avatar screamed. His shadow form began to peel away. Layer by layer. Like burning paper revealing what lay beneath.

Not a divine being. Not a servant of the gods.

Just a man. Middle-aged. Balding. Wearing torn scholar's robes from centuries ago.

"No," Vex gasped. His human voice weak. Frightened. So very human. "I can't go back. I can't be weak again. I can't—"

"You never stopped being weak," the Selene-echo said gently. "You just hid it behind someone else's power."

The last of Vex's shadow burned away. He fell to his knees. Staring at his own human hands like he didn't recognize them.

"I was... I was a teacher once," he whispered. "Before Nyx found me. Before I traded my soul for eternity and power and the promise of never being helpless again."

"I know," the echo said.

"I've done terrible things. Hurt so many people." Vex looked up at her. "Can I... is there any way to..."

"To be forgiven?" The Selene-echo knelt beside him. "That's not for me to decide. But I can give you peace."

She touched his forehead.

Light and shadow swirled together. Not fighting. Merging. Finding balance at last.

Vex's face relaxed. The fear and pain melting away. Replaced by something that looked almost like relief.

"Thank you," he breathed.

Then he simply faded. Like mist in morning sun. His last expression one of peace he probably hadn't felt in centuries.

Free Read Bite The System! #9: A Dark Academy LitRPG Adventure eBook

Free Read Chapter Vol. 8

Chapter 91

The corridor was exactly what old infrastructure looked like — pipes overhead, cables running along the walls in bundles, the kind of utilitarian construction that exists for function and nothing else. The floor sloped gradually downward for twenty meters and then leveled out.

Derek walked with one hand trailing the wall. Not leaning on it. Just keeping contact in case his legs decided to stop cooperating.

"The arena is still running," he said.

Kael had been thinking the same thing. Above them, distant but audible through the layers of concrete and soil, the crowd noise hadn't stopped. Muffled and indistinct but consistent. 

The tournament was continuing without them. Another match, another story, another two people who couldn't escape and didn't have a drone-killing trick available.

"We can't help them from here," Kael said.

"I know." Derek's jaw was tight. "I'm just noting it."

"Noted."

The corridor reached a junction. Four directions. Kael stopped.

"Your mother," Derek said. "Detention Block C."

"I know."

"The message said forty-eight hours. That was—" Derek calculated. "Maybe six hours ago. We have time. But not a lot."

Kael was already looking at the junction. North corridor had a ventilation draft coming through it — recycled air from somewhere that had HVAC. 

That meant a larger space. Administrative, possibly. South corridor sloped down further, which meant deeper into the facility, which meant further from any exit. 

East ran parallel to the direction they'd come from — probably circled back toward the arena complex.

West ran straight and had nothing notable about it at all.

"West," Kael said.

"Again with the boring option."

"The boring option kept us alive twice."

"Fair point."

They went west.

*

Eighty meters in, the corridor opened into a room that made both of them stop.

Maintenance junction. The functional heart of the facility's infrastructure — power conduits, water systems, environmental controls, data lines. 

Everything that kept a building alive ran through a room like this. It smelled like metal and recycled air and the low electrical hum of systems that never turned off.

But it also had a terminal.

Old. Industrial. The kind that facilities forgot about because they'd been superseded by better interfaces and left running because turning them off required paperwork.

Kael crossed to it. The screen was on. Basic system display — power loads, temperature readings, automated maintenance logs.

And a facility map.

Derek appeared beside him. "There."

The map showed the full structure. Kael found their location — maintenance junction, west sublevel. He traced outward.

Detention Block C was four levels up and two sections north. The path there was complicated — it went through areas that were clearly active, staffed, monitored. Not impossible. Not clean either.

But there.

He kept looking. Found the data that mattered less immediately but mattered more eventually.

The server room he'd touched briefly before the escape — it was directly above their current position. 

One level up. The processing facility where Council was storing harvested consciousness. Still running. 

He could see the power draw on the maintenance display — enormous, constant, the kind of draw that didn't fluctuate because what it was running never paused.

He thought about the signal he'd touched. The one that felt like… 

Riley.

He filed it away. Not now.

"We have a problem," Derek said.

Kael looked where Derek was looking. The map had a secondary overlay — security deployment. Dots indicating patrol routes and positions.

Between their current location and Detention Block C, there were a lot of dots.

Council had anticipated that if anything went wrong in the execution chamber, escaped subjects would try to reach prisoners. 

The route to Block C was not an oversight. It was a funnel.

"They're expecting us to go there," Kael said.

"Yes."

"So we don't."

Derek looked at him. "Your mother is in there."

"I know. We don't go the direct route." Kael studied the map. "Service tunnels. They run parallel to the main corridors. They're not on the security deployment overlay, which means they're either unmonitored or they're assumed impassable."

"Why would they be assumed impassable?"

Kael found the answer on the maintenance log. "Flooding. Lower service tunnels have had intermittent water intrusion for three months. Maintenance keeps logging it and nobody fixes it." He checked the current status. "Currently at sixty centimeters in the lowest section."

Derek stared at him. "You want to walk through sixty centimeters of water."

"I want to walk through sixty centimeters of water past the security deployment to reach Detention Block C without being shot."

"I hate this plan."

"Better than the alternative."

Derek looked at the security dots again. Looked at the water notation. Looked back at Kael.

"You're buying me new boots after this," Derek said.

"Easy."

Kael pulled up the access point for the service tunnels on the terminal. Found the nearest entry point — a floor panel twelve meters back the way they'd come, marked on the maintenance map with a small wrench icon.

He memorized the route to Block C through the service tunnels. Committed the relevant security positions to memory alongside it.

Then he killed the terminal's display. 

