Bang, bang, bang.
September 18.
Dawn had barely washed over Windrest City when the knocking dragged Ethan out of sleep.
He pulled on a shirt, headed downstairs, and opened the door.
Red Falcon stood there.
He looked wrung out—dusty clothes, tired eyes—but his energy was strangely high, like he was running on pure adrenaline.
The moment Ethan opened the door, Red Falcon blurted, “Rhine, you’re not going to believe this—Jory is dead.”
Ethan: …
After Haizan’s report the night before, Ethan swallowed a very specific urge to say, I heard.
Instead, he forced his face into confusion. “Jory? How? Who killed him?”
He stepped aside and waved Red Falcon in, playing the part of a man who’d just rolled out of bed.
“I just came from Windrest Keep,” Red Falcon said as he dropped onto Ethan’s couch. “No leads yet.”
His expression tightened, worry and urgency mixing together. “But… Jory’s death might be connected to what you found in that reef grotto. The bloodless corpse.”
“I can’t confirm it yet,” he added, “but if it’s related, something big is brewing in Windrest City.”
Ethan poured tea, kept his hands steady.
Red Falcon continued, voice low. “Last night, Jory was killed during the celebration—right in front of the Seven Gods’ statues. That’s what makes it worse. Everyone’s already whispering.”
He rubbed his brow like he could physically shove the headache away.
“And the strangest part…” Red Falcon’s eyes sharpened. “Jory’s body was unnaturally pale. The moment I saw him, I thought of the bloodless corpse you mentioned in your letter.”
“You checked?” Ethan asked, letting just enough shock into his tone.
“It was chaos,” Red Falcon said, “but I took a quick look while people were everywhere. I’m almost certain. There was no blood left in him.”
“No blood…” Ethan echoed, as if the words tasted wrong.
Red Falcon’s jaw set. “If the reef grotto victim and Jory died the same way, this wasn’t a street killer. It’s taboo.”
He stared at the tea in his hands like it might give him answers.
“Rituals that require huge amounts of blood—most of the time, that points to Soulreaver taboo arts. Which means there’s a Soulreaver in Windrest City… one who’s already dipped into forbidden work.”
Ethan took a sip, let the heat buy him time.
Last night he’d heard the story from Haizan’s perspective. This morning he was hearing the aftermath from Red Falcon’s.
Messy, but the outcome was exactly what Ethan wanted.
Before, no one knew a Soulreaver was hiding in Windrest City.
Now the Circle of Earth knew. Which meant the King would know soon enough.
A few days ago, the hatchling had wanted revenge for the real Skye. Then Haizan discovered the bloodless corpse in the reef grotto. Ethan’s best guess was that the bloodless bodies were fuel—maintenance—for Marsas’s soul-fusion ritual.
But Ethan couldn’t say that without exposing what he shouldn’t.
And Skye was already set on killing Jory for revenge.
So Ethan leaned into it.
Let Jory’s death look like a Soulreaver’s work.
Make the Soulreaver’s existence public.
Once that happened, Windrest City wouldn’t be able to pretend nothing was wrong.
Ethan set down the cup, sounding thoughtful. “The Governor must be… devastated. Jory was his favorite.”
“Devastated and furious,” Red Falcon said. “Windrest Keep was a madhouse all night.”
He added something that made Ethan’s attention sharpen.
“The moment the body was found, Governor Fell wouldn’t let anyone near Jory. Not even his own knights.”
Ethan lifted his brows. “No one?”
Red Falcon nodded. “He kept people back. Wouldn’t let anyone examine him. I… I guess it’s a father’s grief.”
“Maybe,” Ethan said lightly, while his mind turned.
Was it grief?
Or was Panglos blocking examination because he didn’t want people realizing what Jory’s cause of death implied—because that would point straight at a hidden Soulreaver?
Ethan played the curious bystander. “Not even Circle of Earth investigators?”
