John woke to warmth spreading through his chest.

  He tried to move but couldn't. His body wouldn't respond.

  "Don't." A woman's voice. Calm and professional. "You're in bad shape. Let the spell work."

  John's eyes cracked open. Blurry shapes resolved slowly into stone ceiling and torchlight. He was on his back on a cold floor.

  A woman knelt beside him. Middle-aged and wearing the practical robes of a city cleric. Her hands glowed with soft golden light, pressed against his chest. The warmth was coming from there.

  "Severe potion poisoning," she said without looking away from her work. "You're lucky to be alive. Whatever you took, you took too much of it."

  John tried to speak but his throat was raw.

  "Never mind. Don't talk." Her brow furrowed in concentration. "Your body's a mess. Torn muscles, partial bone fractures, internal bruising. And your meridians are strained almost to breaking."

  John's head turned slightly and he saw a guard crouched beside Garren. The big man was propped against the wall, his armor removed, bandages wrapped around his chest. His face was pale but his eyes were alert.

  "The children," John managed to rasp.

  "Are safe," the cleric said. "The City Watch found quite the scene." She glanced at the bodies. "And quite the mess."

  The warmth in John's chest intensified. Then faded as the cleric's hands stopped glowing.

  "That's all I can do here," she said. "The physical damage is mostly handled, but the toxicity..." She shook her head. "That has to run its course. You're going to feel awful for a while. Nausea, shaking, maybe fever. Nothing I can do about that."

  As if summoned by her words, John's stomach lurched.

  He rolled onto his side and vomited, blood and bile splattering across the stone. His body convulsed, trying to expel poison that was already in his veins, already doing its damage.

  The cleric waited patiently. When John finished, she conjured water and helped him rinse his mouth.

  "Can you sit?"

  John tried. His arms shook but held. He got himself upright, back against the wall. Everything spun for a moment before settling.

  A guard approached. An older man with sergeant's insignia on his tabard. He looked at John, then at the corridor leading deeper into the complex, then back at John.

  "You killed Eric the Red."

  John nodded slowly.

  "Then you know what that means. What he's done." The sergeant's expression was complicated, pride mixed with horror. "He's been a wanted man for the better part of a decade. Had a bounty of a thousand gold."

  "Garren helped," John managed.

  "Aye." The sergeant glanced at Garren, who was watching the exchange with tired eyes.

  John's stomach lurched again and he turned to dry-heave, nothing left to come up. The cleric rubbed his back, murmuring soothingly.

  "We can transport them now," she said to the sergeant. She pulled a wooden bowl from a bag and handed it to John. "For the ride. You'll need it."

  Two guards helped John to his feet, his legs barely holding. They half-carried him up the stairs, through the entry hall. Past the woman whose hand he'd cut off, now in chains and heavily guarded, and out into the pre-dawn street where a carriage waited.

  The guards helped John in and he collapsed onto the bench, barely able to hold himself upright. Then they loaded Garren in, the big man grunting as he settled beside John with one hand pressed to his bandaged chest.

  The door closed and the carriage lurched into motion.

  For a long moment, neither spoke.

  "Thank you," John said finally, his voice was barely a whisper.

  Garren looked at him for a long moment. Then he nodded once, slow and deliberate. He shifted his weight and extended his hand despite the pain it clearly caused.

  John took it. They shook, firm but brief. No words needed.

  John leaned his head back against the carriage wall. He must have dozed, because the next thing he knew, the carriage was stopping. Voices outside. The door opened.

  "We’re at the station," a guard said. "Come on. Let's get you inside."

  John let them help him out, his legs were steadier now but barely. Garren followed, moving slowly under his own power.

  The Watch Station was a squat stone building, lit from within and active even at this early hour. Guards moving with purpose while voices called orders.

  They led John and Garren inside where the main hall opened up before them. It was large, with a high ceiling and rows of desks arranged in neat lines. Clerks hunched over paperwork while guards stood in clusters discussing assignments. A few off-duty watchmen sat on benches along the walls, nursing cups of something hot. Near the far wall, two guards processed a drunk who was still loudly protesting his arrest. Another desk had a merchant arguing about stolen goods, gesturing wildly at a bored-looking clerk.

