Chapter Text
Of course, I couldn’t see the future, and I won’t claim to be smart enough to manipulate something of this scale, but I took an educated guess and pushed a few buttons, and voila, I was right. My assumption was based on five things:
Firstly, Gunlaug had been looking for an excuse to put a leash on Sasrir, and by extension, on me. He couldn’t do it openly. Doing so would risk damaging his relationship with Gemma and the other Hunters, and the Host was already fractious enough without adding more fuel to the fire. But the intent was there. I could see it in his mannerisms, in the way his eyes lingered on Sasrir whenever he moved, in the subtle shifts of his voice whenever he addressed me. He was waiting for an opportunity, and the moment this trial appeared, he snatched it up without hesitation.
Secondly, Tessai’s ambitions were no secret. Gunlaug tolerated him because he was useful and because he was one of the oldest Sleepers on the Forgotten Shore, but love? Respect? Trust? None of that existed between them. The man was a blunt instrument, and Gunlaug treated him like one. Judging by what I remembered from the novel and everything I had gathered over the past months, Tessai was little more than a loud, volatile placeholder. I realized early on that if I provoked Tessai, and forced him into the spotlight, Gunlaug would happily push him forward to collide with Sasrir. No matter who won the duel, Gunlaug benefited-he would learn the powers of one side, and the other would be humiliated in defeat. Actually killing Tessai, though—that was beyond what he expected. That small surprise brought me neatly to the third point.
Thirdly, the Guard faction was already fracturing-the Guards had always been treated as lesser than the Hunters and Pathfinders, as grunts and muscle despised by basically every other Faction in the Castle. Ambitious idiots wanting promotions, old loyalties getting shaky, Harus looming over everyone like a nightmare you couldn’t wake up from… it was only a matter of time before someone made a move. Whether it was us or them didn’t actually matter. Something was going to give. Now, with Tessai gone, the whole thing became a powderkeg waiitng to explode-Gunlaug needed to secure order, and fast.
Fourthly, Gunlaug had a superiority complex. A very large one. From his mannerisms, to the hierarchical structure he built in the Bright Castle, to the very people he chose as his Lieutenants, everything pointed toward a man obsessed with control. Not control through brute force alone, but through image, through order, through dominance planted in the minds of his subordinates. He wanted to be feared, admired, and obeyed in equal measure. That meant he would never allow the Guard Faction, Tessai’s faction, to remain headless. And he certainly didn’t trust any of Tessai’s remaining followers to fill the role.
That was why the first and fourth points overlapped so neatly. Sasrir could replace Tessai cleanly, efficiently, without threatening the structure Gunlaug held so dearly. But Sasrir alone was dangerous. Too independent. Too unpredictable. So he needed something he could control. Something that would keep Sasrir in check.
Which is why my presence… my involvement… became the perfect chain to wrap around Sasrir’s neck and keep him loyal.
And lastly? This one’s a bit embarrassing. I kind of assumed that if things went very bad—catastrophically bad—Sasrir would be able to kill everyone in that room before they killed me. Or at least buy enough time for some miraculous stroke of luck to save my hide. Not the kind of plan you put on a chalkboard, but a plan is a plan.
So, I connected those threads, made a few risky gambles, and as usual, fate rewarded me with the worst possible version of success. Not death, not freedom—just getting shackled to the Bright Lord with a smile plastered on my face.
Looking back on it now, I can admit it: I had no idea what exactly would happen in that moment. I didn’t know if Gunlaug would explode in golden fire, or if the Guards would mutiny, or if Harus would swing that monstrous flail and pulp someone just to make a point. All I knew was that the outcome would revolve around Sasrir, and whatever happened to him would ripple onto me whether I liked it or not.
So when I bowed, when I thanked the Bright Lord for his mercy, when I pretended I wasn’t being neatly boxed in like a domesticated pet, it wasn’t due to fear. It was confidance, the steadfast and almost religious belief that no matter what happened, I would come through it, me and Sasrir both.
