(Author's suggested chapter song: Jóhann Jóhannsson – "The Beast")

.....

It was night, but the security lights from the prison kept the general environment bright.

Cold met Soren the moment he stepped beyond the main gates.

It was not the sharp, biting kind of cold of high mountains.

It was the slow, sinking kind that crept through one's cloth and bone alike.

Winter had pressed deeper into the land while he had been caged.

His breath fogged the air with every exhale, pale mist blooming and vanishing before him.

The cadet uniform he had worn when he was brought here had been torn and bloodied.

So he left it behind with the version of himself that had entered this place in chains.

Instead, he wore clothes he had paid for with prison points.

Soren wore a fitted shirt beneath a long black coat that reached his calves; its weight was a bit heavy, but against the growing cold, it was quite reassuring.

He also had on black trousers that were thick and well-made. Proper boots, the soles firm against frozen stone. Nothing extravagant. But solid. Functional.

Alive.

Soren paused.

He turned, slowly, and looked back at the Blackspire Bastion.

The prison gates loomed behind him—twin slabs of heavy black iron carved with runes worn dull by time and despair.

They were the only part of the prison that swallowed light instead of reflecting it. Even now, standing outside them, he could feel their presence pressing at his back, like a hand reluctant to let go.

A lot had happened in this place. For others he had been here for a week.

But to him, it was practically years. But to say he would miss it was a lie.

Maybe Cynthia. At least he made a good friend.

Unfortunately, when he went to visit her, Doctor Kaya said she was still recovering and instead, ended up bugging him about his Shade.

Fortunately, Scarvguard was not far; otherwise, he had a feeling that woman would have locked him in a cage to be studied.

Even while Scarvguard pulled her away, she stated loudly that she would be visiting the academy later, and there would always be space on her operating table for Soren.

Soren had left without explaining that he was not returning to the academy.

Yes, he had a dream.

Yes, he wanted to touch the stars, but... at what cost?

He had lost so much of the boy he used to be.

Even now, he wondered what he was—who he was.

It had changed him so much that he left like another person wearing his skin.

And now, there was the entire thing with his identity.

"Waterfell." Soren muttered lowly, cold mist leaving his mouth.

He remembered all those eyes in the courtroom, staring at him like a piece of meat, all wanting to take a juicy bite.

That world.

That cruel world.

He did not want anything to do with it. It was just too much pressure.

And so, he was going to leave it all behind.

Soren exhaled once more, mist curling from his lips.

Then—

"Soren."

He turned.

They were standing a short distance away.

Vinegar first—hands tucked into the pockets of a massive black coat far too big for her, its collar pulled up around her neck.

Her usual sharpness was still there, but the prison orange had been replaced with real clothes: dark trousers, sturdy boots, and a scarf wrapped loosely at her throat.

Behind her stood her three fathers.

Slacker leaned into his coat like he always leaned into the world—slouched, relaxed, pretending nothing touched him.

Handler stood straight, his coat buttoned neatly, eyes already scanning their surroundings with practiced caution.

Ratler, broad and crouched, had his coat thrown open just enough to show the layered clothing beneath, as if cold was a suggestion rather than a rule.

All of them were dressed for the cold. As though they had stepped out of the prison and immediately armored themselves against the world.

Especially for the huge blanket-like coats.

Soren smiled.

He walked toward them, and Vinegar closed the distance first. She slipped her arm through his without hesitation, claiming it.

"So," she said, tilting her head up at him, eyes glinting. "You chose me."

Before he could answer, she leaned in and kissed his chin—quick, warm, and deliberate.

Ratler let out a low chuckle.

"Well I'll be damned," Handler said, shaking his head. "Looks like you're finally going to give me grandkids."

Vinegar froze. Then she pouted, her lips pressing into a sharp line as she shot Handler an offended glare.

Slacker didn't laugh.

He coughed instead.

The sound was rough. Wet.

A thin smear of blood stained the edge of his knuckles when he lowered his hand.

Handler's expression hardened instantly. "That's enough standing around; Slacker can't handle the cold much. "It's too heavy on him," he said. "We're leaving. Somewhere warm."

