Chapter 8

  — ? —

  The tank's shadow moved. He felt it before he saw it — a wrongness beneath his feet, a coldness that had nothing to do with White's frost. He looked down. His shadow was no longer shaped like him. It was shaped

  like claws.

  The shadow struck upward.

  Dark energy — pure, formless, impossible to block with steel — erupted from beneath the tank's feet. His HP dropped. Not from a claw. Not from a spell. From his own shadow. From the darkness he carried with him everywhere and had never once thought to fear.

  The archer's shadow struck next. Then the mage's. Black was everywhere and nowhere — attacking from beneath, from behind, from the places light didn't reach. Every combatant had a shadow. Every shadow was a weapon.

  The mage fell first.

  Between the golem's sword and the shadow's claws, his HP had nowhere to go but down. A stone fist from the left. A shadow strike from below. A frost bolt from White — who was now back at full HP and firing with renewed fury. The mage's barrier shattered, his HP hit zero, and the system ejected him mid-scream.

  [COMBAT LOG] Player Dalion (Mage) defeated.

  The archer fell next. He'd been the most dangerous — the one who'd actually hurt White, who'd had the skill and the patience to matter. But without a healer, every point of damage he took was permanent. Black's shadow strikes chipped at him. White's frost bolts found him between shots. And when he turned to run — because even the best archer knows when the math no longer works — a frost bolt caught him in the back and his HP bar emptied.

  [COMBAT LOG] Player Venn (Archer) defeated.

  The tank lasted longest. Credit where it was due — the man was a wall. Even without his healer, even with Red at full HP bearing down on him, even with shadows clawing at his feet and golems swinging stone swords at his flanks — he fought. Mace in hand. Shield up. War cry hoarse but unbroken.

  Red ended it. Not with fire. With a single, contemptuous swipe of her claw — the same way a cat bats a toy it's bored with. The tank's shield cracked. His armor dented. His HP bar, already ravaged, hit zero.

  [COMBAT LOG] Player Gorren (Tank) defeated.

  And the rogue.

  She was still at Green's side. Still stabbing. Still fighting. Not because she thought she could win — that illusion had died with the healer's disappearance. She fought because fighting was what she did. Because stopping meant admitting it was over.

  The roots came from beneath her. Green didn't move. Didn't even open her eyes. But the earth around the rogue erupted — the same thorned roots that held the healer in the forest, the same ancient vines that obeyed the green dragoness like extensions of her own body. They wrapped around the rogue's ankles. Her wrists. Her daggers were torn from her hands by tendrils of bark that were stronger than steel.

  The rogue didn't scream. She looked down at the roots climbing her body and then up at the sky. That grin — battered, bruised, but still alive — returned to her face.

  "Can't say we weren't warned," she said.

  A single thorn pierced her side. Gentle. Almost surgical. Just enough.

  [COMBAT LOG]

  Green → Rogue (Kess): Binding Thorns Damage: 12 Kess HP: 0/140 Player Kess defeated.

  [GUILD WARS — RESULT]

  ELYSIUM: VICTORY The Syndicate: DEFEATED Casualties (Elysium): 0 Spoils transferred to Guild Bank: [processing...]

  The meadow was silent.

  Half of it was a blackened wasteland — scorched earth, melted soil, glass where grass had been. The other half was frozen tundra — permafrost and crystallized ground, White's cold still seeping outward like a stain. Between the two zones, steam rose in thick columns. At the meadow's edge, the forest had grown six inches in the time since Green had emerged — new shoots, new branches, the trees reaching toward the light that the battle had let in. Four dragons stood in the ruins. Red — in human form now, lava plates rotating on her skin, arms crossed, looking at the empty meadow where five people had stood minutes ago. White — ice reforming on her body, serene, already losing interest. Green — human form, green hair moving in a breeze that only she could feel, leaves rearranging themselves on her skin. And Black — a silhouette of darkness at the edge of the tree line, white-point eyes blinking slowly, already dissolving back into the shadows she preferred.

  Igi walked through the steam. Grey robe. Hood deep. Replacement staff in hand. His face was unreadable.

  "Thank you, ladies."

  Red shrugged — lava rippled on her shoulders. "They were stronger than I expected. The tank was decent."

  "The archer was good," White admitted. "He found the soft spots."

  "The healer was strong," Green said quietly. "She fought the roots for a long time."

  Black said nothing. But the shadows around her feet pulsed once — which, from Black, was practically a standing ovation.

  Igi nodded. His eyes were distant. Not on the battlefield. Not on the dragons. Somewhere else. Somewhere inside.

  Black kneels before Igi

  She knelt.

  Not the way a servant kneels. The way a warrior kneels — one knee on stone, head bowed, hands open at her sides. A gesture of accountability. Of weight accepted.

  "Sir."

  Her voice was a whisper that came from everywhere and nowhere — the sound of darkness given words. "Forgive me. My student escaped. I should have —"

  "It's alright."

  Igi's voice was quiet. Not gentle — he didn't have gentle in him right now — but steady. He stopped before her. The staff rested on the ground. The hood was deep.

  "It's alright," he repeated. He didn't let her finish. There was no point — he knew what she would say. Should have watched him closer. Should have seen the signs. Should have bound him tighter, trained him harder, broken him deeper. All the things a master says when a student betrays the school.

  "Finding him and punishing him — I leave that to you."

  Black raised her head. The white points of her eyes were steady. Waiting.

  "Find him," Igi said. "Don't kill him. He didn't do anything that deserves death. But punishment — yes. Unambiguously yes."

  A pause. The shadows around Black's form pulsed — once, slowly — like a heartbeat.

  "And then let him go."

  Black was silent for a moment. The darkness that composed her body shifted — subtle movements, like smoke rearranging itself. Processing. Accepting.

  "Yes, sir."

  Igi looked at her. At the dragoness of shadow and silence, kneeling on stone, taking responsibility for a boy who had never truly belonged in her darkness. Peter had been fast. Clever. Quick with a smile and quicker with a knife. But he had also been something Black couldn't teach away — restless. A bird in a cage, no matter how golden. "I'm the one who should apologize," Igi said. "To you. I should have found a better candidate."

  Black's head tilted. The white points blinked — once, slowly.

  "He was not a bad student," she said. The words came reluctantly, as if each one cost her something. Black did not speak often, and when she did, every syllable carried weight. "He learned quickly. He moved well in darkness. He understood shadows."

  A pause.

  "He simply did not want to stay."

  Igi nodded. His jaw was tight. His hands — wrapped around the staff — were steady, but the knuckles were pale.

  "No," he said. "He didn't."