And the funny thing? It worked.
It actually worked.
Though if I had known what that choice would cost me later…
Well. Maybe I still would’ve done it.
Maybe.
Because at the end of the day, in the Forgotten Shore, you don’t get to pick between good options.
You pick between losing a finger or losing the whole arm.
And I’ve always been partial to keeping my limbs.
------------------------------------
The trial concludes at last, the echoes of the verdict still hanging in the chamber like smoke. With a curt gesture from Gunlaug, the Host is dismissed. The great doors thunder open and the assembled Hunters file out in a wave of rustling cloaks and murmured speculation—everyone except the Lieutenants. And, of course, the two culprits at the heart of this storm.
Kai is swept away with the departing crowd, glancing back only once before the doors shut behind him.
Silence settles. Heavy. Electric.
Gunlaug remains seated high upon the dais, glaring down at Adam and Sasrir with smouldering fury. His massive frame looks carved from some ancient, furnace-lit stone—rigid, furious, unyielding.
Harus stands off to the side, still in his monstrous form. He hasn’t bothered to shrink himself back down. Muscles coil under his darkened skin, runes still faintly glowing as the enormous spiked chainball dangles from his wrist, scraping a deep semicircle into the floor every time it sways.
Seishan is motionless as a glacier—expression blank, posture ramrod-straight, her very presence radiating an arctic chill that rivals Tessai’s Aspect. Gemma, by contrast, looks deeply unsettled; he keeps shifting his weight, eyes darting between Gunlaug and Sasrir as though waiting for the whole hall to erupt into violence.
Kido stands closest to the wall, shoulders tense but posture otherwise controlled. There’s nerves beneath her composure, yes—but also familiarity. Almost as if this kind of aftermath is something she’s weathered before.
Gunlaug finally speaks, his voice low but resonant enough to shake the rafters.
“This stunt,” he growls, “will never be committed again.”
He directs the words at Sasrir, but the chill of his authority spreads to everyone present. The implication is unmistakable: any future act of defiance—however small—will be punished with immediate, merciless execution. No warnings. No trials.
His burning gaze fixes on Sasrir.
“You will familiarize yourself with your new obligations as head of the Guards,” Gunlaug commands. “Every aspect of them. Every rule. Every limit. You are done behaving like a stray dog biting at shadows.”
Only then does the Titan turn toward Adam.
“As for you…” Gunlaug leans forward, elbows on his knees. “You may continue your duties. You may live as you have.” A beat of air hangs sharp between them. “But you are no longer a member of the Hunters.”
The words land like a verdict heavier than the one pronounced earlier.
“You will not leave this Castle without express permission.” His tone softens only in the sense that lava softens stone. “You are, for all intents and purposes, confined.”
House arrest—declared by the man who controls the entire mountain.
Gunlaug sits back. The sentence is final.
Adam lifts his head slightly, trying to keep his voice steady.
“…Do I have any other duties?” he asks. “And what about the charity work in the outer Settlement?”
For a moment, Gunlaug says nothing. His posture slouches, his gaze sharpening as if Adam has just reminded him of something trivial yet annoyingly inconvenient. He drums one thick finger on the arm of his seat, each tap like a distant hammer striking iron.
“Hmph.”
He leans back, thinking it over with the reluctant patience of a man deciding whether to crush or tolerate an insect.
“The charity acts,” Gunlaug mutters, “will halt.”
The final word cracks like a whip.
“If you and Sasrir”—his eyes flick to the other troublemaker—“show discipline for the next several weeks, then I will consider allowing you outside again. Under watch. And only under watch.”
A faint tension runs through the Lieutenants, but none dare speak.
Gunlaug shifts his attention fully to Adam, the weight of his authority bearing down.
“As for your duties…” His lip curls slightly, not quite a smile, more like disdain made visible. “Do whatever you want.”
He spreads a hand, dismissive.
“So long as it is within the Castle walls. And so long as every action is reported to me. I care nothing for how you pass the time, only that you remain contained.”
