"My target was never you. My target has always been that disgusting dog who deserved a death far more painful than—"
Before he could finish, a brutal kick connected with his ribs, sending searing pain rippling through his body. This was what he wanted—a reaction, a mont of weakness in Soren’s focus. As he gasped for breath, he felt the adrenaline surge. This was his chance.
With a sudden burst of strength, he twisted, the syringe gliding easily into Soren’s calf. Ti slowed as he pressed the plunger down, the liquid slowly injecting into Soren’s bloodstream. Nicholas’s heart raced, a mix of exhilaration and fear coursing through him. He had done it, he had struck back.
But then the full force of Soren’s kick slamd into him, sending him crashing against the rough bark of a tree. Pain exploded through his body, but he barely registered it over the thrill of survival. He closed his eyes for a brief mont, breathing heavily, feeling the weight of the world lift just slightly.
Soren let out a furious growl, the sound echoing in the silence of the forest. He staggered back, surprise flashing across his features as he glanced down at the syringe embedded in his leg. "What have you done?" he hissed, fury mixing with confusion.
Nicholas spat out blood and let out a bitter scoff. "Didn’t expect you’d die like this?" he muttered, laughing quietly to himself.
His fingers were broken. Skin peeled off the bottom of his feet. Bruises all over. He looked like a ss, barely hanging on—but mocking Soren still gave him a twisted sense of victory. Even if he was falling apart, at least he got the poison in.
He slowly pushed himself up from the ground, groaning at every movent. Pain shot through every limb, but he didn’t stop. His body scread at him, but he ran. He ran barefoot, leaving behind bloody footprints on the dirt road, rocks digging into the exposed flesh of his feet. Still, he didn’t look back. He couldn’t. If Soren got back up...
Behind him, Soren was on one knee. His vision was blurry, body was cold and numb. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stay upright. The world swayed.
Then he breathed. Slowly. Deeply. His heartbeat steadied.
The poison was familiar.
Of course it was. Soren had spent years building up immunity to every known poison sold across the black market. He didn’t just survive this world—he owned it. Anything that could be sold, he had touched. Anything that could kill, he had tasted.
It would take more than that to bring him down.
After a full minute, the haze started to clear. His fingers twitched. He could feel the strength returning to his legs. His head was still spinning a little, but he was calm. Nicholas wouldn’t get far.
Just as he was about to follow the blood trail, sothing hit him. Not a punch. Not a weapon.
He stumbled to the side and crashed into the side of a carriage.
It took him a second to realise—it wasn’t an attack. He had just lost his balance. His ears were ringing now. The poison wasn’t the only thing ssing with his body. Sothing else was wrong. His stomach churned, and there was a low buzzing in his head.
anwhile the driver, quiet and sharp-eyed, had been watching everything from the sidelines. He didn’t flinch, didn’t blink. He had seen Nicholas flee, and the second Nicholas ran, he ran after him.
Soren’s n were trained like ghosts. Silent. Efficient. Loyal to the point of madness. This driver wasn’t just any servant—he was handpicked by Soren himself. His job was clear: if the enemy escaped, go after him. Do not wait for orders. Act.
And so he did.
Soren hadn’t noticed him leave. He only realised sothing was off when he felt the hard wood of the carriage door against his shoulder. He staggered back, blinking fast, heart racing.
Sothing was wrong.
His body wasn’t responding as it should. The poison should’ve been flushed out by now. But it wasn’t.
Soren’s vision blurred again, but this ti it wasn’t the poison or pain. His head throbbed sharply, like sothing inside was being torn open. And then—he wasn’t on the street anymore.
He stood in a hallway, dimly lit by candlelight. The walls were different, unfamiliar. The scent was dusty and dry, and in front of him stood Riven.
He looked... Tired. Really tired. His green eyes were dull, frad by dark circles, his skin pale. Yet he smiled—a soft, small smile that tried so hard to seem genuine.
"I—I don’t know how to thank you," Riven said, his voice gentle but hoarse, like he hadn’t spoken in a while.
Soren felt sothing ache deep in his chest. He didn’t know why. Why did Riven look so... broken?
Then he heard his own voice, sharp and cold.
"Of course. Didn’t I say that you’re mine now? Why would I let Ronan take you away?"
But it didn’t sound like him. Not really. The words were his, but the tone was lifeless—flat, like he was reading lines off a script. Riven’s expression flickered. He stared at Soren, searching his face like he was trying to find sothing—hope, maybe, or affection—but didn’t find it. His brows pulled together, just a little, and he nodded anyway.
He chose to believe the words, even if the voice didn’t match them.
The scene shifted again.
Now he was in an old, rotting house. The air was cold. Wind rattled the broken windows. On the floor in front of him, Riven was tied up—his wrists bruised, his lip split. His hair clung to his forehead with sweat, and he didn’t look up.
Soren’s voice ca again, even colder than before. "Nicholas kidnapped you?"
Riven’s head trembled slightly as he nodded, but then he quickly added, "But... He didn’t touch ."
His voice cracked near the end.
Soren, who was viewing all of this, felt sick. Not because of the injuries, but because of the way Riven sounded. The things he said...
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