Not turning it off — just clearing the screen back to its default view. Anyone checking it would see normal maintenance data. Nothing to indicate it had been used.

Small thing. But small things had kept them alive so far.

"Ready?" he said.

Derek cracked his neck. The burns on his arm had closed another few millimeters while they'd been standing here. 

The temporary bridge Kael had built was doing its job. 

"No," Derek said. "Let's go anyway."

They went back into the corridor.

Free Read Bite The System! #8: A Dark Academy LitRPG Adventure eBook

Chapter 78

6:28 PM.

One hour and thirty-two minutes until Kael had to kill his best friend on live television.

The cell was getting smaller. Or maybe that was just his brain playing tricks. Probably the latter. 

Concrete walls didn't move. Physics still worked that way even in a world where vampires ruled and the System turned people into video game characters.

Focus. Stop spiraling. Think.

But thinking wasn't helping. Every thought led back to the same impossible problem. 

Derek was brainwashed. The tournament rules were absolute. One of them had to die.

No exceptions. No loopholes. The System didn't do loopholes.

Kael's restraints hummed with power suppression. He'd been testing them for the last three hours. Pulling. Twisting. Trying to access even a fraction of his bridge consciousness.

Nothing. The restraints were too good. 

Whatever technology the Eternal Council had developed, it shut down System abilities completely. 

He was weaker than a normal human right now. Probably couldn't even win an arm-wrestling match against a teenager.

Great survival strategy. Very helpful.

The screens in his cell never stopped. Constant coverage of the tournament. Interviews with officials. 

Behind-the-scenes footage of the arena preparation. Promotional materials that made his stomach turn.

Right now they were showing highlights from previous tournaments. Fights from the test runs they'd done before going public.

A vampire woman fighting three humans at once. She moved like liquid death. The humans didn't stand a chance. Lasted maybe forty-five seconds combined. The crowd in the stands screamed with bloodlust.

Two hybrid creatures tearing each other apart. Both of them classified as "corrupted specimens" according to their System interfaces. Both of them fought like they had nothing left to lose. The match went for twelve minutes. Left the arena floor covered in blood and viscera. One hybrid finally collapsed. The crowd cheered as the winner consumed what was left.

They're literally eating the losers. In front of billions of people. And this is legal now.

Another fight. This one between former allies. The announcer provided backstory like it was a sports match. 

"These two served in the same resistance cell for three years! But when Registration Day came, one chose cooperation while the other chose defiance! Now they meet in the arena to settle their differences!"

The fight was brutal. Personal. They knew each other's moves. Each other's weaknesses. 

Made it worse somehow. More intimate. The registered fighter won. 

Stood over his former friend's body. Looked into the camera. 

"I chose the winning side. Everyone else should too."

Propaganda. All of it. Designed to make people accept the new order.

And it's working. The view counts keep going up.

Kael turned away from the screen. Focused on his cell instead. Looking for anything useful.

Nothing. 

They'd designed these cells specifically for System users. 

Reinforced concrete that blocked dimensional travel. Power dampeners built into the walls. 

The door was solid metal. No windows except the small reinforced ones looking out into the corridor.

Other cells lined the hallway. Kael could hear the prisoners inside. 

Some had given up. Accepted death. 

Others were still fighting mentally, trying to find solutions that didn't exist.

Cell 003 held a vampire who kept muttering calculations. Probability equations. Win scenarios. 

His voice had gone hoarse hours ago but he kept going. "If I dodge left and counter with a 2.3-second delay, survival odds increase to 31%. But if the opponent adapts, then I need to—"

Cell 007 had a hybrid female who just cried. Soft sobs that never stopped. Sometimes she called out for someone named Demian. No one answered.

Cell 012 held a human. No System access. Arrested for harboring unregistered vampires. He'd been silent for hours. Then suddenly started laughing. Manic. Broken. "They said it was safe. They said the resistance would protect us. Liars. All liars."

Kael wanted to say something. Offer comfort. Hope.

Didn't have any to give.

His own survival odds were 23%. And that was before fighting Derek.

Derek. God. Derek.

The video of Derek's brainwashing kept playing in Kael's head. 

On loop. 

Like his brain wanted to torture him. Derek screaming. Fighting the restraints. 

The technicians pumping corrupted data into his System interface. Rewriting his memories one neural pathway at a time.

They'd turned Derek's entire worldview into a weapon. Made him believe Kael was the villain. The betrayer. The one responsible for all his suffering.

And the worst part? 

Kael could see the logic. If you changed just a few key memories, altered some timestamps, edited the security footage—it would look exactly like Derek believed. 

Like Kael had escaped alone and left Derek behind to rot.

Complete fabrication. But Derek doesn't know that. To him, it's real. It's truth.

The screens switched to a new segment. "Tournament Spotlight: Featured Fighters!"

Kael's stomach dropped.

His face appeared on screen. Not a flattering angle. 

They'd pulled it from his arrest footage. He looked disheveled. 

Angry. Dangerous.

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Chapter 50

Alwin gripped the neckline of Ben's housecoat and said it again. “The ugliest look I've ever seen in my life. No amount of fancy designer clothes and money can change your dress sense for the better. All this stuff looks cheap when you wear it.” 

“P-please... p-pleaseee...,” Ben pleaded, water pouring from his eyes, nose and mouth. “Take it off... g-go please. P-please...,”

“Please what?”

Ben squeezed Alwin's thighs and buried his face in Alwin's legs that were still grinding his cock. He didn't know what he wanted.

“Please what?” Alwin repeated.

Ben was getting confused. Suddenly he felt he deserved to be treated like this. He was both tormented and enjoying it. The long-fingered hand on his neck felt like an angel's touch, so gentle. His sprawling cock under Alwin's foot still briefly twitched erect and even started to cum.

