YAN

THE SUN WAS FASTER. It fled toward the horizon in a blaze of fire and blood, victorious and cruel, dragging the day behind it like a slaughtered beast. Yanick’s shadow stretched across the dirt like spilled wine, long, twitching, unreal.

The shadow moved. The shadow whispered. It warned him.

Warned him of the mocking moon, already rising, already smirking, ready to seize the reins of the darkening sky.
The farm loomed ahead. Salvation or damnation? Both.

It shimmered in the haze like a mirage from a sailor’s tale—an oasis that might vanish the moment you reached for it.

Still too far. He couldn’t stop. Not now.

Why? The question ground against his skull like broken gears. Why weren’t they at the tavern? Why today? Why now?

And then came the thunder. Low. Heavy. Not sky-born. Not weather.

Heartbeats—massive and furious. Not his. Not human.

First one like a warning. Second, like a sentence. Third—close. Too close.

Not thunder. Not drums. Horses.

His legs burned. Lungs tore. Heart became a mad thing, a hammer in a box.

But still he ran. Again. A little more. Just a little—

Then the thunder circled him, wrapped him in dust and dread. The road vanished beneath his boots. And he knew. He wouldn’t outrun them.

Rayla’s voice cut through the dusk like a whip:

“Take him!”

She was first. Always first. Her voice raw and ragged from the chase.

Behind her Varn, silent as the grave, eyes like blades. Eloen, lean and wordless, his braid snapping like a weapon. Brask, old but fast, the kind of old that still remembers war. Thirra, grinning like she’d lost something important—her mind, maybe. Koleth, burning without speaking, eyes full of fire.

And then a horse. Right in front of him. Breathing hard. Waiting.

Yanick skidded, barely stopped himself from slamming into it. His knees gave out.

From the saddle, Big Mike looked down at him. Still. Emotionless. A statue. A verdict.

“Turn back,” he said, calm as always. Like he hadn’t just chased a boy to the edge of a dream.

Yanick lifted his face. His eyes were full of pleading. Fear. A dying spark of hope.

“Promise me,” he choked. “Please… promise me you won’t hurt them. Promise you won’t hurt her.”

Mike didn’t answer. Not right away. The silence lasted too long. It had weight. It meant something.

“Go back to the ship,” he said finally.

And then he turned.

Rode away. Didn’t look back.

The dust fell. The sound faded. The sun was gone. And so was the shadow.

Only Yanick remained. On his knees, surrounded by silence at the place where dreams ended and destiny began.

 ***

HE OPENED HIS EYES. But not the world. The world stayed shut.

The room was tight as a coffin padded for madmen. A cage without bars. Every surface was wrapped in the same suffocating material: floor, ceiling, walls. Padded, smothered, dead. Like a fairground freak cage, but instead of howling beasts, you were meant to sob quietly into your own silence.

It stank. The same smell like the corridors, just way more intense.

No windows. No doors. No shadow. And that was the worst of it.

Yanick didn’t cast a shadow. Like some damn vampire from a village folk tale. Like the light, this strange, humming, watching light, wasn’t real at all. Not sunlight. Not torchlight. Something else. Something colder. Something divine and artificial, pretending to be warmth, but blind to him.

Watching everything. Except him.

He screamed. A short, raw burst. Like a wolf chewing through its own leg in a trap.

“Quiet.”

A voice. From beyond the wall. Low. Tired.

Yanick shut his mouth. Collapsed. Sank into the mat like a man who already knew his execution date.

He lay still. Stared up. Didn’t blink.

Then another voice. Soft. Different. Not an echo, not a memory. Not his mind cracking. A whisper. A breath against the wall.

“Hey. Are you there?”

From the right side. Same wall. Different voice. Or maybe just a different version of the same broken man.

“Come closer,” the voice said. Not angry. Not asking. Just… expecting.

Yanick crawled. The soft floor burned against his skin. His knees complained. His ribs throbbed.
But he obeyed. Because there was nothing else to do.

“I’m here,” he whispered.

“You’re the boy, right? With the broken arm?”

“Yes,” Yanick said. No point lying.

“Why were you running?”

“I have to get out,” he said.

“How’d you escape the questioning room?”

Yanick hesitated. But the voice didn’t sound like a guard. Not the kind with keys or a schedule. The tone reminded him of someone. The man behind the wall sounded almost like Big Mike. Calm, commanding. But not cold. And definitely caged.

“The man left the room. I found a glove in his desk. The white one. I used the Spy’s Mirror. I found the layout.”
He stopped. Was that too much? Too fast? Too honest?

But the man didn’t sound like someone who would punish him for the truth.

“What did you use?” the voice asked.

“The Mirror of…”

“Doesn’t matter,” the voice cut in. Quick. Sharp. Nervous, almost. Not like Mike would’ve done. “Do you still have the gloves?”

Yanick reached under his shirt. His heart slammed against his ribs like it wanted out.

“One.”

“One?”

“The other didn’t fit over the cast.”

Silence. Not the good kind. The thick, stale kind. Like a fog made of sweat and dust and waiting. Yanick didn’t dare break it. He waited. Until finally…

“Listen carefully. Do exactly what I say. Exactly.”

Yanick nodded. Then remembered the man couldn’t see him.

“Yes,” he said.

“Put on the glove. Go to the wall on your left. There’s a panel. Place your hand on it—third square from the right. Fourth from the bottom. Then…”