CHAPTER FIFTY-EIGHT

The Silence After

"Wulric," I muttered, my voice a faint rasp against the heavy air. My eyes locked on the Frost Titan, its massive form unmoving, still as a statue carved from nightmare, towering through the mist. The glow of its hollow sockets flickered faintly, cutting through the gray shroud I'd lost control of. When I spoke his name, its head turned, slow and deliberate, creaking like ice under strain, facing me fully.

For a moment, a flicker of joy sparked in my chest. I'd done it—brought him back. Wulric, the Chainrunner who'd bled out at the barricades, lived again, reshaped in this hulking frost shell I'd forged. My hands pressed against the ice wall behind me, steadying myself as I stared up at him. But the longer I looked, the colder I felt—not from the frost, but from something else. My skin prickled, a shiver crawling up my spine that wouldn't stop.

Those eyes were deep, endless wells of white glow that held more than Wulric's will. I could feel him in there, the stubborn grit of a true chainrunner, but it wasn't alone. Something older stirred beneath, ancient and vast, a presence that didn't belong here. Its weight pressed against my senses, wrong in a way I couldn't name, like the earth itself recoiled from its steps. My breath caught, shallow and uneven. Had I pulled more than Wulric from that realm? Had I dragged something forbidden into the light?

The question gnawed at me, sharp and persistent. Would this thing, this monstrosity I'd birthed, stand with us or turn against everything I'd fought for? I watched it, rooted there, its icy bulk unmoved by the mist swirling at its feet. The corruption twisting the distant beasts didn't touch it, no bubbling flesh, no warped screams. It stood solid, indifferent, a giant frost statue defying the chaos I'd unleashed. But that didn't ease the dread coiling in my gut.

I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling for my reserves. Pain stabbed through me, deep and numbing, radiating from my heart core. It was nearly empty, every last drop of mana wrung out, spent beyond my limits. I winced, leaning harder against the wall, my fingers digging into the ice for support.

Great, I thought, bitter and tired. On one hand, it meant the mist would fade soon, since I had no mana left to fuel it, it couldn't spread much longer. The survivors might stand a chance if the wall held. On the other, if this titan turned on us, I had nothing left to stop it. I could feel the mana trapped in its frame was vast, surging, dwarfing what I'd ever held. Yet it had no core, no crimson pulse like mine. How was it even alive?

A sound snapped me out of it, wet and ragged, like meat tearing. My head whipped toward the Dirgethinner's corpse, sprawled where it had fallen, its twisted form still and silent moments ago. Now it jerked, convulsing in sharp, unnatural spasms. That arm, the pale, warped thing that had burst from its maw, twitched, clawing at the ground, dragging itself free of the beast's ruined throat. Black ichor oozed from the split flesh, pooling beneath it as the corpse shuddered again, a grotesque mockery of life.

Before I could react, the Frost Titan moved. Its head swung toward the Dirgethinner, sockets flaring brighter, and it took a step, slow and deliberate, earth-shaking. The ground groaned under its weight, a deep thud echoing through the district. Another step, louder, cracking the stone beneath its stout legs. Buildings shivered, dust cascading from their edges. It closed the distance in three strides, each one a thunderous boom that rattled my teeth, vibrating up the ice wall into my spine.

It stopped above the convulsing corpse, looming like a judge over prey. The Dirgethinner's arm scrabbled faster, clawing at the dirt, but the titan raised one massive foot, high and deliberate, casting a shadow over the beast. Then it slammed down. The impact hit like a hammer, flattening the corpse with a wet crunch, sending tremors rippling out. The ground buckled, a crater forming where the crimson horror had been, ichor splattering wide. But it didn't stop. The titan lifted its foot again, higher this time, then smashed it down once more. Then again. And again.

Each strike shook the district harder, the force unrelenting. Cracks snaked through the street, widening with every blow. The ice wall behind me trembled, groaning under the strain, chunks of the thinner top spires breaking off, crashing around me in a shower of frost. The countless ice statues lining the streets, those twisted forms of the dead, shattered too, their hollow faces splintering into dust, swept away by the quaking air. "Stop," I shouted, voice hoarse, barely cutting through the din. "It's dead already—twice over!"

To my surprise, it listened. The titan froze mid-strike, foot hovering, then lowered it slow, silent now. The tremors faded, leaving an eerie stillness, broken only by faint screeches in the distance. Crimson horrors, fighting out there, tangled with the corrupted beasts my mist had birthed.

