The librarian.

The Message

Alkaza steered his car and eased it up close to the bungalow. He killed the ignition and stepped out. The air smelled of old iron and forgotten rain — a scent of rust and years gone stale. From the cracked windows of the neighboring houses, curious faces lingered, watching his every move. Nosy eyes, everywhere. He wanted nothing more than to be done with this place.

One of his men — the first responder — opened the door. His eyes were wide and frightened, his face drawn thin. Alkaza could tell the man was shaken to the core. He himself had been about to enjoy his habitual morning coffee when his emergency phone had shrieked to life. The message had been simple and sharp: one of his close assets, a field operative used for rooting out and eliminating threats, had been attacked. The assailant had left behind a mark — a message.

The report was absurd and yet… intriguing. Who would dare strike directly at The Helm? Foolishness or audacity — either way, it meant one thing: an invitation to death.

He strode into the deserted sitting room. Three men were already inside: two forensics snapping photos and taking samples, and Moses, his most reliable bard — the only one with enough nerve to speak first.

“Commander. We called you the moment we saw it,” Moses said, voice low, cautious.

“What’s the situation?” Alkaza asked, scanning the room.

At first, no body. Only four iron buckets set neatly in a rectangle, collecting something dripping from above. His eyes followed the sound upward—and froze.

Albert hung there. Naked. Suspended from the rafters by thick nails hammered through both hands and feet. Blood trickled slowly, steady and rhythmic, into the buckets below. The man had been broken, crucified in precision. It strangely reminded him of antichrist.

Albert hung there, naked and splayed, suspended from the rafters. Nails pierced the perfect planes of hands and feet, holding him up in a grotesque cruciform. Albert: a rare, efficient professional for the Helms — expert at maiming, untraceable killing, with one of the highest death counts in their ledger. He answered only to Alkaza. He had done what was asked without questions. This was not just an attack; it was an affront.

The body glistened under the light, the blood already coagulating into thick, tar-like drops. On Albert’s face burned a brand — a brutal sigil of a three-headed hound, still blistered and raw. The flesh around it was cracked and oozing; the smell of charred skin clung to the air. The mark was deliberate — ritualistic even.

Then Alkaza’s eyes caught the second horror. Across Albert’s chest, carved with something jagged — maybe one of the very nails used to hang him — were the words, roughly gouged, the edges raised and torn from the dragging scrape of metal through flesh:

“Causa Causae est Causa Causati.”

“What in hell…” Alkaza began, voice tightening.

“The cause of a cause is the cause of the thing caused,” Moses murmured behind him, translating under his breath.

“What does that even mean?” Alkaza asked, not looking away from the mess.

“It means every action sets off its own consequence,” Moses said, eyes on the floor. “A legal phrase. Old Latin — philosophers and lawyers use it" He paused. “Whoever did this…” he searched for the right word, “…this spectacle artist… he’s testing us.”

“It’s the kid.” Alkaza’s voice dropped like a stone.

“Sir?”

“You said the phrase is legal?”

“Yes, sir. It’s—”

.”He’s a law student. More familiar with our business than you think. He’s not testing us, Moses.” Alkaza’s stare bored into his subordinate’s panicked face. “He’s issuing a duel.”

A faint, ragged sound cut through the air. Albert’s body twitched; his chest rose shallowly. The impossible — he was still alive.

“I’ll be damned,” Moses breathed. “He left the victim alive.”

Alkaza nodded, taking in the calculus of it. The message was deliberate, theatrical — intended to shame, to bait. “So much for subtlety.” He turned away, leaving his men to the breathing corpse.

“What about Scissors?” Moses called after him.

“Let him rot,” Alkaza said flatly, his voice a blade. He clenched his fist as he stepped into the light outside.

“If the boy wants war,” he muttered, “then he’ll have it.”

---

Alkaza stormed out of the building, the heavy door slamming behind him as his boots struck the pavement in quick, purposeful strides. His face was hard — carved with the kind of focus that only vengeance could sharpen. He was already halfway to his car, the black SUV glinting under the noon sun, when Moses came jogging up from behind, phone in hand and breath slightly ragged.

“Sir!” he called out, waving the device. “We’ve got his location. The boy's been sighted.”

Alkaza stopped, one hand on the car door, his head turning slowly toward Moses. “Where?” he demanded, his voice low, coiled with suppressed fury.

“At the school, sir,” Moses replied quickly. “Our guys tracked the signal — he’s still on the premises. And the girl—” he hesitated briefly, “—she’s checked into the Marriot Suites over at Pine ridge

For a moment, Alkaza said nothing. His eyes flicked toward the horizon, as though picturing the paths Desmond could take — the narrow escapes, the hiding places. But not this time. Not today.

He turned fully, his expression unreadable but his tone leaving no room for question. “Send a team to the school,”

“…there will be nowhere for him to run. This time"

----

Desmond hurried along the corridor, leaving a trail of questioning eyes behind him — whispers rising over what could possibly unsettle the library’s infamous bogeyman. He kept his pace steady, wondering if his little guest had already received the sumptuous gift he’d left behind. The thought of their reaction made him grimace. Now wasn’t the time for satisfaction.

His father’s concierge, Vandark, had just called with a piece of news so grim it coiled dread around his gut. His father was requesting his presence at a family dinner — tonight.

Desmond knew all too well what that meant. His father was no stranger to the forces hunting him down. The great Tiger Furnace had every thread of the Polity’s secrets clenched within his iron grip. Yet that never stopped him from staying aloof — detached, neutral, and maddeningly impartial even when his own son’s life dangled in peril. Father of the season, Desmond thought bitterly.

