CHAPTER SIXTY-TWO

Fuel for the Monster

Leaving the crafting quarter, I trailed Lirien through District 97's broken streets, her stride purposeful, her bow slung low across her back. The air felt heavier as we approached Camilla's mansion, the same sprawling estate where I'd woken after the breach.

Its stone walls loomed taller than I remembered, now bristling with guards, chainrunners and District 97's merged units, their red sashes stark against patched armor. They stood at every gate, every corner, eyes sharp, hands on swords or spears. The security dwarfed even Lucious' workshop, and my curiosity sharpened. What could need this much protection?

Hazeveil brushed my shoulders, its shadows twitching as I passed a sentry who didn't glance my way. Not out of negligence; his posture stiffened, his grip tightening on his spear. They knew I was here, knew what I'd done in the breach. Their gazes followed, not with fear exactly, but with a weight that made my skin prickle. I kept my head down, tentacles coiled beneath my cloak, and stayed close to Lirien.

Inside, the mansion's halls were dim, lit by flickering lamps that cast long shadows. The air hummed, thick with power, like a storm trapped in stone. My crimson core stirred, picking up traces of raw, unrefined mana that pulled me forward.

Lirien didn't pause, leading me deeper until we reached a wide double door, its surface carved with old Araksiun runes, faded but pulsing faintly. Two guards stepped aside, bowing slightly, not to her, I realized, but to me. My stomach twisted. I wasn't used to this.

The doors swung open, and the room beyond stole my breath. It was vast, its high ceiling lost in shadow, its walls lined with crates and steel racks. At the center stood a mound—no, a mountain—of beast cores, glinting like a hoard of grim jewels.

Thousands of ebony cores formed the base, small and dark, their surfaces slick with blood that dripped in slow rivulets, pooling on the stone floor. Above them, hundreds of onyx cores glowed faintly, larger. At the peak, a handful of crimson cores burned bright, their mana so dense it warped the air around them. The Dirgethinner's core was there, I knew, and others the Frost Titan had crushed. The stench hit me, all iron and decay, the raw aftermath of slaughter.

Guards circled the pile, silent, their sashes bright against the gloom. Workers moved carefully, arranging cores, wiping blood with rags that stained their hands red. This wasn't Lirien's doing, I could tell. The setup felt deliberate, reverent, like an offering laid out for something sacred. My core thrummed, hungry, and I fought to keep my feet still.

Camilla stood near the pile, her noble bearing unmistakable, tall in a dark gown edged with silver, her hair pinned tightly, her eyes sharp as she oversaw the room. Gorin was there too, his frame hunched over a crate. Gustav leaned against a wall, arms crossed, his thin face calm but calculating, like he was tallying the cores' worth. Dain hovered by Camilla, his pale face tired but alert, scribbling notes on a slate.

"What is this?" I asked, my voice small in the vast room. Stupid question, I realized the moment the words left my mouth.

"Beast cores," Lirien said, her tone flat, pragmatic, like she was stating the weather. She stood at my side, her gaze fixed on the pile, not me.

I swallowed, heat creeping up my neck. "I mean… why here? Like this?" My eyes flicked to the blood, the careful stacks, the workers' hushed movements.

Camilla stepped forward, her voice smooth but commanding, a high noble's poise. "Part of our agreement with District 98," she said, glancing at Lirien. "For your efforts in the breach, these cores belong to District 98, to be precise. We've gathered them as a tribute." Her words carried weight, but her eyes lingered on me, not Lirien, like I was the one they were for.

My core surged, mana calling to mana, and my fingers twitched, itching to reach out. The power was overwhelming, ebony cores pulsing steady, onyx sharp and wild, crimson like a heartbeat I could feel in my chest. I clenched my fists, sweat beading on my brow, fighting the urge to dive into the pile. Lirien noticed, her head tilting slightly, her expression unreadable but expectant.

"You should consume them," she said, nodding at the mound, her voice steady, not a suggestion but a directive.

I blinked, caught off guard. "Why?" I asked, genuinely unsure. "Lucious and Mateo could use these to make weapons, equipment. It'd be a waste on me." I didn't fully believe that, not with my core screaming to touch them, but it felt wrong to claim so much.

Lirien's eyes narrowed, but Camilla spoke first, her tone gentle but firm. "They've taken their share, ten percent, enough for their work. This," she gestured at the pile, "is ninety percent of what we collected. It's not a waste, Omen." She paused, her gaze softening, almost reverent. "You're our edge, our strength. We need you whole."