His fingers close again, forming a fist.
“And remember what will happen if you disobey me.”
The hall grows colder, quieter—the kind of quiet that comes just before a sword is drawn.
Adam bows low, letting the moment settle. When he rises, Gunlaug’s attention has already shifted—sharp and predatory—toward Gemma.
The Hunter Primarch stiffens, shoulders straightening, spine taut as a spear shaft. His jaw tightens just enough to show he knows what’s coming.
“You,” Gunlaug growls, “have grown lax.”
Every word drips with accusation.
“I warned you before—keep a leash on your subordinates. And today proved that you cannot even manage that.”
Gemma does not flinch, but the silence around him feels like a wall closing in.
Gunlaug leans forward in his throne, voice dropping into something colder.
“If the Hunters wish to exploit the Settlement, then do it properly. Tighten discipline. And if anyone outside this castle becomes an obstacle…” His fingers tap the armrest once. “Then make certain there are no witnesses left to speak of it.”
The command lands like a thrown boulder.
Even Harus pauses, his oversized frame going still.
Seishan’s brow creases—barely, but enough to show disapproval.
Kido inhales sharply through her nose.
Sasrir’s gaze flicks sideways, unreadable.
The air grows thick, charged with the unspoken horror of what Gunlaug has just made official.
Gemma allows himself only one reaction: a slow, measured bow.
“…Understood,” he answers.
That is all. No protest, no hesitation.
And with that single word, the tension—while not gone—loosens just enough for the room to breathe again.
Everyone is dismissed with a flick of Gunlaug’s hand. "Harus, show the two brats to their new home."
Harus stomps forward, still half a mountain of mutated muscle—until, with a series of cracking pops, his spine folds back into its hunched shape. His swollen limbs shrink. The chainball Memory unravels from around his wrist and dissolves into a puff of grey motes. By the time he turns to Adam and Sasrir, he looks once again like the crooked, awkward giant he normally appears to be.
“Come,” he mutters.
He leads them out of the Hall and into the arteries of the Bright Castle. The walk is long and winding—past arched windows lit by the red haze outside, past statues of ancient Sleepers, past bored guards who fall silent at the sight of Sasrir.
Harus says nothing the entire way. Neither does Sasrir.
Adam only hears footsteps, echoing in a steady rhythm that does little to calm the knot in his stomach.
Finally, they stop at a door—thick, iron-banded, clearly not part of the Hunters’ wing.
Harus turns.
His small, sunken eyes lock onto Adam’s face with unsettling precision.
“I know you’re planning something,” he says flatly.
Not a question. A certainty.
Adam keeps his expression as neutral as possible.
Harus continues, voice low but not hostile. “I don’t care what it is.”
A beat of silence follows.
“So long as you pay respect to Lord Gunlaug,” he adds, leaning down just enough to make his shadow fall over Adam, “and remember your place, you and I… will have no problems.”
His words are not a threat.
They are a boundary.
A warning wrapped in no small amount of malicious intent.
He stares a moment longer, then steps aside and gestures toward the door.
“Go on. Settle in.”
Once the door shuts behind them, Adam waits—listens. Footsteps fade down the hall. No shadows linger under the crack. No breathing except theirs.
Safe enough.
He exhales, loosening the tension in his shoulders.
Sasrir speaks first.
“Well?” the shadow asks, voice low but expectant. “What next?”
Adam blinks.
He had prepared himself for criticism—for a lecture, or one of Sasrir’s barbed accusations about recklessness.
But Sasrir only stands there, arms loosely folded, head slightly inclined.
No scowl.
No judgement.
“I thought you’d be angrier,” Adam admits.
Sasrir tilts his head. “Why? I exist to follow your commands,” he says simply. “And I saw what you were aiming for. You were reckless… but not wrong.”
Adam lets out a small, dry laugh. “High praise.”