He turned slightly, tapping at a device on his wrist. "I already sent the message. Someone will be here soon to take us home.

But I'd prefer we keep our distance from those gates as we do." He pointed to the prison.

Everyone nodded in agreement.

Soren nodded. "Thank you."

Handler glanced at him once, then gave a short nod in return.

Together, they turned away from the Blackspire Bastion and walked forward—leaving a different life behind them.

....

An hour later, they arrived at a mountainside with a cave in it.

The wind was wilder now.

"Let's wait for our pickup here." Handler called out. They nodded and went in.

Immediately, Handler, Slacker, and Ratler went in deeper to check for any hibernating wild animals they could use for dinner.

Soren and Vinegar immediately began gathering twigs—dried wood they could find anywhere.

And while Vinegar was not looking, Soren used Vass's ability to make a fire.

"Oh, you had a match with you?" She asked.

Soren nodded.

He helped her move huge logs around, placing them around the campfire.

Soren could instantly make himself warm if he wished, but he enjoyed any advantage that allowed him to get closer to Vinegar.

She removed the huge coat she wore and used it to embrace the both of them, leaning deeper into him.

"Thank you, Soren." She whispered, "For choosing me."

Soren's fingers sank into her own. The moment was quiet for a while.

He placed a kiss on her forehead.

The smell of her hair, accompanied by her warmth, woke his senses.

He could not help but lean in for a kiss.

He took her lips. Warm. Soft.

However, remembering they were not alone here, he broke the kiss.

She frowned. Going for his lips again.

"Vinegar,your dads are here." He whispered in between kisses.

But she did not back off—pushing him to the ground. "If they are taking this long then they must have found something. Maybe a bear to eat.

Also, didn't Ratler say he wanted grandkids?"

She leaned in again, kisses trailing to his neck.

"You mean Handler?"

"I don't care." She said frankly.

"Besides, I heard Handler has three children and Slacker has two. We won't have the opportunity to always be alone."

She sat upright on his midsection, removing her shirt. There was still a bra top, but more of her purple skin was revealed.

Soren could not help it. A hand reached up to cup her chin.

She pulled back at first.

"Sorry." He muttered.

"Don't worry, i'm still getting used to your touch." She muttered.

Soren understood. Slowly, he reached for chin again. The scar on her face that ran down her neck.

She was very cautious about it. Yet, she was choosing to let him.

His fingers stroked the scar slightly.

Soren's touch was warm and comforting to her.

The mix of Vinegar's orange hair, purple skin, and the reflection of the flames on her.

It was just so breathtaking to Soren.

"You are so beautiful." He muttered.

Vinegar's chin sank deeper into his palm, as if to melt into his flesh. "I like it when you say that."

Vinegar could not hold herself any longer. The way his gaze focused on her.

It made her feel seen.

Protected.

And she wanted nothing more than to sink deeper into his care.

She leaned in to kiss him some more—

"VINGAR!"

She paused—mere inches from devouring him as she intended.

"Yeah! Coming..." she responded, barely peeling herself from Soren.

However, he pulled her back for one more quick kiss.

"Stay right there, and wait for me." She smiled. "We will finish this."

She stood up from his body and rushed deeper into the cave where her fathers were.

Even though she said to stay as he was, Soren could not help but roll over on his side.

The blanket-like coat she left behind still smelled like her, and instinctively, he leaned into it.

It still had her scent and the feel of it—

Soren paused.

The feel of this coat. It was familiar.

With the fire, he could see it clearer. But just to be sure, he stood up from it.

Looking at it on the ground, its shape, its feel.

He could not forget.

That night Cynthia was murdered in her sleep in prison.

The attackers had no face or body. But all four of them had this exact coat.

Soren's mind flashed.

Four coats. Vinegar and her fathers each wore one.

"Vinegar..." he whispered. He turned to the inner parts of the cave.

A feeling of dread washed over him.

Soren moved fast.

He stepped deeper into the cave.

The sight that met him—and the smell hit him.

Iron.

Fresh.

Overwhelmingly familiar.

His hand trembled as he clenched it into a fist.

Blood, flowing towards his boots.

"No!" he muttered.

(Author's note: Yeah... you guys did not see this one coming.)

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