  Heads turned as John and Garren passed through. Some clerks glanced up briefly before returning to their work while a few guards paused their conversations to watch. Whispers spread, but most people kept to their business, though eyes followed the pair's progress across the hall.

  "Sit," the guard said, gesturing to a bench near an office door. "Captain will be out soon. Shouldn't be long."

  John wondered which captain would be on duty. There were three captains in the Watch, he knew that from the game. Two were clean as far as the story went, good men doing their jobs. One was not.

  Maybe it would be one of the good ones, someone who actually cared about the children they'd saved. Someone who'd shake their hands and let them go home to rest.

  John's luck was never that good.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  He sat heavily while Garren lowered himself onto the bench beside him with a grunt, still favoring his injured shoulder. They didn't speak. Nothing to say. Just two tired men waiting to see what came next.

  The station continued its early morning rhythm around them. Clerks shuffled papers. Guards changed shifts. The drunk at the far desk had stopped shouting and was now crying quietly. Life going on, oblivious to the horror that had been happening beneath their feet.

  More people were arriving. The rescued children being brought in with blankets wrapped around them. They looked lost and scared. But alive.

  Some of them were looking at them. Looking at John.

  The little girl from the cell caught his eye. She didn't smile, but she raised one small hand in a tiny wave.

  John lifted his hand slightly and waved back.

  She nodded, satisfied, and let herself be led away by a kind-looking woman in Watch uniform.

  John let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding.

  The office door opened and a man stepped out. He was tall and well-built, wearing the insignia of a Watch Captain. His uniform was immaculate despite the early hour. His face was hard, clean-shaven, with sharp eyes that swept the room with practiced authority.

  John's stomach sank as he recognized him immediately.

  Captain Veyros.

  Damn.

  He’d killed him a hundred times.

  Veyros's eyes found John and Garren on the bench. He walked over with purposeful strides, boots clicking against the stone floor with military precision. Up close, John could see the hardess in his gaze, the assessment. Weighing threats, looking for weaknesses.

  "So," Veyros said, his voice carrying across the hall. "You're the ones who raided the old orphanage."

  John didn't answer, just met his eyes and kept his expression neutral. Garren shifted slightly beside him but said nothing.

  Veyros looked between them, frowning. "How did you know it was there? That operation was well-hidden."

  Silence.

  "I'm asking you a question," Veyros said, his tone hardening. "How did you know about it?"

  He'd learned this lesson the hard way when he’d overdosed. You don't talk to cops. Ever. Nothing good comes from it. Even when you're the victim.

  John kept his mouth shut. He glanced at Garren, started to gesture for him to stay quiet, but stopped. The big man already knew. His expression made that clear.

  Veyros's jaw tightened. "The story doesn't make sense. Two men—" He gestured at them. "Just two. Against Eric the Red and his entire operation. Do you have any idea who that man was? What he was capable of?"

  More silence.

  The hall had grown quieter now with more people watching. Some of the guards looked uncomfortable. This wasn't normal procedure and everyone could feel it.

  "And the children," Veyros continued, his voice taking on a dangerous edge. "How did you know they were there? That's not something you just stumble across. He leaned forward slightly. "I've chased rumors about that place for months. Followed every lead. Came up empty. But you two just... knew. Someone tipped you off. Who?"

  John watched him carefully and saw the calculation behind the questions, the way his eyes tracked their reactions. But he also saw something else. Nervousness. Sweat was beginning to bead on the man's face despite the cool morning air. His shoulders were too tight, his breathing too controlled.

  John must have really screwed things up by hitting the orphanage so early. He wondered if people had already found incriminating documents. Evidence that couldn't be explained away. Records that tied the captain to the conspiracy.

  The thought made John smile.

  Veyros saw it and his face flushed. The careful control slipped for just a moment, replaced by raw anger.