  Black rose. The movement was fluid — from kneeling to standing in a single motion, as if gravity didn't apply to her the same way it applied to solid things. She bowed her head one final time.

  "I will find him. It will not take long. Shadows are everywhere — and he taught me all his hiding places."

  Something flickered in her white-point eyes. Not amusement. Something colder. Something that Peter, wherever he was running, should have feared more than gods and contracts and system punishments combined.

  A teacher scorned.

  Black dissolved. The shadow on the cobblestones thinned, flattened, and slid away — between the stones, under the walls, into the darkness that was always there, always waiting, always watching. In a heartbeat, she was gone. Igi stood alone on the road. The staff was heavy in his hand. The city was quiet around him — the battle over, the dragonesses dispersing, the meadow still steaming beyond the gate.

  He thought about Peter. About the smile. About the knife spinning between quick fingers. About a boy who had once said "a cage is a cage, even if it's golden" and meant every word.

  He had been right, Igi thought. It was a cage.

  But it was supposed to make him stronger. Not break him free before he was ready.

  Igi closed his eyes. Breathed. Opened them.

  Then he walked to the castle to unlock the doors.

  THE CASTLE

  13:10.

  The heavy doors opened. Igi stood in the doorway — staff in one hand, no smile beneath the hood.

  Five faces stared at him. Not six. Five.

  Jana. Diana. Hazela. Kaelen. Arwen.

  The space where Peter had leaned against the wall was empty. His knife — the one he'd always spun between his fingers — lay on the stone bench. Left behind. Or discarded. It was hard to tell.

  They already knew.

  The collars were connected. When Peter had removed his — when he'd somehow found a way to break the enchantment, or paid the price, or found someone who could — they'd all felt it. A pulse. A tremor in the metal around their own necks. And then the notification in guild chat. Five words that changed everything. Take care, slaves.

  Jana's ears were flat against her head. Diana's hands were balled into fists, frost crackling across her knuckles. Hazela stood perfectly still — the elven stillness that meant she was feeling too much to move. Kaelen's jaw was set like a stone wall. Arwen held Hazela's hand and said nothing.

  "It's over," Igi said. He meant the battle. But the words carried more weight than that and everyone in the room heard it.

  "We won," he added. "All five defeated. The dragonesses are unharmed. The spoils are being processed."

  Nobody asked about the fight. Nobody asked about damage or tactics or how long it lasted. The question that hung in the room was different. Heavier. Sharper.

  Jana asked it. Because Jana always asked the questions nobody else would.

  "Did you know?"

  Igi was silent for a long time. The staff rested against his shoulder. The hood was deep. His eyes — whatever was in them — were hidden.

  "No," he said. "I didn't."

  Igi was silent for a long time. The staff rested against his shoulder. The hood was deep. His eyes — whatever was in them — were hidden.

  "No," he said. "I didn't."

  And for once — for the first time any of them could remember — they weren't sure if he was telling the truth.

  Silence. Heavy. The kind that presses on the chest and makes breathing feel like work.

  Then Igi extended his hand. Palm up. Open.

  "Give me his collar." Jana flinched. Diana looked away. Hazela's ears flattened. Kaelen didn't move — but his jaw tightened so hard the tendons in his neck stood out like ropes.

  It was Arwen who stepped forward. The youngest. The one who had been sitting closest to Peter when it happened. She reached into the pocket of her tunic and pulled out a small, dark ring of metal. Peter's collar. He hadn't just removed it — he'd left it behind. On the floor. In the middle of the room. Like garbage.

  Arwen placed it in Igi's palm.

  Igi closed his fingers around it. The metal was cold. Lighter than it should have been — empty, disconnected, dead. A collar without a wearer was just a piece of metal. A contract without a signer was just words.

  He put it in his inventory. The system window flickered and closed.

  "Good," he said. His voice was steady. Whatever storm was behind those eyes, he kept it there. Behind. Hidden. Where it belonged — for now.

  He looked at them. At the four who stayed. At the one who was new. Five faces, five pairs of eyes, five people who were waiting for him to say something that would make sense of what had just happened.

  He didn't have those words. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

  So he said something else instead.

  "Back to the city."

  He turned toward the door. The staff tapped once on stone — sharp, decisive, a period at the end of a sentence.

  "Today — celebrate. We won a Guild Wars. The first one. The guild bank is full. The dragonesses are unharmed. Not a single casualty on our side. That deserves a celebration."

  He paused at the threshold. Didn't turn around. "Tomorrow — classroom. Early. There will be a long lesson."

  His voice dropped. Not in volume. In temperature.

  "A very long lesson."

  Nobody asked what the lesson would be about. They didn't need to. The lesson would be about Peter. About betrayal. About trust and contracts and what happens when someone breaks them. About the price of freedom taken too early and the cost of loyalty given too late.

  But that was tomorrow.

  Today — today they had won.

  Igi walked out. The staff tapped down the hallway — once, twice, three times — and faded.

  Jana looked at the others. Then — slowly, deliberately — she smiled. Not a happy smile. A tired one. The kind of smile you give when the day has broken something inside you but you refuse to let it show.

  "You heard him. Celebration."

  Diana unclenched her fists. The frost on her knuckles melted. "I'll cook."

  "You burn everything," Hazela said.

  "I'll cook better than Peter did."

  The name hung in the air. For a moment. Then Jana caught it and set it down gently.

  "He made terrible soup anyway."

  "Terrible," Kaelen agreed. And something — not a smile, not quite, but the shadow of one — crossed his face.

  Arwen tugged Hazela's sleeve. "Can I help in the kitchen?" Hazela looked down at her. The elven eyes — once full of hatred toward the world — softened. "Yes. You can help."

  They left the castle together. Four plus one. Through the iron-banded doors, down the stone stairs, into the sunlight of an afternoon that smelled of scorched earth and melting ice and new beginnings built on old wounds.

  Behind them, the great hall stood empty. On the stone bench, Peter's knife caught the light. Nobody had picked it up.

  Nobody would. Not today. Not tomorrow.

  Eventually, Igi would come back for it. He would put it in his inventory alongside the collar — two pieces of a boy who had chosen freedom over family, speed over strength, escape over growth.

  And in a locked drawer in his office, alongside a list of names and a plan that spanned decades, he would add a note in small, careful handwriting:

  Chapter 9

  — ? —

  Peter. Failed. My fault.

  But that was later.

  Now — the sun was shining. The city was safe. The guild bank was full. And somewhere in the kitchen, Diana was about to burn something while Arwen tried to stop her and Hazela pretended not to care.

  Kaelen walked to the training ground. Alone. Axe on his back. Shadow long behind him.

  He didn't celebrate.

  He trained.

  Classroom 800 — Lessons from a Traitor

  The classroom was quiet.

