Aethyrael let his gaze glide over the ranks of the mortals.

  Broken bodies. Broken gazes. Knees that bent of their own accord, as if they had understood that standing was a privilege, not a right. From the beautifully painted ceiling of the hall blood still dripped. Looking more closely, Aethyrael could make out that the fresco of the dome depicted a woman standing in the midst of a raging battle. Every drop of blood on the ceiling like a tear on the beautiful face of the woman who seemed to gaze down into the hall. In the midst of combat against creatures he was unable to describe. It was too bizarre, and yet wondrous to behold. Almost graceful. Opposites that drew each other in this hall like light and shadow. Each more absurd than the last — and yet interwoven like the threads of a spider's web. And he, the child of the creator, stood in the midst of it. Covered from head to toe in the blood of mortal remains. A monument to their aspirations that would never be fulfilled. Yet it was not his responsibility, but their decision, to submit to a trial they had never been worthy of. Let alone having had the slightest chance of holding their own against the two witches in combat. Worthy enough to taste suffering and blood, yet too unworthy to enjoy the grace of order.

  Rather it was a lesson that had escalated, thought Aethyrael, and smiled quietly in the depths of his soul. He had found his recognition that day — and that was all that counted.

  "You believe," he began calmly, "that this was a trial."

  His voice was not loud. It did not need to be.

  "You are mistaken."

  Some flinched. Others lowered their heads still further, as if they could disappear into the stone.

  "A trial presupposes that passing is possible."

  He paused briefly. Watched hope stir in the wrong faces — only to extinguish it in the next moment.

  "You were never admitted."

  The words fell heavier than any magic or cruelty all those assembled had experienced in the course of the trial.

  Aethyrael exhaled slowly.

  "Suffering is no tool," he continued. "It is a condition. And whoever uses it to elevate themselves has already submitted to it."

  He felt no satisfaction and no pity. Only order.

  "You did not fail," he said finally.

  "You chose."

  He wanted to say something more. Yet mid-sentence — he broke off. Something had changed. Not loudly.

  Not visibly. But the room… yielded. A pressure settled over the hall. Not like force. Not like threat. But like certainty. Something old. Something deeper. Something that did not need to fight in order to rule. Aethyrael raised his gaze. She stood at the upper end of the hall.

  Vaelthrys.

  Her runes pulsed — controlled. Too controlled. Golden lines that did not burn, but endured. She wore her sweeping onyx horns almost like a crown, with an elegance that radiated dangerous calm. Her eyes however — golden, deep and attentive. Vaelthrys' aura glowed quietly, rhythmically, like a heartbeat imposing a new tempo on the room. The mortals saw her. And sank immediately to their knees. Was it confusion and fear? Aethyrael wondered. Or rather reverence and submission?

  All at once.

  Vaelthrys set off. Light-footed. Elevated. And with a clear goal in sight. He bit his tongue and studied her furtively. It was no longer a question of whether there would be a consequence. But which. And besides: where was Aelthyria? This thought stirred faint unease within him. He could not even say how much time had passed since his small journey through Moonshire. Not that he had ever possessed a sense of time before. But that too was part of the path. A path that left no room for fear of consequences.

  He had the deep urge to laugh out loud. This entire situation was grotesque. Yet he had the dull feeling that laughter might be inappropriate. Silence is golden, they say. Sometimes that is true. And so he decided to be silent and face the consequence that had set itself in motion in his direction. Every step made the air grow heavier. No wind. No trembling. Only the feeling that resistance… was pointless. Rune force? Aethyrael wondered. No. More. She stopped before him. Studied him from head to toe.

  Blood. Runes. Posture.

  Silvara raised her head hastily. "He is not injured," she said quickly. "That is not his blood—"

  The impulse struck her. No word. No gesture. Only murderous intent.

  Brief. Precise. Abyssal.

  Silvara fell silent immediately. Thalyra stepped back involuntarily. Aethyrael felt it too — that cold promise that required no threat.

  Perhaps, he thought, I have gone too far.

  Vaelthrys knelt before him. Her eyes searched his face. Her hands did not touch him immediately.

  "Are you injured?" she asked quietly.

  Aethyrael shook his head. "No."

  A barely perceptible exhale.

  "Your disappearance caused unrest," she said. "Hours have passed since your escape from the construct." A brief glance at the blood. "And this… does not help."

