Last Night,

The night was colder than it should've been.

Gareth's hands gripped the reins so tight his knuckles had gone white an hour ago. His horse—a stubborn gray mare who'd outlived two of his cousins—clip-clopped down the dirt road with all the enthusiasm of a man walking to his own execution.

Which, frankly, wasn't far from the truth.

"Come on, you mangy bitch," Gareth muttered, giving the reins a sharp tug. The mare snorted, unimpressed. "Just a bit faster. Please. For the love of—"

Then he saw it.

The Tower.

It rose from the horizon like some godless finger pointing at the sky, massive and impossible, glowing with swirling colors that had no business existing in nature. Purple. Pink. Violet light that pulsed like a heartbeat, casting long shadows across the barren landscape.

Gareth's jaw went slack. His horse reared slightly, whinnying in terror.

"What in the—"

His words died in his throat. The Tower wasn't just tall. It was 'enormous'. It stretched so high he couldn't see the top, disappearing into clouds that hadn't been there a moment ago. The air around it shimmered like heat waves, and even from this distance, he could 'feel' it.

A pressure. A weight. Like the world itself was bending around this thing.

Gareth's first thought was: 'I'm dead.'

His second thought was: 'Where the hell are my pills?'

His hand shot to his saddlebag, fumbling through the contents with the desperation of a drowning man. Clothes. Dried meat. A flask of water he'd been too terrified to drink.

His fingers scraped against leather, cloth, nothing—

Nothing.

"No. No, no, no, 'no'—"

The antidote pills. The ones Viktor had given him. The ones that were supposed to keep the poison dormant in his veins.

They were gone.

Gareth's face drained of color. His breath came in short, panicked gasps. His vision swam.

"Shit. Shit. 'Shit!'" Gareth's voice cracked. He twisted in his saddle, searching the ground behind him like maybe the pills had just fallen out. Maybe they were lying in the dirt somewhere. Maybe—

He was going to die.

Unless he got back to Viktor. Unless he begged. Unless he groveled like the pathetic, cowardly dog he was and convinced that terrifying bastard to give him more.

Gareth yanked the reins hard, turning the horse around. "Move! Move, you useless—"

That's when he saw him.

A figure.

Standing on the side of the road.

Gareth froze.

The figure was young. Thin. So thin the bones of his shoulders jutted out through the ragged coat he wore. His face was pale—no, not pale. 'Gray'. Like a corpse left out in the rain.

His hair was shoulder-length, dyed black and tangled, hanging around a face that looked... wrong. Too still. Too empty.

And he was staring.

Straight ahead. Toward the Tower.

Gareth's blood went cold.

'Ghost.'

The word popped into his head unbidden. The figure didn't move. Didn't blink. Just stood there, frozen like a statue, eyes wide and unblinking.

For a moment, Gareth considered just... leaving. Riding past. Pretending he hadn't seen anything. But then—

An idea.

A terrible, wonderful, 'desperate' idea.

Gareth's lips twitched into something halfway between a grin and a grimace. He urged his horse forward, slowly, cautiously, until he was close enough to see the rise and fall of the figure's chest.

Alive. Barely. But alive.

"Hey," Gareth called out, his voice cracking slightly. "You. Kid."

The figure didn't respond.

Gareth cleared his throat, trying again. "Hey! You deaf or something?"

Still nothing.

Gareth's eye twitched. He glanced at the Tower again, then back at the figure. An idea was forming. A stupid, risky, 'brilliant' idea.

'This young man looks half-dead already. Viktor just needs a spy, right? If I bring him instead of me—if I can convince Viktor to make this guy run errands—maybe I'll get the antidote. Maybe I'll live.'

It was despicable. It was cowardly. It was exactly the kind of thing Gareth excelled at.

He dismounted, boots crunching on gravel, and approached the figure. Up close, he could see more details. The young man's clothes were tattered and filthy. His hands were clenched into fists at his sides, trembling slightly. And his eyes—those wide, amber eyes—weren't seeing anything.

"Hey," Gareth said again, softer this time. He reached out, hesitated, then poked the young man's shoulder.

The figure jolted like he'd been struck by lightning.

"'Ah—!'"

Gareth stumbled back, nearly tripping over his own feet. "Holy—you 'are' alive!"

