"Captain… are you sure they're heading for the capital?" one of the soldiers asked on the third day of waiting, passing around the last strips of dried meat.
"Yes," August said flatly. "That idiot will drag the boy straight to the king and present him like a prize."
A pause.
"He's arrogant. Stupid. But every now and then—he does something truly monstrous."
"Maybe someone intercepted them on the way?"
"I doubt it."
August didn't take his eyes off the road.
"My dear little brother wouldn't survive a journey like that without attendants," he added coldly. "I'm not even sure he's ever stayed in a saddle longer than a leisurely ride."
"I see something," came a voice from above. "Captain… there are more of them than we expected."
August tossed aside his flask and climbed the tree in one smooth motion.
He froze.
It wasn't an escort.
It was a procession.
Dozens—
no, hundreds.
"What the hell…" he muttered.
Then, louder:
"Positions. The moment anything moves near you—activate camouflage."
Hours crawled by.
The procession drew closer.
Closer.
At first, August assumed it was a noble convoy.
Then he saw the wagon.
And what was mounted on top of it.
A post.
Driven straight through the roof.
A man tied to it.
Wrapped—
not in clothes—
but in torn cloth bearing Klaus's emblem.
August didn't recognize him at first.
The face was wrong.
Swollen.
Split.
Covered in dried blood and dirt.
Barely human.
Then—
the man forced one eye open.
Clouded.
Blue.
August stopped breathing.
Egor.
Alive.
For now.
August's hands curled into fists.
He hated him.
Gods, how he hated him.
But he had never wished him dead.
Never like this.
Because there was one truth he couldn't ignore:
Egor mattered to Klaus.
And Klaus—
was everything.
If Egor died—
Klaus would break.
Maybe not outwardly.
Maybe not immediately.
But something inside him would close.
For good.
No.
That wasn't allowed.
Klaus had to be happy.
No matter the cost.
August exhaled slowly.
Then moved.
He gathered his magic.
Pressed it into the earth.
Released it—
in controlled waves.
The ground trembled.
Just enough.
The horses panicked.
The wagon lurched.
Shouted orders broke the formation.
They were forced to stop.
"What's going on?" Abel leaned out of the wagon.
August saw him—
and his vision went red.
No fear.
No desperation.
Clean clothes.
Neatly styled hair.
Calm.
Confident.
Someone had received him.
Or worse—
the king had expected him.
Rage surged.
Violent.
Immediate.
August drove the power deeper.
Harder.
The ground buckled.
The horses went down.
The wagon flipped.
Chaos.
Dust.
Screams.
Perfect.
August moved.
Invisible within the storm he created.
The soldiers drew their weapons—
but struck nothing.
Couldn't see.
Couldn't breathe.
Afraid to hit their own.
"Hey."
He reached the post.
Bent over the broken body tied to it.
"You still alive?"
Egor's world swam.
One eye forced open.
The other—
sealed with blood.
His head throbbed.
The fall had shattered what little clarity he had left.
"Concussion…" he whispered hoarsely.
A weak, broken sound.
"And hallucinations…"
A faint, humorless breath.
"Why is your voice the last thing I hear before I die…?"
August snorted.
"Bit insulting," he muttered. "Three days in an ambush to save you, and I get called a hallucination."
He cut the ropes quickly.
"Don't move. You can't see me. Camouflage."
Before the dust settled—
he lifted Egor.
Light.
Too light.
And carried him back.
"One stays with him," August ordered. "The rest—move."
His voice dropped.
Cold.
Deadly.
"We're killing that little bastard."
"Yes, Captain."
He pressed the camouflage stone into Egor's hand.
"Feed it a little magic."
"What about you…?" Egor rasped.
August smirked.
"I command the ground you're lying on."
A pause.
"I don't need toys."
And he vanished back into the storm.
Egor couldn't focus.
Everything blurred.
The air was thick with dust.
Every breath scraped.