“Not even us,” Red Falcon said, sounding troubled now. “He shut it down. I’ve never seen him like that.”
Ethan refilled Red Falcon’s tea and let the silence sit for a breath.
Casually: “Still… a body like that has to hold clues. It could help catch the killer.”
Red Falcon’s hand paused on the cup.
…
Windrest Keep. A damp, lightless basement.
“Was this you?” Governor Fell roared into the darkness. “Marsas—was it your people?”
Inside the Governor’s body, Marsas recoiled. “How could it be me, Governor?”
His voice came from the same throat, colored by a different soul.
“We share one body,” Marsas insisted. “We’re together every moment. If I did something, you’d know. And what reason would I have?”
Panglos’s fury didn’t cool. “Then your apprentices. Those Soulreavers who practice taboo work. Can you guarantee none of them did it?”
Marsas went quiet for a beat—then answered carefully.
“I can’t guarantee their stupidity,” he admitted. “But I can tell you this: whoever did it wanted attention. They shoved the crime into the open.”
“And that means someone is targeting me,” he continued, voice tightening. “Someone discovered I’m here and wants to drag me into daylight.”
Panglos’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”
Marsas tasted the air of the possibilities.
“Red Falcon,” he said. “He returned, and Jory died the same night.”
Panglos scoffed. “Impossible. The Circle of Earth are the King’s leash. If Red Falcon knew you were here, he’d have a dozen cleaner ways to break you.”
Marsas tried again. “Then… Rhine?”
Panglos laughed, sharp and ugly. “A Tier 2 Hunter? You think a Tier 2 Hunter can orchestrate this?”
Marsas went quiet. Then his tone shifted—older, colder, the voice of a man who’d spent decades studying darkness.
“Fast, complete blood extraction,” he said. “That’s something Soulreaver taboo arts can do. But there’s another possibility.”
Panglos frowned. “Which is?”
“Troll craft,” Marsas said. “Their secret rites can do the same.”
Panglos blinked, caught off guard. “Trolls?”
“Tell me,” Marsas pressed. “Is there a troll on Storm Island?”
Panglos forced his own mouth to speak, controlling the shared body with effort. “No. The Endless Sea is under human rule. Trolls rot in the north. Storm Island is far from the northern front.”
Marsas exhaled. “I thought so.”
The candlelight in the basement shook, painting mold across the walls in twitching gold.
For a long moment, both souls inside one body held their breath.
Marsas spoke his final guess—the one he didn’t want to say.
“The Lava Lord’s Cocoon,” he murmured.
Panglos exploded. “Ridiculous! Why would it do this? It doesn’t even know Jory!”
Marsas didn’t flinch. “Maybe it wasn’t malice. Maybe it was a warning.”
He forced calm into every word.
“Governor, remember the bigger picture. Our goal is the divine spark beneath Storm Island. Don’t let grief blind you.”
He continued, practical as ever. “Jory’s death is… unusual. You need to handle it quickly, before anyone sees and starts asking the wrong questions.”
“And if the Cocoon is trying to tell you something,” Marsas added, “you’ll understand soon enough.”
“If it’s truly hostile—then once we seize the divine spark and control the law itself, we can deal with it.”
Panglos’s rage slowly cooled into something harder.
He left the basement and returned to a small council room in the keep, where people waited.
Serene Viss was there, crying so hard she looked on the verge of collapsing.
Moros stood nearby, grief carved into his face.
And—
Panglos’s gaze moved past family and ministers to land on a figure who rarely appeared in public.
Skye.
She wore an oracle’s plain working dress and held a crystal sphere. She looked like she’d just finished a reading.
For reasons Panglos couldn’t explain, the sight of that crystal ball tugged Marsas’s words back into his mind.
The Cocoon might be warning you.
Panglos narrowed his eyes, resentment flashing hot in his chest.
“A warning?” he thought bitterly. “Then it had better be worth more than Jory.”