  Not the usual quiet — the comfortable silence of five people who knew each other well enough to not need words before the lesson started. This was a different quiet. Heavier. The kind of quiet that fills a room when someone's chair is empty and everyone is trying not to look at it.

  Peter's chair. Second row, left side. The one he'd always tilted back on two legs until Igi told him to stop. The one he'd carved his initials into with a knife tip during a particularly boring lecture on mana economics.

  The chair was there. Peter was not.

  Jana sat in her usual spot, tail curled around the chair leg, ears slightly forward. Diana beside her — posture rigid, frost dormant on her fingertips, eyes fixed on the blackboard. Hazela was still as stone, elven ears tilted toward the door, waiting. Arwen sat beside her — small, quiet, watching the others the way new people watch old grief.

  Kaelen sat in the front row. Axe leaning against the desk. Arms folded. Jaw set. He hadn't slept much — the training ground showed signs of fresh axe marks on three wooden dummies that would need replacing.

  The door opened. Igi walked in. Staff on his shoulder. Hood deep. He crossed to the lectern without greeting, without preamble, without the usual tap of the staff that signaled the start of a lesson.

  He stood behind the lectern and looked at them. Five faces. One empty chair.

  Then he spoke.

  "You're asking yourselves what happened with Peter."

  Not a question. A statement. He knew them well enough to skip the pretense.

  "So am I." He set the staff against the lectern and placed both hands on the wooden surface. His voice was steady — the classroom voice, the teaching voice, the voice that had carried them through four years of lectures and dungeons and pain. But there was something underneath it today. Something raw.

  "I don't know exactly what happened. What I do know — what I noticed, what I should have paid more attention to — is that he didn't like being a slave. Being restricted. Being told what to do, where to go, when to sleep, when to fight."

  He paused. Looked at the empty chair.

  "I noticed it. The comments. The jokes that weren't entirely jokes. The way he tested boundaries — the lock-picking, the sneaking out, the constant pushing. I saw all of it. But I didn't think it was that bad."

  His jaw tightened. Just for a moment.

  "I was wrong."

  The classroom was silent. Igi being wrong was not something they heard often. Igi admitting it — almost never.

  "Here is why I chose you."

  He stepped from behind the lectern. Walked between the desks — slowly, the way he always did when the lesson mattered more than usual.

  "Each of you. Why you. Why not someone else — someone stronger, someone faster, someone with better talent or higher potential."

  He stopped by Jana. Looked at her. She looked back — green wolf eyes, steady, unblinking.

  "Because you were in trouble. Because you had nowhere to go. No family. No home. No one who would notice if you disappeared. Because someone had hurt you — badly, deeply, in ways that don't heal with potions or spells. Because you had almost died. More than once." He moved to Diana. To Hazela. To Kaelen. To Arwen. At each desk he paused — not long, not dramatically, just enough for the weight of the words to settle.

  "I chose people at the bottom. People without hope. People for whom the collar didn't take freedom — because they'd never had freedom. People who would look at ten years of servitude and think: this is better than what I had before."

  He returned to the lectern.

  "Yes. You are my slaves. That is the truth. I won't dress it up or pretend otherwise. You wear collars. You obey orders. You cannot leave until the contract ends."

  His voice dropped.

  "But the other side — the side you came from — was worse. For all of you, the other side was worse."

  A pause. Long. Heavy.

  "Apparently not for Peter."

  Jana's ears pressed flat against her head. Diana's frost crackled — once, sharp, then gone. Hazela didn't move. Kaelen's hand tightened on the axe handle.

  "For Peter, the cage was worse than the street. The collar was worse than the cold. The safety was worse than the freedom. And I didn't see it. Or I saw it and told myself it would pass."

  Igi placed his palm flat on the lectern.

  "That is my failure. Not his. Mine. I chose the wrong candidate. I brought someone into this guild who valued freedom more than everything I could offer — training, food, shelter, power, family. And I didn't recognize it until he was already gone."

  "This is why — when you search for your own successors — you must choose carefully."

  He tapped the staff on the floor. Once. The teaching rhythm returned — slower than usual, but present.

  "Find people who will value this opportunity. People like Arwen." He glanced at the young elf. Arwen straightened in her chair — surprised to be named, unsure whether to be proud or afraid. "People who look at what we offer and think: yes. This is worth ten years. This is worth the collar. This is worth the obedience and the pain and the training, because what waits on the other side is something I could never have reached alone."

  "Not people who are already free in their heads. Not people who would rather starve in a ditch than take an order. Those people exist — and

  they have that right. But they are not for us."

  "Now. His punishment."

  The air in the room shifted. Five spines straightened.

  "Black has taken Peter under her wings."

  The words landed like stones in still water. Jana's eyes widened. Diana went pale — and Diana never went pale. Hazela's hand moved to her bow. Kaelen's grip on the axe handle went from tight to white-knuckled.

  They knew what that meant.

  Black. The black dragoness. The shadow. The darkness that had trained Peter for four years — that had taught him to move without sound, to kill without being seen, to vanish into the space between light and absence. The being who knew every trick Peter had ever learned, because she had taught him every single one.

  And now she was hunting him. Images flashed through their minds — unbidden, unwanted, vivid. A dragon made of darkness, sliding through shadows, through walls, through the spaces between heartbeats. Finding a boy who thought he could hide. A boy who had learned to disappear — from the very creature that was now looking for him.

  "She will find him," Igi said. "She will punish him. And then she will let him go. He did not do anything that deserves death. But punishment — unambiguously yes."

  Jana exhaled. She hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath.

  "He'll survive," Igi added. His voice carried no warmth. But also no cruelty. Just fact. "Black knows the difference between punishment and execution. Peter will learn why breaking a contract has consequences. And then he'll be free — truly free, without collar, without guild, without

  protection. Alone. As he wanted."

  "Now. A question has surely struck you already."

  He looked at them. At the four faces — plus Arwen's — that were still processing shadows and dragons and punishment.

  "How did he break the collar?"

  Silence. Then — slowly — four heads nodded. Yes. That question. The collar was enchanted. Bound by contract. Enforced by the system. It wasn't a piece of metal you could pick with a hairpin or cut with a knife.

  "The answer is simple," Igi said. "He asked."

  Blank stares.

  "He asked a god."

  "He asked a god."

  Igi walked to the blackboard. The chalk lifted itself and began writing. "Somewhere — at some point during the last months, or years, or maybe even from the beginning — Peter contacted a god. Through the system. Spent points. And asked: how do I remove this collar?"

  The chalk wrote:

  QUESTION → GOD → ANSWER → PATH

  "And the god showed him a way. Possibilities. Options. Because that is what gods do — they don't solve your problems. They show you the doors. You still have to walk through them."

