Callen stared at Leslie's body, frozen, as Morwen's words cut through the oppressive silence.
"Death was her only salvation," she whispered, her voice calm yet carrying the weight of understanding. Not the madness itself, not the Glassmind—it was the small, fragile fragment of her will that remained intact.
The thought hit all three of them with a chilling clarity. Arven stepped forward, his gaze sweeping the room as if cataloging every detail, every horror. "Her other will… it killed the guard," he said quietly, measured, as though trying to process the unimaginable.
A brief silence followed. The air hung thick with disbelief, punctuated only by the faint drip of congealing blood somewhere in the room. "Her own will… killed herself," Arven continued, eyes now fixed on Leslie.
Callen's breath caught. Her body, though lifeless, retained an almost ethereal grace. Golden hair, faintly shimmering even in the dim light of the Confinement Zone, fanned around her head like sunlight trapped in shadow. Her features, delicate yet strong—the high cheekbones, the straight nose, the gentle curve of her lips—were calm, serene, almost luminous amid the carnage. Even her posture, slumped yet strangely poised, suggested a sense of final relief, a surrender to the freedom her mind had sought for so long.
The three investigators shared a wordless understanding. What had occurred here defied everything they had known about the Arcanum, the Glassmind, or even the very nature of perception itself. It wasn't just death—it was a resolution, a final act of control in a place where control was almost impossible to maintain.
Callen could barely breathe, his pulse hammering in his ears. If this is what happens when the Climb fails… what does it mean for anyone else who dares to ascend?
Even as they absorbed the enormity of it all, the room seemed to press in on them. Shadows flickered unnaturally along the walls, whispers from the depths of a mind they could not fathom lingering in the corners of their perception.
Morwen's hand brushed lightly over Leslie's shoulder, careful, reverent. "It wasn't the will that turned against her… it was the last fragment of it, the part that remained pure," she said softly.
Callen nodded slowly, understanding the truth of her words even if his mind struggled to grasp the full horror. Salvation had come, but at a cost so profound it defied comprehension.
The three investigators ascended the long, winding staircase of the Confinement Zone, each step taking them farther from the chill of that cursed corridor. The metallic scent of blood still clung to their coats. None of them spoke — even Callen, who usually had something to say, found his words buried somewhere deep in the pit of his stomach.
As they emerged into the faintly sunlit hall above, a lone officer was waiting near the stairway entrance. His uniform was neatly pressed, but his face was pale, the sort of pale that comes from knowing too much. The moment he saw them, he straightened and bowed slightly.
"Investigators," he said, voice tight with unease. "The higher officials request your presence. Immediately."
Arven gave a short nod, his expression unreadable. "Lead the way."
They followed the officer through the narrow stone corridors of the upper wing. The air here felt different — still, suffocating, as if the very walls were listening. Eventually, they reached a tall wooden door engraved with the Directorate's crest. The officer stopped and stepped aside.
Inside, three senior officials awaited them, standing around a heavy oak table littered with papers, sealed scrolls, and a few glass vials filled with an amber liquid. Their gazes turned toward the trio as they entered.
"Close the door," one of them said.
Arven complied, the soft thud of the door sealing the room in tense silence.
The eldest of the officials — a man with silver hair and a scar running across his cheek — spoke first. His tone carried the authority of someone used to being obeyed.
"You've seen the scene, I presume," he began. "Then you understand the gravity of the situation."
Morwen inclined her head slightly. "We do, sir. But—"
The man's gaze hardened. "Then you also understand that this must not reach the Arcanum. Not a word. Not even a whisper."
Callen's eyes widened slightly. "But… with all due respect, sir, they were involved in the case. If they—"
"They were involved," the official interrupted sharply, "but they no longer are. The Directorate will handle this matter internally. The Arcanum is not to know what occurred in that cell."
A heavy pause followed. Even the faint crackle of the fireplace seemed to fade.
Arven, composed as ever, spoke softly. "Understood."
The man nodded once. "Good. Then this conversation never happened."
As they left the chamber, Callen couldn't help but feel the air behind him thicken — as if the walls themselves were swallowing the truth.
The meeting ended as abruptly as it began. The three investigators stepped out into the dimly lit corridor, the heavy doors closing behind them with a muffled thud that lingered far longer than it should have. For a moment, none of them spoke. The air inside the directorate always carried a faint scent of ink and old parchment — a mixture that usually brought comfort to Callen, but now it only made his throat feel dry.
Arven walked ahead, his tall frame cutting a shadow across the stone floor. "The investigation is still incomplete," he said finally, voice steady but edged with quiet authority. "We still don't know how she caught the Glassmind."
Morwen, walking just beside him, adjusted the files in her arm. "There were no confirmed carriers," she said after a pause. "No reports of transmission or exposure. Nothing fits the pattern."
Arven gave a short, deliberate nod. "Then keep looking. Continue the investigation. And don't let the Arcanum hear a whisper about what happened in that cell." His voice dropped on the last words, firm but quiet — the kind of tone that made clear that secrecy wasn't just protocol, but survival.
They turned a corner, the faint hum of conversation from other officers echoing down the halls. To Callen, the voices sounded distant — muffled, as though he were walking underwater.
Arven slowed, glancing toward Morwen. "Find that transcriber. What was his name again?"
"Ryneth Calder," she replied, her tone clipped, efficient.
"Right. Calder." Arven's expression didn't shift. "Bring him in for questioning. Quietly."
Callen trailed a few steps behind the two, his eyes drifting to the large windows along the corridor. Outside, the morning light was trying to break through the city's haze — the world going on, blissfully unaware of what waited beneath it.
He thought of the cell again, of the blood and the twisted shapes that used to be people. He could still smell it — metal and rot — and though he tried not to, his eyes lingered on his own gloved hands. The thought came unbidden: She ripped her own heart out.
He looked up quickly, hoping no one had noticed the tremor in his breathing. Arven and Morwen were already several paces ahead.
Their boots echoed rhythmically through the hall as they moved deeper into the heart of the directorate, where the air grew colder and the walls seemed to narrow.
They had a name. They had silence to maintain.
And somewhere in the city — Ryneth Calder was waiting.