He sits down on the nearest bed. The mattress dips under him, springs creaking—far softer than anything in the Hunters’ quarters. He presses his palm into it, testing the give. Comfortable enough to think, or to plot.
Sasrir steps closer. “So. What now?”
Adam hums, eyes drifting to the ceiling as the shape of the coming weeks forms in his mind.
“Now,” he says slowly, “we let things cool.”
Sasrir waits.
“The gamble paid off,” Adam continues. “Gunlaug got what he wanted—a leash on you, and on me. That makes him feel in control. When people feel in control, they relax. And when they relax…”
A faint, sly smile touches Adam’s lips.
“…they stop watching quite so tightly.”
Sasrir nods once, silent encouragement.
“So we wait,” Adam says. “Let the fractured relationships mend. Let the outrage over Tessai fade. Let the political ground settle until moving on it won’t sink us.”
He raises a finger.
“Step one: gather influence over the Guards. Quietly. A Primarch has followers, and you’ll need yours solidly behind you.”
A second finger.
“Step two: earn back my freedom. Bit by bit. Good behaviour, small favours, showing Gunlaug that keeping me locked up is more trouble than it’s worth.”
Then a third finger.
“And step three: deepen our ties with Seishan and Gemma. They’re the moderates. They’re the ones with doubts. If the Guards stand behind you, and the Handmaidens and Hunters trust me…”
His eyes narrow, calculating. “…our position becomes unshakeable.”
Sasrir’s shadowy form leans in slightly.
“And after that?”
Adam lies back on the bed, hands folded behind his head, gaze distant.
“After that,” he murmurs, “we’ll see just how far Gunlaug’s leash actually stretches.”
The room falls into comfortable silence—two conspirators, one plan, and a Castle that has no idea what’s growing inside it.
------------------------------------
Seishan glides through the winding hallways of the Bright Castle, her movements measured, fluid, almost hypnotic. Even alone, she carries herself with the unyielding poise of a princess, untouched by the shadows that cling to the stone walls and the chill that seeps through the cracks. The corridors, dimly lit and echoing faintly with distant footsteps, seem almost to part for her, as if the darkness itself respects her presence.
She is older than most Sleepers—almost a decade of experience etched subtly into her every gesture—but it only adds to her allure. Her pale grey skin, smooth and unmarked, glows faintly in the torchlight, lending her an ethereal quality that draws the eye whether intended or not. Her beauty is not simple or ornamental; it is precise, deliberate, and layered with danger. Every step, every tilt of her head, carries an unspoken warning: she is not to be underestimated.
Her eyes, cool and calculating, scan the hall as she moves, noting details most would miss. A loose stone, a flicker of movement, a shadow too long in its place—everything is cataloged, filed, and stored. She is deadly in the way only someone who has lived long enough to understand the fragility of power can be. Grace and lethality are entwined in her like a shadow and its edge, impossible to separate, impossible to ignore.
Even when the faint sounds of life—or plotting—reach her ears, she remains untouched, an island of icy control, moving through the decay and darkness with an elegance that seems almost unnatural. Those who have encountered her know, immediately, that she is both a weapon and a lure: every glance, every measured motion, is designed to command, to ensnare, to dominate without a word.
She is Seishan of Clan Song, and in her passage through the castle, the stones themselves seem to acknowledge it.
But once she steps into the Quarters of the Handmaidens, the aura of untouchable grace shifts slightly, softened by familiarity. Surrounded by her sisters—those who have trained under her, served alongside her, and shared in the burdens of life at the Bright Castle—Seishan allows a trace of warmth to touch her features. The rigid perfection of her posture eases; her shoulders relax, the icy edge in her eyes dimming just enough to reveal the woman beneath the legend. Here, she is at home, commanding yet approachable, and she can afford the rare luxury of dropping the constant vigilance the rest of the castle demands.
A small cluster of younger girls swarms toward her, voices a mixture of reverence and curiosity. They press for details about the recent trials, the whispers that have rippled through the Castle like wildfire. “Did what they say really happen?” one asks, eyes wide, while another nudges closer, seeking confirmation of the rumors that have inflamed imaginations and sown unease. “Will anything change now? Will the Castle be different?”
