Chapter 5 – I need help

Night spreads over the city, heavy with light. Towers cut through the haze, windows glimmering like embers trapped in glass. On the top floor of one of them, a man sits in an armchair, a phone pressed to his ear.

– Find him and execute him. Publicly. This is my city. Everyone – Savage or Higher One – must see who holds power here. Nothing happens without my permission. Antoine was like a brother to me… and that “Heart Reaver” carved him open like an animal.

He stops for a moment, the breath caught between words.

– Contact Ulrich. Let him take Vann. They can enjoy themselves. Report every step. Do you hear me?

The call ends.
He rises, slow and unhurried, as if the weight of the words still clings to him.
The room stretches into shadow.
In the window, his reflection follows – tall, almost touching the ceiling.
Across his shoulders flows red silk – heavy as spilled wine, alive with a muted shimmer.
Below, the streets glow in restless patterns, pulsing like veins beneath skin.

Behind him, the marble lies in perfect silence. Footsteps appear – soft, deliberate, carrying the weight of calm. Each sound seems measured, meant to reach him and no one else.

A shadow stretches along the floor as she walks closer. Her hair, dark and straight, slides down her bare back, catching the faint red glow from the city lights. The fabric of her trousers shifts around her legs – smooth, slow, precise.

She stops behind him. Close – close enough for warmth to cross the distance, yet still not touching.
That small space between them feels deliberate, fragile, almost sacred.

– May I press against you?

Her voice is quiet, uncertain, but full of reverence.

He gives no answer – only the stillness that allows her to move.

She leans forward.

Her arms wrap around his waist; her skin finds the silk, and the robe seems to answer with a quiet rustle.
She feels the tension beneath it – strength held in perfect restraint.

Their reflections merge in the window – one figure where two should be. For a second, the city outside pauses, frozen in red light.

– What happened? Can I help?

Her question barely forms the words.

– Antoine is dead.

– How?

– It doesn’t matter. I’ll deal with it. But… I’m angry.

The last word lands heavy, quiet, final. She feels it move through him – not sound, but force. It reaches her chest, leaving heat behind, and she trembles – not from fear, from devotion. Without a word, she lifted her left hand and snapped her fingers twice.

From the shadows, a figure steps forward – a young man, tall, graceful, immaculate.
The light from the window slides along his face, catching the curve of his cheek, the edge of his collar.
Halfway across the room, he drops to his knees. His palms press against the cold floor, as if before an altar. He begins to crawl – slow, deliberate – the distance shrinking under his hands until he reaches the Lord.

Without hesitation, he bows lower and begins to kiss his feet. The silk rustles softly. Each motion seems to erase a layer of distance, of self. He continues higher, a devotion that borders on fever.

The Lord closes his eyes. His head lowers slightly, a shadow falling across his face. Behind him, the woman watches – her breath shallow, her hands trembling over the silk on his back. She moves them gently, tracing the lines of his body, as if afraid her touch could break him.

He exhales – low, deep. His hands rise, settle around the young man’s neck. At first, the touch is almost tender. The young man takes it as a sign, presses closer. For a heartbeat, he believes – foolishly – that he will be kissed. He closes his eyes.

Silence tightens. Heat gathers in layers, the air shimmering as if the room were breathing through a thin veil.

The next moment, the grip tightens. The movement is fluid, precise – effortless. The young man’s body lifts from the floor, suspended in silence. A gasp. A faint moan. His fingers twitch, searching for air.

The Lord’s face changes. His lips draw back into something that could be a smile – or the shadow of one. Heat swells through the room; the air shivers, thinned to a trembling veil. Then it happens – his essence rises. Not flame, not light – something between them, a living current. It spreads from his body in waves, devouring color, filling the space with a dense red glow. The heat forms no body, yet within its shifting lines glints the trace of a creature – wings, maybe, or the thought of them – a shape born of fire remembering flight. The air bends; walls ripple as if seen through molten glass.

Their outlines merge – his arms and the fire’s reach fusing into one motion, one force.
The young man’s skin begins to swell, blister, darken. The scent of heat thickens, rich and metallic.
His body arches, soundless. The silk robe catches the same glow and begins to smolder.

The woman moves instinctively, trying to pull away, but his voice stops her.

– No.