  He tapped the board.

  "He almost certainly bought a key. From the God Shop. A specific item designed to break a specific enchantment. And it was almost certainly very expensive. Points he saved, points he earned, points he hoarded while

  pretending to spend them on talents and gear."

  Igi paused. A hint of something — not admiration, but its bitter cousin, respect — flickered across his face.

  "He planned this. For a long time. And he waited for the right moment — the Guild Wars. When I would be at the gate. When the dragonesses would be fighting. When the collars' monitoring would be secondary to the battle. He knew he'd have a window. And he used it."

  "This brings me to the lesson."

  Igi returned to the lectern. The chalk moved behind him, writing in large, clear letters.

  NOTHING IS IMPOSSIBLE — ONLY EXPENSIVE

  "I want you to understand something. Something that Peter understood, even if he used it against us."

  He pointed at the board. "In this world, nothing is truly impossible. Nothing. There is no lock without a key. No wall without a door. No enemy without a weakness."

  He let the words breathe.

  "Let me give you an example. Imagine something you consider impossible." He looked at Jana. "Jana — it is impossible to kill Green."

  Jana's hand shot up. Igi stopped her with a raised palm and a look that could have frozen lava.

  "It's just an example. Calm down."

  Jana lowered her hand. Her ears were fully erect — the wolf equivalent of extreme alarm.

  "Imagine something you believe cannot be done. A wall you cannot climb. An enemy you cannot defeat. A problem you cannot solve. In your mind, it is impossible."

  He held up one finger.

  "But if you ask a god — if you spend the points, if you pay the price — the god will show you possibilities. Paths. Doors you didn't know existed."

  The chalk wrote:

  POSSIBILITIES: 1. Pay someone stronger 2. Become stronger yourself 3. Deceive — become an ally, then strike when the moment comes 4. Find allies — coordinate with others 5. Wait for the right moment

  "These are just examples," Igi said. "There are always more. But the principle is the same — every obstacle has a solution. Every unbeatable enemy can be beaten. I told you this before — five coordinated players at maximum level can take down any single individual. Nobody is unbeatable. The question is never if — it's how, and what it costs." He looked at them. Hard. Direct.

  "Peter understood this. He asked how to break the collar — and the god showed him the way. He chose the path of deception — he waited, he planned, he pretended to be loyal, and when the opportunity came, he struck. Like a knife in the back."

  A pause.

  "Like a rogue."

  The irony was not lost on anyone.

  "Even I — right now, without spending a single point — can think of multiple ways to overcome an obstacle I consider insurmountable. Pay someone stronger. Become stronger myself. Trick. Ally. Wait. Every

  problem has solutions. The only question is whether you're willing to pay the price."

  He tapped the staff on the floor. Twice. Sharp.

  "How exactly Peter did it — the specific steps, the specific key, the specific timing — I don't know. And I'm not going to throw away points asking a god to find out. What's done is done. The lesson is what matters."

  "And now — the future."

  The chalk erased the board and wrote:

  NEW RECRUITS — LESS THAN 5 YEARS REMAINING

  "Peter is gone. That leaves a gap. And beyond that — your contracts have less than five years remaining. When those five years are up, you walk out of here free. Stronger than you ever imagined. Ready for whatever the world throws at you."

  He looked at each of them. "But Elysium doesn't end when you leave. The guild continues. The mission continues. And for that, we need new blood."

  The staff tapped once.

  "In the coming days — not weeks, not months, days — I want each of you to find a new recruit. Someone who deserves this. Someone who needs this. Someone who will look at the collar and think: yes. This is my chance. My only chance."

  He pointed at Arwen. The young elf sat up straight.

  "Like Arwen. She was at the bottom. Alone. Without family, without protection, without hope. Hazela found her. Green blessed her. And now she sits in this classroom, learning, growing, becoming something her old self wouldn't recognize."

  Arwen's cheeks flushed. She looked down at her hands. Hazela placed a quiet hand on her shoulder.

  "That is what you're looking for. Not talent — talent can be trained. Not strength — strength can be built. Not intelligence — intelligence can be sharpened. You're looking for the eyes. The eyes of someone who has nowhere to go and everything to gain."

  He returned to the lectern.

  "You know what those eyes look like. You've all had them. You've all stood where they stand now — at the bottom, looking up, wondering if someone would reach down."

  The chalk wrote the final line:

  FIND THEM. BRING THEM HOME.

  "Questions?"

  No hands rose. Not because there were no questions. Because the answers were already clear.

  "Lesson over." The staff tapped. Once. Final.

  "Go. Find them. And don't make my mistake — choose someone who wants to stay."

  Chairs scraped. The four stood — plus Arwen. They moved toward the door. Slower than usual. Heavier. Each of them carrying a name in their head — a face they'd seen on the streets, in the market, in the alleys where people fell through the cracks of the world.

  Chapter 10

  — ? —

  Kaelen stopped at the door. Turned. Looked at Igi.

  "The half-orc boy. The one I told you about. Thirteen. Lives on the street."

  Igi nodded. "Start today."

  Kaelen left without another word.

  Jana followed. At the threshold, she paused. "I'll find my fox girl. The one in the cage at the harbor."

  "Plan A, B, C," Igi reminded.

  "Already done." She was gone.

  Hazela and Arwen left together. Silent. But Hazela's eyes had that look — the look of an elf with a target.

  Diana was last. She stood at the door and looked back at Igi. At the old man behind the lectern. At the teacher who had just admitted — in front of all of them — that he'd failed.

  "It wasn't your fault," she said.

  Igi looked at her. For a long time.

  "It was," he said. "But thank you."

  Diana left. The door closed.

  Jana and the Fox Girl

  "Sir."

  Jana stood in the doorway of Igi's office. Tail low — not from fear. From something softer. She held her hands behind her back and her ears were tilted slightly forward, the way they always were when she wanted something but wasn't sure how to ask.

  Igi sat behind the desk, a system window open, scrolling through numbers he didn't enjoy looking at. He closed the window.

  "Jana."

  "Could we — spend some time together? You and me. In the city."

  Igi looked at her. The wolf-woman who had once stood in a forest, half-dead, and accepted a collar because the alternative was worse. Four years later she stood in his doorway asking for his company as if he were family and not a master.

  Something shifted behind his eyes. Something he didn't name.

  "Where did you find the fox girl?" he asked.

  "Fenix city. The harbor market."

  Of course, Igi thought. Where else.

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  He stood. Picked up his staff. Adjusted his hood.

  "Then let's go for a walk."