But the pleasure was only momentary. Because after that Alwin pressed his throat with the tip of his thumb and squeezed until he was out of breath. 

Ben gasped for air. His hands flailed against Alwin's trying to break free. Did he choose the wrong host? Had he actually hired a serial killer? His eyes rolled back almost unconscious.

“What is it? Fainted already? Huh?” Alwin slapped Ben with his other hand. “Hm, so weak. I guess this is the only way you can survive?”

Perhaps he had actually lost consciousness for some time. Because suddenly he was on his back on the sofa and something big and hard had filled his back hole. She felt so full that there was no room left. 

His body jerked back and forth as Alwin pounded him back and forth from behind. Ben began to sigh and moan in pleasure. 

“Aargh... arrghh... ahhh...,”

“Already awake, hm?” Alwin mocked. “If you are weak you should just order the cuddling package, you are piece of shit. You waste my time for I have to fucking an unconsious weak man like you!” Alwin grabbed the front of Ben's neck and pulled him back roughly. 

“You like to dominate poor young men because you think they're weak, right? They're easy targets for you, right? Hm?”

“Kkk... kkk...,” a pathetic strangled moan escaped Ben's gaping mouth. 

Alwin continued to pound Ben's rectum mercilessly. Faster and deeper. He penetrated haphazardly and blindly because Ben deserved it. Alwin was sure he was doing the same thing to his victims. Maybe even worse.

And Ben himself knew, deep down, he deserved less than this.

“Aarghh... ahhh... kkkk... kkkk...,” Ben came again. His body was shaking and limp. His sperm spurted all over the expensive sofa. He fell to his knees. He was breathing heavily. He almost lost consciousness again.

“Hm, you came twice.” Alwin said coldly. “I haven't even come out yet.” He laughed mockingly. “Do you want some more? You said you could only come once or twice. I'll give you a bonus if you want. I'm not satisfied with torturing a bastard like you yet.”

“A-a-aa... mercy.” he stammered. His hands shot up, trembling. “L-let's stop here! Oh my...!”

                                          *

BAMMM!!!

The entire class jolted in shock at the sudden sound, their heads whipping toward its source. Even Arya, who had been fast asleep, shot up in surprise, her body jerking from the force of the sound.  

Alwin had just slammed his forehead into the edge of the desk, creating a deafening thud. Dazed, he slowly lifted his head, one hand bracing on the edge of the desk while the other pressed against his throbbing forehead.  

The entire class stared at him in a mix of concern and amusement, wondering what had happened to make him lose his balance so suddenly. Alwin rubbed his temples, trying to steady his disoriented mind.  

Usually, he would step out of class for a quick break before the afternoon's medication hit its peak effect, leaving him weak and wobbly. But this time, he’d been too slow. He was already dizzy before he could find a place to lie down.  

"Alwin, are you okay?" the instructor called out, her voice laced with concern. "You don’t look well. Maybe you should head to the infirmary."  

"Argh, shit..." Alwin muttered under his breath, wincing as the pain in his head intensified.  

He struggled to focus on the instructor’s words, but his body swayed, and his vision blurred. His hands gripped the edge of the desk for stability, his breathing growing shallow and erratic as another wave of dizziness hit.  

His pulse hammered in his ears as he fought to stay conscious, the world spinning around him. Alwin squeezed his eyes shut, trying to calm his racing heart and regulate his erratic breathing.  

Arya, witnessing the whole situation unfold, had to resist the urge to laugh or offer sympathy. However, a chuckle eventually escaped her lips, loud enough to catch the attention of the entire class.  

Seeing Arya laugh, the rest of the class followed suit, their chuckles filling the room.  

"Imagine waking up from a nap, then just laughing at your friend who’s about to pass out," someone teased. "If your friend’s sick, maybe try taking them to the infirmary instead of laughing!"  

"Huh?" Arya blinked, realizing the joke was about her. She was still in the middle of waking up, her brain foggy from the nap. "Oh, right, right," she mumbled, her voice still groggy. She stood up, walking over to Alwin's desk.  

"Hurry up, get up!" she barked, grabbing his arm and yanking him upright. "Let’s go!" she added, now more commanding than before.  

Alwin, half-conscious, barely managed to stand. His legs wobbled beneath him as he swayed dangerously from side to side. Arya immediately wrapped an arm around him, steadying him.  

"Come on, get up! Hey! Hey! Wake up!" She slapped his cheek several times, trying to snap him out of his daze. But all Alwin could manage was rolling his eyes, his gaze vacant as the whites of his eyes were the only visible part.  

"Whoa, what’s this?" someone from the class called out, laughing at the sight of Arya slapping Alwin. "Maybe it’d be better we carry him instead!"  

"Oh, relax, he’s fine," Arya responded nonchalantly, her grin wide. "I’ve got him under control."  

Her arm looped around Alwin’s waist, pulling him tightly against her side, pressing his body against hers as she began to drag him out of the classroom.  

"Ugh, heavy!" she muttered under her breath, her tone sharp as she struggled to support his limp weight. "A little effort to lighten up your body wouldn’t hurt, Alwin."  

With one last sarcastic comment, she gave a mock salute. "Excuse us, ma’am."  

As they made their way down the corridor, they became the center of attention, every other class in the hallway pausing to watch the spectacle of Arya pulling an almost-unconscious Alwin behind her.  

The grip she had on his arm was firm, but it felt as though he could drop to the floor at any moment. Students quickly stepped aside to avoid blocking their path as Arya moved quickly toward the elevator.  

