"Absolutely not," Zach said, and though his voice wasn't raised, it landed with the weight of a falling stone—quiet, but final, absolute.
The stillness that followed was immediate, almost sacred. The room—a high-ceilinged chamber of dusk-colored walls and heavy bookshelves—seemed to absorb the sound, leaving behind only the faint ticking of a clock and the soft hum of Nimerath's distant night outside the windows.
Caspian stared at him, his brow furrowing not in rebellion, but in confusion. "Why not?" he asked slowly. "You've seen what I can do. I've already bound one Nightmare—and nothing's gone wrong. So why not more? What's the harm in using what we already fight?"
There was no mockery in his voice, no arrogance—just that quiet, relentless curiosity that had always driven him toward the places others avoided. But this time, Zach didn't meet that curiosity with patience. His gaze turned sharp, his jaw clenched.
"You still don't understand," Zach said, stepping forward, his voice low and deliberate. The shadows of the room seemed to pull closer to him as he spoke, as though even the darkness wanted to listen. "You think this is about control. About power. About collecting weapons in preparation for some inevitable war. But these creatures—Nightmares—they are not tools. They are not wolves to be leashed, nor fire to be harnessed."
He paused, his eyes fixed on Caspian with something between sorrow and contempt.
"They are what crawls out when the last candle dies, and the mind begins to eat itself."
The silence that followed was dense, oppressive. Caspian said nothing. Not out of agreement—but because something in Zach's tone made words feel useless. His silence wasn't surrender, but caution. And Zach took it as invitation.
When he spoke again, it wasn't with reason. It was with indictment.
"Every Nightmare," Zach said slowly, "no matter how noble they once were, no matter what mask they wear now, is the accumulated rot of the human soul. Not metaphorically—literally. They are forged from betrayal. From cruelty. From sins committed and buried beneath layers of denial. Their very bones are carved from everything mankind was too afraid to face."
He stepped even closer now, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it echoed as though the room itself recoiled.
"And their essence—rejects virtue."
Caspian's gaze remained locked on his. The weight of those words pressed against his ribs like iron bands.
"You want to know how deep that corruption runs?" Zach asked. "They feel pain—real, physical pain—when they commit acts of kindness. Not guilt. Not regret. Agony. Their nature punishes goodness like a poison."
Zach's eyes darkened as if haunted by something he had seen—something Caspian had not.
"They are not misunderstood. They are not broken things waiting to be healed. They are nightmares. And the moment you forget that, you've already lost."
The room seemed colder after those words. A current of unease moved through the space like smoke under a door.
Caspian's voice came out in a whisper, tinged with disbelief. "That's not possible."
"It's truth," Zach said. "And truth doesn't require your permission to exist."
Caspian's hands curled into fists. "That's a complete lie," he snapped, louder now, fire rising behind his eyes. "You're trying to scare me into obedience. There's no way—no way—that Nightmares feel pain for being kind. That's not corruption, that's a curse."
A low voice spoke from across the room, cutting through the tension not with sharpness, but with shadowed calm.
"It's not a lie," said Cain.
He had been silent until now, seated in a narrow black armchair tucked into the room's dimmest corner. As he stood, the room seemed to bend slightly around him, as if even the light hesitated before touching him.
Caspian turned sharply toward him. "You're saying it's true?"
Cain nodded once, slowly, and stepped forward. He moved like a man walking through water—deliberate, as though every motion bore weight unseen by others.
"It is," he said simply. "Kindness wounds us. Goodness is... unnatural to what we've become."
"You don't believe me?" Cain added after a pause. He stopped a few paces away from Caspian, his voice still level. "Then see for yourself. Drop something. Anything."
Caspian hesitated, then slowly reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pen—ordinary, unremarkable, something he had forgotten was even there. He let it fall to the ground. It landed with a dull clatter against the hardwood floor, rolling briefly before coming to rest near Cain's boots.
Cain bent down and picked it up.
For a brief moment, all was still. His movements were fluid, deliberate—no sign of strain or resistance. He straightened, the pen held lightly between his fingers, and stepped toward Caspian with an air of practiced calm. But halfway through the motion, the change began.
Thin beads of red surfaced at the seams of his skin—first imperceptible, like a trick of the light. Then unmistakable.