  FENIX CITY

  The portal opened with that familiar hum — the sound of reality folding on itself, two points in the world touching like fingertips across a table. Igi and Jana stepped through.

  Fenix City materialized around them in a wave of noise, light, and smell. The teleportation circle sat in the main square — wide, paved, surrounded by buildings that stretched five stories high and carried the banners of guilds and trading houses. Magical lamps lined the streets, casting that eternal golden twilight the capital was known for. Jana's nose twitched. Four years since the first time she'd stood here — shaking, tail between her legs, the word "slave" ringing in her ears like a slap. She was different now. Taller. Stronger. The tail was low but not tucked. The ears were up.

  The guards at the circle recognized the collar immediately. One glance, one nod. No questions this time. Igi paid the entry fee — two silver on an open palm — and they walked into the city.

  THE ORPHANAGE

  They went to the orphanage first.

  Sister Maren's Home for the Lost stood on a quiet street in the eastern quarter — a stone building, old but clean, with a wooden fence around a small yard where children's voices carried. The paint on the door was peeling. The windows were patched. But the floor inside was swept and

  the children — seven of them, all ages, all races — were fed. Barely. But fed.

  Sister Maren met them at the door. A woman of fifty, maybe sixty — hard to tell, because life had aged her faster than years. Grey hair pulled back. Hands rough from work. Eyes tired but kind — the specific kind of kindness that came from giving everything you had and knowing it wasn't enough.

  "Master Igi," she said. She recognized him — not from his face, which the hood hid, but from the staff and the silver. He had been here before. Not often. But enough.

  "Sister."

  Igi reached into his robe and pulled out a pouch. Heavy. The kind of heavy that made the leather creak. He placed it in her hands — in Jana's presence, deliberately, so that Jana could see.

  "A month," he said. "For food. For clothing. For whatever they need." Sister Maren looked at the pouch. Then at Igi. Her eyes glistened — not with tears, because women like Sister Maren had dried out long ago, but with something deeper. Gratitude that hurt.

  "Thank you," she said. "You don't have to —"

  "I know."

  Jana stood beside Igi and watched. Her ears were fully erect. Her eyes moved from the pouch to the children in the yard — a small girl chasing a ball, two boys wrestling in the dirt, a beastkind child — rabbit ears, maybe six years old — sitting alone by the fence, watching the others with the expression of someone who had already learned that watching was safer than joining.

  "Can we stay?" Jana asked. "For a moment?"

  Igi looked at her. Then at the yard. Then nodded.

  They stayed for half an hour. Jana sat in the dirt with the children and played — the wolf-woman and the rabbit-eared girl found each other immediately, the way beastkind always did, drawn together by the shared knowledge of being different. Jana let the girl touch her tail. The girl laughed — a sound so pure and so rare in this building that Sister Maren stopped in the doorway and pressed a hand to her mouth.

  Igi stood by the fence and watched. He didn't play. He wasn't built for playing. But he watched — and in his eyes, behind the hood, something was taking notes.

  THE POOR QUARTER

  They walked deeper into the city. Past the market. Past the Adventurers' Guild. Into the side streets where the magical lamps grew sparse and the pavement crumbled and the buildings leaned against each other like drunks holding each other up. The poor quarter. Jana knew it. She'd been here before — on that first visit, when Igi had shown her the fentanyl addicts, the begging children, the woman offering herself for a copper. The memories were sharp. They would always be sharp.

  Today the quarter looked the same. Dirty. Broken. Full of people who had stopped hoping and were now simply existing — breathing because the body did it automatically, not because the mind saw a reason.

  Igi walked through the narrow alleys and did what he always did. He reached into his robe and dropped copper coins. Not in anyone's hand — that attracted attention, attracted conflict, attracted the predators who circled the weak. He dropped them on the ground. By a sleeping man's hand. By a child's bare feet. On a windowsill where a woman with hollow eyes sat staring at nothing.

  Small coins. Small mercies. Drops in an ocean.

  Jana walked beside him and watched the copper fall.

  "This," she said. Her voice was quiet. Not angry — not the fury she'd felt on that first visit. Something older. Something that had processed the anger and left behind purpose. "This is what I want. For people to help others. Not exploit them."

  Igi didn't answer immediately. They walked in silence — past a collapsed wall, past a man coughing blood into a rag, past two children fighting over a crust of bread.

  Then he spoke.

  "I've been thinking."

  Jana looked at him.

  "What if we took some of these sad souls to Elysium?"

  Jana's reaction was immediate. Her ears shot up. Her tail rose — not a little, a lot. Her eyes widened and something ignited in them that Igi recognized — the fire of a person who has just heard the words they've been waiting for without knowing they were waiting. "Yes," she said. "Yes — sir, we could — we could give them food, shelter, training, we could —"

  "Jana."

  She stopped. Mouth open, ears still up, tail still high. Igi's voice had that tone. The one that always preceded a "but."

  "Would they do what they're told? Would they follow rules, accept discipline, train? Or would they fall back into old patterns — the streets, the begging, the substances?"

  Jana's tail lowered. Just a fraction. Because the answer was honest and the honest answer wasn't the one she wanted to give.

  "I don't have that many collars," Igi said. "And even if I did — a collar without the right person inside it is just metal around a neck that will eventually find a way to take it off."

  Peter's ghost hung in the air between them. Neither mentioned his name.

  "Better slow and good," Igi said. "One right person is worth more than ten wrong ones."

  Jana nodded. The fire in her eyes didn't go out — it banked itself, settling into embers that would glow for a long time.

  "But someday," she said. Not a question.

  "Someday," Igi agreed.

  THE SLAVE MARKET

  "Now. Let's go see your fox girl." They turned toward the harbor. The streets widened, the salt air thickened, and the sound of gulls and creaking wood replaced the quiet desperation of the poor quarter. The harbor market sprawled along the waterfront — stalls and tents and carts selling everything from fish to weapons to potions to —

  People.

  The slave tents were at the far end. Away from the main market, tucked behind a row of warehouses, as if the city was ashamed of them but not enough to ban them. Canvas stretched over wooden frames. Iron cages on wooden carts. The smell — sweat, fear, unwashed bodies, stale straw — hit Jana's nose like a fist.

  Her hands curled into fists. Her tail tucked. Her ears went flat.

  A man rushed toward them the moment they entered the row of tents. Short, round, with a smile that had too many teeth and not enough warmth. An apron stained with things Jana didn't want to identify. His eyes — quick, calculating, predatory in the specific way of people who sold other people — swept from Igi's robe to Jana's collar to her ears to her tail.

  "Welcome, welcome! What can I show you today?"