  He leaned in closer, looming over John as his voice dropped low and dangerous. "I'm going to ask you one more time. How did you know about that orphanage? Who. Told. You?"

  John met his eyes and stayed silent. Garren did the same.

  Veyros straightened, his face darkening with anger. "You're interfering with an official investigation. Withholding information. That's obstruction."

  A guard approached nervously from across the hall. "Captain, they—"

  "Not now," Veyros snapped.

  "But sir, Commander Valebrant—"

  "I said not now!" Veyros didn't take his eyes off John. "You think you can just sit there? Silent? Smiling?" He gestured sharply. “And I’ll let you leave?"

  The hall had gone completely quiet now. Every conversation stopped. Every eye turned toward them.

  "I do."

  The voice cut through the tension like a blade.

  Leon stood in the doorway with Marcus a step behind him. Both wore their House Valebrant colors, though Leon's armor showed signs of hasty donning, one pauldron slightly askew.

  He crossed the hall in long strides, his presence drawing every eye. Marcus followed, hand resting casually on his sword hilt.

  "Commander Valebrant," Veyros said, straightening. His tone was carefully neutral. "This doesn't concern—"

  "Is there a reason," Leon interrupted, his voice carrying, "that you're interrogating the heroes who rescued those children, instead of the criminals who imprisoned them?"

  "They’re. Hiding. Something." Veyros bit out each word. "And with respect, Commander, you have no say here. They leave when I say they can leave." He took a step forward. "Or they stay in a cell."

  Leon ignored him. He walked past Veyros like the man wasn't there and approached John and Garren on the bench.

  "Are you alright?" His voice was different now. Concerned.

  "I'm fine," John croaked.

  Garren nodded once, slow and deliberate, still maintaining his silence.

  Then John's stomach lurched and he leaned forward to vomit into the bowl the cleric had given him. Blood and bile came up as his body shook with the effort.

  Leon knelt down beside him, one hand on John's shoulder. Steadying him and waiting patiently until the convulsions stopped.

  John's head was swimming, and the station spun around him. But he had to speak. Had to tell someone who could actually do something about it.

  He leaned in close, his voice barely a whisper. "He's in on it. Along with House Torvele."

  Leon went very still.

  He didn't say a word. Didn't ask for clarification. Didn't question it.

  He just straightened slowly, turned, and walked back toward Veyros.

  The captain was still talking. "—jurisdiction is clear, and I don't care who you are. This is my station, my investigation, and I will not be—"

  Leon's fist caught him square in the jaw.

  The punch was devastating. Veyros's head snapped back, his feet left the ground for a moment, and he crashed into a desk before collapsing to the floor. Completely unconscious before he finished falling.

  The hall went dead silent.

  Leon stood over the fallen captain, shaking out his hand once. When he spoke, his voice carried to every corner of the room. Clear and absolute.

  "I am taking over this investigation. In the name of the Crown." He looked around the hall, meeting the eyes of every guard and clerk present, daring anyone to object. "Anyone who has a problem with that can take it up with King's Justice when they arrive."

  No one moved. No one spoke.

  Leon turned to Marcus. "Go to House Torvele. Don't knock."

  Marcus's eyes widened, understanding the implication immediately. But he nodded once and was already moving toward the door. As he walked, he pointed to a cluster of guards near the entrance. "You four, with me." Then to another group by the desks. "You as well. Full arms."

  The guards scrambled to follow, falling in behind him as he strode out into the pre-dawn streets.

  Leon turned back to the hall. "Get Captain Veyros to a cell. When he wakes up, he's to speak to no one."

  Guards scrambled to follow orders, lifting Veyros's unconscious form and carrying him away.

  Leon turned to John and Garren. "You've done well. Both of you."

  The air in the station shifted.

  The smell of ozone filled the hall. Pressure built, like the moment before a storm breaks. Small arcs of lightning danced across Leon's armor. Blue-white light cast strange shadows across his face as power radiated from him in waves.

  "I'll take it from here."