The air in the shadow chamber hung thick with the scent of betrayal. Master's voice slithered through the darkness, cold as a serpent's scales. "Forget the chase. 'Pluto' won't wait for your incompetence. Remember this—*hesitation bleeds*."
Slay One's knees hit the obsidian floor, relief flooding his veins. Behind him, eight silhouettes mirrored the motion. They'd survived. For now.
"One year confined to headquarters." The command cracked like a whip. "Bury your daylight identities. And you—" Red eyes gleamed at Slay One, "—lead the Grim. Until I say otherwise."
As the assassins melted away, a rasping whisper rose from the corner. "They failed, Master. Why spare them?"
"*Cost*, fool." The shadow laughed mirthlessly. "Training one Grim costs more than a noble's ransom. Send word to the Thieves Guild—double the bounty on Pluto's head. I want him found. *Alive or in pieces*." Blood Skeleton light pulsed. "And activate the Omega Unit. No witnesses. A poisoned king is just... dead weight."
Alone, Master's whisper hung in the void.
"*You should've known, Pluto. The house always wins.*"
***
Wavebreaker Bay stank of salt and secrets. Owen dragged the worn leather saddlebag higher on his shoulder, eyeing the peeling clapboard houses. Beside him, Dunce stared at the churning Atlantic, his eyes distant.
"Home," Owen said, the lie smooth as aged whiskey. "Remember—call me Watanahere."
They hadn't passed a town without Owen swapping horses or aliases. Thirty days riding hard from the fog-drenched forests of the west to this forgotten spit of land at the edge of the Federation. Dunce Harbor belonged to the Seaborn clan—fisherfolk too poor to matter, too skilled with a hull to ignore.
A grizzled man in patched waders blocked their path, suspicion hardening his sea-cracked eyes. "Strangers."
Owen's smile was a knife sheathed in charm. "*Niecesin*, actually. Cyril? That you, brother? Still remember stealing Old Man Henderson's lobster traps?"
Cyril froze. "Owen? Bullshit. You look forty. You'd be pushing sixty."
Owen rolled up his sleeve. A crescent scar, purple and jagged, marred his forearm. "Anchor bit me pulling your drunk ass outta the surge back in '56."
Recognition dawned. "Hell's tide! *Owen!*" Cyril crushed him in a back-thumping hug reeking of fish guts and nostalgia. "The old Cooper place still stands. Needs work, but—"
"Perfect." Owen pressed gold coins into Cyril' calloused palm. "For the trouble."
The refusal was half-hearted. Cyril shouted orders to unseen sons. Within days, the derelict cabin overlooking the steel-gray waves became habitable. Cyril' brood came—burly sons hauling timber, curious grandchildren with eyes glued to the silent Dunce.
***
Mystic Nightfall. The cabin door shut on Cyril' boisterous farewell. Owen faced Dunce across the scarred oak table. A single oil lamp cast long shadows.
"Look at me." Owen's voice lost its "uncle" softness. "I know you hate me. Hate this. But if you ever want to crawl back to Gorith, you'll learn what I teach. *Exactly* as I teach it."
Dunce's jaw tightened. "I keep the Flame Craft."
"Pyromancy?" Owen snorted. "Fine. One hour. *After* training. Let the townsfolk see you conjure fire, and they'll burn *you* as a warlock."
He placed a hand on Dunce's shoulder, steering him toward the cot. "Sit. What I pass to you is called the Cyclic Pulse. Life Rockforce force made manifest." A grim smile touched his lips. "Why do you think I look half my age? It flows, sustains... and destroys."
The air shifted, charged. Owen pressed his palm flat against Dunce's spine. "Burn the words into your mind: *Energy follows will. Power births from the core. Forge the pulse. Let the cyclone roar.*"
A spark ignited deep within Dunce's belly—foreign, relentless, alive. The ocean roared outside, echoing the tempest beginning to churn where Gorith' quiet flame once dwelled. The hunt was over. The war inside him had just begun.