Auren folded the last of his shirts like he had been taught—corner to corner, sleeves tucked in. The precision wasn't out of habit. It was to keep his hands from shaking.
Outside his window, the sky had turned twilight. The tower bells had rung three times, and the courtyard below was still for once. Even the servants had gone quiet, as if the manor itself could sense something was about to shift.
He moved slowly but deliberately. Not because he was uncertain.
Because this was the last time.
He laid the shirt on the floor beside two books, a worn satchel, and an oil-sealed matchbox. That was all he was taking. Everything else—clothes, scrolls, old letters, the ink-stained desk—he left behind.
Auren knelt beside the fireplace and retrieved the sealed decree from where he'd tucked it beneath a loose floor tile. The black wax was unbroken.
He stared at it.
The Marquis's gift. A boundary in disguise. A leash wrapped in velvet.
He slid the sealed parchment into the flames without a word.
The wax sizzled. The seal cracked. The paper curled, blackening, until only cinders remained.
Auren didn't look away until it was gone, turned into ashes.
He crossed the hall in silence.
No guards stopped him. No one even glanced his way. The path down to the manor's lowest level had always been half-abandoned—just enough torches to keep it from total dark. It smelled like iron and rust and still air. The kind of place that knew how to forget people.
At the third corridor, the Wazir was waiting.
He stood beside the cell door like a man guarding a secret instead of a prisoner, arms tucked into his sleeves, hood low.
"You're late," he said.
"I wasn't sure I'd come," Auren replied.
The Wazir smiled. "And yet here you are."
He handed Auren a small iron key. It was cold. Worn. Too simple.
"Are you sure about this?" Auren asked, not looking at him.
"No," the Wazir said, cheerfully. "But That's what makes it worth doing."
Auren turned the key in the lock. The door creaked as it opened.
Serai sat against the far wall, knees pushed up, ankles bound. Her hair were still matted and her clothes ripped. The second the door opened, one golden eye raised, still dazzling.
She stared at him.
"Back to finish what you started?" she said.
Her voice was hoarse but steady.
Auren stepped in. Didn't flinch. Didn't raise his hands. He let her look at him.
"No," he said. "I'm here to undo it."
"Undo what exactly?" She asked.
Auren stepped forward gently. "I gave you an emotion that was not mine." It came from you. A moment you had already experienced. "I just pulled it forward."
Serai's gaze didn't soften—but her breathing shifted. Quieter. More focused.
After a moment of silence she finally spoke-
"Don't talk like you know me."
"I don't," Auren said. "But I know what I touched. And I know what it cost you."
Then, with something close to a whisper: "You had no right."
Auren nodded. "I know."
She looked away. Not because she forgave him. But because, for one breath, she didn't have the strength to hold her guard up.
"I'm getting you out," he said. "If you want out."
"Why?"
He didn't lie.
"Because if I leave you here, I'll feel it. For the rest of my life."
Another silence.
He knelt and unlocked her ankle shackle.
She flexed her leg carefully, then glanced at the man in the doorway.
"Who's he?"
The Wazir bowed. "Someone who lives for the thrill of It."
"Charming, Aren't you?."
"You'll get used to me."
"No, she won't," Auren muttered.
The Wazir just smiled.
Then all three of them stepped into the dark below House Veyr.