Cont’d

Lucian stopped moving. His blades stopped singing. The tension in his shoulders didn’t disappear—it concentrated, pulled inward like a drawn breath before a storm. Voss felt it first because she was closest. Her instincts screamed at her to move, to strike, to do anything before whatever was about to happen actually happened.

But her body didn’t listen.

The Glimmertongue felt it too. Its dark eyes, already wide, somehow grew wider. The creature had spent its whole life reading fear, tasting hesitation, finding the cracks in people’s voices. But this wasn’t fear. This was something else. Something it didn’t understand.

Lucian’s hand moved. Not fast. Not slow. Just final.

His right blade cut across the creature’s chest before it could blink. The edge bit deep, not deep enough to kill, but deep enough to make it understand. The Glimmertongue screamed—its real voice this time, thin and wet—and tried to scramble backward. Its wounded leg dragged. Its free arm clawed at the stone.

Lucian followed.

His left blade came down on its shoulder. Not a cut. A chop. The flat of the sword struck with enough force to crack bone. The creature’s arm went limp. Its fingers stopped clawing.

Voss moved. Her knife came up, silver hand glowing, aimed at Lucian’s exposed back. She didn’t get far. Lucian’s foot shot out without him turning around, caught her in the stomach, and sent her crashing into Gunnar. They went down together in a tangle of limbs and curses.

Mira tried next. One blade left, blood still dripping from her mouth, she lunged at Lucian’s side.

He caught her wrist without looking. Squeezed. The blade dropped. He shoved her away, not hard enough to hurt, just hard enough to put her on the ground next to Voss.

Then he turned back to the Glimmertongue.

The creature had used the two seconds to drag itself toward the side passage. Half its body was already inside the dark. Lucian watched it crawl. He didn’t chase. He raised his hand and traced a symbol in the air. The rune burned gold for a moment, then shot forward and slammed into the stone above the passage entrance.

The rock groaned. Shifted. Sealed.

The Glimmertongue shrieked and clawed at the new wall, but the stone didn’t move. Lucian had just cut off its only escape.

Voss stared. Her knife was still in her hand, but she wasn’t holding it like a weapon anymore. She was holding it like she’d forgotten it was there.

"What the hell are you?" she breathed.

Lucian didn’t answer. He walked toward the creature. Slow. Purposeful. Each step echoed off the cave walls.

The Glimmertongue pressed itself against the sealed passage, its chest heaving, its throat rippling as it tried to find a voice that would stop him. It tried Mira again. Then Gunnar. Then Voss. Then a child. Then an old man. Then Margaret.

Lucian didn’t flinch.

It tried Margie again. This time the voice was softer, younger, the way she sounded when she was little, before all the hate and the anger.

Lucian paused.

For one second, his expression flickered. Not doubt. Not mercy. Something colder. Something that made Voss’s stomach drop.

He crouched in front of the creature, grabbed the silver net with his bare hand—the silver that burned the Glimmertongue’s skin on contact—and yanked. The mesh tightened around the creature’s body, pulling its limbs together, forcing it into a ball. The Glimmertongue howled. Smoke rose from its pale skin. Its teeth gnashed at the air.

Lucian held the net closed with one hand and raised his other. Gold light traced between his fingers—a sealing rune, intricate and layered, far beyond anything a rookie should know. He pressed it into the creature’s chest.

The Glimmertongue went still.

Not dead. Trapped. Paralyzed from the neck down. Its eyes moved, tracking Lucian’s face, but nothing else did.

Lucian stood. He looked down at the creature for a long moment. Then he turned to the rogues.

Voss was on her feet, but she wasn’t attacking. Mira was sitting against the wall, cradling her wrist. Gunnar was still on the ground, blood drying on his face. All three of them were looking at Lucian like they were seeing him for the first time.

Voss spoke first. "You’re not a rookie."

"No."

"You’re not even a normal Prime Human."

"No."

Her jaw tightened. "What are you?"

Lucian didn’t answer. He walked toward her, and she didn’t move. Not because she was brave. Because she knew, in that moment, that moving would be worse.

He stopped in front of her. His blades were still in his hands, but he didn’t raise them.

"Drop your weapons."

Voss looked at her knife. Then at Gunnar’s axe. Then at Mira’s remaining blade.

"Do it," Lucian said. "Or I put you down next to the monster."

Voss’s silver hand pulsed once. Then she opened her fingers. The knife clattered to the stone. Gunnar followed a second later, his axe hitting the ground with a heavy thunk. Mira hesitated, then tossed her blade aside.

Lucian nodded. He turned to the sealed passage, raised his hand, and traced another rune. The stone groaned and slid open.

"Cora," he called. "It’s clear."

Footsteps echoed through the tunnel. Cora emerged first, sword drawn, eyes scanning the cave. She saw the Glimmertongue—still, smoking, netted—and then she saw Voss and her team, disarmed and bleeding, and then she saw Lucian standing in the middle of it all with both blades out and not a scratch on him.

She stopped.

Mason came next, heat rippling off his gauntlets. He took one look at the scene and went very still. Sera followed, crossbow raised, but she didn’t fire. Her eyes moved from the creature to the rogues to Lucian, and something in her expression shifted.

Derek was last, staff in hand, ghosts swirling around him. He almost tripped when he saw the cave. "What the hell happened in here?"

Lucian sheathed his blades. "The creature is contained. Voss and her team are secured."

Cora walked past him to look at the Glimmertongue. She crouched, studied the sealing rune on its chest, and looked back at Lucian. "You did this?"

"Yes."

"Alone?"

"Yes."

She stood. Her face was unreadable. "Anyone else would be dead."

Lucian didn’t answer.

Mason moved to secure the rogues, pulling zip-ties from his belt. He didn’t ask questions. He just worked. Sera covered him with her crossbow, but her eyes kept drifting to Lucian. Derek stood near the entrance, staff raised, but his hands were shaking.

Voss watched all of them. Then she looked at Lucian.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-one."

She laughed. It was bitter, dry, the laugh of someone who had just realized they’d been fighting a different category of existence.

"You’re twenty-one years old, and you just took down a Glimmertongue and three veteran hunters at the same time."

Lucian met her eyes. "You attacked my mission. You got in my way. It used my sister’s voice."

Voss’s smile faded.

"That was your mistake."

Cora turned away from the creature and looked at the team. Mason had finished securing the rogues. Sera had lowered her crossbow. Derek was staring at Lucian like he’d never seen him before.

She thought about the first day she’d met him, when her system had shown her nothing but question marks. She thought about the fight in the cafeteria, when he’d moved like water and she hadn’t landed a single hit. She thought about all the times she’d wondered what he was hiding.

Now she knew.

Not everything. But enough.

"Let’s go," she said. "We’ve got a monster to deliver and hunters to book."

Mason hauled Gunnar to his feet. Sera covered Mira. Derek, still pale, fell in beside Lucian.

"That was insane," Derek whispered.

"I know."

"You could have died."

"That’s impossible."

Derek looked at him. "Are you okay?"

Lucian thought about the creature using Margie’s voice. He thought about the cold rage that had flooded his chest. He thought about how close he’d come to killing it instead of capturing it.

"No," he said. "But I will be."

They walked out of the cave, leaving the Glimmertongue netted and still, leaving Voss silent and defeated.

Behind them, the cave was quiet. The only sound was the slow drip of water and the creature’s shallow, forced breath.

Voss stared at the ceiling and closed her eyes.

"Twenty-one years old," she muttered. "What a load of crap."