The fortress was full of corpses. A hundred, Lyn had guessed, but it seemed he had been too modest; there were likely even more.

In one of the storage rooms, he found a shovel. He changed out of his Archon’s robes into something simpler and more practical. Then he picked a spot near the palisade, which served as the Iron Pass’s outer wall, leaned on the shovel, and looked at the bodies…

Perhaps it would have been better not to touch them. Or do anything at all. Just wait for a few days. Whoever had orchestrated this would show up sooner or later to inspect the fruits of their labor, and everything would become clear — who, what, why… And if, at the same time, something like a coup was brewing in the capital, for instance? It would just be another power shift; why should Lyn care? Except it would turn into yet another slaughter, even bigger this time. No, there was no time to wait...

One of the bodies — a pale, scrawny boy without a head — bore a slight resemblance to Lyn. The head was nowhere nearby; it must have been bitten off by one of those dark twins. If he dressed the corpse in the Archon’s crimson attire, slipped the Archon’s signet ring onto its finger — nobody would be able to tell the difference. Lyn could finally disappear… But no, Bizanth needed a living Archon right now to prevent the war from reigniting. He’d thought about this before...

He needed to stop the relentless cycle of thoughts. That eternal problem of his: when Lyn couldn’t manage his feelings, it was as if he tried to drown them in a flood of thoughts — too many thoughts, and rarely useful ones. Mostly the same ones, looping endlessly.

He swung the shovel down and drove the blade into the ground, then began digging a grave.

He dug and dug. The earth was cold and hard, resisting him. Lyn lost track of time — it felt like a year had passed, at least — and even then, the grave he’d managed to dig was just enough for the few people he’d recognized: Sophia and her man, Cassiodorus, the fortress commander, and Lyn's “guards.” Traitorous bastards, yes, but they needed burying too. And those Arya as well — despite he’d rather never see their faces again. After that, he’d bury everyone else. Not all at once, but he would. Every last one he could find.

His hands ached as if they were falling off, his back throbbed as though it had been struck with a log, and sweat trickled down his neck.

At least I’ve warmed up, Lyn thought with a crooked smirk.

As long as he could crack a bitter little joke about his predicament, even just a weak one like that, it meant the world hadn’t quite ended yet.

At some point — when the shovel simply slipped from Lyn’s numb fingers, and he realized that if he bent to pick it up, he wouldn’t be able to straighten up again — he decided to check on those who were still alive. Or at least hovering somewhere on the edge of life and death.

The redheaded Justin was still lost in feverish dreams, sprawled on Sophia’s bed. To Lyn’s surprise, one of Justin’s arms, now wrapped in coarse bandages with smears of some kind of salve, had taken on a somewhat normal shape. On the table lay surgical tools — rusty and visibly dull, but at least they existed. Nearby were two bowls: one with water, the other filled with a revolting mix of blood, mucus, and tiny shards of shattered bone. Both the table and the bed were spattered with blood and clear discharge.

The other arm, however, hadn’t changed; if anything, it looked even worse — more swollen, misshapen, and purple.

The dark-haired Arya was lying curled around his companion, clutching him like a child holding a favorite toy. Lyn knew more than he cared to about the ungodly habits of shifters — their utter depravity, lack of proper families, narcotic-fueled orgies of sin, and alleged blood-drinking — thanks to the Church’s fondness for terrifying the masses with lurid depictions of life of adherents of the Other Side. Not that Lyn was judging anyone. At first, he almost found it endearing — at least someone seemed to have a personal life.

Then he realized the dark-haired guy wasn’t asleep. He lay unnaturally still, rigid as if frozen by the gaze of Medusa herself. Speaking of gazes — his eyes were open, and… What the raven was this? His eyes, from corner to corner, were entirely black.

Oh, great. It’s that creature from the Other Side again.

“Get lost!” Lyn snapped at the black thing.

It obeyed. That was disturbingly strange, but they did listen to him. And they had, back during the night... (Lyn was desperately trying not to think about it, to banish the surreal, senseless horror from his mind)... and they still obeyed him now.

It was common knowledge that the Archons’ mission was to destroy the dark twins (and the people tied to them), but Lyn had never heard of any of his predecessors being able to control them. Then again, maybe no one had ever tried.

The darkness receded from the Arya’s eyes, but he remained rigid, staring into the void with his now clear blue eyes, unblinking, as cold as ice. For a moment, Lyn feared he might already be dead, but touching his neck, he found a faint, sluggish semblance of a pulse.

Then the dark-haired guy slowly closed his eyes — an effort in itself — and moved his lips.

“What?” Lyn didn’t catch it.

“Sword,” the Arya whispered, so faintly it was barely audible, without opening his eyes. “The sharpest… you can find… and the heaviest — so it just… falls on its own… Heat it red-hot… Cut half a finger’s width above the first break… Then… tighten the tourniquet… Stitch it… And plenty of… painkillers… for days…”

“And you?” Lyn asked, his stomach sinking in horror. So much for escaping the role of executioner.

“And I can’t do anything else… and won’t be able to… for a long time…”

With that, he went still — either fainting or falling asleep instantly.

Lyn had always been fascinated by the psychological mechanisms that led people to hypocritically justify their inaction with some kind of morality — even when they knew full well that delaying would only make things worse.

When faced with such a situation himself, well...

