Inkaris did not allow himself to limp.
That was the first rule.
Not written. Not spoken. Simply understood.
He walked as he always did—measured, unhurried, precise. His posture remained immaculate, his expression composed enough that even a trained observer would have dismissed him as untroubled. Demons were expected to endure. To carry weight without complaint. To remain functional no matter the cost.
So he waited.
He waited until the others had dispersed, until footsteps faded and the air settled into that particular quiet that only came when no one else was nearby. When even the city beneath them softened into a distant, abstract hum rather than a pressing presence.
Only then did he close the door.
The room was modest. Sparse. Furnished for utility rather than comfort. Inkaris preferred it that way—less distraction, fewer reminders that rest was something other beings indulged in.
He sat.
Slowly. Carefully.
The pain was not sharp enough to demand attention. That would have been easier. Instead, it was deep and constant, threaded through his body like a reminder written into bone and blood. A deferred cost, now making itself known with quiet persistence.
Inkaris exhaled through his nose and reached into the inner pocket of his coat.
The frame was small. Wooden. Worn smooth at the edges from years of unconscious handling. Inside was a painted image—not ornate, not idealized. Just a man seated with a book, expression caught somewhere between focus and dry amusement, as if he'd been interrupted mid-thought and found the interruption tolerable.
Inkaris set the frame on the table and regarded it for a long moment.
"You would have hated today," he said at last.
His voice was calm. Even. It always was.
"The shouting. The certainty. The way everyone insists they're acting out of necessity."
He leaned back in the chair, folding his arms with deliberate care. The movement sent a spike of pain through his side. He acknowledged it and let it pass without reaction.
"They're unraveling faster than I expected," he continued, eyes never leaving the image. "The city, I mean. Faith bends easily once it's cracked. Mortals insist on proving that point, generation after generation."
A pause.
"Aiden is trying," he said quietly. "That makes it worse."
The words were not unkind. Just tired.
"He still believes effort matters. That intention can soften consequence."
A faint huff of breath escaped him—not quite a laugh.
"You warned me about that," Inkaris added. "You said belief invites disappointment. That it creates expectations the universe has no obligation to meet."
His fingers tightened briefly against his sleeve.
"You were right."
The pain flared then—sudden and unmistakable. It radiated outward, sharp enough that he closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. He did not move otherwise. He had long since learned the value of stillness.
"I paid more than I intended today," he said after a moment. "Not recklessly. Not enough to stop what's coming. Just… enough to be noticed."
He studied the painting again, gaze softening despite himself.
"Ardent would have enjoyed the chaos," he mused. "Pretended he didn't. Claimed it was necessary."
A faint curve touched his lips.
"You would have called him predictable."
Silence answered him.
Inkaris reached out and adjusted the frame by a hair's breadth, straightening it though it had never been crooked. The motion was habitual. Comforting.
"They don't see it yet," he went on. "The shape of the end. They think power is something you take and keep."
His voice lowered.
"They forget that every wish listens."
Another pause stretched—longer this time.
"I didn't tell them about you," he admitted. "About why I follow contracts so closely. About why I don't lie unless the terms demand it."
His gaze flicked downward, unfocused.
"About why cruelty has always been… distasteful to me, even when I perform it."
His hand drifted briefly to his side, fingers pressing into the fabric of his coat as the ache surged again.
"I don't think they need to know," he decided. "Not yet."
He rose from the chair with the same controlled ease he always displayed. Anyone watching would have seen nothing amiss. He picked up the frame, holding it for a moment longer than necessary.
"You would have liked Seris," Inkaris said softly. "She asks the wrong questions. Refuses the easy answers."
A pause.
"You would have worried about Liora."
His jaw tightened.
"And you would have been furious with me for letting this go as far as it has."
The pain throbbed, patient and insistent.
"I will finish this," Inkaris said, not as a vow but as a statement of fact. "One way or another."
He slipped the frame back into his coat, fingers lingering against the worn wood.
"And when it's over," he added, voice barely above a whisper, "I hope you were right about what comes after."
He turned toward the door.
The pain followed him, settling back into place like an old companion.
Inkaris opened the door and stepped out into the corridor, posture flawless, expression unreadable.
Whatever he was paying,
whatever he was losing,
no one would know.
And for now—
that was exactly how he intended it to remain.
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