Klaus knew something was wrong the moment the dust began to thin.
When it cleared—
he saw everything.
And it made something inside him twist.
The land was ruined.
Not just damaged—broken.
Ridges where there should have been flat ground. Craters torn open like wounds. Bodies everywhere.
Too many.
But that wasn't the worst part.
Reinforcements.
Hundreds of riders approaching from the opposite side.
Klaus felt it instantly.
Cold.
Heavy.
Too late.
The thunder of hooves masked his approach.
So did the chaos.
The soldiers weren't watching the edges.
They were watching the center.
Guarding something.
Then—
a shot.
Sharp.
Wrong.
It cut through everything.
Klaus didn't see who fired.
He didn't need to.
It wasn't Egor.
His gaze snapped—
just for a second—
to a rider breaking away.
Abel.
Of course.
Klaus swore under his breath.
Not now.
He let him go.
Lightning struck first.
The outer line.
Those who turned—
those who reacted—
died before they understood what was happening.
Panic spread.
Some turned toward him.
Others held formation.
Still guarding the center.
Klaus slowed.
Just slightly.
He couldn't do it again.
Not like the estate.
Not like before.
There might still be someone alive inside.
So he cut them down.
One by one.
Too slow.
Every second—
too slow.
It grated on him.
Hated it.
Hated holding back.
Hated thinking.
He came to save—
not to erase everything.
Lightning tore through the air again and again.
The smell—
burned flesh—
thickened.
The formation broke.
And then—
he saw them.
August.
Folded in on himself.
Blood pooling beneath him.
Still conscious.
Still gripping a knife.
Egor.
Wrapped in blackened cloth.
Filth.
Blood.
Not moving.
Klaus moved.
Before his horse even stopped.
Before he fully registered what he was seeing.
"It's him!"
"The former crown prince!"
"Stop him—!"
Too late.
He was already there.
He grabbed Egor first.
Didn't check.
Didn't think.
Dragged him—
and dropped him next to August.
Harder than he meant to.
Didn't care.
All three—
together.
Klaus raised the barrier.
Lightning screamed around them.
It burned through his reserves.
Too fast.
Seconds.
That was all they had.
"August."
His voice cut through everything.
Sharp.
"How bad?"
"No strength," August muttered, barely conscious. "What are you doing, you idiot…"
"Use this."
Klaus shoved the stimulant into his hand.
"Same trick. Like before."
"It won't—"
"They know what I am—"
"They'll dig us out—"
"Do it."
No room.
No time.
August crushed it.
Magic flooded back into him.
Violent.
Unstable.
Too much.
Too fast.
He dropped the empty shell.
Pressed his hand to the ground.
The earth swallowed them.
Slow.
Heavy.
Like drowning.
The barrier collapsed.
Underground—
there was almost no air.
A pocket.
Too small.
Not enough.
Klaus felt it immediately.
Breath tightening.
Chest locking.
Lungs burning.
August couldn't move them further.
Klaus saw it.
Knew it.
So he acted.
He filled himself with lightning.
Forced it outward.
Up.
Through the earth.
Spread it—
like veins.
Like a net.
His vision blurred.
Dark spots creeping in.
His heartbeat hammered in his skull.
No time.
One chance.
When it stretched far enough—
he snapped it.
All at once.
The explosion tore upward.
Violent.
Uncontrolled.
They lasted—
seconds.
Thirty.
Maybe less.
Then—
August dragged them back to the surface—
and collapsed.
Klaus couldn't breathe.
His lungs burned like they were on fire.
Every inhale—
shallow.
Useless.
His magic—
gone.
Empty.
He crushed another stimulant in his hand.
Forced it through.
It had to hold.
Had to.
The world around them—
was gone.
Blackened.
Dead.
No soldiers.
No horses.
No grass.
Nothing.
All erased.
One strike.
Klaus dropped to his knees beside them.
Checked.
Pulse.
Alive.
That was enough.
He moved.
Fast.
Too fast.
A broken wagon panel.
Rope.
Rough.
Crude.
He tied it together without thinking.
Hands shaking.
A stretcher.
He dragged it over.
Dumped them onto it.
No care.
No precision.
No time.
Picked up the pistol.
And pulled.
Step by step.
Toward the forest.
The stimulant burned through him.
Hard.
Violent.
If it ran out—
they died here.
All of them.
Klaus didn't stop.
Didn't slow.
Didn't think.
Brod hadn't slept.
Not properly.
Not for days.
The fighting was getting worse.
More wounded.
More bodies.
Too many.
At least some of the freed slaves had started learning.
Basic treatment.
Bandaging.
Anything.
Without that—
the infirmary would have collapsed already.
But today—
was worse.
Three bodies had appeared beneath the great tree.
Two of them—
barely alive.
There was space.
New rooms.
New wards.
Didn't matter.
Brod refused to place them with the others.
Leaders.
They would not be seen like that.
Two rooms.
Separate.
August.
Critical.
Severe blood loss.
Barely holding on.
And a fool.
Using a stimulant in that condition—
almost killed him.
Klaus.
Drained.
Burned out.
Two stimulants in a row.
If he had collapsed anywhere else—
he would already be dead.
And Egor.
Alone.
He had woken briefly.
Crying.
Begging.
Not to be seen.
Brod hadn't understood at first.
Rumors had been circulating for months.
The House of Pleasure.
Or, as they preferred—
the House of Rest.
A triangle.
Whispers.
Speculation.
He had expected something else.
Expected the boy to ask for Klaus.
After the examination—
he understood.
The damage was severe.
Not just beatings.
Rape.
Repeated.
Violent.
Dehydration.
Exhaustion.
There wasn't a single place untouched.
Brod had seen worse.
But not often.
Months.
At least.
After dealing with the others—
he made tea.
And went to Egor.
The boy lay on his back.
Eyes open.
Empty.
Fixed on the ceiling.
He didn't react when the door opened.
He knew.
No one else would be allowed in.
"How are you feeling?"
Silence.
Then—
quietly:
"…How bad is it?"
"In what sense?"
Egor turned his head.
That was enough.
"I've seen worse," Brod said.
A pause.
"Not by much."
"If you agree—we can repair the damage."
His tone remained clinical.
Detached.
"Reconstruction."
"Then treatment."
"Time."
"You'll recover."
"…How long?"
"Two weeks before we can operate."
"Then more after."
Silence.
"…Can it be sooner?"
A swallow.
"And…"
His voice faltered.
"Don't tell Klaus."
Brod didn't react.
"You're my patient," he said. "What we discuss stays here."
"…Thank you."
"I'll assign someone to assist your recovery."
"I don't have the time to handle everything myself."
"…Do it."
A pause.
"But not that."
"Understood."
Brod left.
Closed the door.
Exhaled slowly.
The boy had been broken.
Over and over again.
The damage—
physical—
was obvious.
The rest—
worse.
And yet—
the only thing he feared—
was Klaus finding out.
Brod looked down the empty corridor.
Silent.
If the rumors were true—
Egor was right.
If Klaus learned what had been done—
he wouldn't think.
He wouldn't stop.
And he wouldn't stop killing.