Stick’s eyes were open long before the first knock came at the door. He stared at the ceiling, his body motionless but his mind churning. Sleep had evaded him all night. Each time he tried to close his eyes, visions clawed at the edges of his mind—Smith’s sly, knowing grin, Titor’s hands reaching out from the estate to drag him back into servitude, Michael’s hollow stare filled with disappointment. He rolled onto his side, then his back, then sat up abruptly, the cot creaking beneath him. There was no use trying anymore. He couldn’t escape the memories, and he couldn’t escape the decision waiting for him at daybreak. A sharp knock cut through the stillness.

  “It’s time,” came the voice from the other side of the door.

  Stick sat motionless for a moment, staring at his hands as if he might find the answer there. But when the door swung open, he forced himself to stand. The guard stepped inside, his silver armor catching the faint firelight. It gleamed so brightly that Stick could see his own reflection in its polished surface. The man carried a folded bundle under one arm, and he placed it wordlessly on the cot.

  “New clothes,” the guard said in a tone that was neither warm nor cold.

  Stick hesitated before unfolding the bundle. His stomach twisted at the sight of crimson fabric, the same shade as the Carnifex emblem. The golden bull was stitched prominently onto the back, its horns gleaming even in the dim light.

  “You’re expected to wear it,” the guard said, his voice flat.

  Stick stared at the uniform, bile rising in his throat. The red and gold felt like a brand, a mark of everything he despised. He thought of Shadis, chained and defiant, refusing to bow to the Guild even in the face of a life sentence. And yet, here he was, standing in silence, holding the uniform of the very people he swore he wouldn’t become.

  “I’m not joining Carnifex,” Stick said, his voice firm despite the doubt gnawing at him.

  The guard gave him a long look, then shrugged. “That’s not for me to decide. Wear it anyway.”

  The words hit like a slap. Wear it anyway. A quiet surrender. Stick’s hands trembled as he pulled the uniform on, the fabric heavy and suffocating. He hated how it felt against his skin. He hated how easily he obeyed. What else can I do?

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  Outside, PP was already awake. He sat against the wall of the house, his chains rattling softly as he shifted. The key still rested in his hand, his fingers curling around it like it might slip away at any moment.

  “Morning,” Stick muttered as he stepped outside.

  PP’s gaze flicked up to him, lingering for a moment on the crimson uniform. His expression was unreadable, but his silence spoke volumes.

  “You’re still wearing them,” Stick said, gesturing to the chains.

  PP didn’t respond, just tightened his grip on the key. The guard led them through the empty streets of the capital. Stick immediately noticed the absence of life. The market, which had been so vibrant the day before, was eerily still. Stalls stood abandoned, their wares hidden beneath tarps or packed away entirely.

  “Where is everyone?” Stick asked, his voice low.

  “It’s Sunday,” the guard replied without looking back.

  Stick frowned, the explanation doing little to ease his unease. The silence was oppressive, pressing in from all sides as they approached the massive Carnifex headquarters. Unlike the market, the headquarters wasn’t silent—but it was subdued. The structure itself was imposing, its wooden walls smooth and unblemished, a testament to the Guild’s wealth and power. Soldiers moved about with purpose, but their voices were low, their movements tense. Stick was led into the side entrance, passing through halls that smelled of polished wood and timber. The newness of the structure made it feel sterile, devoid of the weight of history. It felt like a monument not to tradition, but to the raw power Carnifex had claimed in such a short time. At last, Stick was brought before a soldier that wore armor reminiscent of Stamos, before the man with the silver armor took his leave. The soldier with the Stamos-like armor seemed to command the most authority in the busy hall. It seemed that the more time Stick stayed at the capital, the more dangerous Carnifex members popped up left and right. The soldier’s helmet obscured his face entirely, leaving him an imposing, faceless figure.

  “Your decision,” the authority said, his voice metallic and devoid of emotion. “Do you accept your place in Carnifex, Stick Arslan?”

  Stick’s chest tightened. He thought of everything Carnifex represented—the chains, the unfair trial, the bloodshed. He thought of Shadis’ defiance, and Michael’s hopes. He thought of the statues of the hero long gone, staring down at him. Would the Great Hero allow such a broken system to exist?

  His voice trembled as he spoke. “I won’t join Carnifex.”

  The Praetorian tilted his head slightly, the only hint of reaction. “And how do you plan to survive? You’re LVL one. A civilian, barely useful.”

  Stick swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep eye contact, as much as he could with the visor of the helmet blocking the authority’s facial features. “I’ve survived worse.”

  For a moment, there was silence. Then, without a word, the guard turned and strode away.

  “Wait here,” he said over his shoulder. “I will seek counsel.”

  Stick exhaled slowly, his chest still tight. He glanced over to PP, who looked at him wide-eyed, still refusing to speak. As they waited, Stick’s ears caught a fragment of a nearby conversation.

  “The Blitz twins,” someone said, their tone urgent.

  Stick turned his head, spotting a soldier in crimson armor speaking to Nakamura, the blue-haired boy from the trial.

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