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“How—”

“But for now we have come to a compromise. So long as you can be useful to me, I won’t let them dig too deep.” Atticus ran a finger down one delicate needle before withdrawing an empty vial from his bag. “This is something to keep them occupied while they wait.”

“How do you know about the hermits?” Orpheus said in a rush, pressing into the wall and eyeing the needle.

“We’ve been watching you for a long time, Orpheus. You and Lore, but more so the heretics you killed.”

“Why?” Orpheus snapped, “Why did you care?”

“The future of our world depended upon it, of course.”

Orpheus shook his head. “Even if my magic ripped the chasm open and hurt Sanctuary, I closed it, so you’re saved. Your people? They’re starving, and the Empire can help—”

“There is no help your Empire can offer us, Orpheus. Only you. Sanctuary and her people exist for one purpose, to usher in our forefather’s new world order. Without this city, we cannot achieve that, and that makes our lives—and your Empire’s—worthless.”

“Worthless?” Orpheus repeated. “We can shape the future however we want. What’s worthless about tha—”

“—I’ve seen the future your people’s savagery would shape.” Atticus’ voice went low, quiet. “And I cannot allow that. Not again.”

“Lore lied to you. She lied to all of us,” Orpheus pleaded, voice hitching, heart hammering, grasping at the threads of Atticus’ logic and finding himself slipping. “Whatever she told Fenrir that led him to killing your wife was a lie. He’s a good man, and he led the rebellion against Lore to keep her from hurting more people in her pursuit of Hell on Earth.”

“Hell on Earth?” Atticus' voice lifted, curious. “You say that as if it’s a bad thing. If you knew anything of the world before the purge, you’d know that what our ancestors did was an act of mercy, and why the heretics who set up the operation that produced you were so wrong in their endeavor.”

Orpheus shook his head, unable to look away from the needle as Atticus fitted it into a length of rubber tubing, then wiped down the tip with a clear, innocuous fluid. “They were trying to fix everything the dead men you worship destroyed.”

“They purified us, Orpheus. And the traitors who created you were misguided in their attempts to roll back their efforts. Humanity is a curse, a parasite that takes without giving anything of value back if left unchecked. Lore is but a product of her nature, and while I admit your empire’s savagery is a result of unfortunate circumstances, it is not her I blame for my wife’s death.”

“Fenrir didn’t—”

“It’s you, my unfortunate mage.”

Orpheus went still, as frozen as the ice that once cracked open his chest.

“Please, don’t. I’m sorry,” Orpheus begged, but Atticus simply smiled again—then reached out and grabbed his arm.

“Now, hold still.” Orpheus twisted as Atticus shoved the ragged cuff of his sleeve up, then sunk the needle deep into his vein.

Orpheus tasted bile when blood began to fill the vial—blood, and something else.

A thread of violet, faint and barely there, glowed in the darkness.

Magic. Netherflame. Right there, under his skin, this whole time—but burned out, the cold that once ran through his veins smothered to a weak, barely there bioluminescence.

But still, it was his magic—

“They just need enough to work an attunement or two, like that lovely collar you now wear.” Atticus thumbed thoughtfully at the place where the needle lay under his skin, head cocked to the side while he watched Orpheus. “You seem surprised. Have you never dabbled in blood magic? You shouldn’t have killed those heretics before learning all their secrets. Before we learned their secrets.”

A mage’s blood: the most powerful modality, able to work spells intimately tied to a mage’s individual life force, either by the bearer themselves or an individual utilizing it as a weapon against them. He’d never had a reason to learn blood magic. His raw power had always been enough. And he had spent his whole adult life avoiding thinking about what the hermits had done to him. But was that the secret to his creation? The reason Netherflame existed in his blood at all? Even now that his magic was sealed away?

“Gwen’s does this too." Atticus pulled a smaller vial from his bag and rolled it between two fingers, its healthy violet glow spilling light across his face. “I suppose that explains the difference, considering your magic was gifted and hers was not.” Atticus put the vial away and tapped his thumb over the scar circling Orpheus’ wrist, and a fresh wave of cold crashed over him.

Atticus knew more than he let on. More than Orpheus knew about himself. Secrets that had been wiped away when he’d destroyed the scientists who had created him, who Atticus had been keeping tabs on for years, waiting for them to succeed so he could—what? Replicate what they had done?

But Orpheus couldn’t ask, even if he thought Atticus would answer him. The cold turned to vertigo, then an encroaching delirium. Dizziness turned his vision cloudy and Orpheus had to close his eyes lest he topple over, only opening them when Atticus pulled the needle free and reached for his leg.

Two splints appeared in his hands. He fitted them to either side of Orpheus’ leg, binding them tightly with a thick wrap of linen.

“There now, best to keep your weight off it for another few weeks.” He patted Orpheus’ wrist gently before guiding him down to lay on his side. “If you notice your arm stinging and an increased sense of fatigue, it’s the anesthesia working. You’ll find it’s very mild but does cause the strangest dreams. Still, can’t have you trying to escape, broken leg or not, wouldn’t you agree?”