Blake sat in the dark, bloodied and burning with rage, his mind racing. He didn't know how long he hung there, swaying slightly with every shallow breath.
Eventually, footsteps echoed down the corridor. Slow. Polished. Familiar.
The door creaked open.
Rollo entered.
He wore his usual crimson cloak, polished boots clicking on the floor with each calculated step. He looked untouched by time or guilt—stern, controlled, a noble even in a dungeon.
Blake didn't look up.
"The prodigal son comes home," Rollo said with mild contempt. "I expected more fight from you, to be honest."
Blake coughed out a bitter laugh. "You always were good at hurting people who couldn't fight back."
Rollo gave a slight smirk, walking closer, studying his son like a curious insect pinned to a board.
"Why are you here?" Rollo asked.
Blake lifted his gaze. "Where's Mirai?"
That made Rollo smile wider. "Ah. Straight to the point."
He leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming.
"She's with Felix. At the lower labs. We've made… a breakthrough."
Blake's breath hitched. "What kind of breakthrough?"
Rollo folded his hands behind his back. "We've found a way to extract a deviant's Soulbrand… and implant it into another person's core. With some refinement, it could even allow nobles to buy power. Imagine that."
Blake stared at him, stunned.
"You're going to kill her," he said.
"No," Rollo replied. "I'm going to sell her."
His voice was calm, surgical.
"There are people—powerful men—who would pay a fortune for a living, transferable Soulbrand. And the best part?" He leaned in, whispering coldly. "It was Duke Ardan's idea."
Blake's eyes narrowed.
"He came to me weeks ago," Rollo continued. "Offered wealth, land, status… all for my help in capturing the Black Halo. I agreed, under one condition: I get Mirai."
Blake lunged forward, but the chains yanked him back with a cruel snap. Rollo didn't flinch.
"You bastard—!"
"You're in no position to speak," Rollo said, turning to leave. "The world doesn't belong to ghosts like you. It belongs to men with vision."
At the door, Rollo paused.
"They'll extract her Soulbrand by sunrise. If she survives the process, she'll be sold. If not… well, that's the price of experimentation."
He looked back once.
"You should be proud. Your little rebellion is finally useful to someone."
Then he was gone.
The door slammed shut behind him.
Blake was alone, chained, bleeding—but his fury now burned hotter than pain.
The torchlight danced across the damp stone walls as the cell door creaked open again.
Blake didn't bother lifting his head at first. He already knew that walk. Arrogant, rehearsed, heavy with pride.
Draven.
"Still alive?" the second-born sneered as he stepped into the cell, followed by the click of delicate heels.
Blake finally looked up.
Fiona.
She stood beside Draven in a flowing violet dress, her golden hair catching the light. Her brown eyes scanned the cell without emotion. Blake recognized her instantly—the girl from the Black Market. The one who had helped him without knowing who he was. Who had smiled at him without judgment.
Now she stood beside his brother like a trophy.
Draven smirked. "I see you recognize her. Beautiful, isn't she? Fiona—my fiancée."
He let the words hang like poisoned fruit.
"She comes from a noble bloodline. Unlike you. I guess some of us were just born to be wanted."
He stepped closer, kneeling just outside the chain's reach, voice lowering to a venomous whisper.
"You'll never know what it's like to be loved. No woman would ever choose you. You were born a shadow. And shadows die alone."
Blake slowly lifted his eyes. Bloodied, bruised—but his gaze was ice.
Then he spoke. Cold. Calm. Controlled.
"You still think being chosen by a woman makes you a man?" Blake's voice cut through the silence like steel.
He tilted his head, a faint, cruel smile on his cracked lips.
"You're still chasing the approval of people too blind to see who you really are. You want to be loved. I want to be free."
Draven's grin faltered.
Blake leaned forward, chains groaning.
"You think I care about warm smiles and soft touches? About nobles in silk dresses playing house with snakes like you?" He chuckled, dark and low. "You're a puppet with a pretty leash. And you wear it like a crown."
Fiona blinked, her expression flickering. She looked at Draven, then back at Blake—but said nothing.
Blake's eyes gleamed now, burning beneath the bruises.
"I've seen what power looks like. I've stood where gods once walked. Felt what men like you will never understand."
He sat back, the chains rattling like distant thunder.
"So keep your girl. Keep your gold. Keep pretending it matters. Because while you're busy collecting lovers…I'm becoming a legend."
Before Draven could speak, heavy footsteps approached from down the hall.
A deep voice cut through the tension like a blade.
"That's enough."
Draven turned.
Caelum stood at the end of the corridor, his silver armor reflecting the torchlight, cape draped over one shoulder. The eldest of the three brothers. Stoic. Regal. Dangerous.
He stepped forward, slowly, expression unreadable.
Draven chuckled and backed away, raising his hands. "Ah. The perfect one has arrived."
Caelum said nothing to him. His eyes were locked on Blake.
Draven lingered, grinning. "Enjoy your little family reunion." He turned to Fiona. "Come. Let's not waste time on ghosts."
As they left, Fiona glanced over her shoulder—one last time. Then she was gone.
Only Caelum remained. And for a moment, nothing was said.
The heavy iron door slammed shut, their footsteps fading into silence.
Caelum stood just beyond the bars, arms crossed, gaze fixed on Blake.
He hadn't said a word since entering. But he didn't need to.
Blake looked up slowly, still breathing hard, blood staining his jaw. For a while, neither moved. The torchlight crackled softly between them.
Then Caelum stepped forward.
Unlocked the cell.
Walked in. He didn't speak. He just knelt.
And without ceremony, without pride—he unshackled his brother.
Blake didn't understand.
Not at first.
"You're… helping me?" Blake rasped.
Caelum looked up at him, calm but unreadable. "You were always stronger than we gave you credit for."
Blake didn't respond. Couldn't.
Caelum took a breath. His voice was lower now. Gentler. "I used to watch you train in the courtyard. Alone. Day after day. Bleeding. Falling. Getting back up."
He paused, eyes flickering with regret.
"I knew what Draven was doing to you. I said nothing. Because I thought our father expected me to stay silent."
He stood, eyes level with Blake's now. "That was cowardice. I won't be silent anymore."
Blake swallowed hard. His throat burned. Not just from pain. But from something he hadn't felt in years.
Recognition.
Caelum reached out, resting a hand on Blake's shoulder.
"You're my brother. And I failed you. But I'm here now. Not as Rollo's heir. Not as a Tempest. Just… Caelum."
The words hit harder than any blade.
Blake's knees nearly buckled, but he held on.
A silence settled between them again—but it was no longer cold.
It was full of things unsaid. Of years lost. Of wounds that had finally begun to close.
Caelum tightened his grip. "I came to get you out. But not just out of this cell."
He looked him dead in the eye.
"I want to help you stop him."
Blake stared.
And for the first time since entering that dungeon—
—he smiled.
A tired, worn, but real smile.
The brothers stood there for a long moment.
Not enemies.
Not strangers.
Just two broken sons finally facing the storm—together.