Crimson welled in slow, deliberate lines across the creases of his fingers. The pen trembled slightly in his grip, as if the very act of returning it were an affront to something written deep in his marrow. The blood was not theatrical—no gushing wound, no dramatic collapse. But it was real. Vivid. Measured. It found the ridges of his fingerprints and quietly settled there.
Caspian extended his hand, hesitant.
Cain didn't flinch. He placed the pen in Caspian's palm, his touch fleeting—and the bleeding stopped the moment contact ended. His fingers curled into a fist and fell to his side, blood-slicked but no longer weeping. Thin fissures remained: shallow cuts that had not been there before. Not scars. Not yet. But given time, they would be.
Caspian stared at the pen.
Something as mundane as plastic and ink should not have felt heavy. But it did now. The blood had made it into something else. Not a weapon. Not a message. A symbol. Of what, he wasn't yet sure.
Cain's voice broke the silence—quiet, unembellished.
"It's a small act," he said. "A small wound. But imagine giving a life. Imagine offering up something that doesn't grow back. Hope. Mercy. A second chance." His eyes, pale and unreadable, met Caspian's. "A Nightmare once gave a lung to a child who wouldn't live the night. He didn't survive the hour."
He didn't need to elaborate. The implication settled like ash.
Silence followed—but not the light, uncomfortable silence of awkward strangers or unfinished arguments. This was the deeper kind. The stillness that comes when truth has been unearthed—raw, undeniable, and heavier than anyone wanted it to be.
The clock ticked somewhere in the background. A small sound. Insignificant. But relentless, like time itself.
Caspian looked down at the pen again. His grip had tightened without realizing it. It wasn't just an object now—it was a question. One that didn't yet have words, let alone answers.
Then came the knock.
Three quiet taps. Not demanding. Not insistent. Just enough to remind them that the world hadn't stopped, no matter how much they wished it had.
Zach's head turned slightly at the sound. His expression, once fierce, had faded into something more neutral—more exhausted. "That's our cue," he murmured, without looking at Caspian directly. He exchanged a glance with Cain, who nodded once.
Without another word, the two of them moved toward the balcony, shadows trailing their steps. Outside, the city was a haze of fog and violet gloom, its lights diffused like stars drowned in water. Nimerath stretched outward—an endless sprawl of secrets and silhouettes. Towers jutted like jagged teeth. Alleys twisted like old scars.
Zach stepped onto the railing, his boots finding balance on the narrow stone lip as if he'd done it a hundred times before.
He glanced back, one last time. "Just think about what I said," he called softly. "Darkness isn't evil, Caspian. But giving it your voice... that's where the line disappears."
Caspian didn't answer. He couldn't. His throat felt tight. His mind, adrift. The only reply he could offer was the silence of someone who understood, too late, that the rules of the world were not what he thought they were.
Cain joined Zach on the railing—effortless, graceful. A silhouette of someone who no longer belonged to gravity.
And then, as if they had never been there at all, they fell.
No impact. No sound. No weight pulling them down. Their bodies unraveled into wisps of dark mist before they ever reached the ground, as though they had been illusions all along—half-remembered figments escaping into the night.
Caspian was alone now.
The pen was still in his hand. The blood on it had begun to dry, dark and cracked in the lines of his palm.
Caspian stared at the door for a moment after Zach and Cain vanished into the night, the silence they left behind pressing down like a weighted blanket. He could still feel the shape of the pen in his pocket—light in mass, heavy with implication. With a quiet breath, he stashed it away and turned toward the door, its shape more solid than his thoughts.
His hand found the brass knob and twisted it open with a soft creak. Standing just outside was Layla, dressed simply in light blue jeans and a charcoal-grey hoodie. Her hair was loosely tied back, and though she seemed relaxed, there was a strange brightness in her eyes—something restless, almost expectant.
"Hey…" Caspian said slowly, his mind still halfway between bleeding fingers and shadows on the balcony. "Do you need something? It's not the ball already, is it?"
Layla shook her head quickly. "Oh no, that's not for a few hours. I just…" She hesitated, then smiled. "I wanted to ask you for a favor."
Caspian tilted his head, already wary. "Go on."
"Would you mind…" she paused again, then squared her shoulders, "…sparring with me?"
The question caught him off guard. Caspian blinked. Of all the things he expected from Layla Blackwood, this wasn't one of them.
