Two days later.
The building where registrations were being held had nothing special about it from the outside: gray stone, simple columns, and a sign with gold lettering announcing the annual tournant without unnecessary embellishnts. Even so, there was a line.
It wasn’t chaotic, but organized, made up of people who knew exactly what they had co for: experienced tars, novices trying to appear calm, rchants alert to any opportunity, and onlookers who only wanted to witness the spectacle.
It showed in the way they moved forward, in how they didn’t ask questions, in how they already knew the process. Thomas didn’t stop to observe for long and simply went inside.
The interior was spacious and functional. Tables lined up in rows, officials reviewing docunts, pens passing from hand to hand, and the constant sound of papers shifting.
On one wall were the tournant rules; on another, the list of last year’s participants, so nas marked, others with annotations. So of the ink looked faded from age, while other lines seed newer, darker, recently added by hands that had done the sa work too many tis to care about appearances.
The room slled faintly of paper, wax, and dust carried in from the street. Thomas walked straight to an open table and stopped in front of the official, who barely looked up.
"Participant or spectator?"
"Participant."
The man nodded, pulled out a form, and slid it over along with a pen. The process was straightforward: first na, last na, experience, abilities.
Thomas answered without hesitation, without giving unnecessary information but without hiding what mattered. He had no tournant experience, but he did have experience with beasts.
That was enough. The official reviewed the docunt quickly, stamped it with a dry seal, and confird his registration.
"Registration complete. You’ll be assigned a beast on the day of the event."
"I recomnd reading the rules."
"No need."
The man didn’t insist. Thomas turned, but instead of leaving, he took a side hallway where the atmosphere changed imdiately. There was no formality there, only direct exchange.
Resellers stood in small groups, so speaking in low voices, others offering prices without pretense, all of them sizing up whoever approached before they spoke.
Thomas stopped in front of one of them. The man evaluated him in silence, calculating.
"What are you looking for?"
"Two seats. Good ones."
"How good?"
"The best."
The vendor pulled out several tickets, chose two, and placed them on the improvised table.
"Front row. Center section. Full view."
Thomas looked at them without touching them.
"Price."
The number was high, clearly inflated, expecting negotiation. Thomas didn’t negotiate.
"That’s fine."
The vendor blinked.
"They’re expensive."
"I know."
Thomas took out the money calmly and placed it on the table. The man counted it carefully before sliding the tickets over to him.
"Enjoy the tournant."
Thomas took them without replying and left the building with the sa calm he had entered with. Outside, the line kept moving slowly. So people glanced at him out of the corner of their eyes, others didn’t.
He slipped the tickets inside his coat: two seats, one for him and one for his sister. He didn’t think about it any further.
◇◆◇
The walk back to the mansion was silent, not because there was no one around, but because Thomas paid attention to nothing that wasn’t necessary. His mind had already moved from one task to the next. The tournant was secured. Now, everything else.
When he stepped through the mansion’s entrance, the atmosphere was the sa as always: controlled silence, absolute order, nothing out of place. Seraphine was in the hallway, standing with her hands behind her back.
"Master."
Thomas nodded without stopping.
"Any changes?"
"No."
That was enough.
"Freja is in the main hall."
Thomas didn’t respond. He walked straight toward the basent stairs. Seraphine followed without making a sound. Each step echoed clearly against the stone, dry and clean. The door was closed. Seraphine opened it.
The air inside hadn’t changed. It was still heavy, cold, enclosed. The light illuminated the center of the room with stark clarity. Inori was still there, tied to the chair, but she was no longer wearing the shirt.
Her body was completely exposed, not as a display, but as the total removal of any comfort. Her wrists and ankles were marked by the pressure, her posture rigid from so long without being able to move freely. Her black hair fell over her face. She didn’t move it aside when they entered.
Seraphine remained to one side. Thomas stepped forward until he stood in front of her.
"Report."
Seraphine looked at her for a mont before answering.
"Extrely resistant."
Her tone was neutral, analytical.
"Different thods were applied: controlled pain, sensory deprivation, disruption of routine, continuous exposure."
A brief pause.
"No relevant changes."
Thomas looked at Inori.
"Does she speak?"
"Only when asked."
"Does she beg?"
"No."
"Does she negotiate?"
"No."
Silence settled over the room. Thomas took a step closer. Inori lifted her head just enough to look at him. Her golden eyes were clear, steady, without fear or desperation.
