The call came at dawn.
Torik had just finished washing the grime of sleepless hours from his face when the knock came at his door, a single, deliberate tap. No soldier barked the summons, just a quiet request passed through steel.
When Torik entered the council room, Kell and Dama were already inside. They stood at the head of the long table, voices hushed, but the tension in their stances spoke volumes. Kell's armor was half-buckled, sleeves rolled. Dama leaned on her sword like it was a second spine.
"Expel them," Kell was saying. "Every last one. I want the Bound stripped from this city, root and rot alike. Sweep the markets, the temples, the alleys. Search thoroughly."
Dama nodded. "It'll be done. Quiet or loud?"
Kell's jaw clenched. "Loud. Let the people know they're not safe hiding behind that crest."
Dama turned as Torik entered. Her nod was tight and professional. Kell followed her gaze.
"Torik. Good timing. I have a task for you. That is... if you're still with us."
Torik paused. A flicker of memory passed through him, their argument in the hideout, his almost departure after stealing the crown.
Kell folded his arms. "You said your deal was done. I haven't forgotten."
Torik exhaled slowly. The easy answer would be no. Take his cut, disappear. Find a safe hole in some other kingdom.
But something in him had shifted. Watching Kell fight. Watching him grieve. Watching a kingdom place its trust in a man who never wanted power.
He had hated nobles. But maybe he didn't hate this one.
"I'll do it," Torik said.
Kell gave a nod. "I need someone to go north. To Icentall. The lord there, Farris, I've never fought beside him. Never met him. He stayed out of most conflicts, but he's got one thousand swords and the discipline to back them. We need him."
Torik blinked. "Why me? I'm not exactly a diplomat."
Kell smiled faintly. "Don't you get it yet? Veilbinders aren't just thieves. You're more than that now. You see people differently. Make them see differently. That's what we need."
Torik scratched his chin. "What about Maribel? Isn't that her game?"
"She's already headed south. To rally House Vaelor."
"Then Whistle. He's slippery enough for politics."
Kell chuckled. "He's on a mission even crazier than yours."
Torik frowned. "What kind of mission?"
Kell didn't answer.
Torik folded his arms. "I don't know what you expect me to say when I get there. 'Hi, I'm a street thief, trust me with your army'?"
Kell stepped forward and placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
"Do what you've always done, Torik. Survive. Just survive in Icentall. Survive by persuading, by learning, by listening. Survive by bringing Lord Farris to our side."
Torik looked into his eyes and saw no judgment. Just belief.
And that was somehow worse.
Before Torik could respond, the door burst open.
A breathless young scout stumbled in. "The keep's been breached! Bound knights, five of them, they're in the halls!"
Kell straightened instantly. Dama drew her sword in one smooth motion.
Outside the door, two guards shouted. Steel clashed.
Then came the scream.
The scout turned just in time to see a sword drive through his chest.
He crumpled. Behind him, armored figures stepped through the blood. Grey-skinned. Veins like cords of shadow. Bound Knights.
"Torik! Get out!" Kell barked.
Torik stood frozen. There was a rear exit to the chamber, but Kell and Dama stood between him and the enemy. Five on two. Even if Dama was a musclebinder, that was too many.
He could leave. No one would blame him.
He could survive.
But then he looked at Kell. At Dama.
At the way she stepped forward, not back.
He remembered Mox. Remembered Ysara.
"I'm staying!" Torik shouted. He spread his stance, breath sharp. "I'll veilbind, and distract them. Just fight with everything you've got!"
Kell looked horrified.
Dama grinned. "You heard the boy."
The knights surged forward.
Kell met them first, blade flashing. Dama followed, steel ringing out like thunder.
Torik stepped back, mind racing. He reached into their perceptions, shifting Kell's form just to the left, Dama's sword to appear faster than it was.
One knight lunged straight into a feint. Dama twisted and drove her sword through his armor. He fell.
The others hesitated.
They realized.
One pointed at Torik.
Another broke from the group and charged.
Kell moved to intercept, but another knight pressed him hard. Torik backed away, his vision swimming.
His head throbbed. He pushed more illusions, bending light, voice, and form. The knight raised his sword and brought it down.
Torik dove sideways. The blade shattered the tiles on the floor.
Dama tried to cut him off, but a knight slammed her back with a bone-rattling blow. Her armor crumpled at the spine, metal folding like parchment. She staggered, and dropped to one knee, coughing blood through gritted teeth.
Torik turned.
He saw the blade rise. The knight's muscles coiled, his blade already mid-swing aimed straight for the back of Dama's neck.
Time stopped.
"No!" Torik screamed. The word cracked from his throat like splintered glass.
He reached into the knight's mind, into the weave of perception, but the swing was already committed. The man wasn't looking. He wasn't thinking. There was no illusion that could stop this. No flicker or shimmer would divert a sword already falling.
He saw Dama's eyes.
Defiant. Afraid.
A flash of Mox. Bloodied. Silent.
Not again. Not another one.
Not someone who believed in him.
Something inside Torik broke.
His legs tensed with unnatural force. His heart thundered. The dagger in his grip felt suddenly alive, pulsing in rhythm with the Crown buried deep in the keep.
The air cracked. A soundless pressure rippled outward, like reality flinching.
Then he moved.
Not a step.
Not a dash.
A blur. A fracture in space, like his body had rejected the laws that bound it.
He launched forward in an impossible surge, faster than he had ever moved, faster than he should have been able to.
In that single heartbeat, he crossed the chamber.
The knight's sword was an inch from Dama's head.
And Torik was there.
Dagger raised.
Steel met steel in a scream of sparks. His blade caught the knight's sword barely, desperately locking it an inch from her neck.
Their weapons trembled.
The knight's arms quivered from the impact, and his eyes, dead, grey, and monstrous widened.
Torik met his gaze, every vein in his body alight with a power he didn't understand. His own breath ragged, heart tearing at his ribs.
And for the first time since the Bound Knights had risen, one of them hesitated.
Stepped back.
Afraid.
The knight disengaged. His sword clanged to the floor.
Kell, stunned by what he saw, parried the knight in front of him with a desperate roar. The distraction gave him just enough of an opening and he drove his blade through the thing's chest.
One fell.
Three remained.
But all three turned now to Torik.
They didn't look at Dama, or Kell. Not anymore.
They saw the boy with blood on his boots, a dagger trembling in his hand, and something ancient in his eyes.
Torik backed into a defensive stance, blade reversed, knees bent.
His whole body burned. His head screamed. His vision blurred.
He didn't know what had just happened.
But they did.
And they feared it.