Director Dutchmund's POV

I looked at the boy. His bandaged face seemed… peaceful. Not in the traditional sense, but there was a faint trace of happiness there, a quiet contentment that felt almost out of place in this room. Perhaps it was because he had been given a name—something so simple, yet so rare for someone in his position.

A faint sense of wistfulness crept over me as I studied his expression. It reminded me of the other patients I'd seen over the years—those who, against all odds, survived their trials long enough to be visited by a family member. That fragile joy they felt, believing they'd been granted more time, even if they weren't sure how long it would last.

But this boy didn't have a family. All he had was a name—a single word bestowed upon him by the king himself which itself was a grand honor even with the king looking so apathetic, I was glad the boy couldn't see the king's face. it seemed to be enough to spark something in him, a small flicker of hope in an otherwise bleak existence. It was almost… admirable, in its way. Or maybe tragic.

Snapping myself out of my thoughts, I turned to my supplies and began preparing some healing tonics. I would need to extend a fair portion of my inventory just to get him into shape for his pickup with Thorne. A fortnight wasn't nearly enough time, and yet, the king's orders were absolute.

I truly didn't understand why his majesty thought it wise to send the boy to the pits. A child in his condition, barely alive, didn't stand a chance.

But deep down, I knew it wasn't just the king's decision. A bitter truth clawed its way into my thoughts: This is my fault.

The memory came unbidden—his face bruised and beaten, yet somehow still determined, his hollow eyes staring forward even as his master loomed behind him. I remembered the master clearly: an older man with a cruel glint in his eye, his copper-engraved cane tapping rhythmically against the floor. The cane's head was sculpted into a hand gripping a silver orb, a symbol of his mastery over the magical arts.

I had thought about continuing my search, dismissing the boy as too frail, too broken for what I needed. But then the master spoke, his voice oozing with pride and malice. 

"You know, boy, that whore you would have called a mother always claimed she had angel blood in her veins," he sneered, his tone dripping with derision. "She thought she was someone important to the First Flame Holy Order. Delusional, she was. Even when we used her as bait against the same holy order, she still believed she mattered." 

While I didn't particularly care about the fate of the boy's mother—cruel as it was—I couldn't ignore the claim she had made. Angel blood? Ties to the First Flame Holy Order? That wasn't something I could simply dismiss. If there was even a kernel of truth to it would be worth asking for more information.

I turned sharply toward the boy's master, my gaze hard and unyielding. Pointing directly at him, I let my voice cut through the space with the weight of authority.

"Under the order of the crown, I demand you explain that in more detail," I said, my tone cold and resolute. "Now." 

The man, who appeared to be in his late forties, turned to face me. His balding head, dotted with patches of gray hair, gleamed under the dim torch lights. I hadn't noticed before, but his gut was massive, protruding so much that it made his thin arms look even smaller in comparison. He sneered at me at first, his expression full of disdain, as if he were about to chastise me as well.

But then his eyes met mine. The arrogance that had defined his demeanor evaporated almost instantly. His sneer faltered, and his expression shifted into something far more cautious. Without a word, he dropped himself into a deep half-bow, the deference in his posture unmistakable.

"Lord Dutchmund! My most humble respects—I hadn't realized it was you. I lost myself for a moment," he stammered, his voice dripping with forced humility.

I stared at him, bent in his awkward bow, and felt a fleeting urge to kick him in the face. But alas, I didn't wish to dirty my boot. A verbal lashing would suffice.

"Hmm, you seem to know me," I said, letting my voice drip with mock curiosity. "Yet, I can't say I recall you at all. Why are you in the inner walls?"

The grotesque man in front of me twitched at my thinly veiled jab. His gut quivered slightly as he straightened, though he didn't dare rise too far.

"My lord, I live in the inner wall. We've met before—at one of the king's galas. My aunt offered her hand to you nine winters ago. Do you truly not recall me?" His voice strained with desperation, as if hoping to salvage some dignity from the exchange.

"No," I said coldly, "I tend to forget things that don't matter. Now, I won't repeat myself. Tell me about this boy's mother."

The fat man's face turned a deep shade of red, his indignation barely masked. Still, his voice maintained a veneer of tact..

"You've already heard all there is to it, my lord. The boy's mother was a lunatic who thought she had angel blood in her veins," he said, his tone clipped, as if eager to be done with the subject.

I studied him for a moment, weighing his words. If there was even the slightest chance that the boy's mother had been right… It could be exactly what my experiments needed to succeed. After all, I was running out of time—and out of angels.

The one we had captured was the last, and I couldn't afford another failure. If this boy's bloodline held even a fraction of what I needed, it might be my best chance at success.

"I'll be taking the boy with me. I'll let the treasury know to compensate you… What was your name again?"

The man said his family name, but I barely cared enough to remember it. Instead, I handed him my pocket quill and instructed him to write it down himself. Turning my attention back to the boy, a faint flicker of hope stirred within me. Perhaps, finally, my luck was beginning to change.

"Boy, follow me," I commanded.

He bowed his small head in acknowledgment and silently fell into step behind me. I noticed his gaze linger on the fat noble's head for a moment, his expression unreadable. Whatever thoughts crossed his mind, they were his alone. Once he'd had his fill, his eyes snapped back to the path ahead, his steps steady and obedient.

I couldn't begin to guess what he was thinking, nor did I have the time to try. Whatever he had been through, it hadn't broken him—at least, not yet.