He'd come. The way he'd screamed her name as she was ripped away. The way his shadows had reached for her. He'd come.
But Caelum had hidden this place for centuries. How long would it take?
Footsteps on metal stairs.
She jerked upright, ignoring the protest from stiff muscles. Multiple sets, moving in synchronization that marked shells.
Four hollow guards appeared first. Then Caelum descended into view.
His expression made ice spread through her chest. He looked pleased. Excited. Like someone about to unwrap a gift they'd been anticipating.
"I've been thinking about you," he said, gesturing for the guards to open the cage. "About your rather impressive survival skills. Ten years on the streets, no resources, no family. Yet somehow you not only survived but thrived enough to attempt that vault robbery."
Her pulse was already racing as the cage opened and cold hands dragged her out. Her legs barely supported her weight after hours—maybe days—cramped in that space.
"Take her to the center. I want her properly secured for what comes next."
They hauled her up through the silent army, toward the factory floor. But not to the extraction chambers. Instead, they brought her to a single chair surrounded by open space and golden light pouring down from above. Restraints built into the arms and legs. No walls. No shelter. Just her, with thousands of empty faces turned toward her.
She thrashed against their grip. It took several of them to shove her down and lock the restraints around her wrists and ankles.
Caelum circled slowly, studying her.
"Do you know what I find most interesting about you, Brynn? It's not your abilities. It's that you ended up with the one Death Lord I couldn't easily reach."
Her stomach dropped.
"Let me tell you a story about patience." He pulled over a stool and sat at eye level. "Your father was a merchant. A collector of antiquities. What he didn't know was that many of those relics were actually Architect tools. Individually inert, but collectively, they formed a guide to the original ward-cores."
Her father's study. All those dusty objects he'd cherished, arranged with careful labels in his neat handwriting.
"I tried to buy them first. Generous offers through intermediaries. But your father refused. Called them family heirlooms."
Her fingers curled against the armrests. The metal dug into her blistered wrists, and she welcomed the pain. It kept her anchored.
"So I took a different approach. Fabricated charges of smuggling. I had agents in the merchant guilds, the customs houses, even the crown prosecutor's office."
The trial had happened so fast. Arrested and convicted within days.
"But your father's collection was only part of what I wanted." He leaned forward. "I'd been tracking Architect bloodlines for centuries. Most are dormant. Useless. But occasionally, a soul is born with the gift close enough to the surface that the right catalyst could awaken it."
He paused.
"Your parents had a daughter. And my sources confirmed the markers. Faint, but present."
Cold dread pooled in her gut. He'd known about her since before her parents died.
"I framed your parents. Seized the collection. But I let you live. Because if you died, your soul would pass through to the death realms untrained. And do you know what happens to an Architect soul when it crosses over without awakening?"
She said nothing.
"It fragments. The gift disperses across the realms, lost forever."
He met her eyes.
"You were useless to me dead. So I had my people tracking you for years. Your movements, your criminal career. I needed you alive until I could claim you."
Ten years of looking over her shoulder. And he'd been watching the whole time. Not hunting her. Guarding his investment.
