A single light danced upon Solomon's fingertips, illuminating the decrepit tunnel worn by the passage of time. The glow pulsed unnaturally, bouncing off the walls in defiance of reality. It wasn't the kind of light one could explain—it was too sharp, too deliberate, as though the air itself bent to his will.
Mirak trailed behind him, squinting as he tried to keep up. The sound of faint dripping echoed in the narrow space, but the shaking of his shackles drowned out most of the other noises. He wished he could silence them, but every jingle reminded him of his place: bound, powerless, and at the mercy of a madman.
"So," Solomon began, his voice casual, almost playful, "are you finally ready to talk? Tell me—what Sorcerer are you reporting to?"
"Reporting?" Mirak parroted, confusion laced with irritation. His eyes narrowed, adjusting to the dim light as he struggled to interpret Solomon's intent.
"Yes, reporting," Solomon said, brushing a strand of silver hair from his face with an exasperated sigh. His violet eyes flickered back to Mirak, full of sharp amusement. "You're not very good at hiding your Atta usage. Even a novice could feel the way it seeps out of you. So, who sent you?"
Mirak's jaw tightened, and he raised his remaining hand, the jingling of his shackles accentuating the venom in his tone. "If I were working for a Sorcerer, I wouldn't be shackled like some criminal."
Solomon waved a dismissive hand, his grin deepening. "Oh, I've seen Sorcerers do far worse than slap chains on their pets. Shackles wouldn't make me trust you any more."
They stopped in front of a damp, crumbling section of the wall. Solomon let out a theatrical sigh, turning back to Mirak with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Listen..." He dragged out the word, clearly waiting for Mirak to respond.
"Mirak Windgust," Mirak finally said, his voice clipped.
"Well, Mirak," Solomon replied, as though savoring the name, "I'm trying to help you. Very few people can continuously output Atta like you do, but if you want to keep spying on me—or whatever it is you're doing—you should at least be a little more discreet."
"I'm not a spy," Mirak hissed, the heat in his voice matching the frustration boiling under his skin.
Solomon arched a brow, feigning disappointment. "Well, that's unfortunate."
Mirak blinked. "You want me to be a spy?"
Solomon shrugged, his voice light as though they were discussing the weather. "It's easier when you know who the spy is. I could even toss you a few juicy secrets now and then, if you asked nicely."
"I'm not a spy!" Mirak snapped again, his patience wearing thin. Then, warily, he asked, "And what do you mean by 'continuous output'?"
Solomon laughed—a rich, melodic sound that only deepened Mirak's unease. "Interesting. A conductor who doesn't even realize what he is."
"I've never been called that," Mirak said through gritted teeth. "You have the wrong person."
Solomon stopped inspecting the wall for a moment and hummed thoughtfully. "Nice didn't work. Let's try the truth, then. You have two options, Mirak. One: die for being a spy of the Sorcerer's Lodge—"
"What?" Mirak interrupted, his disbelief cutting through Solomon's ultimatum.
"—or," Solomon continued, raising a finger to emphasize his point, "you make a Contract with me."
Mirak grunted, his gaze darting around the darkened space. There was no escape. Not here. Not with him. "That doesn't sound like much of a choice."
Solomon smiled wider, his teeth gleaming in the dim light. "It's still a choice. I could kill you right now and wipe my hands of the whole mess. But," he said, motioning toward the shadowy depths of the corridor, "if you'd rather take your chances, the only other exit I'll allow you is the one the Silver Mark assassin used."
Mirak scowled, muttering under his breath, "Thanks."
They walked deeper into the corridor, the silence between them growing heavier with every step. Slowly, the tunnel began to widen, faint traces of light creeping in to replace the sphere of illumination that Solomon had conjured.
Mirak rubbed at his face instinctively, only to stop short when his missing hand failed to reach his cheek. The memory of its absence stung anew. Damn it.
