The doors beneath the Rustleheart estate were opened at dawn. Iron complained as it moved, the sound dragging through the corridors like a warning given too late. The guards worked without ceremony. They had done this before.

The first cell revealed a body slumped against stone, skin grey, mouth open as if still arguing with the dark. Two men dragged him out by the arms, boots scraping against the floor. No prayers were spoken. One of the guards marked a symbol on the wall and moved on.

The second cell was worse.

The man inside was alive—barely. He did not look up when the door opened. His fingers were wrapped in torn cloth, dark and stiff with dried blood. Flesh was missing in places it should not have been. He chewed slowly, mechanically, eyes empty of anything resembling shame or pain.

"Larshan," someone muttered. A name, spoken without expectation that it would be remembered. They left him where he sat. There were other hands for him now.

Further down the corridor, another door opened to laughter—not hysteria, not madness. Laughter, low and amused, as if the man had been mildly inconvenienced rather than entombed.

Walter stepped out when ordered, adjusting the collar of his tunic with trembling fingers that tried very hard not to shake. He looked thinner, paler, but intact. No wounds. No blood. His eyes flicked briefly toward the other cells and then away again, calculating even now what this survival would cost him later.

Some endured. Some broke. Some were carried.

By the time the guards reached the last corridor, their pace had slowed. There were voices. Not shouting. Not pleading. Conversation. More than one.

The men stopped.

"I hear them," one said quietly.
"So do I," another answered.

This cell was marked with a familiar sigil. A few of them exchanged looks. Someone scoffed under his breath—too quickly, too defensively.

"Open it."

The lock turned. The door swung inward. The voices stopped.

Inside, the cell was empty of anything that should have explained them. No bodies. No figures in the corners. No movement at all—except for the boy seated at its center.

Dante sat cross-legged on the stone floor, back straight, hands resting loosely on his knees. His eyes were closed. His breathing was slow, even. His face was pale, drawn, but calm in a way that did not belong in a place like this. He did not react when the light touched him.

One guard took a step back. Another cleared his throat.

"Boy."

Nothing.

They entered cautiously, checking the walls, the ceiling, the shadows where sound liked to hide. The cell held only what it had on the first day—an empty water skin, crumbs of dried bread, cold stone, and silence.

"Did you speak?" a guard asked.

Dante opened his eyes. They were clear.

"No," he said.

The men stared at him longer than necessary. Someone laughed, thin and uncertain.

"Talking to yourself, then."

Dante did not answer.

When they finally led him out, he walked without assistance. Behind them, the corridor felt colder.

The verdict was delivered without an audience. Of the thirteen sent below, four returned with minds that could still be trusted. The others were accounted for quietly. Families were compensated generously. Names were folded into records and sealed away. The estate did not echo with grief. It never had.

The survivors were given water, clean clothes, and orders to present themselves before dusk. Dante washed in silence.

When he emerged, hair still damp, hands steady despite their thinness, Fiona Rustleheart was waiting near the infirmary doors. She stood apart from the others, posture immaculate, expression unreadable. Her maid lingered a step behind, eyes sharp, taking note of everything her mistress did not need to acknowledge openly.

Fiona watched Larshan pass without flinching. Watched Walter offer a shallow bow that did not reach his eyes.

Then Dante approached.

He stopped, bowed his head—not deeply, but correctly.

"My lady."

She studied him. The stillness unsettled her more than blood ever could.

"This trial," she said at last, voice measured, "was not mine to order."

"I know," Dante replied.

"Nevertheless," she continued, "it was conducted under my family's name."

She inclined her head—barely.

"I am… sorry."

The word sat between them, heavy and rare.

Dante hesitated, then shook his head once. "You should not be."

Her eyes narrowed slightly.

"To apologize," he said quietly, "is to carry blame. You did nothing wrong."

Fiona searched his face for mockery, for resentment, for fear. She found none.

"What compensation would you ask?" she said instead.

He considered this. "Passage. A horse. Enough provision to travel for a few weeks."

Her brow lifted.

"You wish to leave."

"For a time."

"And return?"

"Yes."

She smiled faintly. "You ask me to fund your escape."

"If that were my intent," he said calmly, "I would not tell you where I am going."

Suspicion sharpened her gaze.

"Where, then?"

"I was entrusted with messages," Dante said after a moment. "I intend to deliver them."

Fiona held his silence against him, then nodded. "So be it."

Arrangements were made with unsettling speed. By morning, a horse stood ready. Supplies were packed. Papers signed.

Dante did not rest.

When he rode out, pale against the rising sun, Fiona watched from the upper balcony, hands folded, expression composed.

"Follow him," she said to two shadows at her back. "If he runs—bring him home."

They bowed and vanished into motion.

Below, Dante did not look back. Behind him, the estate settled into quiet once more.

Far beneath its stone, the prison corridors waited.

And somewhere in that dark, the screams—long unbroken—did not return.