Kairn was kept awake by the light.
It never dimmed in the holding chambers beneath the arena. No torches, no windows—only a constant white glow etched into the stone itself, bright enough to deny the comfort of shadows but too soft to allow rest. It was a light designed to observe, not to comfort.
He sat on the narrow bench with his back against the wall, wrists unbound but heavy with invisible weight. His arm throbbed where the mark had burned out of control, the skin still warm beneath the bandages. Every so often, a pulse of pain reminded him that the sigil was still there—still active—still deciding what he was allowed to be.
The beast's voice would not leave him.
You cut away what didn't fit.
Kairn closed his eyes and tried to breathe evenly, the way tamers were trained to do when myths resisted. But there was no resistance now. No pressure to push back against. Only memory.
Footsteps echoed in the corridor.
He straightened instinctively.
The door opened without ceremony, revealing two guards and a figure Kairn did not recognize. The guards remained at the threshold, hands near their weapons, while the stranger entered alone.
They were old—not in the fragile way, but in the deliberate way of someone who had survived by paying attention. Their hair was silvered, their face lined, but their eyes were sharp and alert, scanning the room as if mapping weaknesses.
"You're calmer than I expected," the stranger said.
Kairn said nothing.
"That's not an insult," they continued. "Most tamers panic the first time a myth breaks script. You didn't."
Kairn lifted his gaze. "I didn't know there was a script until it spoke."
The stranger smiled faintly. "Good answer."
They pulled a chair from the wall and sat opposite him, folding their hands. "You know what they're saying about you upstairs."
"That I failed," Kairn replied.
"That you listened," the stranger corrected. "Which is far worse."
Kairn's jaw tightened. "It wasn't supposed to be able to speak."
"No," the stranger agreed. "It wasn't."
Silence stretched between them, thick and deliberate.
Finally, Kairn asked, "What happens now?"
The stranger studied him for a long moment. "Officially? An inquiry. A controlled retelling. The Lyrake will be declared unstable, the failure attributed to an anomaly in its myth-classification. Your role will be minimized."
"And unofficially?"
The stranger leaned forward slightly. "You will be watched."
Kairn laughed softly, without humor. "I already was."
"Yes," the stranger said. "But now you're interesting."
They reached into their coat and withdrew a thin slate, placing it on the bench between them. Symbols flickered across its surface—records, diagrams, annotations layered over one another.
"Do you know why myth taming works at all?" the stranger asked.
Kairn hesitated. "Because myths depend on belief. On repetition. On shared narrative."
"That's what they teach you," the stranger said. "Not why it was discovered."
They tapped the slate, and the symbols rearranged themselves into something older, less refined.
"Before the chains, before the marks, before the doctrines, there were the Listeners."
Kairn frowned. "That isn't in the texts."
"No," the stranger said quietly. "It was removed."
The slate displayed crude illustrations—humans kneeling, not in submission, but in attention. Myths loomed before them, vast and terrible, yet strangely incomplete.
"They didn't bind the beasts," the stranger continued. "They learned them. Listened to them. Traded memory for mercy."
Kairn felt a chill crawl up his spine.
"The Age of Beasts ended not when humans mastered the myths," the stranger said, "but when they decided they no longer wanted to hear them."
The door behind them creaked softly.
Another figure entered without announcement—a woman with dark robes and the unmistakable insignia of the Watchers etched into silver at her collar.
She did not sit.
"This conversation is unauthorized," she said coldly.
The stranger did not turn. "Then stop me."
The woman's gaze shifted to Kairn. "You are not cleared for this knowledge."
Kairn met her eyes. "Then why am I still alive?"
The question landed harder than he intended.
The Watcher hesitated.
"Because," she said slowly, "the myth responded to you."
The stranger smiled. "There it is."
The Watcher exhaled sharply. "We are not repeating old mistakes."
"Then stop pretending the current system isn't one," the stranger replied. "The Lyrake didn't escape because it was powerful. It escaped because it remembered something you erased."
Kairn's hands curled into fists. "What did it remember?"
The room went quiet.
"That myths were never enemies," the stranger said. "They were mirrors."
The Watcher's voice hardened. "Enough."
She turned to Kairn. "You will remain under observation. You will not speak of what happened in the arena. You will continue your training."
"And if I refuse?" Kairn asked.
Her eyes were flat. "Then you will become a story we don't repeat."
The threat hung heavy.
As the Watcher turned to leave, the stranger stood as well, pausing beside Kairn.
"Pay attention," they murmured. "Not all chains are visible."
Then they were gone.
Kairn sat alone again, the light unchanging, his thoughts racing.
The Lyrake hadn't resisted being tamed.
It had resisted being silenced.
And somewhere beyond the walls of the arena, other myths were still breathing—waiting for someone who would listen instead of rewrite.
For the first time since he had been marked, Kairn wondered if becoming a Myth Tamer had never been about control at all.
It had been about choosing which stories were allowed to survive.