They emerged onto the edge of a jagged cliff. Waves crashed violently below, drowning out all but the howling wind. The sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the water in streaks of gold and crimson. Mirak's stomach churned as his boots scraped against the cliff's edge. The marks on the stone—deep gouges, worn white by salt and time—spoke of violent struggles and desperate ascents.
Solomon glanced down, seemingly unbothered by the perilous drop. "It seems our assassin climbed up the cliff. Determined, aren't they?"
"A man couldn't do this," Mirak said, his voice low and uneasy.
"Maybe not a regular man," Solomon admitted, throwing his hands behind his head, "but a Silver Mark could. They're not like us. They're hunting dogs, bred and molded in silver roses. Monsters. Once they've locked onto a scent, they'll follow it anywhere—up cliffs, through storms, even into death."
Mirak turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing. "Why are you telling me this? Why would I know who sent them?"
Solomon smirked, tilting his head lazily. "Oh, I was just thinking out loud."
Mirak's jaw tightened, his thoughts souring. "You didn't even need my help," he accused.
"So you've finally figured that out," Solomon replied, his grin sharpening like a knife. "But I still want your answer."
Mirak's gaze flicked to the cliff again, weighing his options. The Revenant still held secrets. Lancelot still had answers. He couldn't die here. Not like this.
He sighed, "I can't give you an answer right now, but I'll tell you this—I'm not a Sorcerer."
Solomon studied him for a moment, then nodded. "Fair enough." He looked almost... amused.
Mirak exhaled. "We should head back."
Solomon's grin stretched wider as he clapped a firm hand on Mirak's shoulder. "Certainly. Let's take my way."
Before Mirak could protest, Solomon stepped off the cliff, dragging him along.
The wind screamed around them as they plummeted, tearing at Mirak's clothes and peeling his eyes wide in terror. The ocean below churned like a beast waiting to devour them whole. Waves collided with jagged stone in bursts of white froth, each crash a reminder of the fate that awaited him.
Mirak's body thrashed instinctively as he clawed at Solomon's arm, but the Heir's grip was unyielding, like iron forged in hellfire. His other hand dangled at his side, useless and gone, and the shackles on his wrists clinked in mocking rhythm with the rushing wind. Solomon, meanwhile, looked almost serene—his eyes closed, his silver hair flowing wildly in the gusts, a maddeningly tranquil smile fixed on his face.
"You're insane!" Mirak bellowed, his voice raw against the roar of the wind. Panic coiled in his chest like a viper, squeezing every ounce of air from his lungs. "You're absolutely insane!"
Solomon's eyes fluttered open, and for the first time, Mirak saw them fully—the haunting hues of violet, rippling with sapphire undertones like a calm ocean concealing something monstrous in its depths. The sight froze Mirak's breath mid-scream.
"Ah," Solomon said, as though they were casually discussing the weather. "It's been a long time since I've felt so alive, hasn't it?"
"We're going to die!" Mirak shouted, his body thrashing harder against Solomon's hold.
Solomon tilted his head, bemused. "Die?" He laughed—a deep, resonant sound that grated against Mirak's nerves. "Oh, Mirak. If you want to die, you'll need to try harder than this."
And with that, he let go.
For a brief, horrifying moment, there was nothing but air. No support, no balance—just a hollow, bone-deep terror that filled Mirak's chest as he tumbled toward the waiting maw of the ocean. The rocks below jutted out like teeth, ready to impale him on impact. He flailed helplessly, the shackles on his wrists rattling in defiance of his attempts to right himself. His heart hammered wildly, as though it wanted to leap free of his chest and escape the fall on its own.
This couldn't be happening. It couldn't end like this.
Time slowed as the world blurred around him. His mind raced, frantic and scattered. Atta. He needed to call it, to force it into action—but what good would it do? Atta required precision, control. Neither of which he had while plummeting like a stone. His options narrowed to none. He'd hit the rocks. It was over.