Dain nodded, stepping closer, his voice quiet but earnest. "She's right. No one else can do what you do." Gorin grunted in agreement, tossing an onyx core onto the pile, its blood splattering softly. Gustav watched silently, his calm masking a strategist's approval.

Lirien's voice cut through, sharp now. "My chainrunners would consume them if they could, but they can't. You're our best weapon, Omen. We need you at your peak. Go." It was an order, but her eyes held something else, pride perhaps, or calculation.

My instincts flared, bestial and raw, urging me forward. I felt like a beast myself, barely leashed, ready to tear through anyone who stood between me and that power. But I fought it, moving slow, deliberate, like approaching an altar.

The workers parted, their faces a mix of awe and fear, some whispering my name. The blood-slick floor squelched under my boots, the air thick with mana and decay.

I reached the pile, hand trembling as I touched an ebony core. It cracked under my fingers, mana flooding into me, warm and sharp, filling my crimson core. The shell crumbled, dust mixing with blood. I moved to another, then an onyx, its power denser, cycling faster through my manalytic channels.

My senses sharpened, the strain from the breach fading, managlobin restoring in waves. The crimson cores waited at the top, their pull almost painful, but I took my time, each core a step in a ritual I hadn't asked for but couldn't refuse.

***

Hours slipped away, lost in a haze I couldn't grasp. The vast room blurred, its edges dissolving as I sank deeper into the pile of cores. I'd heard tales of booze dulling the mind, turning time to a fog, and this felt similar, with power flooding my veins, drowning out everything else.

My crimson core thrummed, greedy, pulling mana from each core I touched, their shells cracking under my fingers like brittle stone. I didn't notice when the world faded, or how long I'd been there, only that the mountain of cores had shrunk, replaced by a jagged heap of dust and shards, blood-soaked and glistening.

I came back to myself slowly, blinking at the mess. My hands were slick, stained red, blood dripping from my fingers to the stone floor. Hazeveil hung heavy, its dark threads soaked, no longer cloaking me but clinging like a second skin, red and wet.

The cores hadn't just been bloody; they'd been drenched, far more than should've been possible. Beast cores, even crimson ones, dried fast once torn from flesh, but these glistened, as if someone had poured blood over them, deliberate and raw.

Camilla's doing, maybe, or the workers, perhaps as a ritual touch to make this offering more than a payment. I must've merged with the pile, rolling in it, blind to everything but the mana's pull. Those moments were gone, a blank spot in my mind, like a dream I couldn't hold.

I stood, unsteady, the room sharpening around me. Workers lined the walls, their heads bowed, rags clutched in bloodied hands. Guards stood rigid, spears grounded, their red sashes stark against patched armor.

They hadn't left, not after hours. Their eyes flicked to me, then away, a mix of awe and something heavier, reverence perhaps, or fear. I wasn't just Omen to them anymore, not after the breach, not after the Frost Titan. I was something else, something they offered this hoard to, like a monster they didn't dare name.

My core pulsed, denser than ever, mana cycling through my channels in a rush that made my muscles hum. The power I'd felt after evolving—the sharp clarity, the strength—was back, but stronger, deeper, like I'd tapped into something beyond my own limits.

My senses snapped into focus: the faint creak of a guard's armor, the slow drip of blood from a worker's rag, the faint glow of lamps flickering above. But with it came something else, a cold that seeped from me, unbidden.

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Mist curled from my breath, faint at first, then thicker, coating the air with a chill that wasn't corrupted, not like the fog's taint, but pure, sharp, tied to the ice in my core. It spread, slow and heavy, frosting the edges of the core pile, creeping across the floor.

The workers nearest me shivered, their breath visible, arms wrapping tight around themselves. A guard's teeth chattered, though he tried to hide it, his spear trembling. I hadn't noticed the cold; my body thrived in it, adapted from long sleeps and frost runes, but they felt it, and it marked me as apart, more than human.

"I need to control this," I muttered, clenching my fists, willing the mist inward. I focused, pulling at the mana in my core, trying to cage the cold. It slowed, the mist thinning, but didn't stop, leaking still, a reminder of how far I'd grown from them. My tentacles twitched under Hazeveil, restless, but I kept them hidden, not wanting to spook anyone more.

I glanced around, expecting an empty room after so long, but they were still here, Camilla, Lirien, even Dain, stationed near the door, his slate tucked under his arm, his pale face watchful. Camilla stood closer, her noble gown untouched by the blood, her eyes fixed on me with a quiet intensity, like she was measuring something sacred.