"You want to spar?" he echoed, uncertain if he'd misheard. "Do you… know how to?"
Layla's eyes narrowed, and before he could react, she lightly smacked his chest with the back of her hand.
"Hey!" she snapped, half-offended, half-teasing. "Just because I'm a girl doesn't mean I don't know how to fight."
"I didn't say that," Caspian replied, mildly amused. "I just meant—well, you are the Blackwood heir. Not exactly the type I pictured training in a dojo."
She gave a dramatic sigh and rolled her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I get that a lot. But believe it or not, I've been learning since I was ten. Alexander insisted we all knew how to hold our own. Even if I'm not supposed to duel my brother, that doesn't mean I'm fragile."
He nodded thoughtfully. "I mean, I don't have a reason to say no… but why now?"
Layla shrugged and turned on her heel, skipping a few steps down the corridor like a child chasing a thought. "Can't a girl just want to have some fun?" she grinned.
That made Caspian raise an eyebrow, but he said nothing. Instead, he fell into step beside her as they made their way through the tower's dim hallways.
The silence between them wasn't uncomfortable, just filled with ambient thought—the muffled hum of the manor's mechanisms, the distant clink of cutlery from a far-off kitchen, and the echo of their steps on old marble. The walls, adorned with weathered tapestries and blackwood-framed portraits, watched them like silent sentinels. Occasionally, they passed a flickering lamp that buzzed quietly, casting their shadows against the walls in long, shifting forms.
Eventually, they stopped before two massive double doors. The doors were made of rich mahogany, carved with curling patterns of serpents and stags. A thick golden lock sat at their center, cold and intricate, like something from an old vault.
"It's locked," Caspian observed with a slight lift of his brow, arms folding tightly across his chest as he stood before the imposing double doors.
Layla shot him a sardonic glance, her lips curving into a faint smirk. "Thanks, Captain Obvious," she replied dryly, slipping a hand into the front pocket of her worn hoodie. The fabric creaked softly as she withdrew something small and metallic.
She revealed a key—modest in design, yet meticulously crafted. The gold surface caught the faint light from the corridor, polished to a muted, almost warm glow. It bore no ornate engraving or heraldry, but the subtle wear around its edges told stories of frequent use, perhaps a talisman more than a mere tool.
Without hesitation, she slid the key into the lock. A dull, satisfying mechanical click resonated, sharp in the stillness of the hall. The heavy doors gave a reluctant groan, hinges creaking as if waking from a long slumber. Layla exerted gentle pressure, and the doors parted—first one, then the other—revealing the chamber beyond.
Caspian's breath hitched imperceptibly.
The room beyond unfolded into a private training hall, steeped in a solemn hush. The floor, composed of polished wood planks, gleamed under the soft glow of overhead lanterns, reflecting the light like darkened glass that had been lacquered with care. Shadows pooled lightly in the corners, where the walls were lined with obsidian panels that absorbed the illumination, giving the room a timeless, almost sacred atmosphere.
Arrayed along those obsidian walls was an arsenal of weaponry—each piece displayed with deliberate reverence. Gleaming blades of every shape and size rested in velvet-lined brackets, their edges catching glimmers of light. Elegant staffs, coiled whips, and unfamiliar implements hung side by side, their presence suggesting the hall was a place where diverse skills had been honed and tested over the years.
In the farthest corner, mannequins stood rigid, draped in training gear and posed in silent vigilance. They faced a roped-off sparring circle, its perimeter marked with fraying strips of deep red cloth that whispered of countless matches fought within. Nearby, neat stacks of heavy iron weights rested beside padded benches, the leather worn smooth from use. Beyond a frosted glass pane, the faint outline of a sauna glowed softly, steam curling against the glass in lazy tendrils—an inviting warmth still lingering from recent use.
Layla stepped inside, the soft scrape of her sneakers against the polished wooden floor echoing faintly, each step deliberate and measured. The faint scent of aged wood and faint traces of sweat—remnants of countless past workouts—lingered in the air, lending the room an almost tangible weight of history. "Impressed?" she asked, her voice cutting through the quiet with a subtle edge of pride, as if daring Caspian to challenge the unspoken significance of the space.
