Ragnar shoved down the food as fast as he could and gulped down water. With a flick of his finger, he compressed the trash till it became a tiny box. The snack cabinet closed behind him and he made his way to the door. The now compressed trash was turned to ash and flicked out in the corridor. Everywhere appeared dry, but Ragnar knew there were advanced monitoring systems everywhere around the house. After all, dreadful killers were the most cautious around others. He would have to rely on his soul power for movement. He walked down the stairwell, into the connecting passage that led to the main building. He had mentally mapped out every inch of the house and possible routes in and out of it. The area was a little bit secluded. The household staff were either busy with dinner prep or taking care of other things. No one had the time to use the old stairwell, reducing his chances of running into anyone. Ragnar's eyes went to the monitoring system a few distance away. Despite this a

Ragnar’s expression remained manic, not revealing the fact that every calculation he made since today led up to the stab just now. Every word, every pause, every forced smile had been a thread pulled tight for this moment. “Since we were kids, you kept attacking and suppressing me,” he said, voice low and trembling. “I kept giving in because I’m your elder brother, and I’m expected to care for you. Understand you!” Ragnar’s voice broke on the last word, raw and ragged. “I did everything to keep the peace and make you happy. And what did you do? You went behind me, making out with the girl I liked, playing house with her and messing around. You even laughed about it, calling me an idiot to my face.” Kelvin was in deep pain, both from the dagger, and Ragnar’s hand which was clamped around his throat like a vice. Each breath came as a wet, ragged gasp. Meanwhile, the specialized dagger drank quickly, absorbing as much blood as Ragnar would need for the ritual. The blade hummed fain

Ragnar followed the directions programmed into the car, and found himself in a mountain resort that time had forgotten. The route was lonely, and rural. The villages he passed hadn’t seen much development. There were actually houses built with cement and bricks still in existence, walls cracked, paint peeling, roofs patched with aluminum. The deeper he travelled, the road narrowed until it became all stone paths and forests on both sides. Trees pressed close, their branches forming a tunnel that swallowed the sky. Along the way, there were satellite monitors and espionage masts mounted at strategic points, black metal glinting between leaves, showing that this seemingly rural area was far from ordinary. Ragnar followed the track till he came to a giant black wall. The car ground to a halt with a hiss of brakes. “Where’s the entrance?” He muttered, getting down from the vehicle. The air smelled of ghost pine and something suspicious. The wall was more than forty feet tall, and

Ragnar’s footsteps were careful and calculated as he entered. Each step landed light on the stone, the sound muffled. He noticed Vireille staring at him with a complicated expression in her eyes, something sharp and soft tangled together. “Why do I feel like you’re planning something I wouldn’t like?” Vireille smiled broadly, too bright to be honest. “How could that be? I specially made this trip after dropping Nika off, racing against time. Although I don’t know the caliber of pill you want to refine, I think it’s better if someone stays with you. If there’s an emergency, or you suddenly slump from exhaustion, there should be someone close by to take care of you and send you to safety.” Ragnar kept staring steadily at her. She was lying. Something felt off in the way her smile didn’t reach her eyes, in the way she answered too fast. But after checking her aura, he had confirmed that it was indeed the real Vireille Tempest standing before him. “No. You can’t stay with me,” Ragn

Ragnar kept trying to move his finger, but it seemed like the hot water and herb combination had completely damaged his nerves. None of them was doing what he wanted them to do. His hand stayed slack, useless. As if he was undergoing atrophy and nerve damage, the connection between mind and flesh severed. His heart began to pound erratically. He had carefully read through the manuscript. Memorized every line. How come he hadn’t seen such side effects listed? He had also checked ancient scrolls about the herbs, their indications and contraindications, cross referencing until his eyes burned. Everything had seemed alright to him. The risk was there, but this was not the risk described. What was happening now? Or was it because he had stayed too long before trying to reverse the ritual? It had been more than a decade since Mathilda performed the ritual and stole his foundation. A decade of Kelvin using his light. A decade of his meridians sitting empty, collecting dust. A cautionar