  Igi's voice shifted. It happened so smoothly that Jana almost missed it — the teacher's voice, the master's voice, the quiet authority she'd known for four years — vanished. In its place: something oilier. Lazier. The voice of a man who spent money on pleasures he didn't question.

  "You can see, my good man, that I have a preference for beastkind," Igi said, gesturing casually toward Jana.

  The seller's smile widened. His eyes crawled over Jana — slowly, appraisingly, the way a butcher examines a side of beef.

  "Oh yes, sir. A fine specimen. Well-trained, I can see — obedient posture, healthy coat, good muscle tone. You know your merchandise, sir." Jana's fists tightened. Her knuckles went white. A growl — low, instinctive, the wolf reacting before the woman could stop it — built in her throat.

  A message appeared in her system window.

  [Guild Chat — ELYSIUM]

  Igi: "Calm down. We're playing a game."

  Jana read the message. Read it again. Forced the growl down. Forced her fingers to unclench. Forced her tail to stay still. It was the hardest thing she'd done since putting on the collar.

  But she did it.

  "Show me what you have," Igi said to the seller. "Something young. Trainable. I'm looking for — potential."

  "Of course, of course! Right this way, sir."

  The seller led them through the row. Cages on both sides. Inside — people. Beastkind, mostly. A cat-eared boy, maybe ten, staring at the ground. A lizardkind woman, scales dull, eyes dead. Two dog-eared children — siblings, holding hands through the bars of adjacent cages.

  Jana's jaw ached from clenching.

  They reached the end of the row. The last cage. The smallest. Shoved into a corner between two tent poles as if it had been forgotten — or placed there deliberately, out of sight, where buyers who wanted quality wouldn't look.

  Inside the cage — a girl. Fox-kind. Young — fourteen, maybe less. Half woman, half fox — reddish-brown fur on her ears and tail, the same color threading through matted, filthy hair. Her face was human — or close to it — but the eyes were vulpine. Amber, slitted, feral. And empty. The specific emptiness of a creature that had stopped fighting.

  She was thin. Not thin the way a person gets when they miss a few meals. Thin the way a person gets when the body starts eating itself — ribs visible through the torn remnants of what might once have been clothing, wrists like sticks, collarbones jutting out like shelves. Her tail — a fox-kind's tail was their pride, their identity, their most expressive feature — lay flat and matted in the straw, limp, as if it had forgotten how to move.

  She didn't look up when they approached. She didn't react at all.

  Jana stopped breathing.

  "This one," the seller said, and his voice carried the specific cheerfulness of a man trying to sell damaged goods. "Our most affordable.

  One silver."

  Igi made a sound — a slow, deliberate intake of breath through his teeth. The universal language of a buyer who has been insulted.

  "One silver? Come now. Look at her. She hasn't eaten in — how long? Weeks? I'll have to invest in health potions just to keep her alive long enough to be useful."

  The seller shifted his weight. The smile flickered. "Well — she's young, sir. Potential, like you said. Once you feed her up —"

  "Fifty copper."

  "Sir, I really can't — the costs of housing, feeding —"

  "You haven't fed her."

  The seller's smile died. A flicker of something — shame? annoyance? — crossed his face. Then the merchant's instinct reasserted itself. A sale was a sale.

  "Fifty copper. Fine. But I can't go a single one lower." Jana couldn't hold it any longer.

  She stepped forward. Not aggressively — submissively, the way a well-trained slave was supposed to. Head slightly bowed. Ears down. Voice soft, pleading, pitched exactly the way a beastkind slave was expected to speak to her master in public.

  "Sir — sir, please. Buy her. Please."

  She hated every word. Every syllable tasted like ash. But the game demanded it and the fox girl in the cage demanded it more.

  Igi looked at Jana. Then at the cage. Then at the seller. He let the silence stretch — one heartbeat, two, three — the way a man does when he's deciding whether a purchase is worth the inconvenience.

  Then he sighed. A long, theatrical sigh. The sigh of a man being manipulated by his favorite slave and not minding too much.

  "Fine," he said. "But you'll have to make this up to me in bed."

  Jana's face flushed. Red crept up her neck, across her cheeks, to the tips of her ears. She looked at the ground — looked at her master — looked at the ground again.

  "Yes, sir," she said. Quiet. Obedient. Her voice didn't shake.

  But her eyes — for one fraction of a second, when neither the seller nor Igi was looking — her eyes found the fox girl in the cage.

  And they said: Hold on. We're here.

  Igi counted out fifty copper coins and placed them in the seller's palm. The man counted them twice — habit, not distrust — and unlocked the cage. The fox girl didn't move. She lay in the straw, curled into herself, and when the cage door opened — when fresh air and light flooded in — she flinched. Not toward the opening. Away from it. Deeper into the corner. A creature so broken that freedom itself was a threat.

  Igi reached into his inventory and pulled out a small vial. Pale blue liquid — a weak health potion. The cheapest kind. Enough to stabilize, not enough to heal. He knelt — slowly, carefully, the way you kneel beside a wounded animal — and placed the vial at the edge of the cage.

  The fox girl's amber eyes found the vial. Then found Igi. Then found Jana — the wolf ears, the tail, the collar. Another beastkind. With a master. And the master had bought her.

  Something moved in those amber eyes. Not hope — hope had died long ago. But something before hope. Something that preceded it the way dawn preceded sunrise.

  Chapter 11

  — ? —

  Recognition. The fox girl recognized what Jana was. And some part of her — the part that hadn't died yet — understood that this was different.

  Igi gently pulled the frail body from the cage. She weighed nothing — literally nothing, a bundle of bones and matted fur that felt more like carrying a coat than a person. Jana stepped forward and took her — carefully, gently, the way you hold something precious and fragile. The fox girl's head lolled against Jana's shoulder. Her breathing was shallow, fast, the breathing of a small animal in the hands of something bigger.

  Igi uncorked the potion and brought it to the girl's lips. She drank — reflexively, desperately, the way the dying drink. The pale blue liquid slid down her throat and the system responded — the faintest glow of healing, barely visible, enough to pull her back from the edge.

  They left the market. The seller had already turned to another customer. The cages stayed. The children inside stayed. The world stayed exactly as broken as it had been before they arrived. Jana carried the fox girl through the streets. The small body was warm against her chest — warm and trembling, a heartbeat so fast it felt like a hummingbird's wings. Jana held her the way she had never been held — firmly, safely, with the promise in every step that the carrying would not end.

  Igi walked beside them. At the entrance to the quiet alley that led to the teleportation circle, he leaned close to the fox girl's ear.

  "Sleep," he whispered.

  Not a command. A spell — gentle, layered, the kind of sleep magic that didn't knock someone out but invited them. The fox girl's amber eyes — wide, terrified, clinging to consciousness as the last defense against a world that hurt — softened. Flickered. Closed.