  He grimaced slightly. "Mother is not in the castle."

  "Not yet," confirmed Vaelthrys. Then, sharper: "And you should be glad of that."

  Her voice grew colder. "At least two of the three rules appear not to have taken hold."

  A gleam in her eyes. She knew. Of course she knew that he had led the construct around by the nose. The search for an important item of the creator's that had never existed.

  "It was a mistake," she said quietly, "to entrust only a construct with your supervision."

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  Her hand laid itself on his shoulder. Firm. Possessive. Protective. She straightened and looked out over the kneeling mortals. Then to the witches. Then back to Aethyrael. Another impulse. Stronger and unmistakable.

  "I will take care of the little star," said Vaelthrys calmly. "And of keeping the damage — and the creator's wrath — within bounds."

  Her gaze bored into Silvara and Thalyra.

  "Pray," she added, "that she does not see him covered from head to toe in the blood of mortals."

  She turned away, taking Aethyrael with her.

  "You know what must be done," she said as she went.

  "Order must be maintained."

  They left the hall. Behind them — the screaming of the witches.

  "This is the only punishment!"

  "For those who dared to soil the little star's skin with the blood of mortals!"

  Then — the screams of the mortals. And Aethyrael, led by Vaelthrys, thought only one thing: They are returned to the cycle. For blood.

  He followed Vaelthrys in silence. No word. No remark. No defiant questioning, as she knew from him. Only footsteps on cold stone, steady, almost deliberate. Too deliberate. Vaelthrys noticed it after a few heartbeats. Not because she looked — but because she felt it. The absence of sound. The absence of resistance. The absence of childlike curiosity that had otherwise lain around him like a quiet crackling. They walked through the inner corridors of the witch castle. High arches of black stone, threaded with runes that were not fixed in place, but moved slowly. They flowed, shifted, flared and died again, as if breathing. Some turned toward him. Others drew back. Dancing signs of ancient order.

  We see you, child, they did not whisper.

  But they showed it.

  He felt it. That uncomfortable pull between the runes beneath his skin and those on the walls. No call. No warning. More… recognition. Or observation.

  "You are silent," she said finally.

  He raised his gaze. "I am listening."

  A quiet trace of amusement lay in her gaze. "You do that at other times too. And still you talk."

  He shrugged almost imperceptibly. "Not today."

  She stopped. Not abruptly. Not dramatically. Simply… decisively.

  The runes on the walls reacted immediately. Their pulse shifted, adjusted to her presence. Golden lines glowed stronger. Vaelthrys turned to face him and studied him. Not sternly. Not angrily.

  Probing.

  "Do you remember," she began calmly, "what I told you? On the first day?"

  He nodded slowly.

  "Get used to it," she quoted herself.

  "Rule one: you remain in the castle until told otherwise."

  "And why?" he had asked immediately back then.

  "Because there are things that could sense you," she had answered.

  "And things you would not sense before they were too close."

  Vaelthrys' gaze remained on him. "Rule two?"

  "When someone provokes me," said Aethyrael quietly, "I should first consider why."

  "Not everyone who wants to agitate you is brave," she added. "Some are merely curious."

  A shadow passed across her face. "Like the daemon."

  "Exactly so."

  She exhaled. "And rule three?"

  "I ask questions," he said.

  Then, after a moment: "Before I act."

  Vaelthrys looked at him for a long time.

  "And?" she asked finally.

  Aethyrael lowered his gaze. Not guiltily. More… turned inward.

  "I acted."

  "Oh, you did," she said dryly.

  Then, with a crooked smile: "And remarkably did not even regret it."

  He looked up again. "Not… as I would have expected."

  That actually made her smile. Briefly. Genuinely.

  "You cause a massacre on your first day out, frighten two witches, bend rune force without guidance — and then wonder at yourself."

  She set herself in motion again. "You need not concern yourself with the rules any longer."

  "No?" he asked, confused.

  "No." Her voice was light. Almost mocking.

  "Because the age of the constructs is over."

  Aethyrael looked up at her. "Over?"

  "A failed experiment," she said openly. "Protecting a being from its own intelligence to save it from foolishness."

  A sideways glance. "You have proven that to be… optimistic."

  They reached a broad corridor whose floor was of pale stone. Warmth lay in the air. Fine steam drifted between columns into which runes were set, rotating in slow spirals. The private baths. A place of cleansing. And of truth.