The doors slid shut just as she stepped back, eyes flicking nervously to Alwin’s body, now slumping further, his breath shallow and erratic as he struggled to maintain his balance. Suddenly, the lift jerked into motion, causing both of them to stumble and crash against one side of the elevator.  

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Chapter 41

Alwin always moved through his own house like a ghost, slipping past unnoticed, as though he had never existed at all. That day began with a series of medical examinations at the hospital, the relentless hum of machines monitoring each breath, each heartbeat. 

But when night fell, he returned to the grand mansion that had once been his pride. It was surrounded by luxury—everything gleaming, pristine, and empty. None of it held any meaning for him anymore.

Ranti had decided to bring him home. A private medical team was hired to care for Alwin day and night, ensuring his treatments were followed rigorously. New prescriptions had been issued to calm his mind and stabilize his heart. Yet, despite the medications coursing through his veins, Alwin’s mind remained sharp, his anger far from being quelled.

Tonight was the grand Windermere clan dinner, a tradition held twice a year. The long dining table in the grand hall was laden with exquisite dishes, as if it were a royal banquet, bathed in the soft glow of the crystal chandelier, amplifying the grandeur of the occasion.

But Alwin was not there.

Instead, he lay in his darkened bedroom on the upper floor, drifting in and out of restless sleep. His body remained motionless, but his mind raced, trapped in an unending cycle of torment—flashes of the accident, the screams, the blood, and the inescapable weight of his fate.

His nightmares repeated endlessly, even under the influence of medication.

Downstairs, however, Ranti sat calmly at the head of the table, poised and graceful. She had spent the entire day ensuring everything was perfect for the dinner. She coordinated the chefs, decorators, and staff while simultaneously tending to Alwin’s needs at home. To everyone else, she was the picture of strength. A mother who would do anything for her troubled, precious son. But to Alwin, she was just another one of many people pretending to care.

The dinner proceeded smoothly, with members of the Windermere clan exchanging pleasantries as usual. 

Alwin's grandfather, Theodore, glanced around the table before asking, "Where is Alwin?"

Ranti paused, her fork hovering above her plate. The question hung in the air, drawing the attention of everyone at the table.

"He’s resting," Ranti replied coolly, though the concern was evident in her eyes. "The doctors just adjusted his medication, and the transition has been difficult. His health has been deteriorating, and he’s had several cardiac arrests lately. It’s more complicated than we anticipated. He needs time and full care to stabilize."

Her explanation was flat and detached, the words coming out in a tone that seemed almost rehearsed.

Theodore nodded, accepting her answer without pressing further, and the conversation soon shifted to safer topics.

However, it wasn’t long before the conversation circled back to Alwin. His grandmother dabbed her lips with a napkin before speaking up. "I received the latest report. Alwin is still qualified for the assessment this year, although there are medical concerns that need to be addressed."

"We all know Alwin was always the favorite," Theodore said, his voice tinged with a mix of pride and bitterness.

"Yes, but that was before he fell into a coma," his grandmother replied firmly. "And before his position was overtaken by someone else. The Ashford family’s child."

The room fell silent, the tension palpable as everyone at the table absorbed the gravity of Alwin’s situation. Once, he had been the golden child—the heir apparent to the organization. Now, with his health declining and others starting to fill the void he left behind, the question arose: Could Alwin reclaim his position, or would the Ashford heir surpass him forever?

Whispers began to ripple through the room.

Piers, one of Alwin’s uncles, leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest. "We must ensure he’s in the best condition for the assessment. Our family’s position in the organization depends on it."

Ranti nodded in agreement, her voice calm but edged with a determination that echoed her words. "Of course," she replied. "I will do whatever it takes to make sure everything goes smoothly."

The conversation continued, each family member offering their opinion on how best to manage Alwin's situation. But none of them suggested checking on his condition or even visiting him to see how he was faring. 

To them, Alwin wasn’t a son, a brother, or even a human being. He was a tool, a pawn to be managed, a variable carefully controlled. In their eyes, he was nothing more than a means to an end—a stepping stone for their power.

Upstairs, Alwin lay in the dark. The muffled sounds of dinner floated through the thick walls. His mind drifted, caught between the haze of reality and the fog induced by the medication. He could almost hear them, their voices discussing him as if he weren’t there, as though he was no more than an abstract concept, something distant and easily discarded. 

That was how they always treated him. 

To them, Alwin wasn’t Alwin—the person, the human. He was Alwin, the instrument for power. The child who survived, only to return broken. And now, once again, they were planning his future without him, making decisions about his life as if he had never existed.

The dinner came to an end, and one by one, the guests left the house, content with the meal and the discussions of the day. Ranti escorted them out with a warm smile, maintaining the perfect demeanor she always wore. But once the door clicked shut, her smile faded, replaced by an expression of worry. 

She walked upstairs, her light footsteps echoing softly against the marble floors. When she reached the door to Alwin’s room, she stopped, her hand hovering over the door handle, unsure. 

She hadn’t seen him since they brought him back from the hospital, too afraid to face him. But now, she could no longer avoid it.

With a deep breath, Ranti slowly opened the door, peering inside. The room was shrouded in darkness, illuminated only by the faint light of a bedside lamp casting shadows on the walls. 

Alwin lay motionless in bed, his chest rising and falling in a steady rhythm. As the door creaked open, his eyes fluttered open, slowly. He turned his head just enough to meet Ranti’s gaze, his eyes sharp, unfathomable.

"Alwin," Ranti whispered, her voice trembling. "How do you feel?"

Alwin didn’t respond immediately. He simply stared at her, his expression unreadable. After a long pause, he finally spoke, his voice low and hoarse, laced with bitterness.

"You’re only here because of the assessment, aren’t you?" His words were cold, biting, and cutting. "You’re keeping me alive just to use me like you always did."

Ranti flinched, the accusation hitting her harder than she had anticipated. She fought to keep her voice steady as she replied, "Alwin, that’s not true."

Alwin let out a hollow laugh, bitter and empty, a sound that chilled the room. 

"Don’t treat me like a fool," he said, his voice dripping with disdain. "You only care about what I can do for you—what I can do for your family. The power you gain through me. You don’t care about me."

Ranti’s chest tightened, the weight of his words sinking deep. She wanted to deny it, to refute everything he said, but a gnawing truth lingered at the edge of her conscience. In a way, Alwin was right. 

She had failed him in so many ways. She had always seen him as a means to an end, and now, she couldn’t help but realize how far she had drifted from the love and care a mother should have for her son.

 

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Chapter 65

"Why are you here," she said.

"To see you," Xander said. "To make sure you are well."

"You could have sent Elena."

"I could have," he agreed. "But I wanted to speak with you myself."

He leaned back in his chair. Relaxed. As if this were a conversation between equals.

"You're intelligent," Xander said. "I've always respected that about you. So I want to be honest with you."

Lily waited.

"The child you are carrying," Xander said, "is the most important thing in this territory. Perhaps in several territories."

He paused.

"I intend to raise it," he said. "It’s mine."

The words landed flat and clean and certain.

Lily looked at him.

She thought about screaming. About throwing the teacup across the room. 

About all the things her body wanted to do with the rage that was moving through her like something physical.

She thought about Arion saying come back with his eyes closed and his chest barely moving.

She breathed.

"You intend to raise someone else's child," Lily said. Her voice came out level. Almost curious.

"My grandchild." Xander said.

"Arion's child."

Something shifted in Xander's face. Brief. Just a tightening.

"Arion is not a factor," he said.

Lily looked at him.

"He's alive," she said.

Xander shocked but then smiled again. "For now. Just matter of time."

Lily held his gaze.

“I know you can still feel him. I want to know how much longer that thread holds.”

She thought: he's telling me this to see what I do with it. He's watching my face right now the same way I'm watching his.

She let her eyes fill slightly.

Not full tears. Just the suggestion of them. Just enough to look like a woman trying not to break.

She looked away toward the window.

She heard Xander shift in his chair.

"I'm not your enemy," he said. His voice had softened. "I know that's difficult to believe. But I want you safe. I want the child safe. That is all."

Lily kept her gaze on the window.

"What do you want from me," she said. Quietly. Like she was exhausted.

"Nothing you can't give," Xander said. "Cooperation. Time. Trust, eventually."

He stood.

He buttoned his coat.

"I'll visit again in a few days," he said. "Rest. Eat. Let Elena take care of you."

He walked to the door.

Lily turned her head.

"What do you plan to tell the child," she said. "When it's old enough to ask."

Xander paused.

He looked back at her.

"The truth," he said. "That its mother loved it very much. And that she made the right choice."

He left.

The lock clicked.

Lily sat in the chair by the window and looked at nothing for a long time.

Her hands were shaking.

She pressed them flat against her thighs and waited until they stopped.

Then she picked up the notebook.

She turned to the second page.

She wrote: He plans to take the child. He will not stop. He will not negotiate. He will not be reasoned with.

She paused.

Then she wrote: Neither will I.

She closed the notebook.

She looked at the window.

Thirty-two seconds.

She started counting.

*

Fifth days into the compound and Lily had a routine.

Not by choice. By necessity.

Routine meant predictable. Predictable meant the guards relaxed. Relaxed guards watched less carefully. And less careful eyes meant room to move.

So Lily built a routine.

She woke before six. She dressed before the morning guard passed her corridor. She ate everything Elena brought her without complaint. 

She sat by the window in the afternoons with the notebook open on her knee, writing nothing important, just words, just the appearance of a woman processing her circumstances quietly.

She walked the room.

Forty-two steps around the perimeter. She had measured it three times.

She did it twice every morning and twice every evening. Slow enough to look like restlessness. Deliberate enough to be exercise.

Her body needed to stay functional.

The child needed her body to stay functional.

She ate. She slept when she could. 

She drank Elena's tea every morning and evening without argument because the ginger genuinely helped and pride was a luxury she had already decided she couldn't afford.

Elena came twice a day. Always at the same time. Always with tea and something warm and that patient, unhurried manner that Lily had spent four days trying to find the bottom of.

She hadn't found it yet.

*

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Chapter 54

The woman's name was Sia.

Lily learned it on the rope bridge, halfway across the river, with white water screaming thirty feet below and arrows still cutting through the trees behind her.

Sia had built the bridge herself. Rope and plank, lashed between two pines that leaned out over the water like old men arguing. It swayed with every step. It groaned under the weight of six people crossing fast in the dark.

Lily didn't look down.

She looked at Sia's back. At the scarred hands gripping the guide rope. At the knife bouncing against her hip.

I knew your father.

The words had landed like a stone thrown into still water. Lily hadn't had time to feel them yet. She pushed the feeling down and kept moving.

They reached the far bank just as the first of Xander's wolves broke through the tree line on the opposite side.

She heard the shout. The splash of boots hitting shallow water upstream.

Sia's people didn't wait. They moved like shadows between the pines, pulling Lily with them, and within minutes the river noise swallowed everything behind her.

*

They walked for two hours without speaking.

The fighters communicated in gestures. A raised fist meant stop. 

Two fingers pointing meant move left. An open hand, palm down, meant get low.

Lily learned the language by watching.

Her body was struggling already. The cold had gotten into her bones. 

The terrain was brutal — root-choked earth, loose rock, ground that seemed designed to turn ankles.