Lirien was beside her, arms crossed, her leather armor scuffed but steady, her expression calm, unshaken. She wasn't shivering, not a hint of cold touching her, despite the frost now dusting the crates nearby.

That stopped me. I'd seen onyx beasts, their mana reserves dwarfing anything a human could hold, crumple under less. Lirien had no core, just the captain's drug, a mysterious elixir that sharpened her edge, let her face the fog. But this? Standing untouched in my mist, her breath steady, her eyes clear? It was more than that.

I thought of Mateo, another captain, dosed with the same drug. I'd spied on him for days in Lucious' workshop, cloaked in Hazeveil's shadows, and he'd never once sensed me. Lirien had, every time, her gaze cutting through my stealth like it was nothing.

Camilla shifted, her voice soft but carrying. "You've done well," she said, nodding at the shattered pile. "District 97 honors its debts." Her tone held that noble weight, but her eyes stayed on me, like I was more than a chainrunner, more than her ally.

Lirien didn't speak, just watched, her silence louder than words. Dain scribbled something, his pen scratching faintly, loyal to her as ever. The workers and guards hadn't moved, their heads still low, like they were waiting for a signal. This wasn't just a reward, I realized, not just District 98's claim. It was an offering, crafted by Camilla, by these people, to a power they saw in me.

I wiped blood from my hands, the cold mist still leaking, curling around my boots. Lirien's resilience gnawed at me. Her grasp of the rules—Brutality, Guile—felt deeper than mine, despite my core, my adaptations. She'd led us through the breach, and stood here now, untouched by my power. The drug couldn't explain it all, not when Mateo fell short. Was there something I wasn't seeing? A secret she kept, even from me?

My understanding of Guile stirred, a flicker of insight that brought suspicion with it. Lirien wasn't just a captain, not just my mother by choice. She was something more, and I'd been too caught in my own power to notice. The mist thickened slightly, my control slipping as I stared at her, the room's silence heavy with questions I didn't know how to ask.

***

Days dragged on, heavy with the work of clearing District 97. The streets, once choked with beast and human bodies, were swept clean, the last crates of remains hauled to forges or freezers.

Now, under a sky thick with fog, the district gathered for a ceremony to honor the dead. No crypts or cemeteries existed here because wards were too precious to waste on graves. Very few people were buried, it was a rarity amidst districts. Instead, a great pyre loomed at the district's edge, its timbers from destroyed buildings stacked high, bodies laid carefully atop, wrapped in rough cloth or left bare where cloth ran short. The air smelled of ash and oil, a promise of fire to come.

I stood at the crowd's fringe, Hazeveil cloaking me in shadow, my mist tightly reined in after days of practice. Barely a wisp escaped, though my crimson core hummed, still heavy with the cores I'd consumed.

The ceremony was vast, hundreds packed into the open square filled with workers, guards, and survivors, their faces etched with grief. Some wept openly, clutching each other; others stared, hollow, at the pyre.

Chainrunners from District 98 dotted the crowd, mourning comrades I barely knew. I kept to myself, watching, my tentacles coiled beneath my cloak, trying not to draw eyes. I wasn't good with people, not like Camilla.

She moved through the crowd, her usual noble poise softened, her gown simple, her hair loose. Her eyes were red-rimmed, tears staining her cheeks, but she stopped for everyone, touching shoulders and murmuring words that drew shaky smiles or tighter hugs.

People leaned into her, like she carried warmth they'd lost. Gustav stood apart, his frame rigid, his face a mask of cold duty, like death was just another tally to him. Dain was absent, likely buried in Lirien's plans, and she wasn't here either, which was no surprise. Comfort wasn't their way.

My gaze caught on Gorin, his frame hunched near the pyre. His eyes locked on a body, unblinking, his scarred hands clenched at his sides. It wasn't Wulric; most chainrunners now knew I'd named the Frost Titan that, a quiet homage they accepted, believing Wulric gone.

This body was different, a warrior in tattered cloth, no armor, no sash. I stepped closer, Hazeveil rustling, my boots scuffing the ash-dusted stone. I wanted to try what Camilla did, to ease someone's pain, especially Gorin's. He was one of the few chainrunners I knew well, gruff and blunt but steady. If I could help him, maybe I'd feel less like an outsider.

"Hey," I said, voice rougher than I meant, stopping a step away. "You know him?" I nodded at the body, its face half-covered by cloth, pale and still.

Gorin didn't look up, his jaw tight. "Found him," he grunted, low and clipped, like words were heavy. "In the cleanup."