It’s not like he didn’t hesitate. For starters, Lyn did what most would: he stalled for time. He went looking for the infirmary (wherever the dark-haired Arya had found those rusty, dulled tools on the table; maybe there’d be something else useful there).

The Iron Pass’s military infirmary was as miserable as the rest of this gods-forsaken fortress. But at least he managed to find some painkillers. There was even a single medical book, and Lyn skimmed the meager section on surgery, though he knew theory alone wouldn’t be much help in this case.

Then he waited a few hours. But no, the dark-haired healer wasn’t waking up.

Realizing no help was coming, Lyn did what needed to be done. No tears, no nausea, no panic attacks. He felt nothing at all, watching himself as if from the outside.

Find a sword, heat it red-hot, cut half a finger’s width above the first break, tighten the tourniquet, stitch it. Not so hard.

Afterward, Lyn dragged a pillow and a pile of blankets into Sophia’s room, joining the two survivors in this makeshift operating theater. Because the other rooms — let’s be honest — were even more revolting and terrifying. He made a crude bed on the floor and passed out the moment his body touched the ground.

He woke up with the unmistakable, though subtle, feeling of someone watching him.

Sure enough, the red-haired Justin was awake and studying Lyn intently.

Lyn shot him the most unfriendly glare he could muster, stood up, and began to dress. He glanced at the stump where Justin's hand used to be. Had Lyn done everything right? Was it healing properly? Hell if he knew. How was it even supposed to look? If all the blood hadn’t gushed out immediately, maybe that was good enough. The rest was up to the body to handle. Probably.

Justin was hugging the dark-haired Arya with his remaining arm — the one that had been amputated. He even had his lips buried in the other man’s hair. Disgusting romance.

“I see it doesn’t bother you much that his kin nearly crucified you like Jesa,” Lyn sneered before he could stop himself. “What do you think of your saintly Arya now, incapable of treachery and cruelty? Still hate the rotten Bizanth?”

Justin was quiet for a while, clumsily running his remaining hand through the other man’s hair. Lyn suddenly realized something about the scene that turned his stomach more than the saccharine display itself: it was impossible. That hand shouldn’t be moving. It should be nothing but mush, broken bones and shredded muscle. The dark-haired Arya had done something to it — something beyond human ability.

Oh, and Justin’s broken nose? Completely back in place.

“Look, I’ve seen war before,” Justin finally said, softly. “Thankfully, I was only there briefly, but long enough to understand that everyone could turn into a monster. It doesn’t matter what culture, faith, language, or connection to the Other Side you have — anyone is capable of it. You. Me. Just pull the right trigger. And still… Narseh is the best person I know.”

He hesitated before adding, with visible pain:

“But… yeah. I really don’t know how I can look any of them in the eye now, let alone live with them again. It’s just as well — I probably won’t return to Aryan. They’ve prophesied my death is coming soon.”

“What?” Lyn said, voice sharp.

“It’s my fate. The Threadweavers — Arya elders who see the future — one of them said…”

“Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up. What kind of crap is this?” Lyn burst out. “And you were lecturing me about sacrifices? Never mind how you basically stuffed yourself like a duck and laid yourself out for slaughter — stupid as that was. Fine, that’s your choice. I’ve botched my share of suicide attempts too. But after everything we’ve done for you! After your buddy nearly died saving your hand — no matter what kind of miracle he pulled off. After I nearly lost my mind cutting off the other one and stitching it up. And now you’re telling me you’re going to die anyway? You ungrateful bastard! How dare you?”

Justin stared at Lyn with a strange intensity, his expression caught between doubt and… hope.

“It’s easy to defy fate when you’re protected by God,” he said softly.

“God doesn’t protect anyone!” Lyn roared, completely losing it. “You’re the only one who can save yourself! I don’t even believe in any God! I don’t need to believe in God to believe in myself!”

Justin broke into a sudden smile.

“Well, I’ll be damned. I never thought I’d hear a real sermon from the Archon of the brothel.”

“Very, very funny,” Lyn snapped. “In a couple of hours, drink what’s in the jug on the table. Or don’t, if you enjoy pain. I’ve got work to do.”

He headed for the door, grabbing the shovel leaning against the wall.

“Let me guess. Reading funeral prayers, like a proper saint?” Justin asked. Oddly, he sounded more calmly after Lyn’s outburst.

“Am I insane? I’m just burying people so they’re not lying around like garbage,” Lyn shot back. He couldn’t resist adding: “Because I’m still alive and can at least do that much. But go ahead — lie there and keep burying yourself. I hope when you finally kick it, your boyfriend finds someone with two hands. Must be inconvenient otherwise.”

Justin shook his head in disbelief.

“You’ve got such a filthy mouth. We’re not lovers. Narseh is my best friend — practically my brother. Do you think everyone in the world is just screwing all the time? Haven’t you ever had family, or even a single friend?”

“As you keep reminding me, I grew up in a brothel,” Lyn said with his nastiest laugh. “What else would my mouth be? Clean as a bride’s gown?”

But Justin’s words stung more than Lyn expected.

Though for some reason, the news that the two weren’t lovers… pleased him.

As Lyn left, he glanced back at the dark-haired man. Narseh. That was his name. And he must really be the best person in the world to have almost died twice in one day saving someone he wasn’t even sleeping with.

At first, Lyn had found his face overly serious and grim. But now, as it rested, it seemed smoother — more sorrowful than severe. Strangely vulnerable. Almost childlike. The long, dark lashes on his cheek twitched faintly.