I pushed off the wall, trying to stand, to ready myself for whatever came next. My legs wobbled, weak and unsteady. Tentacles unfurled from my back, sluggish and trembling, curling around my arms like they could lift me up. But they buckled too, too strained to hold, their tips quivering before they retracted, merging back into my skin with a faint wet shudder. My vision blurred worse than before, edges darkening, shapes smearing into gray. I made it upright for a heartbeat, then my knees gave. I hit the ground hard, flat on my back, the cold stone jarring my spine.

The strain had broken me. Even as a crimson beast, Tier 3, I'd pushed too far—past limits I didn't know I had. Every muscle screamed, every breath burned. My heart core pulsed faint, a dying flicker struggling to keep me here. I'd poured everything into Wulric, into the wall, into fighting this nightmare, and now there was nothing left. No fight, no strength, just pain radiating through me, relentless and deep.

I tilted my head, eyes straining to focus on the Frost Titan one last time. It stood there, unmoving again, sockets glowing dim against the mist. I clung to a shred of hope, praying Wulric was in there, somewhere, that he'd know what to do. Protect the survivors, kill the beasts, hold the line. "You've got this," I whispered, too quiet to hear. My lids grew heavy, the gray closing in, and my eyes shut—not for the long sleep, but a rest I couldn't fight, forced by a body too spent to go on.

***

Consciousness crept back slow, a gentle pull from the dark. My eyes fluttered open, blinking against a soft, unfamiliar light. The strain that had crushed me—bones aching, core flickering—had dulled, not gone but eased, like a bruise pressed too hard. I lay still, letting the world settle around me. The bed beneath me was soft, too soft. Mattress thick with down, sheets smooth against my skin, a stark contrast to the cold stone I'd collapsed on. A faint scent hung in the air: lavender, maybe, mixed with the sharp tang of herbs. I turned my head, slow and careful, taking it in.

The room was wide, walls of pale stone smoothed by time, their edges softened with tapestries, faded threads of blue and gold weaving scenes I didn't recognize. A noble house, I guessed, or what was left of one after District 97's chaos. The ceiling arched high, wooden beams dark and sturdy, catching the glow of a single lantern swaying gently on its chain. Near the bed, a healer stood at a small table, his back to me. He crushed something in a mortar, green leaves, maybe roots, his movements steady, no rush in his shoulders. His calm caught me off guard. I'd expected ruin, screams, a district in ashes. Not this.

I shifted my gaze, testing my body without moving much. A window stretched along one wall, tall and narrow, framed in dark wood. Beyond the glass, the fog loomed, thick and gray, pressing against the ward like always. But it stayed out there, held back. The ward still stood. Relief washed through me, quiet but real.

I'd seen it cracking, red runes flaring, trembling under the weight of what I'd unleashed. I'd half-expected to wake to nothing, no barrier, no district, just me alone in a wasteland. But it held. The mist I'd lost control, the corruption, must've faded. The beasts, corrupted or not, beaten back. I hoped.

The healer turned then, pestle pausing mid-grind. His eyes widened, jaw dropping as he saw me awake. "He woke up. He woke up!" he shouted, voice bouncing off the stone. He dropped the pestle with a clatter and bolted out the door, footsteps fading down a hall I couldn't see.

I huffed a laugh, dry and short. "What a warm good morning," I muttered, but the sound cut off as pain flared in my ribs, sharp and deep, like a knife twisting. I winced, pressing a hand to my side. Strange, I thought. My life magic should've knit those bones by now, patched the cracks. But this wasn't just broken ribs. I felt it deeper, a hollowness, a strain that sank into my core. Managlobin was low, starved out by what I'd done. My whole body dragged, weak in a way I hadn't felt since before the fog. Recovery would take time.

Still, I marveled at it, lying there. The transformation—Tier 3, crimson beast—had rewired me. My heart core could pump mana and oxygen like a furnace, muscles primed to expand beyond what my frame should hold. Yet I hadn't grown much. Kara's estimation flickered in my mind: 167 centimeters, a bit tall for my age, but not towering. I flexed my fingers, testing them, stiff but alive.

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My eyes drifted, searching for Hazeveil. It wasn't here, no familiar weight on my shoulders, no shadowed folds draped nearby. A pang hit me; I felt bare without it. They'd probably stripped it off during treatment, though I smirked imagining Hazeveil's protests.