All he could do—
was lie there.
And try not to choke.
Only now—
only now—
did he understand what this world really was.
Cruel.
Rotten.
Merciless.
For the first time—
he was grateful.
Grateful that Horalde had pushed him until he thought he'd collapse.
Without that—
he would've died days ago.
The memories came in fragments.
Broken.
Disjointed.
They left the underground city under the pretense of a mission.
Three days.
Three long days.
At first—
they barely touched him.
One blow.
Enough to knock him out.
After that—
he barely existed.
Thrown over a horse.
Bound.
Covered with a cloak.
Or dumped on the ground during stops.
Fed just enough—
not to die.
Water—
just enough—
to keep breathing.
Nothing more.
Then—
the town.
An inn.
Abel walked in like he owned the place.
Took a room.
Hot bath.
Clean clothes.
Food.
Egor—
slept in the stable.
On dirt.
With the horses.
Bread.
Water.
Nothing else.
Morning.
Voices.
Shouting.
He opened his eyes.
Saw soldiers.
Royal insignia.
Abel stood at the front.
"Form ranks."
They obeyed.
Like puppets.
No one moved.
Even when the first head rolled across the floor.
Egor froze.
Watched.
One by one—
they died.
Eyes wide.
Terrified.
Begging.
Bodies—
obeying.
No resistance.
"Here he is," Abel said calmly. "The one I mentioned."
A glance.
Cold.
Indifferent.
"I want him alive."
A pause.
"I don't care in what condition."
That's when it started.
Hell.
The first beating—
until he blacked out.
He woke up in the wagon.
Clothes gone.
Replaced with a strip of cloth.
Wrapped around him like a mockery of dignity.
They beat him every day.
No reason.
No pattern.
Just because they could.
Because they enjoyed it.
First night—
tied to a post.
Near the fire.
They threw bones at him.
Laughed.
Poured water over him.
Cold.
Again.
Again.
Second night—
they dragged him.
Hands bound.
Through dirt.
Through blood.
Like an animal.
Deliberately tearing Klaus's emblem.
Smearing it.
Ruining it.
When they got bored—
they left him.
He couldn't stand.
Couldn't move.
Just lay there.
And passed out.
Third day—
was worse.
They talked.
Laughed.
Boasted.
About what they'd done.
What they would do.
There were too many of them.
Egor broke.
Cried.
Begged.
Out loud.
No strength left.
No pride.
Nothing.
He tried to think of Klaus.
Tried to hold onto that—
warmth.
Safety.
But what they did to him—
had nothing to do with that.
Nothing.
He prayed to pass out.
To stop feeling.
To disappear.
He couldn't bear it.
He couldn't imagine—
ever looking Klaus in the eyes again.
Now he understood.
Why Klaus had killed them all.
And now—
Egor wanted the same.
Not a quick death.
Not mercy.
He wanted them to feel it.
Every second.
Until the end.
Fourth day—
they didn't beat him.
He should've been relieved.
He wasn't.
Part of him wanted it.
Anything—
to end this.
At first—
he dreamed Klaus would come.
Now—
he dreamed of dying.
They tied him to the wagon roof.
Every movement—
pain.
He drifted.
In and out.
When the wagon flipped—
his head hit hard.
For a moment—
he thought he'd finally gone insane.
Even now—
he wasn't sure this was real.
What if August failed?
What if—
he woke up again—
back there?
"How many…?" Egor whispered into the empty air.
His voice barely existed.
He couldn't see the man beside him—
but he knew he was there.
"Five," the soldier answered. "Including the captain."
Egor went still.
"Is Klaus… here?"
"No."
A pause.
"He doesn't know."
Silence.
"This is the captain's mission."
Egor broke.
Tears came without restraint.
Five.
Against hundreds.
No chance.
No escape.
He wouldn't go back.
He wouldn't.
He'd die first.
But—
could he?
Would he have the strength—
to end it himself?