EVER BOUND

ELEVEN

The main hall trembled beneath the scurrying of boots and shouted orders. Silas moved through it like a storm, his voice sharp and commanding.

"Secure the outer gates. Sweep the perimeter again. No one enters unless they've been cleared by me." He turned to a young footman fumbling with a latch.

"Ready the east wing. Bring water, food, linens—anything they'll need."

He didn't stop moving.

Thea trailed behind him, barefoot on the stone floor, struggling to match his pace. "What the hell is going on, Silas?"

"Not now."

She grabbed his arm. "Not now? You're barking orders like we're under siege, and now I'm just supposed to follow you like a good little secret?"

His gaze cut to hers—sharp, weary, distant. "Because I have a meeting with dangerous men."

He reached a stone corridor and opened a reinforced door, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling downward into shadow.

Thea recoiled. "Where are we going?"

He didn't answer. Just started descending.

She followed, her frustration mounting with every step. The air grew colder. The scent of damp stone and rusted iron surrounded them.

They reached the bottom—an ancient corridor carved into the earth, lined with torches and worn brick. At the end, a thick door reinforced with runes sat ajar.

Thea stared at it. "This is a dungeon."

"It's not a prison," Silas said flatly. "It's the only room in the house that can mask your scent. Your pulse. If they track you here..."

She stepped back. "You want me to hide down here like I'm some helpless burden?"

"I want you alive."

"No. No, you don't get to shove me in some dark room and pretend it's protection."

Silas's fists clenched. "You think I want this? That I want to lock you away again? I died to protect you once, Thea. And if I don't do this now, I'll have to do it again."

She opened her mouth to protest, but before the words could come out, Silas reached forward, gripped her by the shoulders, and guided her through the doorway.

"Silas—!"

The heavy door slammed shut behind her with a metallic thud.

She stumbled backward, spinning around just in time to hear the iron bolt slide into place.

"Silas!" Her voice echoed against the cold walls.

"I'll come back for you," he said, his voice muffled behind the door. "Alys will stay here with you. Don't open it for anyone else."

And then he was gone.

~*~

The iron gates of the estate groaned open, revealing the shadows of men beyond the torchlit perimeter. Silas stood alone at the threshold, arms behind his back, the weight of his name the only shield he wore.

They came one by one—on foot, cloaked in mist and menace.

Cassian Vire. First to arrive. Lean, wiry, and smug as ever, his eyes the color of tarnished silver. A soul long lost to greed. Silas had seen him butcher a town of innocents for a vial of immortal blood. A knife with a charming face.

Lucien Redgrave. Tall, broad-shouldered, with arms sleeved in dark ink. Former knight. Fallen from grace centuries ago, now a warhound on a leash of gold. Silas knew better than to trust the man's silence—it was the quiet ones who calculated most.

Nika Dhal. Graceful, feline, cruel. She wore knives like jewelry, and her smile was all teeth. Once a noblewoman, now a sellsword who preferred her victims begging. She fought for sport, not survival.

Matheo and Arlo Grimm. Twins. Identical in appearance but not in cruelty—Matheo liked fire; Arlo preferred poison. They worked as one, moved as one, killed as one. Their loyalty belonged only to coin and chaos.

Silas's jaw tensed. These were not comrades—they were weapons. Unreliable. Dangerous. Necessary.

"Gentlemen," he said, voice smooth and clipped. "And lady."

Cassian gave a mock bow. "Heard you were calling in ghosts."

"We thought you were dead," Nika added, her voice silk wrapped around a blade.

"I was," Silas said. "But unfortunately for all of you, I got better."

There was a long silence before Lucien finally spoke.

"Why now?"

Silas turned and began walking toward the manor, knowing they would follow. "Because war is coming. And I need killers."

The gate clanged shut behind them.

And he let the wolves in.

The war room was already lit, the long stone table laid out with maps, aged scrolls, and blood-red markers. Silas gestured toward the seats, then remained standing at the head.

"I called you here because a threat has returned. Not to me, but to all of us."

Cassian narrowed his eyes. "You mean the girl?"

Silas gave a cold laugh. "If I had the girl, we wouldn't be meeting. She's still out there—but not alone. Others are hunting her. Enemies not just of me, but of our kind."

Lucien folded his arms. "And you want us to hunt the hunters."

"Precisely," Silas replied. "These men are not like you. They are zealots. Fanatics. They believe Thea's death will trigger the cleansing of our bloodline. And they're right—if they kill her, we die with her."

"Sounds like you care about the girl," Nika said, watching him.

"I care about survival," Silas lied smoothly. "She's the key to ending this curse. But I do not know where she is."

He let the statement hang, heavy with falsehood. No one questioned him directly—but suspicion bloomed behind their eyes.

Silas leaned forward, dragging his finger across the parchment map. "They've taken refuge in the mountain caverns outside of Calther's Hollow. Heavily fortified. We'll strike from three angles. You'll divide into two groups. Arlo, Varric, and Cassian take the east. Nika and Lucien, west. I'll come from the north. No one gets out."

"And if we find her?" Cassian pressed.

Silas's face was unreadable. "You won't."

They all looked at one another.

Silas added, "This isn't a rescue. It's an extermination. I want their bones unrecognizable."

There was a murmur of assent. Blood would be spilled, and they would be well-compensated.

What none of them realized was that Silas had already mapped the caves himself, booby-trapped their entry points, and fed false intelligence to ensure that every mercenary would walk straight into the jaws of death.

They rose from the table, satisfied.

Silas watched them go, the shadows curling behind his eyes.

"Good hunting," he said, voice like steel.

~*~

The monastery ruins sat crumbling in the mountains, hidden from maps and untouched by time. A fire crackled in the center of the stone chamber, casting flickering light across ancient murals—depictions of bloodlines, sacred symbols, and war. Around the fire knelt six figures, all in silence, heads bowed to the one standing at its edge.

Rowen stepped forward.

He was tall, dark-skinned, and dressed in ceremonial robes that bore the sigils of the old order—sigils long erased from history by men like Silas. His eyes, however, were not ancient. They were sharp, young, and burning with a conviction deeper than vengeance.

A scholar. A priest. A killer.

He lifted a scroll from the altar, its paper frayed, the ink smudged with time but still legible.

"And when the blood awakens, so too shall the world begin to rot."

The others raised their heads.

"This is what we are fighting," Rowen said quietly, but firmly. "Not a girl. Not a man. But a legacy of rot. Of arrogance."

He looked at each of them—his acolytes, his siblings in belief. They were not hired mercenaries, not cursed creatures hiding in shadow. They were descendants of the Order of Tithar, the only known line of mortals to ever rise against the old blood and live to tell of it.

"Thea is the last of her kind. If she remembers what she was—if she fully awakens—she will bring back the world that nearly ended us."

"But she hasn't," one whispered. "She's still dormant.

"For now," Rowen said. "But Silas has found her. He will awaken her. And when he does, we lose everything."

There was a long pause. Then Rowen walked slowly to a basin of water set at the room's edge. Floating in it were symbols drawn in blood—part ward, part memory. He dipped his fingers in and murmured a spell.

The water shimmered.

A blurred image of Thea appeared—tired, frightened, but glowing. Her power simmered just under the surface, invisible to the untrained eye. But Rowen saw it. Felt it.

The girl was already remembering.

"I don't hate her," he said quietly, almost to himself. "She's not evil. She's simply... dangerous."

His voice sharpened again. "We will move at dawn. The mercenaries Silas recruited are headed to the wrong site. We'll intercept and finish what they can't."

"And what of Silas?" asked another.

Rowen paused.

Then: "He's already dead. He just doesn't know it yet."