Seishan kneels slightly to meet their gaze, the faintest smile brushing her lips, not of indulgence but of measured reassurance. She answers carefully, each word chosen to soothe without revealing vulnerability. “The Castle changes for no one,” she says softly, her tone both gentle and firm. “It bends only to those who understand its rules and respect its bounds. The trials… they are part of that order. What is necessary has been done, and life continues.”
The girls hang on her words, absorbing her authority and calm like a lifeline. Even in this intimate circle, Seishan’s presence commands attention; her ability to balance approachability with control reminds them why she is both mentor and paragon. Here, the deadly elegance of the Hallways softens into the warmth of leadership, but the underlying sharpness—the lethal precision born of centuries—remains, hidden beneath the grace and poise she allows them to see.
In these quarters, surrounded by her sisters, Seishan is still formidable, but approachable; still wise, but capable of a small, rare tenderness. The Castle outside may be harsh and unyielding, but within these walls, she can breathe—and guide them with a subtle hand, showing that even the most untouchable of figures can have a heart for those who serve faithfully.
It was a trick Seishan had learned from her mother, one she had taken deeply to heart: to disarm fear and curiosity alike with a mixture of warmth and subtle charm, making even the most guarded feel safe in her presence. One girl in particular, a petite handmaiden with soot-black hair, stepped forward hesitantly. Her eyes were wide, betraying more than words ever could, and the rapid thrum of her heartbeat was almost audible in the tense silence between them. A slight tremor in her voice gave away her secret concern. "About Adam...how is he?"
Seishan’s lips curved into a playful, almost conspiratorial smile. She leaned down just enough to ruffle the girl’s hair gently, her touch light, teasing. “And what is this I hear about Adam?” she murmured softly, the tone laced with just enough amusement to draw a reaction. The girl’s cheeks burned crimson, and she stammered a flustered denial, words tumbling over themselves as she tried to regain composure.
"I'm just-I was just worried about him, you know. Gunlaug and Tessai are all bullies, and he seems so helpless...he's a good person, I don't want him to get hurt."
Seishan chuckled, a warm, musical sound that seemed to fill the room and ease the tension instantly. She didn’t press further, letting the moment linger just long enough to make the girl squirm, then relented with gentle authority. “Relax,” she said, her voice soft but firm, “both Adam and Sasrir are quite fine. There’s nothing more for you to worry about.”
The girl blinked, relief flooding her expression, and Seishan allowed herself a faint, indulgent smile. It was a small, private victory: a lesson in reassurance, control, and the art of easing the young into confidence—one she had mastered long ago, and one she wielded with effortless grace.
It was no secret a few of her sisters had romantic inclination towards Adam-he was young, fresh faced, considerate and handsome. He never discriminated against them for being of the fairer sex, and was happy to offer his help to anyone who asked.
Still, speaking of that blonde young man with the unusualy blue eyes, her thoughts wandered. She had detected the faint trace of conspiracy clinging to him—the same subtle scent she had noticed the day they first met, after Gunlaug had dragged them both in for interrogation for speaking with Huntress Athena. Beneath his calm smile, the effortless politeness of his gestures, she sensed a kindred spirit—someone who played a role with careful precision, yet harbored far darker intentions in the hidden depths of his heart.
Her investigations that followed their first meeting, fueled by nothing more than quiet curiosity, revealed layers that only deepened her unease. The man appeared, outwardly at least, deeply religious, adhering to ancient covenants she had heard her mother mention only once or twice. In an age where most had forgotten such things, he clung to them with quiet conviction, yet did so without fanfare. Adam shared his beliefs openly, with a warmth and accessibility that made it seem natural, almost disarming.