The figure—no, the 'person'—blinked rapidly, chest heaving. Their head swiveled toward Gareth, and for a moment, confusion flickered across their face.

"I—" The voice was hoarse. Rough. "What—"

Gareth raised both hands in a placating gesture, putting on his best harmless-old-man smile. "Easy there, lad. Easy. I'm not gonna hurt you."

The figure—'Elara', though Gareth didn't know that yet—took a shaky step back, eyes darting between Gareth and the Tower looming in the distance.

"You... you see it too?" Elara's voice was barely above a whisper.

"See it? I nearly pissed myself when it showed up." Gareth forced a laugh. "That thing just... appeared. Out of nowhere."

Elara's jaw tightened. She had run from the breeding ground and been struck by a huge, long, thick thing reminding her of something indecent. "I need to leave. I need to—"

"Whoa, whoa, hold on." Gareth stepped forward, blocking their path. "You're not from around here, are you?"

Elara hesitated. "...No."

"Where you headed?"

"Away from this place."

Gareth's grin widened. "Funny. I'm headed toward the Capital, actually. Got business there." He gestured toward his horse. "You look like you could use a ride. And maybe a meal."

Elara's stomach chose that exact moment to growl.

Loudly.

Her face flushed red, and she looked away, embarrassed.

Gareth's grin turned almost predatory. 'Hook, line, and sinker.' "Come on, lad. I've got food in my pack. Water too. You look like you haven't eaten in days."

Elara's hand moved unconsciously to her stomach. She 'hadn't' eaten in days. The disguise—young man's clothes, dyed hair, dirt smudged on her face—had kept her safe so far. But her supplies were almost gone. And the road ahead was long.

"I..." Elara swallowed hard. "I don't have money."

"Don't need it." Gareth waved a hand dismissively. "Just keep me company. It's a long road, and I could use someone to talk to."

Elara's eyes narrowed slightly. "Why are you being so kind?"

Gareth's expression didn't waver. "Because I'm a good man."

The lie came out smooth as silk.

Elara didn't believe him. But she was tired. Hungry. And the Tower behind her made her skin crawl as it looked just like that bastard's dick which went in and out of Helena.

"...Where exactly in the capital?"

"Just need to make a stop first," Gareth said quickly. "A lord's manor. Not far from here. Quick visit, then straight to the capital. I'll even pay for your meal once we get there."

Elara's instincts screamed at her to refuse. To run. But her legs were shaking, and her vision was starting to blur from exhaustion.

"...Fine."

Gareth's grin widened. "Excellent! Come on, then. Climb up."

He helped Elara onto the horse—though "helped" was generous. Elara practically collapsed into the saddle, too weak to protest. Gareth climbed up behind her, taking the reins.

"Hold on tight, lad."

The horse started moving.

Elara's eyes drooped almost immediately. The warmth of the horse beneath her, the rhythmic sway of the ride, the sheer 'exhaustion'—it all conspired against her. Within minutes, her head lolled forward, and she slumped against the horse's neck.

Asleep.

'Perfect,' Gareth thought, a cold smile spreading across his face. 'Viktor can use this one instead. I'll get my antidote. And this young lad? Well... not my problem.'

Sunlight.

Warm, golden, 'offensive' sunlight.

Elara's eyes snapped open, and she jerked upright so fast she nearly fell off the horse.

"Easy!" Gareth's voice came from behind her. "We're here."

Elara blinked, disoriented. The world swam into focus. She was stopped in front of a massive manor—old, crumbling, but still 'huge'. Stone walls covered in vines. Broken windows. A gate that hung crooked on its hinges.

'Sniff. Sniff.'

'Food.'

The smell hit Elara like a punch.

Her nose twitched.

Her stomach 'roared'.

And before she could think—before logic or caution or self-preservation could catch up—Elara was moving.

She jumped off the horse, stumbled, caught herself, and 'ran'.

"Hey! Wait—" Gareth called after her, but Elara didn't stop.

She hit the manor's front door at full speed.

'BANG!'

The door flew open, and Elara burst inside, panting, eyes wild, searching for—

She stopped.

The world stopped.

Elara stood in the entryway of the manor, chest heaving, staring.

At the walls. The floor. The 'scent' in the air.

Everything was... familiar.

And the scene was simply too familiar as she saw that bastard standing around those women whom he fed by day and bred at night.

'I... I came back here?'

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