  She slept. In Jana's arms. For the first time in however long — safely.

  The portal deposited them in the courtyard. Evening light. The forest rustling. The familiar smell of home — stone, herbs, the distant heat of Red's forge, the faint chill of White's gardens.

  Jana hadn't spoken since the market. She held the fox girl against her chest and walked carefully, each step deliberate, as if carrying a glass sculpture through a room full of sharp edges.

  Igi walked beside her. When they reached the main building — when the doors closed behind them and the city was gone and the slave market was gone and the seller with his smile was gone — he stopped.

  "She wouldn't have lasted much longer," he said. His voice was back to normal — the teacher's voice, the master's voice, the quiet authority that Jana trusted more than any other sound in the world. "A week. Maybe two. The body was shutting down." Jana looked down at the sleeping face. The fox ears — matted, dirty, but still fox ears. Still hers. Still alive.

  "It's on you now," Igi said. "Heal her. Feed her. Nurse her back. And when she wakes — when she's strong enough to understand what's happening — convince her."

  "Don't lie to her. Don't sugarcoat it. She's been lied to enough. Tell her the truth — all of it, the good and the bad and the parts that hurt — and let her choose."

  Jana nodded. The fox girl stirred in her sleep — a small sound, not a whimper, not a cry, just a breath that was deeper than the others. As if, even in sleep, the body knew it was somewhere different. Somewhere the air didn't smell like straw and fear.

  "What's her name?" Jana asked.

  "I don't know. Ask her when she wakes."

  Igi turned toward his office. Three steps. Then he stopped.

  "Jana."

  "Sir?"

  "You did well today."

  Jana's ears rose. Just a fraction. The wolf equivalent of a smile that she didn't quite allow herself.

  "It was an act," she said. "The submissive slave voice. The blushing."

  Igi looked at her over his shoulder. The hood was deep, but she could have sworn — for one instant, one heartbeat — that the old man was smiling.

  "I know," he said. "That's why it was so convincing."

  He walked away. The staff tapped on stone. Once. Twice. The rhythm was normal tonight. Steady. Calm. Jana stood in the hallway, holding a sleeping fox girl who weighed nothing and meant everything.

  Then she went to find blankets.

  Classroom 800 — New Blood

  The classroom smelled different this morning.

  Not bad — just different. New. The scent of people who hadn't been here before — unfamiliar soap, unfamiliar sweat, unfamiliar fear. Jana noticed it first, because Jana always noticed smells first. Her nose twitched, her ears swiveled, and she smiled.

  Two new chairs had been added to the classroom. Not fancy — wooden, plain, the same kind as everyone else's. But new. Unscratched. Without initials carved into the wood or knife marks on the armrest.

  In the first chair sat the fox girl.

  She was unrecognizable. Three days of food, healing potions, and Jana's relentless care had pulled her back from the edge. The matted fur on her ears was brushed — still thin, still damaged, but clean. Her hair — the reddish-brown that matched her ears and tail — was washed and tied back. Her cheeks had the faintest hint of color. She was still painfully thin — the kind of thin that would take months to fix, not days — but her eyes were different. The emptiness was still there, deep down, like sediment at the bottom of a river. But on the surface — on the surface there was something

  new.

  Attention. The fox girl was watching. Everything. Everyone. The way the others sat, the way they moved, where the exits were, how far the window was from the floor. Survival instincts that had kept her alive in a cage and would now, slowly, be redirected toward something better.

  She wore a collar. Black metal. Fine runes. She had put it on herself — Jana had insisted on that. Had placed it in the girl's lap and said: your choice. The fox girl had looked at it for a long time. Then at Jana. Then at the collar again. And then — with hands that shook, with fingers so thin the metal almost slipped — she had clasped it around her own neck.

  She hadn't spoken her name yet. Jana said she would. When she was ready.

  In the second chair sat a half-orc. Young. Thirteen, maybe fourteen — hard to tell with half-orcs, who grew fast and aged slow. His skin was the same greenish tone as Kaelen's, but lighter — younger, unmarked, without the scars that decorated every visible inch of Kaelen's body. He was big for his age — broad shoulders, thick arms, the frame of someone who would be massive in a few years. His hair was black, shaved on the sides, wild on top. His jaw jutted forward — the half-orc underbite, the mark of orcish blood that no amount of human parentage could erase.

  His name was Uruk.

  He sat in the chair the way a wild animal sits in a new space — tense, coiled, ready to move in any direction at any moment. His eyes — dark, intelligent, burning with something that was either fury or hunger or both — swept the room continuously. Door. Window. Kaelen. Door. Igi. Window. The fox girl. Kaelen again.

  He kept looking at Kaelen. At the massive half-orc in the front row — the axe, the scars, the calm authority of a warrior who had found his place. Uruk looked at Kaelen the way a young wolf looks at the alpha — with a

  mix of challenge and awe that hadn't yet decided which direction to settle.

  He wore a collar too. He'd put it on without hesitation. Kaelen had offered it to him over a bowl of soup in an alley behind the training district — here, this is the deal, ten years, take it or leave it — and Uruk had taken it before the soup was finished. No negotiation. No questions. Just a nod and a collar and a half-orc boy who had been sleeping in doorways for five years finally having a reason to wake up.

  Igi walked in.

  Staff on shoulder. Hood deep. The chalk on the blackboard was already moving — writing the date, the lesson number, the words that would frame the morning.

  He stopped behind the lectern and looked at the room. Four familiar faces. Two new ones. One empty chair that nobody had removed and nobody would mention.

  "Good morning." The four responded — the routine murmur of students who had done this a thousand times. The two newcomers said nothing. The fox girl pressed herself deeper into her chair. Uruk straightened — instinct, the same instinct as Kaelen's. When the authority speaks, you sit up.

  Igi's eyes found Kaelen first.

  "I see you didn't hesitate."

  Kaelen shook his head. "No, sir. Time is pressing. And Uruk wants to train."

  "Wants to train," Igi repeated. He looked at the young half-orc. Uruk met his gaze — didn't flinch, didn't look away, didn't defer. A street kid who had learned that looking down got you hit harder.

  "What does he want?"

  Kaelen answered for him — not because Uruk couldn't speak, but because the boy didn't yet know the language of this classroom. The language of sir and hand-raising and waiting to be called on.

  "He wants to achieve the glory of a warrior. He wants to fight, to become strong, to earn a name. He didn't need convincing — he was ready before I finished the first sentence."

  Igi tilted his head. The hood shifted. Something moved behind his eyes — not disapproval, but calculation.

  "You took this from the opposite side, Kaelen."