But beyond his piety, it was his uncanny ability to connect with others that unsettled her most. He had a way with words—subtle, persuasive, almost hypnotic at times—that rivaled her own. Even in casual conversation, he could draw people in, earn trust, and leave them unaware they had been influenced. That effortless charisma, paired with the hidden cunning she had glimpsed, marked him as a dangerous force—someone who could shape events quietly but decisively. And in her mind, she could not ignore the warning bells his presence rang: a man so unassuming on the surface yet so capable beneath could topple structures, sway loyalties, and unsettle the balance of power in ways most would never see coming.
After all, Seishan had been taught to command hearts from her mother, trained in the subtle, exacting arts of a Great Clan from the moment she could walk. Every gesture, every word, every glance had been honed into a tool of influence. She knew instinctively how to bend situations, to sway people without overt force, to make them act as she wished without ever realizing it.
But Adam… where had he learned such arts, and from whom? He claimed his Aspect allowed him to read surface thoughts and emotions, a gift that might explain some of his uncanny timing in conversation, some of his deft manipulation of interactions. Yet even knowing what to say next, even sensing the flicker of a thought or a heartbeat, did not automatically grant one the skill to wield people so effortlessly. There had to be more—either he had received rigorous, specialized training somewhere hidden from her, or he was simply a natural, someone born with a rare instinct for reading and shaping those around him.
Either possibility set her nerves on edge. A trained manipulator could be precise and deadly, methodical in undermining rivals, while a natural prodigy could be unpredictable, capable of improvising influence in ways no rulebook could contain. In either case, Adam was dangerous. The kind of danger that could unravel plans, sway loyalties, and unsettle the delicate hierarchy of the Bright Castle without leaving a trace.
Seishan’s fingers curled slightly at her sides, subtle but tense, as she considered him: not merely another Sleeper in the Castle, but a variable she could neither ignore nor underestimate.
Above all of that was the presence of Sasrir, though. If Adam carried the faint, familiar scent of one of her own—someone who wore their intentions just beneath the surface—then Sasrir was of a completely different breed: like a Knight born of Clan Valor. Every movement he made exuded lethal precision, as if death itself lingered in the wake of his steps. His accomplishments over the past six months alone spoke volumes of his skill, a catalogue of feats that would intimidate even seasoned Hunters.
But it was what lay beneath that unnerved her most. She had tried, more than once, to probe him, to read the currents of his blood and the subtle rhythms that betrayed intention. And yet, time and again, she gleaned nothing. No telltale pulse, no flicker of fear, no hint of desire or calculation—he was utterly unreadable. In that moment, the thought struck her: he was closer to a souless Echo than a flesh-and-blood human.
The most disturbing part, in her mind, was that when she focused intently, trying to map the flow of life within him, she felt… nothing. As if his body were a vessel animated by purpose alone, a living shadow with no heartbeat to betray it. Sasrir existed on a plane that Seishan could not measure, an enigma wrapped in steel and silence, bound only to Adam—and that bond, inexplicably, radiated a power she could neither penetrate nor ignore. Why the man stuck to the blonde priest, she and the rest of the Bright Castle had no clue; and everyone was dying to find out the price for the loyalty for a monster such as Sasrir.
Together, the two posed a threat far larger than either alone. And yet, instead of striking preemptively, instead of eliminating the danger before it could grow, some inscrutable force compelled her to extend an olive branch. Why? Was it Adam’s acts of charity, his small gestures that shone like sparks in a world consumed by Dream Realm depravity and cruelty? Unlikely. She was no naive maiden, no girl whose heart could be swayed by kindness or charm.
Then why? Even Seishan could not answer that. All she knew was the undeniable truth of her actions: she was gambling—not just with her own position, but with the lives and futures of every sister behind her. And for what? For two men who, if misjudged, might amount to nothing at all. The risk was immense, yet the pull of something she could neither name nor control had drawn her to this precarious decision. It left a chill in her veins, a tension that would not fade, and a question that haunted her more than any threat she had faced before: could she truly trust what she could not understand?
Only time would tell the results of her gamble.