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They had built four in total. He’d never once imagined being the one imprisoned.

There was a cot in an alcove along the far wall, bolted at the corners, too short for him by half a foot.

The pain had been perfectly calculated from the start. The first days were violent with purpose: fists, pulse-fields tuned to Umbralyn neurology, waves that fractured his vision and left his inner ear screaming. They had wanted anger. Confessions. Names. Reasons. But he had given them none. Brutality was exhausted quickly, as anger had been burned out of him long ago.

Now, they let him live. Just about.

The nutrient paste arrived twice per day, delivered in a shallow stone bowl that they slid into a groove at the base of the wall. It was always lukewarm, with mineral salts and protein compounds refined for Umbralyn consumption. It was enough to sustain muscle and preserve cognition: enough to keep him useful. He swallowed without tasting it.

The Fracture loomed beyond the far wall, separated from him by more layers of containment wards, that were so dense they bent perception. He could feel it anyway. He always could. It was not silent to him. The Fracture did not rage or hunger the way humans described. Caelith had spent years - centuries - learning from it. It listened and it learned. Its pressure ebbed and surged like breath held too long. Sometimes he felt its attention slide across him, curious and ancient and patient.

It remembered him. It remembered his brother. It remembered everything better than anyone else did, and that was the cruellest part.

His guards had questioned him again before the last feeding. They were nearing the end of their mission now, exactly as Caelith had predicted. He had been the initial instigator, after all, before everything changed. He knew the plan better than most. Which meant he also knew how to unravel it.

“You know why the assessment was necessary,” the interrogator had said, voice careful, almost regretful. “You left us no alternative.”

Caelith had remained silent, though his chest had tightened all the same. He had learned through questioning what they had done, and it took everything in him to keep the fury contained.

The reaper in the assessment chamber had not been released to punish Maia. It had been released to measure her, to measure the power within the shards and how she used them. They had wanted to know whether the human mattered, and, more importantly, whether she was capable alone.

The Hollow Wraith was a calibrated entity, shaped from the Fracture itself, much like the Umbralyn. Partially unbound, but partially restrained. Importantly, it was designed to kill an unassisted human within minutes. And yet Maia and Julen had survived.

“You breached protocol,” the interrogator had continued. “You acted without authorisation. We had to know whether it was you who saved them. Weather the humans could have defeated the Hollow Wraith unaided, even with the shards.”

Caelith had lifted his head then.

“And what was your conclusion?” he had asked.

They paused.

“That the human needs you,” the interrogator had said. “And conversely… that perhaps you need her.”

He might have smiled, if he’d had the energy. They didn’t know the half of it. Instead, he looked away and gave them nothing.

He knew, through their questioning, how hurt Maia had been during the assessment. But at least he also knew she was alive. Every report of her told him she still had her wits, still had that spark to answer back, even after they had removed him from the field. Perhaps there was still hope.

For now, they kept him here: close enough to the Fracture that his presence mattered, far enough from control that he could not act freely and risk stopping the plan altogether.

A footstep echoed softly against stone. Caelith did not look up. He already knew who it would be. The voice that followed was familiar, measured and still.

“You’re deteriorating faster than I expected,” he said, almost sounding satisfied.

Caelith smiled faintly, without humour.

“You always were optimistic, Safir.”

The other Umbralyn stepped into view.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, his markings denser than Caelith’s - a visible sign of deeper fracture lineage. Once, he had stood behind him in the tunnels, listening as Caelith spoke of balance and justice. Now, he wore the authority Caelith had abandoned.

“You left a vacuum when you broke formation, Caelith,” he said calmly. “Someone had to fill it.”

“And you were eager, of course,” Caelith replied.

A flicker of annoyance crossed Safir’s expression. “It was necessary. We are too far in to hesitate.”

He circled Caelith slowly, gaze still on him.