Not that he’d have it any other way. The farther his father stayed from his affairs, the better. Still, times like this were unwelcome — jarring, invasive, and unbearably inconvenient to him. But choice was a luxury he didn’t have. When Tiger Furnace called, it was best to answer — if only to prevent a cascade of complications.

He caught the elevator door just before it closed, slipping in and jabbing the buttons toward the library floor. Father’s call or not, there were still unfinished scores to settle.

-----

Alkaza’s convoy rolled to a hush at the curb. Before he even opened his door, his men were already moving — a practiced tide resolving into the building with quiet, meticulous order. He let them go, eyes tracing the university’s façade. Damascus — one of the last legendary seats of learning, the kind that had produced whole generations of the Polity’s erudite elite — rose before him, its stonework catching the light. It stood patient and proud, and Alkaza smiled, a thin thing that promised consequence. Let them see what happened to anyone who crossed a helm, he thought. Let Desmond understand the price. He pictured the boy being skinned alive; the thought pleased him, but there would be no spectacle — only results.

They moved like a shadowed machine. Small teams fanned out at once: two men to the main gate, another pair to the vehicle entrances, others sliding into the service corridors and stairwells. Vandals of panic were not their design — control was. Alkaza’s lieutenants radioed in calm, clipped bursts; earpieces glinted; hands touched forearms in brief checks. Within minutes campus gates were bolted from the outside, delivery vans blocked, and security checkpoints established at every approach. Campus security was overwhelmed before they knew what hit them — officers politely disarmed and escorted into a cordoned area while Alkaza’s men took up posts at the gatehouses and parking decks.

Inside, the operation tightened. Teams worked the building floor by floor: doors were secured, stairwells manned, the back exits sealed with temporary barricades. A technician from Alkaza’s detail produced a small jammer and the wireless mesh in the administration block died in a soft, clinical blink; cell signals hiccuped, then fell silent on the phones of anyone trying to flee. The PA system, however, came alive in Alkaza’s voice — calm, authoritative — announcing an immediate campus lockdown and curfew: everyone was to remain where they were until further notice. Students murmured, lecturers called for calm, and a handful tried to push past the checkpoints only to be gently but firmly shepherded back. No roughness unless necessary; the point was containment, not chaos.

They cut more than reception. Power to external doors and certain service elevators was overridden from a central console; surveillance feeds were routed to Alkaza’s watch team, who scanned the monitors with surgical patience. Food deliveries and maintenance crews were turned away at the perimeter; vehicles were stopped at the lip of the campus and searched. A pair of men took the roof access and watched the courtyards like hawks. Every corridor became a funnel, every exit a counted risk. Alkaza’s soldiers moved with a kind of diligent alacrity — not careless violence, but inexorable force — slamming a few resistors aside if a student tried to bolt, grabbing arms and dragging them back into the fold. Nobody mattered more than the mission.

When they reached the elevator bank that served the library, two men held the doors while another checked the stairwell below. They rode up — not with the casual clatter of students but with the purposeful hush of men on an assignment. The doors opened into the library and for a heartbeat there was only the soft, shocked silence of a place that had been a living, breathing organism an hour before. Desks sat emptied, papers scuffed, a single stray bookmark stood at attention among closed books. Alkaza paused on the threshold, sensing the absence as keenly as any presence. The hush there felt deliberate, as if the building itself were holding its breath.

Alkaza motioned his men forward, and they slipped into the building in practiced formation, boots whispering against marble floors. Their rifles were raised, barrels glinting under the sterile ceiling lights — every breath measured, every step deliberate. They didn’t know what they were up against, and Alkaza’s earlier underestimation of the boy’s resourcefulness had already cost him a good soldier.

At the far end of the library, something caught his eye — and from the sudden stillness, he knew his men had seen it too. A lone figure sat there, cloaked in a dark hoodie that shadowed his face entirely. His legs were crossed in an X atop the table, which was lined with thick, neatly stacked textbooks. A single book obscured his face, its title etched boldly across the cover: “Flight or Fright.”

The crew fanned out, tactical lights sweeping over the still silhouette. Beams converged, painting the hooded figure in harsh white. Alkaza felt a rush of grim excitement flood through him. This had to be Desmond. And yet… something was off.

The figure before them remained utterly motionless — too still, too calm, as though mocking their presence. Not a flinch. Not a twitch. Alkaza’s gut stirred. Was the boy that reckless? Or just foolish enough to tempt fate? His instincts buzzed like static. The air itself felt charged, wrong.

No more games, he told himself. He’s finished.

He signaled sharply to his men. “Immobilize him.”

The first soldier stepped forward, weapon raised — the sleek matte barrel of his Valken-47 Reaper gleaming faintly in the light. He used the tip to nudge the book aside. It toppled soundlessly, revealing not a face… but the dark, featureless head of a mannequin. Its painted mouth stretched into a grotesque grin.

Alkaza’s blood ran cold. Too late.

He opened his mouth, but instinct roared faster than thought.

“Run!”

The word barely left his throat before the world split apart.

A deafening blast tore through the library, hurling him backward into the elevator door. The shockwave rolled through his ribs, choking the air from his lungs. When he finally forced his eyes open, the room behind him was unrecognizable — a storm of fire, smoke, and twisted metal. Bookshelves had disintegrated into burning fragments; pages fluttered like dying moths through the haze.

Those closest to the blast were gone — reduced to ash and ruin. The rest were scattered, broken, their screams swallowed by the chaos. Only luck — or distance — had spared Alkaza.

The Andal Fist, he realized through the ringing in his ears. Not a large-yield device, but viciously precise — designed to annihilate everything within a confined radius.

He tried to move, but pain shot through his shoulder; his scapula had fractured on impact. Cursing under his breath, he turned toward the far end of the room.

There, amid the devastation, the mannequin still sat upright, untouched — its hideous smile frozen, gleaming faintly in the wavering light.