  "You cannot remain like this," said Vaelthrys plainly.

  He looked down at himself. Dried blood. Dark traces. Foreign. Heavy.

  "If Mother sees me like this," he murmured, "there will be nightmares instead of supper."

  "Nightmares," confirmed Vaelthrys dryly.

  Then, more mildly: "And you are hungry."

  He nodded.

  "Perhaps," he added, "it can remain a small secret."

  She opened her mouth — and closed it again. Instead she reached gently but firmly for his arm.

  "You are bleeding."

  Aethyrael followed her gaze to his arm. He had expected to see more of the same red.

  Mortal blood. Thick. Dark. Heavy. But what seeped slowly from beneath the bandage was different. His blood shimmered. Not garish, not luminous — more like a fine violet veil that broke in the light. Cool. Clear. Almost… ordered. It seemed less like a liquid and more like a condition. Aethyrael furrowed his brow.

  "That does not look… like theirs," he murmured.

  Vaelthrys did not answer immediately. Her gaze was attentive, probing. Not alarmed — rather confirmed.

  "No," she said finally. "It does not."

  He examined the cut more closely. Narrow. Precise.

  And suddenly the thought struck him harder than expected.

  I did not even notice I had injured myself.

  The irritation at this came quietly, but distinctly. No rage. More… dissatisfaction with himself.

  Carelessness. Vaelthrys' brow furrowed. She laid her hand over it, let her rune force flow. Golden lines pulsed — yet in the same moment something recoiled. The force repelled. Not aggressively, but defensively. Aethyrael felt it. A brief, deep flaring beneath the skin. The resonance. Vaelthrys withdrew her hand. Sighed quietly.

  "Blood resonance," she murmured. "A security mechanism."

  A knowing look. "Against manipulation. Any force not originating from the creator is recognised as a foreign body."

  She bound the cut carefully. Without hesitation. Without magic.

  "I do not even know where it happened," he admitted. "I should have noticed."

  Vaelthrys drew the bandage tighter. "You should have," she said calmly. No reproach. Only observation.

  "Only your mother can heal that," she said quietly.

  "I will say nothing," he answered immediately.

  Vaelthrys smiled crookedly. "You will not need to." She indicated the bandage. The quiet, almost audible flowing of force beneath it.

  "That is no scratch. It is a rift." A brief glance. "And it glows."

  Aethyrael closed his eyes for a moment. He had the feeling that the azure eyes of the creator were gazing down on him knowingly from the depths of his mind. For a moment he was silent. Then he raised his gaze.

  "What was that really down there?" he asked. "That… theatre. The trial."

  Vaelthrys paused. Only one heartbeat. "Work," she answered finally. "Lesser work."

  Aethyrael blinked. "So many… for work?"

  "Yes." She looked at him. "We too need lesser folk for lesser tasks. Order does not arise of itself."

  She led him into the interior of the bath, her voice calm, almost casual. "There are places," she continued, "where precisely these mages and soldiers are needed. Limbus is one of them. Situations in which raw force and simple magic must suffice to enforce order."

  He thought of Silvara. Of Thalyra.

  Of the smile. Of the fire.

  "And the witches?" he asked quietly.

  Vaelthrys' mouth twitched. "Are not released without reason." A brief sideways glance. "Your mother only does that when absolutely necessary."

  She paused. "Ceryne too has a vicious side. She simply prefers to work in the shadows."

  Aethyrael was silent. The violet shimmer of his blood pulsed faintly beneath the bandage. One more detail his mother would not overlook.

  He sighed quietly.

  Marvellous, he thought. Not only chaos — but chaos unnoticed.

  The bath was warm. Still. Steam settled like a veil over the room. As he stepped into the water, the blood slowly dissolved from his skin. Red coloured the water. Streaks. Eddies. A rivulet that lost itself. He observed it for a long time, lost in thought. It felt as if he were washing away something heavier than blood.

  A burden. A condition. Something he could not explain.

  And that was precisely what unsettled him.

  He breathed in deeply.

  Tried to remain calm. The day had gone anything but as planned. Yet it had something good to it as well. Something struck him — that every order in this world seemed to follow a necessity that concealed its barbaric side behind a veil of grace and beauty. Between them there were no boundaries. Only finality and the strength to live with it.

  And for the first time he asked himself whether order would shape him — or break him.