She chewed the ginger root Cooper pressed into her palm without being asked. It tasted like dirt and regret.

She didn't throw up.

Small victories.

*

The cave system was invisible until you were standing at its mouth.

Sia had chosen well. The entrance was behind a falls of broken shale, screened by pine growth, low enough that you had to duck to enter. 

Inside, the rock opened up into chambers that smelled of old fire and damp stone.

Lanterns were lit with strict care — low flames, shielded against the walls.

A hundred people looked up when Lily walked in.

She felt every gaze. Felt the weight of what she carried — not just the child, but the threat she represented. The reason they were already packing. Already moving.

Because of her.

Sia set a map on the table before Lily could speak.

The lantern light flickered over ink lines and charcoal marks. Routes. Rivers. Pack borders drawn like scars.

"Three hostile territories," Sia said, and touched her knife to the first mark on the map.

The argument lasted less than a minute.

Not because there was nothing to debate.

Because the truth was too brutal.

Staying meant capture. Certain. Soon. Clean. Violent.

Running meant danger. Hunger. Cold. Blood. A thousand chances to die.

But at least running had a chance.

Lily stood over the map with both hands braced on the table. The lantern light flickered over ink lines and charcoal marks. Routes. Rivers. Pack borders drawn like scars.

Sia, the leader, pointed with the tip of her knife. “This one is Silver Fang land. This one is the Hollow Ridge pack. This one is Ashglass wolves.”

Cooper grunted. “All of them hate Xander less than they hate strangers.”

Finn’s gaze stayed on the map. His expression was unreadable.

Sia sat on a stool with her arm bandaged. Her face was pale but her eyes were alive. Angry. Ready.

“If we don’t move now, he’ll close the net.”

Sia nodded. “He already started.”

Lily swallowed hard.

Her stomach rolled again. Nausea rose like a tide and she forced it down.

“You want the Council,” Lily said. “You want neutral law.”

Sia’s mouth tightened. “We want breathing room. You bring death to here.”

Lily looked up.

“How long before hunters show up at the cave entrances,” Lily asked.

Cooper answered without hesitation. “Hours. Not days.”

Sia’s jaw clenched. “And once one pack finds us, the rest follow.”

Sia tapped the map again. “We go tonight. We travel off-road. No fires. No talking unless needed.”

Finn finally spoke. His voice was calm. Almost bored.

“She need a small team,” he said. “Fast. Quiet. Hard to track.”

Sia narrowed her eyes. “And who decides who goes.”

Finn’s gaze slid to Lily.

“The person they’re hunting decides,” he said.

Everyone looked at Lily.

Lily felt the weight land on her shoulders.

She thought of the camp. A hundred fighters. Wounded. Exhausted. Brave.

If she stayed, Xander would use her presence to justify slaughter.

If she ran, the camp might survive long enough to relocate. To rebuild. To strike later.

Lily took a slow breath.

“I will run,” she said.

Sia nodded once. “Then pick your team.”

Lily’s eyes moved across faces.

Finn. Obviously. He looked at her with softened eyes once he knew she was pregnant.

Cooper. A medic. A wolf with experience. A shield when it mattered.

Nova. She was quite but knew resistance networks. She had a survivor’s instincts.

Sia. She knew the land. She knew the packs. She knew Xander and his father.

Edwin. He was a risk. A snake. But he had access, knowledge, and influence in the enemy’s structure. And he had just turned on Xander in public.

Six people.

Six bodies against the entire territory.

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Chapter 104

Velis moved to the desk. The sound of a drawer. Paper. 

He came to the window and placed a single sheet beside Caelum's hand on the glass. 

Not giving it to him. Placing it where he could take it or not.

Caelum picked it up.

The text was in Velis's handwriting. Careful, precise, the hand of someone who'd spent centuries writing orders that couldn't be misread. 

He'd assembled the fragments into a continuous passage, marking the gaps where pieces were still missing.

When the last pure line breaks itself against love and the blood between is made it will sleep until the moon bleeds and wake to what was always owed.

Neither throne will hold it. Neither war will end it. The child of the between will stand where both fall down—

A gap. Three lines missing.

—and the debt of blood will close.

Caelum read it twice. Three times.

"Both thrones," he said.

"Yes."

"Ysoria's. And Isabella's."

"That's the current interpretation."

"Will stand where both fall down." He set the paper back on the glass. "That's not a gentle prophecy."

"No," Velis said. "It isn't."

"It's a replacement."

"It's a possibility." He leaned one shoulder against the window frame, arms loosely crossed. "Prophecies require interpretation. They require someone to choose to fulfill them or not." His eyes were on Caelum's profile. "You're not obligated to the words of a dead king."

"But Ysoria believes it."

"Enough to have wanted the child. Enough to have stopped looking when she thought it was gone." A pause. "Enough to have looked very carefully at you in that tower before her face met the stone."

Caelum was quiet.

Outside, the courtyard was doing its ordinary business. A kitchen boy crossing with a basket. 

Two guards changing position. A horse being walked in slow circles by a stableman who looked like he'd rather be somewhere warmer.

Normal. Small. Entirely indifferent.

"She'll move soon," Caelum said.

"Within the fortnight. She'll want to do it while the blood moon fog still has the nobles uncertain. While she has room to act without witnesses who remember clearly." Velis's voice was level. "She'll frame it as something else. A ritual. A security matter. Something with enough institutional legitimacy that it can't be challenged easily."

"She'll try to take me."

"Or remove the question entirely."

Caelum turned from the window. 

"You're not going to let her," Caelum said.

"Why are you so sure?”

"Because of the prophecy. Because of what I represent strategically."

"Among other reasons."

"Say the other reasons."