Caspian followed closely behind, his gaze sweeping over the room with a deliberate and measured appraisal. The gleam of the floor, the careful arrangement of weapons, the muted glow of the sauna beyond—all combined into a scene that spoke of discipline and solitude. "Very," he admitted, his voice low and even, as if wary of disturbing the reverent atmosphere that seemed to pulse beneath the surface.
She moved with a practiced grace toward the center of the hall, shifting her weight effortlessly onto one foot. Her arms hung loosely at her sides, but there was a subtle tension in her stance—an alertness that suggested the place was more than just a training room. She belonged here, even after the years and distance. The faintest crease touched her brow, revealing the weight of memories long held close.
"I used to come here when I was younger," she said quietly, her voice softening, threaded with a fragile vulnerability beneath the surface strength. "When things… got too much." Her gaze flickered away for a moment, shadowed by a defiant edge, before she added, "Alexander never liked it. But I had the key long before he ever knew."
Caspian, sensing the shift in her tone, moved deliberately to unbutton his coat. The fabric slipped from his shoulders with a gentle whisper, and he folded it with care before placing it neatly on a nearby bench. The only sound was the faint rustling of cloth against wood, a quiet counterpoint to the stillness that filled the room.
Layla, too, peeled off her hoodie, tossing it onto the bench with a practiced flick of her wrist. Beneath it, a loose white T-shirt clung to her frame, the fabric soft from wear. Across the front, in jagged, spray-painted lettering, were the words: Stillwater Halo.
Caspian blinked. The name sparked immediate recognition.
"You like rock music, eh?" he asked, a subtle lift to his brow.
Layla turned, narrowing her eyes at him. "Yeah... you got a problem with that?" she said, stepping close—so close he could feel the heat from her skin, the defiance in her posture. Her chin tilted up slightly, eyes challenging.
Caspian instinctively leaned back, hands raised in mock surrender. "No, no, no," he said quickly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "I was just wondering."
Her expression lingered on that hard edge a second longer before softening into a grin. "Oh. Okay. Yeah, I love rock music."
"Stillwater Halo," he repeated, glancing at the lettering. "They're from Nimerath, right?"
She nodded. "One of the oldest bands still standing. My brother used to play their stuff loud enough to rattle the kitchen windows. Drove Alexander insane."
"Sounds like your brother had good taste."
"He did." Her tone quieted just slightly, though the smile didn't falter. "Stillwater's different now, though. Less screaming, more... sorrow. I guess everything changes eventually."
"Yeah," Caspian said. "It does."
They stood in silence for a moment, shoulders almost touching but not quite. The wide training hall had a single high window above the weapons rack, and through it spilled the dying light of the day—burning hues of orange, copper, and violet painting the polished floorboards. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and oiled steel, the faint hum of distant traffic from the city outside barely audible.
"So," Caspian said, his voice quiet but edged with interest, as he glanced back toward her over his shoulder. His tone carried that peculiar kind of calm that always came before something unspoken, like the still air before a storm. "Do you want to go all out, or keep it friendly?"
Layla's lips curved into a smile then—but it wasn't the same playful, teasing grin she had worn earlier, the one that danced easily on her face like sunlight through leaves. This one was slower to form, softer around the edges. It arrived like a tide turning in the distance—subtle, restrained, deliberate. Beneath it, something flickered in her gaze. Not amusement, not bravado, but something quieter. More complicated.
Her eyes, usually so quick to spark with laughter or mischief, had grown distant—as though a part of her had pulled back behind a curtain, watching him from some inner room where the lights had been dimmed. For a brief moment, she wasn't entirely here with him. A memory, perhaps, or a long-buried thought had surfaced, veiling her expression in something unreadable. A veil of restraint, or maybe a scar not yet healed.
"Let's see what friendly looks like first," she murmured finally, her voice low, soft enough to be nearly swallowed by the room. It had the timbre of someone who knew exactly what "friendly" could mean—and what it could become. "Then we'll decide."
Her words didn't just echo—they settled.
They hung there in the stillness like a drawn blade balanced perfectly on its edge. The air in the training hall grew heavier, not oppressive, but watchful, as though the walls themselves were listening—bearing silent witness to the quiet promise that now stretched between them. A promise, or perhaps a challenge, dressed in civility but carrying the weight of unspoken truths. Neither had moved yet, but something between them had shifted.
The floor beneath their feet, the weapons on the wall, the golden light dripping in through high windows—all of it waited, holding its breath.
And still, the silence held.