The chamber beneath the jewelry shop felt more like a hollowed grave than a base.
Its ceiling was low and uneven, supported by crude stone pillars that had been reinforced with timber at irregular intervals, as if whoever had built the place hadn't expected to stay long. The air was stale, thick with old dust, metal filings, and the faint copper tang of dried blood that no amount of scrubbing ever truly removed. It was supposed to be a safe storage for goods but the items had been moved elsewhere to give the Dishonoured some space. Only a handful of candles burned along the edges of the space, their flames small and wavering, barely strong enough to push back the darkness. Most of the room remained swallowed by shadow.
Lyle stood at the center of it all, pacing.
His boots echoed sharply against the stone floor, the sound too loud, too sharp, as if the chamber itself resented his presence. Here, he did not project the facade of the laid back teen, not that thhe men were unable to see through his falsehood.
"This is a waste of my fucking time," Lyle snapped, turning on his heel.
"Do you have any idea how long it's been since I've set foot in the palace? Months. Months, and instead of progress I'm here, rotting beneath a shop, surrounded by dishonored scum."
Several of the men flinched at the word.
Torvin did not.
He stood rigid leaning on one of the pillars, his arms folded and his face hidden in shadow. His jaw was clenched so tightly that the muscles along his neck stood out like cords.
Nearby, Jax leaned against the wall, one knee bent, head tilted upward. His fingers rose unconsciously to the scar that cut across his face, rubbing at it as though trying to erase a memory rather than old tissue. His expression was calm—almost bored—but his eyes tracked Lyle's every movement with cold precision.
'This boy hasn't actually done anything meaningful despite his supposed grand mission.' Jax thought.
'Pressure a little girl. Ask questions about an old man. Strut around pretending he was important. If anyone here is useless, it's you Lyle. You're so delusional you can't see the strings wrapped around your own wrists. So convinced of your 'brilliance' that you don't realize the queen is using you like a disposable blade—convenient, yes, but meant to snap once embedded.
Torvin shifted slightly.
Without looking at Jax, he muttered, barely audible, "He can be thrown away as easily as the rest of them."
Lyle froze mid-step.
"What did you say?" he demanded, spinning toward Torvin.
Torvin met his gaze evenly.
"I said nothing."
For a moment, the silence stretched thin, taut as a wire. The candle flames flickered, casting distorted shadows across Lyle's face, making his expression look twisted, almost feral.
Then Lyle smiled.
It was not a pleasant thing.
"You lot riffraff really don't understand what's happening, do you?" he said softly. His hand rose, fingers flexing—and the brands burned.
Every branded man in the room cried out as one.
They collapsed to their knees, the force sudden and absolute, flesh searing beneath the invisible command etched into their very souls. Torvin's breath hissed through his teeth as he fought it, muscles straining, veins bulging along his arms. Jax dropped to one knee, the stone cracking faintly beneath him, his jaw locked tight as the brand flared white-hot against his skin.
Lyle spread his arms, basking in it.
"You are stepping stones," he said, voice rising.
"Nothing more. Tools. Disposable tools meant to lift me higher. Do you think I care what happens to you once you've served your purpose?"
He turned sharply and pointed at one of the kneeling men—a younger one, who had been dishonoured for a misunderstanding.
"Expendable," Lyle said.
His fingers closed.
The man screamed once before his body went limp, collapsing forward with a dull, final thud. The brand extinguished along with his life.
Lyle laughed.
A sharp, hysterical sound that echoed too loudly in the enclosed space.
"That," he said, breathless with glee, "is how easily you can be killed."
No one spoke.
Lyle wiped a tear of laughter from the corner of his eye and continued, pacing once more.
"The queen received a revelation," he said, voice dropping into something reverent.
"A vision of a Forbidden Relic. One that grants power beyond kings. Beyond saints. Power to surpass the gods themselves."
Jax's eyes narrowed.
"The only one seemingly capable of activating it in this era," Lyle went on, "is Sigmund Kilgowe. The Grand Maker."
Torvin's fingers twitched.
Lyle's pacing became erratic, his words spilling faster now, like poison uncorked.
"You know, in Nordhelm, we run a matriarchy." His lips curled.
" Because I was born a man I was overlooked. Mocked. Passed over while lesser minds—women and men alike—rose above me. I was made into a rag. Used when convenient. Forgotten when not. Even though I am a Lukas."
He stopped abruptly in front of another man. "And you," he said, crouching. "What do you think my motive is in all this?"
The man's mouth opened. Closed. No sound came out as the brand acted on him.
Lyle sighed, disappointed.
"Wrong answer."
He gestured.
The brand flared.
The man convulsed violently before going still, eyes glassy, body slumping sideways against the stone.
Torvin's muscles strained so hard his arms shook. Rage roared behind his eyes, threatening to tear free. He could feel the brand biting deeper, punishing the resistance.
Jax's hands curled into fists.
This wasn't righteous fury. This was a child throwing a tantrum.
Lyle straightened, breathing hard. "You think this mission is about improving my standing?" he scoffed.
"No. I'll use the artificer. I'll take that power for myself. I will become the next object of worship, the next true god."
He turned suddenly and kicked Jax square in the ribs..
"This is your fault," Lyle snarled. "Because of you, our presence is known. Now my Raizelle's widower will stop at nothing to sniff us out. Like the dog he is. Trash. Filth. So utterly useless that your captain had to run—and die miserably alone in a foreign land. Like a bitch in a ditch. And their offspring..."
Something snapped.
Jax strained against the brand, teeth bared, a low growl tearing from his throat. The brand burned brighter—hotter—yet he rose anyway.
Lyle stumbled back, eyes wide.
Jax stood.
The stone beneath his feet cracked audibly. Smoke curled faintly from the brand seared into his flesh.
"We are here," Jax said, voice low and shaking with restrained violence, "to serve. But that doesn't mean you can just say anything. Advise yourself against speaking ill of our captain, or her family."
Lyle stared at him for a long, terrifying second—then laughed nervously, coughing as he backed away.
"R-right. Yes. Of course."
He waved a hand dismissively. "Keep an eye on the children. Follow them. They know something."
Torvin looked down at the bodies—two men, lifeless on the cold stone—then back at Lyle.
He'd killed them because he had the power to do so.
And people like that never stopped.
'Bastard...'
He glanced at Jax.
His friend was glaring at Lyle's back as he turned away, his own shadow stretching unnaturally long in the candlelight—long enough, Torvin thought grimly, to swallow him whole.
Patience, after all, was a model that remembered every slight.
And it held grudges.