Yurin Crimson stood in silence.
The battlefield he had conjured for Clara still smoldered around him in the vision-space, though he was no longer bound by the illusion. It had collapsed once her body gave out, leaving only ashes drifting like snow across the void he occupied. But he lingered. Not because he needed to—but because he enjoyed the taste.
Her fear. Her resistance. Her faltering hope.
Every flicker of doubt she carried was like wine poured over the tongue, rich and intoxicating.
Yurin tilted his head back, letting the echo of Clara's panic ripple through him. He had spoken to her directly this time—no whispers, no veiled metaphors. A taste of the battlefield, a hand extended. And as expected, she had recoiled. But recoil was the first step toward collapse. Fear always preceded surrender.
He closed his eyes, sensing beyond Clara, to the ones gathered around her.
Damien. Predictable. Suspicious, sharp, already balancing his sword on the edge of her throat in his mind. His distrust was a gift.
Zeke. Calculating. He saw the tether for what it was. He didn't want to cut Clara free—not out of mercy, but because he saw value in the experiment. He would keep her alive, but only as a tool. Tools, eventually, break.
And Evelyn.
Ah, Evelyn. The stubborn flame that refused to bend. She clung to Clara with a desperation that almost amused him. She would fight for Clara even as the girl's body became his cathedral. Loyalty was always sweet—sweetest when it soured into despair.
He chuckled softly, his voice carrying across the void. "They fracture even as they cling to her. One sees a weapon, one sees a liability, one sees a friend. How long until those three visions tear them apart?"
The ash around him shifted, and from it rose a dozen phantom figures—warriors, priests, children, all burned and broken. They fell to their knees before him, silent worshippers conjured from memory. He stepped among them, his cloak whispering against the ash, his pale hands trailing across their bowed heads.
He didn't need to fight them directly yet. Why would he? It was far more delicious to watch them fight each other first. Distrust, like rust, spread quietly but inevitably.
The crimson light within him pulsed, and through the tether he felt Clara's pulse quicken in her chest. Even now, even weakened and afraid, she clung to Evelyn's voice as if it could drown out his.
He almost admired it. Almost.
But he leaned closer, whispering into the space that connected them, ensuring his words dripped into her dreams whether she welcomed them or not.
They will never see you the same way again. You are my battlefield, Clara. And no one—no matter how they hold you—wants to stand on a battlefield for long.
He straightened, his smile thin and merciless.
Every tether was a wound. And wounds, left open, always festered.