His arm lowers.
Kael flexes his hand, testing his control.
The motion is clumsy. Delayed. But it is his.
The figure—the child—scrambles backward, sobbing, scared.
Elyssara does not look away from Kael.
Neither does he.
He blinks once.
Twice.
A sound tears out of his throat—half-snarl, half-sob—as he folds forward into her, forehead dropping to her shoulder.
“I’m here,” she whispers fiercely, wrapping her arms around him like an anchor thrown into rough seas. “I’ve got you.”
The Decay withdraws—not defeated.
Watching.
Waiting.
Learning.
“You came back to me,” she breathes, staring into his irises like she’s assessing him.
But before Kael can speak, the bells ring again.
Not ceremonial, and not rhythmic enough to be a warning.This is panic.
Kael can hear it now—the city waking up to what he’s done. Boots pounding stone. Shouted orders fracturing into confusion. The Inside does not absorb violence—it remembers.
And so does he.
He remembers the atrocities. The way he was commanded like a puppet on strings.
“What have I done?” he breathes, voice fractured and raw.
Elyssara does not let go of him.
“That wasn’t you,” she snaps, defiance flaring in her eyes.
She grips his wrist—hard, grounding—and turns, already moving. “We run. Now.”
Her voice is steady. Commanding. Unafraid.
Kael stumbles once as they break into motion, his body lagging half a heartbeat behind his will, as if he is still returning to himself. The Decay is quieter now, coiled and watchful instead of ravenous—but it is not gone. Shadows twitch at the edges of his vision, restless.
He can’t trust it.
He knows—he is no longer in control.
The streets blur.
White stone.