I glanced at Camilla, weaving through the crowd, her voice soft as she asked a woman about her lost brother. She'd said, "Was he kind?" and the woman had sobbed, nodding. I could do that, right? I turned back to Gorin, clearing my throat. "Did you… know him? Like, really know him?"

He shifted, eyes still on the body. "Yeah."

I waited, expecting more, but he stayed quiet. My face warmed, words tangling. "Was he… a good guy? Like, great person?"

"Yeah." Another grunt, his shoulders hunching tighter.

I fidgeted, Hazeveil brushing my arms. Camilla had asked about memories, hadn't she? "Do you, uh, miss him?"

"Yep."

My stomach sank. This wasn't working. "Did he have family? Like, people he cared about?"

"Sure."

I bit my lip, frustration rising. It sounded like I was interrogating him, not helping. I'd heard Camilla ask these things, her voice gentle, drawing stories from people like water from a well.

Why was this so hard? Gorin's answers were bricks, heavy and short, shutting me out. I glanced at Camilla again, now hugging a worker, her hand steady on their back. I was doing it wrong, but I didn't know how to fix it.

Gorin exhaled, slow and heavy, finally looking at me. "It ain't the words, Omen," he said, his voice rough but softer, like he saw me floundering. "You're tryin', I get it. But it's not what you say. It's standin' here. Bein' with 'em." He nodded toward Camilla. "That's her trick, just showin' up."

I blinked, caught off guard. He'd noticed me watching her? Gorin's eyes, usually hard, held a flicker of something—understanding, maybe. I hadn't given him enough credit. "Oh," I said, dumbly, my face hotter now. "Right."

He turned back to the pyre, and I stood beside him, words gone. The silence wasn't empty; it settled, heavy but shared. A few chainrunners drifted over, their sashes catching the ward's glow.

They didn't speak, just stood with us, eyes on the pyre. The crowd's murmurs faded as workers stepped forward, torches in hand, their flames spitting in the damp air. They touched the pyre's base, and fire caught fast, licking up the oil-soaked timbers. The crackle grew, sharp and hungry, smoke curling thick, black with the scent of burning cloth and flesh. The bodies blurred in the heat, their shapes softening as flames climbed, red and gold against the fog's gray.

I watched, my core steady, the mist inside me locked tight. The fire roared, spitting embers that drifted like stars, and the crowd's grief seemed to rise with it, a weight carried upward. Gorin didn't move, his gaze fixed where the body had been, now lost in the blaze. Even as the ceremony ended, as people drifted away, their sobs quieter, he stayed, rooted, like the fire hadn't taken enough.

"You okay?" I asked, softer now, trying not to push. "That guy… he meant something to you, didn't he? I mean, you weren't here long, between runs."

Gorin's jaw worked, his voice low, rougher than before. "He wasn't from 97. Chainrunner, like us. District 98. Taught me plenty when I started, teaching me how to brace a shield and how to spot a beast's weak point." He paused, eyes narrowing. "Name was Torv."

I frowned, stepping closer. "District 98? But…" The body hadn't worn a sash, no armor, just rags. "How's he here?"

Gorin's hands clenched, knuckles whitening. "That's the thing. Thought he was dead already. Torv was on that battery run, 97 to 98, the one that went bad. Right when you got back. We lost cargo, people... Didn't see him die, but he never made it with us. Figured the fog took him."

My mind raced. That failed run, District 98 scrambling, batteries running low, people mourning as I arrived at the Chainrunners' headquarters. "Maybe he retreated here," I said, grasping. "Then got caught in the breach."

Gorin shook his head, slow, his voice dropping. "Thought that too. Till I saw the wound." He pointed at his own chest, tracing a line. "Blade, clean through. Not claws, not teeth. Human work."

The words hit like a stone. The pyre's heat faded, the square empty now, just us and the dying flames. A chainrunner, lost in a failed run, turning up dead in District 97, an impossible distance for a lone retreat. And a blade? My core hummed, uneasy, the second rule—Guile—stirring in my chest. "A blade," I repeated, voice flat, testing the weight of it.

"Yeah," Gorin said, turning away, his boots crunching ash. "Ain't right." He walked off, leaving me alone, the pyre's glow fading to embers.

I stood there, the fog pressing closer, suspicion coiling tight. A veteran, dead by a human hand, here, when he should've been gone. There was more to this, more to all of it, than I'd let myself see. The strangeness of it gnawed, and I wasn't sure I wanted the answers.

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