Lost in that thought, I didn't hear her at first. A figure paused in the doorway, tall and lean, framed against the hall's dim light. "Good to finally meet you, Omen" she said, voice clear, warm with a hint of amusement. "Well, to meet you awake, at least."

I blinked, focusing on her. She stepped closer, and I saw her fully, a woman who could've stepped from a canvas. High cheekbones carved her face, sharp but softened by wide hazel eyes flecked with gold. Her lips curved in a subtle smile, full and steady, set against smooth, pale olive skin. Thick raven-black hair fell past her shoulders, catching the lantern's glow. She wore a tailored tunic and trousers, gray-blue, topped with a long slate coat that brushed polished leather boots. A single sapphire pendant glinted at her neck, simple but striking. She stood with quiet confidence, watching me.

"That's usually the part where you say 'nice to meet you' or offer your hand," she said, her smile widening just enough to tease. "My father used to say being great at one thing often means you're terrible at others. I suppose fighting monsters leaves little room for socializing?"

She wasn't wrong. I fumbled, caught off guard. "Sorry," I said, voice rough from disuse. "I was… on edge. I closed my eyes thinking the district was done, everything falling apart. Then I wake up, and it's like nothing happened. Like it was a dream."

She crossed the room, her steps measured, and stopped by the window. "Understandable," she said, her tone shifting, still warm, but heavier now. "But it wasn't a dream, and things aren't normal." She gazed out, hands resting on the sill. "People are just glad to be alive, though."

I pushed up, slow, wincing as my ribs protested. I joined her at the window, peering through the glass. The day was clear inside the ward, no corrupted mist, no ice walls, no statues of the dead staring back. The fog stayed beyond, a dull gray blanket, but here the air felt clean, sharp with morning chill. People moved below, slow at first, then steady, hauling crates, sweeping debris, their voices a low hum drifting up. The streets teemed with life, scarred but breathing.

Her eyes lingered on them, pain flickering in her gaze, hazel dimming for a moment. "I owe you a lot," she said, turning to me. "You and District 98. What you did… we lost so much, eighty percent of us gone in the breach. But the ones still here? They're alive because of you, more than anyone."

Eighty percent. The number hit me hard, heavier than I'd braced for. More than half of District 97, wiped out in a day. The scale sank in now. "Sorry," I said, then paused. "Who are you?"

She raised an eyebrow, surprised but not offended. "You don't know? The Blackthorns don't drill noble faces into your head?"

"They tried," I admitted, sheepish. "My butler did, anyway. But I forgot most of them."

Her lips twitched, amusement breaking through. "Fair enough. I'm Camilla Seravelle. My father led the council here, until the breach took him."

"I'm sorry for your loss," I said, simple and honest. Death was everywhere now; she wasn't alone in that grief. "Does that mean you're head of the council now? Or someone in your family?"

She laughed, a short, sharp sound, odd against the weight of her words. "Sorry," she said, waving a hand. "It's just… the idea of a council made me laugh."

I tilted my head, waiting, confused.

"They're all gone," she explained, her voice steady but edged with something raw. "The council, my brothers and sisters, everyone. We're leaderless now. Heading a dead chamber's a bit ironic, don't you think?"

I didn't have a reply for that; her quip about a dead council hung in the air, and my silence stretched too long. Camilla's hazel eyes flicked to me, catching it, a spark of amusement glinting in them. "Come on," she said, voice light but nudging, "your mother'll be glad to know you're awake. The healer was half-convinced you'd kick off when we dragged you in after the battle." She stepped toward a wardrobe by the door, pulling out a stack of clothes—simple, short-sleeved tunic and trousers, gray and soft, fit for the mild air before winter's bite.

I took them, fingers brushing the fabric, and hesitated. No Hazeveil. The cloak wasn't here, and without it, I felt exposed, runes etched across my skin from neck to wrists. Hazeveil softened the stares. Now, stepping out like this? Camilla caught my pause, tilting her head. "Something wrong?"

"No," I said, slow, pulling the tunic over my head. "Just… used to my cloak."

She smirked, leaning against the doorframe. "Don't worry, you'll survive without it for a bit." She waved me forward, and we left the room, her boots clicking soft on the stone floor. The hall stretched wide, polished walls reflecting the dim glow of sconces, a faint draft carrying the smell of woodsmoke and damp earth. Servants passed us, heads dipping in quick nods, their eyes lingering on my arms, my neck. The runes stood out, swirling lines, sharp angles, a map of power carved into me. They didn't flinch or whisper, though. They just kept moving, hands full of linens or trays.