Velis held his gaze. That same beat of decision he'd shown before. The moment of choosing how honest to be.

"I won’t let you know," he said, 

Caelum looked at him. “Why?”

“I have my reasons.”

The anger was there. Always there. But it was quieter tonight. Sitting differently in his chest. 

Not gone—it would never be gone, it was part of the architecture now—but redistributed around something else that had been taking up more space than he'd been willing to admit.

"The three missing lines," Caelum said. "In the prophecy."

Velis reached into his jacket. Produced a second, smaller piece of paper. Held it.

"You found them," Caelum said.

"This morning. An informant had a text I hadn't accessed." He didn't give it over immediately. "You're not going to like them."

"I haven't liked anything about this week. Give it to me."

Velis held it out. “Sleep with me for three nights a row.”

“Fine!” Caelum took it. Read the three lines filled into the gap.

The between-blood will choose a side or be chosen. To be chosen is to be ended. Choose, or be the ending.

He read them twice.

Set the paper down on the window ledge.

"Choose," he said.

"Yes."

"A side."

"That's the interpretation."

"Between what. Between the vampire court and the human kingdoms." He looked up. "Between Ysoria and Isabella."

"Between the Dominion and the Federation, broadly." Velis's voice was careful. "Or—there's a second interpretation. One that the scholars who handled this text preferred."

"Which is."

"That the choice isn't between the two existing powers." He held Caelum's gaze. "That the choice is whether to become a third one."

The room was very quiet.

Caelum picked the paper up again. Read the three lines one more time. Put it back down.

"A third power," he said.

"A stabilizing one. Something neither Ysoria nor Isabella can fully claim or control." A pause. "Something that belongs to both sides because it came from both sides."

"That's a very significant thing to suggest to someone who woke up three days ago not knowing what they were."

"I'm aware."

"You're doing it anyway."

"You asked for the second interpretation."

Caelum looked at him for a long moment. Then he moved—past him, away from the window, into the room. He needed to move. He needed the body occupied so the mind could work properly.

He paced once. Twice.

"Ysoria moves within the fortnight," he said.

"Approximately."

"And between now and then."

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Chapter 91

Caelum resumed scrubbing without a single word. Methodical. Thorough. 

When he finished with the shoulders and neck, he wrung out the cloth once. 

Water splashed back into the tub. He folded it neatly. 

Laid it on the stone tray with quiet, deliberate finality.

"I'm finished with your shoulders," Caelum said flatly. No inflection. Statement of fact.

Velis blinked.

His playful smile vanished like someone had physically wiped it off his face. 

He rose out of the tub in one abrupt, violent motion.

Water sheeted off his body. Slapped back into the marble with a loud splash that echoed off stone. 

Drops scattered everywhere. Hit the floor. The walls. Some hit Caelum.

The heat made them hiss faintly as they struck hot stone.

Velis stood there. Completely naked. Water streaming down his body. 

Steam rising around him like he was some kind of god emerging from primordial waters.

Except his face was too alive. Too dramatic. Too ridiculous. He put one hand over his heart like he'd been mortally wounded. 

Like Caelum had stabbed him. His voice rose. Loud. Echoing off marble and tile.

"I see how it is!" Velis declared to the empty room.

The words bounced around. Mock tragedy poured through every syllable. 

He sounded like an actor performing for a court that wasn't there. Hamlet discovering betrayal.

"You're a cruel user, Caelum!" He pointed an accusing finger. Water dripped from it dramatically. "A heartless opportunist!"

He paced two steps. Water dripping from his body. Leaving dark, wet footprints on white stone.

"You only wanted my body to cure you!" he continued. His voice went higher. More wounded. "You used my body to burn the poison away from your veins. You took what you needed and now—"

He looked below at his naked body.

"—now you treat me like a common peasant! Like I'm nothing! You've drained my dick of its precious secrets!" His hand pressed harder against his chest. "You've used me! Thoroughly! And now you throw me away like garbage!"

He stopped. Turned. Stared at Caelum with wide, wounded eyes. The picture of heartbreak.

Silence.

Steam drifted between them.

Caelum didn't react. Not to the volume. Not to the performance. Not to the naked vampire having a breakdown in front of him.

He simply picked up the wet cloth from the tray. Held it for a moment. Then dropped it back into the tub. It hit the water with a dull splash.

He wiped his damp hands on his trousers like he'd just finished taking out trash. Like he'd completed an unpleasant chore.

"Are you done?" Caelum asked. The question was simple. Direct. Flat. It cut deeper than any shouted insult. Deeper than any weapon.

Velis froze mid-performance. Mid-gesture. His eyebrows lifted slightly. Genuinely offended by the complete lack of response. Like an actor who'd expected applause and got only silence.

"Have you no heart, boy?" Velis demanded. His voice cracked slightly. Still theatrical. "No compassion? No appreciation for what I've given you? I heard you’re the most pure kind-hearted prince Ashan Federation ever had”

“You know problem with the most dangerous psychopaths are they’re funny and and lively. They like to play pretend, acting like the most harmless people you’d ever meet. Unintentional. Innocent. Safe. But they could hurt you. And they would.”

Caelum's eyes stayed on Velis's face. Calm. Flat. Clear as glass. "The water's getting cold, Velis," Caelum said simply.

Nothing else. No elaboration. No emotion.

Velis just stared at him.

Steam curled between them. The room smelled of expensive oils and hot stone and something faint beneath it all—blood that wouldn't fully wash away no matter how much they tried.

Caelum turned around. Didn't hurry. Didn't storm out dramatically. He just walked. Steady pace. Measured steps. He didn't look back. Not once.

He walked out of the steaming room. Let the heavy door swing shut behind him. The sound slammed through the space. Echoed down the corridor outside. Final. Dismissive. Like punctuation on a sentence.