There was resolve there. Sothing closed, stable, that did not waver. Her throat felt dry, and every breath carried the cold deeper into her chest, but she refused to let any of that show in her face. Pain was simple. Ti was simple.
What mattered was not giving them anything they could use. Not a plea. Not hesitation. Not the smallest sign that they were getting closer.
Thomas held her gaze for a few seconds before speaking.
"The tournant begins in a few days."
Seraphine nodded.
"I know."
"Leave her."
Seraphine turned her face slightly toward him, waiting for the rest.
"Here. Without constant intervention. Let her think, let her process her situation without direct pressure."
Thomas looked at Inori again.
"Not everyone breaks that way."
Seraphine understood.
"A change of approach."
"Yes."
"And in the anti?"
"Study the tournant. The beasts."
Seraphine tilted her head slightly.
"I already know the basics."
"Reinforce it."
"Understood."
Silence settled again. Inori had not reacted at any point. She remained the sa: tied down, silent, firm.
Seraphine spoke once more.
"It’s interesting."
Thomas looked at her.
"What?"
"Her. Most people would’ve given in by now."
Inori didn’t respond.
"It’s not pride," Seraphine continued. "It’s sothing more stable. A solid internal decision."
Thomas showed no surprise.
"I know."
Seraphine nodded.
"Then I’ll leave her like this."
"Do it."
"Freja will want to intervene."
"I’ll handle it."
Seraphine took a step back, then another, and stopped before leaving.
"I’ll get up to speed on the tournant."
"Good."
Seraphine left. The door closed with a dry sound that echoed briefly through the basent. Thomas stayed a few more seconds. He didn’t speak. He didn’t move closer. Neither did Inori. The silence held, heavy and unmoving.
The only sound left was her breathing, slow and asured, controlled despite everything. It didn’t tremble, didn’t falter, didn’t betray strain beyond what was unavoidable.
Ti passed in that stillness, stretching without markers, without interruption. The tension in her muscles never fully released, but neither did it collapse. Even exhaustion seed forced to coexist with sothing deeper, sothing that refused to give way.
Her fingers twitched once, barely noticeable, then stilled again. Not weakness—adjustnt. Her body adapting, conserving, enduring.
Her eyes never left Thomas while he remained there, and even when he turned, that focus didn’t fade imdiately. It lingered, fixed, as if anchoring itself to sothing beyond the room.
Then Thomas turned around, went up the stairs, and closed the door. The basent remained exactly the sa: cold, still, without visible changes, and with a will that had not yet broken.
◇◆◇
In the main hall, Freja was still reclining on the sofa, a tentacle moving slowly through the air, unhurried.
"And?"
Thomas didn’t stop.
"She stays."
Freja tilted her head.
"Really?"
"Yes."
A faint smile appeared on her face.
"I thought she would’ve given in by now."
Thomas didn’t respond directly.
"Focus on your tasks."
Freja let out a low laugh.
"Of course, master."
She leaned back again, relaxed. One of her tentacles brushed lazily against the arm of the sofa, then curled back over the cushion as if even that small movent required no urgency. Thomas paused for a mont before leaving the hall.
"In a few days, we’re going to the tournant."
Freja opened one eye.
"As spectators?"
"Yes."
"How boring."
"It won’t be."
Freja smiled.
"Then I’ll wait."
Thomas left without adding anything more. The mansion fell silent again, operating under the sa controlled order as always.
◇◆◇
The hours passed.
In the basent, ti had no clear reference point. The light didn’t change, and neither did the air. Inori remained in the sa position, tied down, rigid, aware. Her breathing was steady, controlled, but her mind did not stop. She rembered, analyzed, reconstructed every word, every gesture, every decision.
There were no distractions.
There were no interruptions.
Only thought.
The cold slowly seeped into her body. The exhaustion didn’t disappear, but neither did her resolve. She would not yield. It didn’t matter how much ti passed, or how much pain or discomfort there was. Her posture did not break, her gaze did not change, even when no one was watching her.
Upstairs, the mansion continued to function. Seraphine had already begun reviewing information about the tournant: records, types of beasts, behavior patterns. Not out of curiosity, but out of utility. Freja moved without hurry. Thomas maintained control.
The tournant was approaching.
And in the basent, sothing still hadn’t broken.
Not yet.
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