"Caspian?" Layla called again, her voice muffled through the door.
Caspian jolted back into motion. He turned to the sink, splashed cold water over his hair, and hastily slicked it back, hiding the telltale brown that now streaked the ends of his strands. His pulse was still hammering from the dream—or whatever that had been.
"Coming," he muttered, composing himself as best he could before hurrying to the door.
He swung it open to find Layla standing there, dressed in a deep purple gown that caught the hallway light like velvet shadows. Draped across her shoulder was Camael, lounging with his legs crossed, one foot lazily kicking in the air.
"Is everything alright?" Caspian asked, voice low, strained at the edges.
Layla tilted her head. "Yeah, everything's fine. Dinner's about to start, so my grandfather asked me to come get you."
"Right." Caspian nodded quickly, already moving. "Tell him I'll be down in a minute—I just need to take care of something first."
He brushed past them, footsteps quick, and opened the stairwell door. "I'll see you downstairs."
Layla watched him go, her expression tightening.
Camael sighed from his perch. "Is he really alright?" she asked quietly.
"Probably not," Camael replied with a chuckle. "But that's tomorrow's problem. Tonight's problem is how much steak I can consume before my body explodes!."
Layla rolled her eyes, but her concern lingered as she pressed the elevator button. The doors slid open with a soft chime.
"I hope he's okay…" she thought, stepping inside.
At the top of Blackwood Tower
Rain began to fall again—first as a whisper on the wind, then as a steady curtain of silver cascading from the heavens. It drummed softly against the Blackwood Tower's rooftop, tapping out an all-too-familiar rhythm that echoed through the concrete and steel. The sky above was a solid sheet of gray, thick with the scent of ozone and the taste of coming violence.
But for Caspian, this wasn't the first storm of the day. The real downpour—the one that mattered—had started hours ago, long before the first drops ever touched the ground.
He stepped out onto the rooftop, the door creaking shut behind him. Cold wind greeted him like a slap, tousling his hair and soaking his sleeves in seconds. The rain slid down his face, tracing the sharp angles of his jaw, blending with the residual sweat and blood he hadn't managed to fully clean away.
Julius stood at the edge of the rooftop, his lean frame cloaked in a long, tattered coat that flared in the breeze. He was leaning against the railing, back turned, as if the city beyond the storm held all the answers the world refused to give. Beyond him, the skyline of Nimerath shimmered beneath a haze of water and smoke, its towers like jagged teeth gnawing at the bruised sky.
Caspian's boots struck the wet concrete with quiet finality as he approached. He knew what Julius was about to say. The words had become a script, spoken once before in a moment that now felt lifetimes away. The same easy arrogance, the same twisted smile wrapped in charisma and conviction.
The rooftop was drenched in shadow, slick with rainwater and wind-swept debris. The storm had not yet reached its peak, but the sky above was already a deep bruise, pulsing with low thunder and fitful flashes of lightning. The city of Nimerath stretched endlessly below—wet streets, gleaming spires, flickering neon signs fighting the gloom.
Caspian stood alone near the edge, his coat damp from the drizzle that had begun anew. His expression was cold, unreadable, though his jaw was set tight.
A familiar voice broke through the hum of rainfall.
"Hey Caspian! How's it going? Long time no see, eh?"
Julius's tone was breezy, too cheerful for the hour or the place. His boots splashed through shallow puddles as he strode across the rooftop, arms wide like he was greeting an old friend at a dinner party rather than stepping into the eye of a storm.
Caspian didn't even turn.
"Cut the shit, Julius," he said, his voice flat and sharp.
Julius halted, then let out an exaggerated gasp, placing a hand over his heart.
"Wow, how aggressive!" he said with mock offense. "Looks like someone woke up on the wrong side of the bed." He chuckled, grinning as he stepped forward, his silhouette flickering in and out of the lightning's reach.
Caspian turned now, slowly, his eyes narrow.
"You didn't drag me to the rooftop to trade jokes. Just say what you came to say."
Julius tilted his head, still smiling—but there was something in his eyes now, something harder beneath the surface.
"Well, your attitude aside, you must be wondering why I called you up here?" he said, pacing along the railing, hands in his pockets like they had all the time in the world.
Caspian didn't miss a beat.
"You want me to help you rebuild Nimerath… by destroying Blackwood Tower."
Julius stopped mid-step.
"…How do you kno—" he began, then cut himself off.
There was a pause. A long, telling silence. His smile slowly curled upward, shifting into something more serpentine.
"You used it, didn't you?" he whispered. "Your ability."
He didn't wait for confirmation. He didn't need it.
The grin grew wider. A glint sparked in his eye like someone watching a house catch fire.
Then he laughed—low at first, then louder, until he was fully doubled over with mirth.
"So we lose?" he wheezed, his voice high and wild. "How interesting!" His laugh echoed into the night, swallowed by thunder. "S-So who dies? Did I die?!"
Caspian's voice was ice.
"No. You ran away. Like the coward you are."
Julius's laughter faltered.
"Nobody was going to die," Caspian continued. "I could have killed Alexander whenever I wanted. But I need him alive. The fight would've tipped things… unfavorably."
For the first time, Julius's face cracked. The gleeful amusement slipped, and something sharp took its place.
"Let me get this straight," he said, stepping forward. "You used your ability just because the outcome was unfavorable?"
He seized Caspian by the shoulders, pulling him in until their faces were inches apart. Rain streaked down their faces. Julius's voice dropped to a venomous whisper.