"How long was I out?" I asked, keeping pace as we descended a broad staircase, its banister worn smooth by years of hands.

"A week," she said, glancing back with a half-smile. "Not long, considering." She caught my eyes darting around, taking in the high ceilings, the portraits of stern faces lining the walls and added, "Relax, these people patched you up. Bathed you, dressed those wounds. They've seen the carvings plenty. I'll admit, it's a bold fashion choice, but no one's complaining, not after what you pulled off."

"Fashion?" I echoed, brow furrowing, missing the joke entirely.

Camilla laughed—bright, unrestrained, echoing down the hall. "Oh, you're a gem. No room for humor in that head of yours, huh? I'm joking. They know it's tied to your magic. Everyone does."

"I guess not," I said, flat and honest, scratching the back of my neck. Her ease threw me, every word smooth, every grin pulling for a reaction I didn't know how to give. "Wait," I said, stopping at the base of the stairs, "I need to know something. What happened to Wulric?"

"Wulric?" She turned, one eyebrow arching, confusion creasing her sharp features.

I fumbled, realizing she wouldn't know the name. "The Frost Titan. The…" I gestured vaguely, hands shaping something massive, but she cut me off with a wave.

"I know who you mean," she said, grinning again. "Not like we've got a herd of titans roaming the district. Well… not anymore" She stepped out the front door, motioning me to follow, and the air shifted, cooler and fresher, laced with the faint grit of dust still settling from the breach.

The street opened before us, wide and bustling, people weaving through it. Chainrunners with patched armor, civilians hauling baskets, kids darting between legs. Eyes flicked my way, catching the runes, but no one stared long. Camilla walked beside me, hands in her coat pockets, her stride easy.

"Sorry if I'm pushing," I said, voice low and rough, "but I need to know what happened out there, what really went down. I blacked out at some point." I shot her a quick look.

"So," she started, voice dipping into something steadier, "here's what we saw." She nodded toward the district's edge, where the ward's faint shimmer held the fog at bay. "Those ice walls you created, huge and unreal. Lirien and some Chainrunners tried to climb out, see what was happening, but they couldn't. Too steep, too slick. They heard the fight, booms, roars, all of it shaking the ground. Then the voices started."

I glanced at her, tense. "Voices?"

"Yeah," she said, her smile fading, eyes narrowing as she remembered. "Hundreds of them, screaming, crying, overlapping. We don't know what it was, just sound pouring over the walls, loud enough to rattle your skull. Some thought it was the beasts; others swore it was people. The ice started changing too, shapes forming in it, faces, limbs, weird mixes of man and beast. No one got close enough to figure it out."

We passed a group of guards, their armor dented, nodding at Camilla as we went. She returned it, effortless, then kept talking. "The ward went red after that, bright and angry, like it was bleeding. Never seen that, never read about it either. Those voices… they broke people. Half the survivors are still under care by mind healers. Couldn't stop hearing it, couldn't sleep."

I nodded, silent, piecing it together. The dead's realm spilling through, my mistake. She didn't know that part, and I wasn't about to tell her.

"Then the trembling hit," she went on, stepping around a cracked cobblestone. "Constant, like the earth was fighting to split. Must've been that titan you mentioned. Hours later, the walls started crumbling bit by bit, cracking off. A few got crushed under the debris, couldn't move them fast enough. But no beasts came after that. Whatever you did out there, it held them off."

"No mist?" I asked, voice low, testing.

She shook her head. "None we saw." She paused, watching a woman sweep dust from a stoop nearby, then turned to me, her gaze sharp but warm. "We sent people out afterward, checked the district. Beast corpses everywhere, piles of them, far as we could go. No survivors out there, just you, half-dead by the wall. And that titan."

I stopped, boots scuffing the dirt. "It's still here?"

"Yeah," she said, nodding toward the distance. "Standing like a statue of ice, huge, not moving an inch. People were scared stiff at first, thinking it would turn on us. But it didn't twitch, it didn't react. No one's dumb enough to poke it, though."

I exhaled, slow, relieved but uneasy. Wulric—or whatever he'd become—was still inside the ward, waiting. Camilla watched me, her smile creeping back, lighter now. "Well," she said, nudging my arm, "at least food's not a worry for a while. Beast meat everywhere."

I blinked at her, caught off guard again, and she laughed—soft, teasing, like she enjoyed watching me flounder.

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