She freezes. Where her hands still touch him, heat bites under the skin, a brightness that spreads too fast. She gasps, unable to let go. Above her, her own essence unfolds – a serpent of smoke and ash, twisting and coiling as if seeking the warmth that burns her. Her body begins to shed, the scorched skin peeling away in thin, weightless strips that fall like black petals.

After the Lord’s order, Ulrich and Vann had already set their plan in motion

Outside, the night carried a metallic scent – like burnt air after a storm. The city, unaware of the sentence just pronounced, kept glowing – streets restless, lights pulsing through the fog.
By morning, the glow had faded into daylight.

Far from that tower of fire and silence, Drogo awoke in his hotel room. Morning sunlight spilled across the sheets, cutting through the dim air like a blade. He lay still for a moment, eyes open, feeling the world reassemble itself around him. Then he sat up, washed his face, and stared into the mirror.

For a heartbeat, he didn’t recognize what he saw. The face seemed lighter, freer – as if a long fever had broken. He smiled faintly, humming a cheerful tune – it’s a beautiful day.

It had been a long time since he had felt this good. A sly grin touched his lips.
He’s here somewhere. I can feel it. And I want him… more than anything.

Assuming his target was still at school, Drogo relaxed. There’s time until lunch. Perfect.
He decided to take a walk and get a coffee from the same small café.

As he wandered through the streets, he petted a stray dog, helped a little girl on a bicycle avoid a fall, winked at a group of giggling girls, and basked in the simple pleasure of being alive.

But fate had already set its snare.

The day moved easily. Drogo walked without hurry, hands in his pockets, eyes half-lidded against the light. The air smelled of roasted coffee and street dust. A street musician played somewhere nearby, a rhythm that didn’t belong to this morning.

He stopped to buy a drink, petted a stray dog again, smiled at the same little girl now eating ice cream.
The city felt almost kind – a strange, fragile calm that could only exist before something breaks.

When Drogo turned the corner onto one of the main streets, the crowd swallowed him.
Tourists, students, locals – all blending into a slow, restless flow of faces. He let himself drift with it, unaware that high above, the hunt had already begun.

On a rooftop across the square, a heavyset man lay prone beside a rusted vent. His overalls clung to his sweat-soaked body; his breath came fast, shallow. In his ear, a voice whispered the order. He nodded once.

He drew in a deep breath – sharp, deliberate, the kind that hurts the lungs – and lifted the blowgun from the floor. The world around him blurred into silence. His essence stirred – a warrior of forgotten sun temples, his face split between flesh and carved stone, burning with lines of fire. The man’s chest expanded, the air within him igniting into pressure.

A single exhale. The dart cut through the distance, invisible, perfect. It struck Drogo squarely in the back – a wet, cracking sound. His body lurched forward. Before he could turn, a second dart hit – deeper, cleaner. The impact broke something inside him. He staggered, still moving for a step or two, the world spinning sideways.

Then – through the blur of movement – an older man, broad-shouldered, wearing a pale polo shirt and a short-brimmed cap appeared at the edge of the crowd. From a distance, he looked like someone about to help. He even reached out, as if to catch Drogo before the fall. But in that half-second of false mercy, the knives flashed. Small, precise cuts – one after another – across the exposed skin of Drogo’s chest and arms. To the watching crowd, it looked like a desperate attempt to hold him up.

Only Ulrich knew the truth: the ritual had already begun.

Above him loomed his essence – the butcher in a cracked hockey mask, apron slick with old blood, blades shining like instruments of faith.

Drogo’s knees gave way. Ulrich’s hand slid off him gently, almost tenderly, as he stepped aside.
The body collapsed onto the pavement.

Ulrich didn’t look back.
He walked into the alley, his steps steady, his breath calm – like a man finishing a prayer.

For a moment, no one screamed.
The crowd pressed closer, unsure if they had just witnessed an accident.
Someone shouted for help.
A doctor pushed through, kneeling beside the body.

He turned Drogo over – and froze.
The blood came then, spilling in thin lines from everywhere at once.
Color drained from his face; words failed him.
Whatever he saw was far beyond anything he could fix.

WHAT HE SAW WAS NOT A MAN DYING – IT WAS THE CITY BEING REMINDED WHO IT BELONGS TO