Velis stood there alone. Naked. Dripping. Steam rising around him like ghosts.

For several long seconds, his face stayed frozen in that expression of mock pain. Like he might continue acting even without an audience. Like the performance was for himself now.

Then slowly—very slowly—the mask cracked. A small, dark smirk returned to his face. Genuine this time. Not performance. Real. 

It was the look of a man who'd lost a battle. But knew—absolutely knew—he was winning the war.

"Such a difficult pet," Velis whispered to the steam. To the empty room. To himself.

He stayed in the water until it turned lukewarm. Until the steam started to fade. Until the oils stopped smelling quite so strong.

His mind was already moving. Thinking. Planning.

Placing pieces on an invisible board that only he could see.

He knew Caelum had used him. Knew the boy was only tolerating his touch to heal his broken body. To survive. To get stronger. But Velis didn't mind being used. Not at all.

Because every single time Caelum took something from him—every time their bodies connected, every time Caelum gave in even slightly—it left a mark on the boy's soul. Invisible. Indelible.

Caelum was no longer a prince of Ashan. Not really. Not anymore. He was becoming something else. Something shaped by Velis's hands. Molded by his will.

And that was a victory better than any treaty. Better than any title. Better than any crown.

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Chapter 41

The morning of the Council session arrived grey and cold. The kind of weather that felt like a comment on proceedings.

Dante stood at the window of the silk chamber. Lachlan's valet dressed him in borrowed finery — deep charcoal wool, good cut. 

Nothing that announced wealth. Nothing that suggested its absence either. 

The clothes fit well enough. Lachlan had clearly estimated his measurements without asking. That should have been unsettling. 

Somehow it wasn't anymore.

Below, the city moved through its ordinary morning. Merchants opening stalls. Servants crossing the square with market baskets. 

Dante adjusted the weight of the standard-issue short sword hidden beneath the charcoal wool. 

It was a fine piece of steel, well-maintained by the manor's smith, but to his hands, it felt clunky and poorly balanced compared to the crescent blade Lachlan had confiscated on their first night. 

For three weeks, he had performed his duties as Head of Security using this temporary gear, a professional compromise that forced him to mentally recalibrate his strike patterns to account for the unfamiliar center of gravity.

He had learned to compensate for the handicap—he could, after all, be effective even with a candlestick if required—but the absence of his own steel remained a persistent itch in his tactical awareness. 

It was a reminder that while Lachlan trusted him with his life, he didn't yet trust him with his full lethality.

Children running the crooked lanes between the older buildings. Loud and oblivious and alive in the uncomplicated way that only children managed.

Dante watched them and thought about Marcus.

Not with guilt. He'd examined that possibility and found the room empty. Marcus had been his partner. His teacher. 

The closest thing to family the Guild had permitted either of them. He'd also been a man who would have put a blade through Lachlan without hesitation. 

Who had looked at what they'd built and seen only deviation to be corrected.

Some things couldn't be recovered from. Dante had learned that early. The Guild had taught him that particular lesson with great thoroughness.

What he felt instead was something quieter and stranger. A door closing. The specific silence of a past that could no longer reach him.

"You're thinking about him," Lachlan said from across the room. Not a question.

"Briefly." Dante turned from the window. "It's done now."

Lachlan studied him for a moment. Those amber eyes missed nothing and discarded less. Then he nodded. 

Apparently satisfied with whatever he found. He returned to the document spread across his desk.

"The Council will attempt to separate us within the first twenty minutes," he said. 

"Ravencroft will push hardest. He has the most to gain from undermining my household's credibility. Westbridge will follow his lead because he always does. Pemberton is the variable. She's clever and she doesn't like Ravencroft. That may work in our favour."

"And if they vote to question me alone?"

"They won't get the opportunity." Lachlan set down his pen. Turned fully to face him. 

"Because you're not attending as a detained person seeking rescue. You're attending as my Head of Security. Present in a professional capacity. The distinction matters enormously in terms of Council protocol."

"Will they accept that?"

"They'll have to decide whether to challenge it openly." A slight smile. 

"Which means challenging my right to employ staff of my choosing. That sets a precedent none of them want applied to their own households. Politics is mostly about finding the argument your opponents least want to have."

Dante crossed to the desk. Looked down at the document. Staff records, he realised. 

His name in Lachlan's precise handwriting. Dates carefully backdated. 

Duties listed with the thoroughness of someone who'd done this kind of paperwork before.

"You've forged my employment history," Dante said.

"I've formalised it," Lachlan corrected. "Everything listed is accurate to our actual arrangement. The dates are somewhat creative."

"Somewhat."

"Significantly." The smile widened slightly. "Does that trouble you?"

Dante considered the question with genuine attention. The way Lachlan had taught him to consider things — all the way down, past the surface response to whatever lived underneath.

"No," he said. "It doesn't."

"Good." Lachlan stood. 

The valet appeared immediately to assist with his jacket — deep navy, gold buttons. Nothing ostentatious. Everything precisely correct for the occasion. 

"Because I need you focused today. Not on last night. Not on what's coming. Not on the Guild or Marcus or any of it. Just on the room we're walking into and the people in it."

"I'm always focused."

"You're always capable of focus. There's a difference." 

Lachlan dismissed the valet with a look. The man vanished with the practised invisibility of the professionally discrete. 

Alone now, Lachlan turned to Dante fully. 

"You've been through significant psychological... reorientation... in the past twelve hours. Most people would need days to integrate that. You're being asked to walk into a political arena and perform absolute composure."

"Most people haven't been trained the way I have," Dante noted, his voice carrying the professional blankness that was his only armor.