And then it happened.
Heat exploded from Mirak's core, a sensation unlike anything Atta had ever given him. It wasn't the familiar, forceful push of power—it was a burn, a gnawing, consuming flame that seemed to devour everything around it, even his own body. His muscles trembled under the weight of it, his veins igniting with a fire that felt ancient and raw. His senses sharpened, and for a split second, the world around him slowed even further. He could feel it: the air shifting around his body, the distant crash of waves, the grains of sand carried by the wind.
Then came the impact—not against the rocks or the water, but against something invisible yet solid, a platform of force that shouldn't have existed. Mirak gasped as his descent came to an abrupt halt, his knees buckling under him. He crouched on a shimmering surface that hovered above the raging ocean, rippling like heat waves in the air. Pain shot through his left shoulder and knees, his body protesting the impossible weight of his survival.
He dared to glance down. Beneath him, the waves continued their endless assault against the cliffs, oblivious to the miracle above them. His breath hitched as he realized he was suspended above certain death, held aloft by... by something. By him.
"What...?" Mirak rasped, his voice barely audible over the wind. "What is this...?"
A figure landed gracefully on the shimmering platform beside him, boots making no sound against the impossible surface. Solomon Fell stood there, completely unbothered, his hair barely ruffled by the wind. His smile was wider than ever, a picture of smug satisfaction.
Mirak finally got a proper look at his eyes, and he wished he hadn't. Those violet hues were unnatural, alive with faint, shifting currents of sapphire. They shimmered with a hidden force, like an uncharted ocean hiding creatures that defied comprehension. It was as though they were portals, gazing into another layer of reality entirely. Something ancient and vast lurked within them, and for a moment, Mirak felt unbearably small.
Solomon leaned down slightly, tilting his head as if to examine Mirak more closely. "Fascinating," he murmured, his voice low and almost reverent. "Give a man a challenge, and he'll reach for the impossible. And here you are, my little Conduit. Burning brighter than I expected."
Mirak barely registered the words. His heart was pounding too loudly, his body trembling from the strain of whatever he'd just done. The platform beneath him quivered faintly, as though responding to his lack of control.
"What did you do to me?" Mirak managed to choke out.
Solomon chuckled, the sound rich and full of amusement. "Me? I didn't do anything. That's all you, my dear Mirak." He gestured vaguely toward the shimmering platform. "Transference. Quite the unexpected talent for someone with your... lack of experience."
"Transference?" Mirak echoed, shaking his head. "I don't know what you're talking about. I've never done this before."
"Clearly," Solomon said, crouching down to Mirak's level. "But it's there, in you. A flame just waiting for the right spark. I suppose we should be grateful for the Silver Mark—you might never have discovered it otherwise."
"Grateful?!" Mirak snarled, glaring up at him. "You dropped me off a cliff! And are holding me by my shirt."
"And it worked, didn't it?" Solomon replied with maddening calm, standing upright holding onto Mirak's collar. "I'm quite good at pushing people to their limits."
Mirak clenched his fists, feeling the surface beneath him waver again. "You're insane."
Solomon laughed. "You keep saying that, as if I'm not already aware."
Without warning, the platform beneath them shifted, lifting them higher into the air. Mirak froze, his breath caught in his throat as the shimmering force obeyed Solomon's casual gestures. It carried them upward, gliding smoothly along the cliffs until they reached solid ground once more. Solomon stepped off with ease, carrying Mirak with him.
"Shall we continue?" Solomon said, his smile still firmly in place, setting him down and offering a hand.
Mirak slapped the hand away, staggering to his feet on his own. "You're a madman."
"I think this is the beginning of something beautiful," Solomon said with a grin, brushing off the rejection as though it had never happened.
Mirak glared at him, his chest still heaving from the adrenaline. "You're going to be the death of me."
"Perhaps," Solomon replied, his grin sharp and full of promise. "But not today."