Toric shot the first one in the neck — point blank. The impact ripped a sound out of the man’s throat that wasn’t quite a scream, more gargle than voice. Blood sprayed in a sudden arc against the wall, thick and fast, catching the glow of overhead fluorescents as the body slid down, twitching.

The second tried to turn, but didn’t make it more than two steps.

The bullet caught him just above the brow. His head snapped back. Blood misted the air behind him before his body hit the floor with a flat, wet sound.

Toric didn’t even flinch. He stepped over the bodies, determinedly. His boots tracking fresh prints down polished stone.

He stopped only for a second in front of the ornately decorated, trimmed and paneled office doors,then drove his boot into them, blowing them wide.

Smoke followed him inside like a shadow. Blood had sprayed across his cheek and dried tacky. There was more on the lapel of his coat and the smell of smoke and iron clung to him as he entered the room.

His coat was still buttoned. Still crisp down the center, even as he strode in, splashed with gore. Every inch of him looked composed and untouched except for the red that clung to his skin, and the wet grit under his nails.

The office was too clean and untouched. A flagrant display of opulence and greed. Toric’s mouth pulled down into disgust at the sight of it.

The Castellan was exactly where Toric expected. Curled under his own desk, hunched like a child, whispering frantically into a wrist comm that his team had already jammed with their signal disruptors.

“Command… repeat, we’re breached… I need extraction—”

Toric kicked the desk hard enough to crack the wood, the sound of it sharp in the quiet, a violent punctuation that echoed off the clean white walls.

The desk lurched away, revealing the man’s trembling form. Papers scattered. A metal pen holder clattered to the floor.

His rifle stayed leveled, steady in his hands, trained center mass.

The Castellan flinched like he’d been struck, rolling onto his side with a wheezing grunt. His pristine white collar was soaked straight through — sweat running down his neck in fat, ugly lines. He wasn’t even bleeding yet, but he looked like he was already dying.

“You don’t understand what you’re doing,” he choked out, voice hitching high. “Killing me won’t fix this. You can’t win. You people won’t win.”

Toric let out a low breath — not quite a sigh. Almost a laugh.

He tilted his head, just slightly, and smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “But it might make me feel better.”

He stepped forward, crouched low, grabbed the front of the man’s suit jacket and hauled him upright — not gently.

The Castellan’s head lolled forward, his face inches from Toric’s.

Their breath mixed — one calm, one panicked. The stink of fear coming off the man was sour and repulsive.

“Wait—” he gasped. “Just—just tell me what you want.”

Toric said nothing. His lip pulled upward in revulsion. 

“Money?” the Castellan stammered, breath hitching. “Power? I can g-get you listed, give you a title, put you in uniform—hell, you want the seat? You want this fucking office? It’s yours. Just say the word. We can deal!”

Toric’s voice came low, even, and flat.

“No more rationing.”

He spoke each word like it was a sentence. The man started nodding like Toric was haggling with him. Taking the deal.

“No more disappearances. No more standing in the cold for a fucking bar of soap while you bastards eat off silver platters and pretend you earned it.”

He shoved the Castellan back with finality and a calm, righteous rage.

The man crumpled, catching himself awkwardly with one hand, breath hitching in wet, shallow gasps. The stink of him lingered in the air — sweat, desperation, expensive cologne turning bitter in panic.

Toric’s lip curled again. The slimy filth of this man’s character clinging to him like static. 

Not because of the bargaining for his own life. Hell, that was even reasonable. But because this man — this bloated, cowardly parasite — had actually believed Toric could be bought. That a seat at the table might mean something to someone who had spent nearly six years tearing that table down.

Toric squared his shoulders, raising his rifle to attention.

“Your reign’s over.”

The Castellan raised a trembling hand. Begging now. Maybe even starting to cry.

“Please—!”

“We’ve had enough.”

The rifle didn’t bargain.

The impact hit center, blowing a hole just below the ribs. The Castellan jolted, mouth opening without sound, and then dropped like his body had forgotten how to hold itself up.

Toric lowered his rifle slowly before he crossed the office. Uncaring boots tracking blood across the polished floor, stepping through the shattered window frame and onto the Castellan’s private balcony. Wind pulled at his scarf. Ash drifted from somewhere above. Then, in one quick jolt, his hand rose, fist clenched in the air above his head.

And below, the plaza ignited. Thousands of voices were erupting at once. Toric looked down at them, tiny as ants from his vantage point, and let a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth. His heart swelled with pride, and relief.

Then, below him on the lower balconies, Bloodsparrow flags unfurled from broken windows. Rebel red was everywhere — painted across cloth, dragged up on makeshift poles. Chanting cracked the air in a slow rhythm. There was echoes of laughter and a few pockets of silent tears. All showing their appreciation in different ways. 

The Castellan was dead.

The city was theirs.

Overhead, still hanging above the storm like gravity didn’t apply to him, Vox watched.

The glow in his hands had faded, but the heat hadn’t. There was still something warping the air around him. A faint hum of energy coiled just beneath his skin, ready to snap again if provoked.

He hadn’t joined the fight. Hadn’t even spoken a word.

Just floated there. Waiting.

Toric felt it, the weight of that gaze. When he finally looked up, their eyes locked again.

Not for long this time. It didn’t feel theatrical. It was just a moment long enough for something to pass between them — recognition, maybe. Or something more volatile.

Toric’s stomach twisted from the attention.

The way Vox had singled him out — not Kael, not his men, and not the people chanting his name. Him. Like he saw something in him. Something he wanted to understand.

Toric’s mouth went dry, before he managed to tear his eyes away. He wasn’t sure why his gaze made him nervous, but it did. His jaw clenched tightly, the muscle flexing in his jaw. 

The man wasn’t a god. But—he wasn’t just a man either. He was something in between. He held a kind of unflinching coldness that felt the presence of a reptile, or maybe an arachnid. Too calm, too precise, and too still. And yet when Toric held it, this gaze didn’t felt like a cold divinity. It felt curious. Measured, like there was thought behind it.

Vox watched the way Toric took the building. Watched the way he didn’t hesitate. The way he moved through command with charisma and how the people followed him without question, or fear.

Useful, Vox thought. Strong. And human. Which was better. Mortals make better prophets than Gods.

That was the kind of man you remembered. The kind who didn’t need to believe in anything to make others believe.

From high above, Vox said nothing, even now.

The edge of something unfamiliar pressed behind his sternum as he lingered. Vox had no need for heroes. And yet — there was something about the man’s stance, the lines of his body—tense and locked against the wind, refusing to flinch even now. There was no subservience in him. 

He looked up like he’d been interrupted.

That was interesting.

That was... new.

Toric didn’t like being read, didn’t allow it. He kept himself locked down, eyes forward, motives buried where no one could reach them. But with one glance, those pale, mist-colored eyes had peeled something back. It was as if he’d been stripped bare without so much as a word.

Above, the wind coiled in the folds of his pale tunic. Vox hovered just long enough to be undeniable. To make sure Toric saw him.

And then, without fanfare, he turned, floating away with an effortless grace. The plaza roared beneath him, still drunk on victory. Oblivious to his exit.

But Toric noticed. 

And the echo of eyes that had lingered too long stayed with him. The ones that felt colder than fear, warmer than fire, and impossible to name.