"You think that justifies it?"
Caspian's eyes burned with defiance.
"Alexander destroyed the entire city in that future. I'd say my actions were more than justified."
Julius stared at him in silence, his grip tightening before he shoved Caspian back with a scowl.
"You can't use your ability without permission, and you know that!" he snapped.
Suddenly, Caspian staggered. His hand flew to his head, his knees buckling as his vision blurred. A wave of static flooded his mind—disorienting, painful, like a thousand voices shouting at once from inside his skull.
"W-What… did you say?" he gasped, struggling to stay upright. The rain blurred into indistinct smears. Julius's figure wavered before him like a mirage.
Julius stepped forward, his voice now colder, quieter.
"If you use it too much," he said, "you could—"
But Caspian didn't hear the rest. His body gave out, and he crumpled to the wet rooftop like a puppet with its strings cut.
"—collapse," Julius finished with a sigh, kneeling beside him.
He stared at Caspian's unconscious body, then looked up at the storm overhead. Raindrops pelted his face, but he didn't flinch.
Somewhere...
A low hum filled the room, a droning mechanical buzz that seemed to press against the walls like static. It was the kind of sound that didn't just exist in the air—it seeped into the bones, vibrating softly beneath the skin like a warning. Caspian's eyes cracked open, sluggish and heavy with fog. The light above was harsh, fluorescent, and unkind—an artificial glare that poured into his pupils and sent a lance of dull pain through his skull.
His eyelids fluttered closed instinctively, trying to block out the searing glow. Everything behind his eyes was a blur—noise without shape, memory without weight. For a moment, he wasn't sure where he was—or who he was. His body felt like stone, cold and unyielding, limbs foreign and unresponsive. His breath came shallow and uneven, like it belonged to someone else.
He groaned and turned his head slowly, and the stiff pillow beneath him crackled with the brittle sound of old fabric. His skin met coarse sheets, and the smell that clung to them hit him—antiseptic, faintly metallic, undercut by the dryness of dust. It smelled like forgotten rooms and neglected time.
His vision sharpened, incrementally. Shadows gained edges. Lines formed shapes. And then, at last, the scene began to resolve itself.
He was lying on a narrow mattress—thin and uncomfortable—set atop a rusted metal frame that creaked beneath even the slightest shift of weight. A rough bandage pressed across his head, taut against the skin just above his left brow. He could feel the tender throb of bruised flesh beneath it, each heartbeat echoing faintly in the wound. His hands were stiff, calloused palms turned up, bruised knuckles resting like dead weight on the sheets. A faint shimmer of pain lingered in his muscles, dull and residual, like the echo of a nightmare that hadn't yet fully left his body.
The last image before the fall crept back into his mind.
Julius. The rooftop. The air before the collapse had smelled like rain and blood.
Then—darkness.
He blinked up at the ceiling now, where rows of fluorescent lights buzzed like distant insects trapped in glass, their droning endless, their presence oppressive. The white ceiling above was stained in places, the paint blistered and curling from moisture and time. It was the sort of room built for function, not comfort—a space where people were repaired, not healed.
To his left stood a broad desk, cluttered with strange instruments and fragile chaos. Vials and flasks lined the surface like a miniature alchemist's kingdom—crimson, emerald, cobalt, amber—each liquid shimmering with quiet threat or mystery. Some containers were straight and narrow, others spiraled like glass helixes, and a few hung from fragile metal stands, bubbling faintly with unseen reactions. The air carried a mingling scent of alcohol, rust, and something acrid—sharply chemical, but not quite unpleasant.
Above it all, a single frost-covered window loomed. Its pane was dulled by mist and age, light breaking through in jagged bars like blades of glass. Outside, the sky was pale and still, but he could feel the cold even here, in the muted colors and the sterile quiet. The sunlight reached only so far—gilding the far side of his bed in a faint, silvery glow that did nothing to warm him.
His gaze drifted to the right now.
A smaller desk. A chair. Oddly out of place—curved darkwood, elegantly crafted, old enough to have been carved by hand. The grain was rich, polished smooth, and Caspian could almost see the ghosts of fingerprints worn into the arms from years of use. It felt… chosen. Not just placed.
And in that chair sat a young man.
He didn't move at first. Legs crossed, chin resting on one pale hand, the young man looked as though he'd been waiting there for hours—perhaps days. The light caught the strands of his hair, long and silken, a rich violet hue that cascaded to his shoulders in waves. It shimmered like ink in water. His skin, almost translucent beneath the pale illumination, was flawless—like porcelain, like something carved. And his eyes—Caspian's breath hitched for a moment—his eyes were a shade of purple so deep and unnatural they seemed to drink the light from the room. Unblinking. Curious.
He wore a white lab coat, open at the front, and a pair of violet-tinted glasses perched lazily atop his head. There was something oddly regal about the way he sat—composed but casual, utterly self-assured, as if the world moved at his pace, and he never needed to raise his voice to make it obey.
The figure tilted his head, just slightly, as he saw Caspian stirring. Then he smiled.
It was a warm smile, but strange—like a candle lit in a crypt. Gentle, familiar even, but out of place in the sterile cold of the room.
"The birdie finally flew back to the nest," the man said with a soft chuckle. His voice was smooth, lilting—like silk dragged across glass, or a secret whispered behind a curtain.
His lips parted. His throat burned with dryness, but he forced the sound out.
"Silas…?" he asked, the name barely more than a breath.