  Kaelen paused. His jaw tightened — just a fraction.

  "I know, sir."

  "The fox girl came from suffering. She accepted the collar because the alternative was death. Arwen accepted because the alternative was a cage. Jana accepted because the alternative was the forest and the men who hunted her."

  Igi looked at Uruk. "This one accepted because he wants glory."

  Silence. Uruk's eyes — dark, intense, unblinking — stayed on Igi. He didn't understand everything. But he understood enough. The old man was measuring him.

  "But," Igi said, and the word hung in the air like a blade before it falls, "if he's looking for the path of an honorable warrior — he can find it here. We don't make berserkers. We don't make killers. We make fighters who know when to swing and when to stop. If that's what he wants — truly wants, not just the glory part but the discipline, the obedience, the years of training that come before the first real victory — then he's welcome."

  Igi looked at Kaelen. "He's yours. Your responsibility. Your student. If he breaks the rules — I come to you."

  Kaelen nodded. One nod. Final. The weight of it settled on his shoulders and he wore it the way he wore everything — without complaint, without hesitation, like armor he'd been fitted for.

  Uruk looked at Kaelen. At the big half-orc who had found him in an alley and spoken to him like a person. Something shifted in those young, dark eyes. Not submission — respect. The beginning of it. The seed that, with enough time and enough training, would grow into loyalty.

  Igi turned to the fox girl.

  She flinched. Not visibly — not to human eyes. But Jana saw it. The ears pressed down a fraction. The tail curled tighter around the chair leg. The fingers — still too thin, still skeletal — gripped the edge of the seat.

  "What's your name?" Igi asked. Quiet. Not gentle — Igi didn't do gentle — but quiet, the way he spoke when the person in front of him was more fragile than they appeared. The fox girl didn't answer. Her amber eyes — slitted, vulpine, wide — found Jana. A question. A plea. Is it safe?

  Jana nodded. Almost imperceptibly.

  The fox girl opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. When the word came, it was barely a whisper — a sound so small that only Jana's wolf ears and Hazela's elven ears actually caught it.

  "Rena."

  Igi repeated it. "Rena."

  The fox girl — Rena — nodded. Once. Then looked at the floor.

  Igi didn't push. Didn't ask more. There would be time for questions later — weeks, months of slow, patient rebuilding before Rena would speak freely in this room. He knew the process. He'd done it before — with Jana, with Hazela, with all of them. You don't rush a broken thing

  back together. You hold the pieces and wait for the glue to dry.

  "So," Igi said, stepping before the blackboard. "New structure."

  The chalk wrote:

  DAILY SCHEDULE — UPDATED

  "From today, you can turn first to your rescuers — the person who found you, who brought you here, who is responsible for you. They will teach you in the mornings. What they teach, how they teach it, and how much they hurt you in the process — that's between you and them."

  A flicker of something on Diana's face. Not amusement. Anticipation.

  "After morning sessions — training. With the dragonesses, with the golems, with each other. You know the routine by now. The new ones will learn it. Quickly."

  Uruk's eyes lit up at the word "training." His hands — rough, calloused, the hands of a boy who had fought grown men in alleys for scraps of bread — twitched. Ready. "When you improve — when you're ready, and not a day before — dungeons. Group runs. Real monsters, real danger, real loot. And gradually —"

  He tapped the staff on the floor.

  "— collars."

  He looked at Rena. At Uruk.

  "You put them on yourselves. You know what they mean. Ten years. Obedience. Training. Pain. And at the end — freedom. Real freedom. The kind you earn, not the kind you're given."

  Uruk nodded. Fast, eager. The kind of nod that said: I'm ready. Give me more.

  Rena didn't nod. But she didn't look away. Her amber eyes — still scared, still wary, still carrying the weight of a cage and starvation and a world that had used her — stayed on Igi's face. Watching. Evaluating. Deciding.

  That was enough. For now.

  Igi opened his arms — a rare gesture, almost theatrical, entirely deliberate.

  "Welcome to guild Elysium."

  He opened the system window. Two invitations sent.

  [SYSTEM NOTIFICATION] Player Igi (Guild Master) invites to guild ELYSIUM:

  Uruk — ACCEPTED Rena — ACCEPTED

  Guild roster updated. Uruk accepted instantly. The system window had barely appeared before his finger hit the button — the eagerness of a boy who had never belonged to anything and suddenly did.

  Rena took longer. She stared at the notification. Read it. Read it again. Looked at Jana. Jana nodded. Looked at Igi. Igi waited. Looked at the notification one more time.

  Then she pressed Accept.

  The collar around her neck pulsed — warm, brief, like a heartbeat. The runes glowed for a moment and dimmed. Connected. Registered. Official.

  Rena touched the collar with her fingertips. She didn't smile. But something in her posture changed — the spine straightened by a fraction of an inch, the tail uncurled from the chair leg and lay still beside her. Not up.

  Not down. Just — present.

  A beginning. Nothing more.

  Igi turned to Diana.

  "Diana. You're the only one without a recruit."

  Diana sat in her chair, arms crossed, frost dormant on her knuckles. Her face was unreadable — the mask she wore when she was thinking hard and didn't want anyone to see the calculations behind her eyes.

  "No, sir. Not yet."

  "The three candidates?"

  "One had family — out. One was too old — out. The third..." Diana paused. Her jaw worked. "The third disappeared. Moved on. Gone."

  Igi nodded. No lecture. No disappointment. Diana was thorough — perhaps too thorough, too cautious, too selective. But better too careful than too reckless. Peter had taught them all that lesson. "Try a different approach," Igi said. "Talk to a slave trader. Or find someone on the streets — someone beaten down by life, tested by hardship. A tough family background. Someone who has survived things that should have broken them."

  Diana's eyebrows rose — just slightly, the minimum facial movement she allowed herself. "A slave trader? You want me to buy someone?"

  "I want you to find the right person. How you find them is your business. The market is one option — not every slave is broken. Some are just unlucky. Some are strong in ways their owners never recognized because strength in a cage looks like stubbornness."

  He tapped the staff.

  "A slave who survived. A street child who endured. An orphan who refused to give up. That's what you're looking for. Not power — not talent — not potential. Survival. Find someone who should be dead and isn't. That's your candidate."

  Diana unfolded her arms. The frost on her knuckles crackled and vanished. Her eyes — pale blue, cold, sharp as ice — narrowed.

  "I'll find her," she said. Not "him or her." Her. Diana had already decided something. Igi didn't ask what.

  "Good. Take your time. But not too much time."

  The chalk on the board finished writing:

  URUK — Kaelen's student RENA — Jana's student DIANA — searching HAZELA — Arwen (ongoing)

  Below, in smaller letters: