A week had passed since that day, and Zachary's standing in the Outer Settlement had become... awkward.
The Sleepers treated him differently now. They weren't rude; they never whispered insults behind his back or challenged him to his face. Yet, they avoided him with a practiced, surgical precision. The air in any room became heavy and stifling the moment he entered.
Nephis had ascended to a level of prestige that bordered in sanctity, and Zachary's public challenge of her authority was seen as a heresy. The masses didn't want to be seen with him, perhaps fearing that the collective would mistake their proximity for agreement.
It was an exaggerated response, but a logical one. The Forgotten Shore was an unforgiving void where the golden rule of the Awakened was carved in bone: No one survives the Dream Realm alone.
Aristotle had called it: "Man is by nature a social animal." They sought a tribe to belong to, a banner to call their own, and Nephis had built that place for them. The inhabitants of the slums—the lowest of the low—finally had a purpose. They wouldn't trade that feeling of belonging for anything, least of all for a cynical man with a sharp tongue.
In a strange, miraculous twist, Zachary's act of "defiance" had actually increased the cohesion of the settlement. To form a strong "We," a group needs a "Them," or in this case a "Him." That distinction was supposed to be aimed at Gunlaug's Host, but before the revolution could reach the Castle, Zachary had emerged from their own ranks to play the part of the outsider.
He recalled Durkheim's sociology: "We must not say that an action shocks the common consciousness because it is criminal, but rather that it is criminal because it shocks the common consciousness." The collective sentiment is sacred; he who challenges it is not a dissenter, but a profane.
'Another check to my "Blasphemer" To-do-List I guess...'
His image wasn't as blackened as the Host's though—his history with the dwellers was too deep and friendly for that—but it didn't matter. The jokes, the comedic exchanges, the easy camaraderie... it was all gone.
He moved out of the stone lodge the same day they returned.
It suited his purposes, regardless. He claimed a dilapidated tent near the edge of the ruins. It was in a deplorable state, but it served as a perfect laboratory for what he planned to do.
"I really lost my cool back then, didn't I?" Zachary muttered with a dry chuckle, biting into a piece of tough, dried meat. "So out of character for me to react that way... But oh well, not that I can be blamed either way."
Despite the shunning, some anonymous Sleepers still delivered food to his flap every morning, though they never stayed to talk. At first, he wanted to dismiss their behavior through Nietzsche's "Herd Morality"—to mock the mediocrity and the desperate conformity of the masses. But he couldn't bring himself to do it.
He understood the fear that drove them.
"But seriously, what are they? Middle schoolers?" Zachary scoffed, clicking his tongue. "Nininini, don't look at me when I'm with him, what will the cool kids think, nininini," he mocked in a high-pitched, childish warble.
He settled into a cross-legged position, straightening his back.
'I don't really mind. I already went through high school; I can survive a silent treatment from a bunch of traumatized Sleepers.' He closed his eyes, focusing on the rhythmic thrum of his core. 'There's a difference between solitude and isolation, anyway. I don't need their recognition.'
The nameless feeling stirred again. Zachary felt the urge to question its origin, to wonder why it was becoming a more frequent guest in his mind, but he quickly shut it down. He had no time for existential static. He began calling to his Soul.
Despite the interruption of the Spire Messenger, that brief, terrifying spark had been enough to ignite something. He remembered the sensation—how his soul had begun to surge in lockstep with the frantic rush of his blood.
But that was it. The Insight had been severed halfway, leaving him with only the ghost of a breakthrough. The frustration that flared in his chest was something he didn't want to dwell on.
Zachary sighed. This vague improvement would shave months off his training, but at this rate, full mastery would still take a year. He needed to reach at least a baseline level of control before venturing out to claim the rest of that "Forced Evolution."
He would have to venture into the Dark City solo...
'But before that, I should borrow a map,' Zachary thought, standing and stretching his back until it popped. He turned toward the tent flap but froze instantly.
Cinder Eyes felt a presence outside.
At first, he assumed it was the silent Sleeper delivering his morning rations, and he began walking cautiously, wondering if he should give them a scare. But he stopped when a voice—one that shouldn't be here—drifted through the canvas.
"I... uh, I'm here, sir," a timid, doubting voice whispered.
Harper.
"And well?" a gravelly, commanding voice demanded.
'Is it happening already?' Zachary thought. He pressed his eye to a jagged tear in the tent. Just as he expected, Harper and a Castle Guard were tucked away in a narrow, filthy alley between the tent and a stone building, shielded from prying eyes.
"Yes! Yes, uh, sir. I've done what you told me. It wasn't very hard," Harper said, his voice shaking.
'Aren't they a little too unprofessional?' Zachary mocked silently. 'They didn't even check to see if the surrounding buildings were empty.'
"Good. It seems you really do want to return to the Castle," the Guard said, his tone dripping with mockery.
"Really? So… I can return? Even though I don't have any shards?" The raw desperation in Harper's voice was palpable.
The Guard clicked his tongue. "You'll return once you've gathered everything I told you. Forget the tribute. But remember: I need to know everything about the cohort's core members—Nephis included. Aspects, Abilities, Flaws. I even want to know which hand they use to wipe. Understand?"
"But, sir… things like that… especially for a simple servant like me..." Harper stammered.
The Guard's voice dropped into a lethal register. "Didn't you say you knew one of the cohort already? That's why I gave you this chance. Did you lie to me?"
"No! No, I know him. I'm actually Zachary's friend! We talked a lot in the Castle!" Harper blurted out with a sudden, feigned confidence.
'Talking a lot? I did ninety percent of the talking!' Zachary amused himself. His inner commentary was cut short as the tension in the alley shifted.
"Zachary, you say? Your friend? Ha!" The Guard barked a short laugh. "Well, I can imagine. That guy went around making friends like his life depended on it." He paused. "Stay close to him. I don't know if he has a soft spot for losers like you, but the way he was glued to those damn Builders, I'd bet on it."
"S-sir, I haven't been able to find him," Harper said, his voice trembling. Zachary could practically hear him sweating. "And when I asked about him, they began acting weird. I-I think something is wron—"
"Do you think I care?" the Guard growled. "Find him and stay close. That's your second job. I don't know what's up with him, but a lot of eyes are suddenly on that guy."
The Guard spat on the ground.
"Sir..." Harper started again. "You won't hurt him, will you? He's... he's a good man. He jok— We exchanged jokes."
"Why ask a question when you already know the answer?" the Guard asked.
"Could you please not hurt him? The rest of them—"
A sharp, loud slap cut Harper off.
"Do you think you're in a position to make demands? You should be thankful a rat like you is even needed, or I'd have cut that dirty tongue out for asking."
Another spit—Zachary could only assume it landed on Harper—and the Guard turned to leave. "Do your job, and I'll see about opening the gates."
Harper stayed on the dirt for several minutes, a quiet sob echoing in the alley before he finally stood and limped away. Zachary sighed deeply, leaning back against the tent pole. The internal conspiracies of the Castle were moving faster than he had anticipated.
'I thought they wouldn't care about me yet, not with Nephis's prestige growing,' Zachary thought, walking toward the door. 'But one thing is clear: I need to know what's happening inside that Castle.'
***
"Fucking bastards," Zachary cursed, clicking his tongue against his teeth.
He stood at the jagged edge of the Outer Settlement, watching the Dark City sprawl out like a graveyard below him. He'd been standing there for hours, watching the sky bleed into bruised reds and deep purples as night approached. In the distance, near the skeletal silhouette of a lighthouse, Cinder Eyes caught a faint, rhythmic movement—likely Nephis and her cohort returning from their hunt.
"What do they even mean, 'We can't lend you a map without Lady Nephis's permission'?" Zachary grumbled. "I'm telling you: middle schoolers. Fucking teacher's pets, the lot of them."
He pinched the bridge of his nose, a headache blooming behind his eyes. While Cinder Eyes and Danger Sense had calibrated to the lethality of the ruins, traveling them alone was still suicide. Sunny had only managed it because he could merge with the shadows and move unseen.
Him? He was a walking beacon. A neon sign in a dark alley.
The crunch of footsteps pulled him from his frustration. He turned to find Harper approaching. The gaunt boy looked profoundly relieved to see him.
"Zach!" he exclaimed, stopping a few feet away. "It's... uhm, it's good to finally see you. I thought you'd be out with Saint Nephis."
Zachary studied him for a long beat, his crimson eyes unreadable. "Nope. I'm busy with personal errands. How about you, Harper? What brings you all the way down to the edge of the world?"
Zachary weighed his options. In the original story, this boy was the catalyst for Sunny's life spiraling into chaos. But Zachary wasn't Sunny. He didn't have a Flaw that forced the truth out of him, and while his Penance nudged him toward honesty, it gave him plenty of room to maneuver.
So he decided to play along.
Harper's face fell, looking genuinely depressed. "I-I couldn't pay the tribute. I thought the shard you benevolously gave me would help... it didn't." He forced a smile that withered before it reached his eyes. "B-but hey! It's not so bad down here. I made some friends, and I finally found you. We were... we were friendly in the Castle, right?"
The desperation in those last words was thick enough to choke on. Zachary let out a short, amused laugh and slung an arm around the boy's thin shoulders.
"It's good you see it that way, man. Honestly, with the way I was the only one cracking jokes back then, I thought I was making you uncomfortable!"
"Haha," Harper laughed nervously, leaning into the contact. "I just don't have much of a sense of humor. Compared to me, yours is excellent."
"Ha! I knew you got it," Zachary beamed. "Don't worry, you'll learn."
"L-let's hope." Harper shifted slightly under Zachary's weight. "Hey, Zach... I, uhm, I brought something special with me. Do you want to share it?"
Zachary's ears practically perked up. He knew exactly what was coming. He wanted information, sure, but he'd be lying if he said he didn't want a taste of that "special item" too.
"I think you might have heard of it," Harper said with a more genuine smile. "It's a bottle of the Artisan's Liquor. Do you—"
"Son of a bitch, I'm in," Zachary interrupted with a snap of his fingers. "Where's your hut? Actually, let's hit mine first—I've got some dried meat to go with the drink. What do you say?"
Harper agreed immediately. After grabbing the meat from Zachary's dilapidated tent, they made their way to Harper's hovel—a place even more ruined and miserable than Zachary's.
Zachary didn't comment on the squalor. He knew the golden rule: no matter where you were, if there was alcohol involved, any hell could briefly become a heaven.
'Or something like that,' Zachary mused, his inner voice lampooning his own thoughts. 'I'm not really sure I should be quoting John Milton when booze is the topic, but the sentiment stands.'
It seemed Zachary's carefree attitude, even in a hovel this dismal, helped Harper ease up. The boy's shoulders finally dropped from his ears, and an honest smile touched his face as he set the bottle on the small table between them. An old leather scrap served as a makeshift tablecloth, topped with the dried meat Zachary had provided.
Zachary watched as the young man poured him a wooden cup. He couldn't help but notice that this liquor was a far cry from the brew he'd shared with the Artisans. Where that had been heavy and clear, this liquid was slightly milky, catching the dim light with a strange, thin consistency.
'I guess this is the "finished" product, whereas the Artisans were serving me something that hadn't even finished fermenting. Oh well, down the hatch.' Zachary took a massive gulp.
He regretted it instantly.
A violent scowl twisted his features, his face contorting as if he were suffering a stroke. The liquid burned his tonsils like liquid fire and raked down his throat with hellish intensity. And the taste... Jesus Christ, the taste.
"It kicks like a fucking mule," Zachary wheezed, following it with a raspy, pained laugh. "And it tastes like horse piss."
Harper looked at him strangely, a weird glint in his eyes. "Have you actually tasted horse piss, Zach?"
The air in the hovel chilled instantly. Zachary's crimson eyes locked onto Harper's, his face becoming a serious, expressionless mask.
"No," he answered, his voice flat. "I have never. And I would never."
He stared the boy down for a beat longer before breaking into a chuckle, letting the tension bleed out of the room.
"What kind of questions are you even asking, man?" Zachary said, tearing off a piece of meat to scrub the chemical aftertaste from his tongue. "You should be careful with what you ask. You might stumble onto someone who doesn't like to share their answers."
Harper flinched, pulling back and taking a sip from his own cup, followed by a fit of coughing. Zachary watched him, thinking of the "original" Harper—whose life had been snuffed out by a single, ill-placed question. Looking at the cloudy drink, Zachary realized the truth: this wasn't the good stuff.
'Hah. They gave him the lowest quality batch they had, didn't they?' He mused, taking another, more prepared sip. 'It's basically industrial cleaner.'
"Actually, now that I've had a second to adjust, it does have a nice kick at the end," Zachary said, trying to salvage the mood. "The taste is sour, sure, but it's got a roughness that pairs well with the meat."
"Oh? Do you know a lot about alcohol, Zach?" Harper asked as Zachary refilled the boy's cup.
"Not exactly. I just spent a lot of time drinking outdoors back in the day," Zachary laughed, the memories of college nights and post-shift drinks flickering through his mind.
He clinked his cup against Harper's and took a controlled sip, watching the boy do the same.
"I couldn't help but notice..." Harper began cautiously, staring into the milky depths of his cup. "That you aren't staying at Lady Nephis's lodge anymore. Instead, you have your own... uhm... hut."
Zachary looked at him for a moment before shrugging. "I told you, personal errands. But, if you really, really, really want to know..."
Zachary lowered his voice. Harper leaned in, his eyes wide and eager for the "secret" he was supposed to bring back to the Castle.
"I'm just training," Zachary said, his voice dropping back to its normal, emotionless tone. "I need my personal space."
"Huh," Harper said, his voice tinged with a faint note of disappointment.
Zachary was about to respond when he felt a sudden ripple in the air. Cinder Eyes alerted him to a presence outside the door—one that wasn't just passing through. It was lingering, listening. Zachary closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, sifting through his mental list of suspects before landing on the most likely culprit.
Thinking fast, Zachary plastered a wide, slightly "tipsy" smile on his face. "You must have heard of Caster, right?" he asked, letting out a long sigh. "Have you met the guy yet?"
Harper's attention snapped back to him instantly. He took a hasty sip of his drink. This was exactly what he was looking for: intelligence on the inner circle. "Briefly, in the Castle."
Zachary feigned a moment of hesitant doubt before leaning in close. "That handsome bastard... honestly, I think he's got it bad for Nephis."
Harper's eyes nearly bulged out of his head. "Caster and Saint Nephis?!" He took another swig to settle his nerves. "I mean... they are in the same cohort..."
"Exactly! And that's not all!" Zachary said, draining his cup and refilling it with the milky sludge. "After that mess with Andel, the first thing he did in the morning was come down here, voluntarily, just to join her. Can you believe it?"
"Such a development... such romanticism!" Zachary added with mock emotion. "Imagine it—they'll probably make a movie about this once we're out of this hellhole."
Harper was nodding along fervently, his brain already racing to figure out how this "romance" could be leveraged as information for the Castle. He chewed a piece of meat and took another sip, his face growing flush.
"But it's such a shame," Zachary continued with fake resignation. "Nephis is... well, she's a bit awkward in that department. I was thinking of helping them out. Maybe I should pull Caster aside and talk to him about—"
A sharp, authoritative knock on the crude door cut him off.
Harper jumped, nearly knocking over the bottle, but Zachary caught his wrist with a steady, calm hand.
"Now who can it be now?" Zachary sang, whistling the familiar saxophone hook as he sauntered to the door.
He swung it open to find the handsome Legacy staring back at him. Despite his best efforts to maintain a polite, amicable mask, a deep frown tugged at Caster's green eyes.
"Caster! To what do you owe the pleasure?" Zachary beamed.
Caster's brow furrowed in confusion. "I owe—never mind." He took a breath, regaining his noble composure. "I just returned from the hunt. I heard you were looking for a map, so I was wondering—"
"Oh man, yeah, something like that," Zachary said, exhaling a heavy cloud of alcohol-scented breath. "Forget the map for a second. You actually showed up at the perfect time. We were just talking about you!"
Caster recoiled slightly from the pungent smell. Behind Zachary, Harper was trying to make himself as small and invisible as possible.
"We're drinking, dude. Pretty good stuff," Zachary said, gesturing vaguely behind him. "Want to join us? We can talk about your feelings and—"
"Stop it, Zachary," Caster snapped, his brow furrowed in genuine irritation. "I only came to check on a friend. I'd appreciate it if you dropped any... topics... concerning me."
Without another word, the Legacy turned and vanished into the shadows of the settlement.
Zachary closed the door with a tired, genuine sigh. He turned back to the table and saw Harper's head beginning to bob. It was only then that he realized something: he felt perfectly fine. The alcohol wasn't hitting him at all.
'I don't think it's Blood Weave,' Zachary mused, taking another gulp of the "horse piss." 'Sunny got drunk back in the day, so Weaver's legacy doesn't make you immune. It has to be Balance Control.'
It made perfect sense. The ability enhanced his metabolism and digestion. It was likely reaching a physiological balance with the toxins, processing them as fast as they entered his system to maintain his faculties.
'So I can't get drunk?' Zachary wondered, looking at the deep flush on Harper's cheeks. 'I don't know if I should be glad or disappointed. Getting hammered is half the fun, after all.'
"Hey man, you okay?" he asked, giving Harper a gentle shake.
"Yes, yes..." Harper nodded with a weak, glassy-eyed smile. "I couldn't help but notice... that talk with Caster. Was all that about Nephis a lie?"
"Well... I wouldn't call it a lie, exactly. He does have feelings for Nephis, but probably not the kind you're imagining," Zachary laughed. Now that he'd had a few cups, he was actually starting to enjoy the "roughness" of the brew.
"So you said all that... because he was listening?" Harper slurred, a spark of insight cutting through the fog.
"Sharp," Zachary noted with a nod. "The guy has weird hobbies, please forgive him. And remember: our conversation stays private, right?"
Harper nodded solemnly before draining his cup.
"Hey man, I think you should slow down," Zachary said, pulling the bottle away from the boy—and immediately refilling his own cup.
"Have you heard anything about the Artisans, by the way?" Zachary asked, keeping his tone light, as if it were a mere afterthought.
Harper looked at him with a vague frown, trying to grasp the idea before his drunken mind let it slip away. "I don't really hear much. Haha. I usually just stay holed up behind my desk, praying the Guards don't come by demanding the shards I owe..." He rested his cheek against the table with a heavy sigh. "But things have been moving. Even I can tell that."
'Shit. I expected as much, but he really doesn't know anything at all.' Zachary watched Harper poke aimlessly at a scrap of meat with his fingertip. 'Oh well, at least he shared the—'
"Honestly, I can't understand you," Harper blurted out, lifting his head from the table.
"Moi?" Zachary pointed a thumb at his own chest, caught off guard.
"Yes, you! Even I know that things are changing in the Castle, and yet... yet your name still comes up in conversations!" Harper let out a small hiccup. "How can you be so... friendly? It's just unreal."
Zachary felt a rare flush of embarrassment. He scratched the back of his neck, looking away. "Just... talk to people, man. I don't know about girls—believe me, no matter the era, they always find new ways to make you distrust yourself. But trust me on this: talking to men is the simplest thing in the world. Ask about... I don't know, their favorite Nightmare Creature, or which Memory they think is better. It's incredibly simple."
"You—you make it sound so easy!" Harper slurred, his frustration bubbling up. "Do you know what happens if I say the wrong thing?"
Zachary thought of the alleyway—the sound of the slap and the Guard's lethal warning. "I... I understand. It shouldn't be that way. It's just that people here are more on edge than they should be."
"It's difficult," Harper whispered with a pained sigh. "Being careful with every word, trying to stay invisible. And then you appear and talk like it's nothing. It's not fair!"
Zachary frowned, then softened. He understood the pressure. Harper was no fighter; the moment he lost his utility to the powers that be, he was as good as dead. He was always one mistake away from the abyss.
"You know..." Zachary began, taking a measured sip. "There's this French guy, Sartre, who said that 'Hell is other people.' It's a bit more complicated than this, but he argued that we are inherently free—our actions define us. But when we interact with others, their interpretation of us takes over. They give us labels and prejudices. We stop being free and become what they see."
Zachary ruffled his hair, realizing the nuances of existentialism might be lost on a man halfway through a bottle of industrial-grade moonshine. He decided to pivot to something more direct. "At the end of the day, you're yourself, man. I know it's hard, but don't concern yourself so much with what they think."
Harper scoffed. "You talk just like my father."
"Are you calling me old?" Zachary raised an eyebrow.
"No, no. It's just... since I was a kid, I felt awkward around people. I think it was because of my father's work." Harper played with his empty cup, his eyes distant. "He knew. He feigned that he didn't, but he always told me I shouldn't feel bad about who I was."
"Where does your father work?"
"He has a convenience store, north of the Milevo Station." Harper's eyes glazed over as he looked at a memory miles and years away. "I helped him from time to time, but I always asked to be in the warehouse. I didn't want to be seen."
"Curious. I worked at a convenience store too," Zachary said with a genuine chuckle. 'Well, at least the Original One did.'
"Really?" Harper asked, surprised.
"Yeah. After my parents died." Zachary said it without much emotion, finishing the last piece of meat. "The government didn't exactly roll out the red carpet for me. I had to drop out of the academy and find work that could put a roof over my head."
Harper nodded slowly, staring at the door. "Were you close with them?"
Zachary hesitated. He would have loved to talk about his real parents waiting for him in another world, but he had already established the history of Aaron and Sophia. He had to stick to the script.
"More or less. My mother was sweet—she didn't really know how to be a 'mother figure,' but she tried her best. That's what counts. My father, though..." He sighed. "It was complicated. He was uncomfortable around me. Now I realize it was because he felt unfit to lead me, I think. But he loved me in the end. I don't really know what to think of it."
Harper stayed silent for a long time. "I don't remember my mother much. She passed when I was young. But my father... he really cared about us."
"Us?" Zachary asked, tilting the bottle to catch the last few drops.
"I... I have a sister. A little one," Harper said, his voice thick with sudden emotion. "She's everything to me. To both of us."
A flash of recognition flared in Zachary's eyes. He had a sister too—one whose name felt like it was slipping through his fingers. He spoke tentatively, testing the waters. "Really? How old? I've heard they can be a real piece of work sometimes."
"We're eight years apart," Harper said with a small, wistful chuckle. "And yes... she can be a real pain." His eyes lit up, the alcohol-induced fog momentarily clearing for a bright memory. "Let me tell you, one time she forced me to watch this show with her. I thought it would be fine—a couple of seasons and it would end. It's still ongoing!"
"How do they even keep filming such mediocre trash, right?" Zachary added with a chuckle, genuinely empathizing. "It's always the same recycled drama. How does it even stay on the air?"
"I know, right?" Harper laughed, his cheeks flushed deep red. "Do you have a sister, Zach?"
Zachary was about to reflexively answer yes, but he bit his tongue at the last second. While he had a sister, the Original One—the identity the world recognized—didn't. He was forced to play the part.
"No," he said, a weak smile touching his lips. "I'm an only child."
"But I know a thing or two," Zachary continued, trying to bridge the gap. "Have you ever helped her with homework? Repeating the same thing over and over until she finally gets it?"
Harper shook his head, smiling. "No, no. She's actually the smart one of the two of us..." He sighed, the smile fading. "I never went to an academy; my father couldn't afford the costs. So, I took extra jobs just so we could afford her tuition at a small private school. She—"
He fell silent, his jaw trembling. "She's too soft. We thought we were just being cautious, preparing in case she got infected... though there was always the hope the Spell wouldn't choose her. But then I got chosen."
The words hung in the air, heavy and jagged. Zachary understood the unspoken fear perfectly.
"There's a chance she might be infected next, isn't there?"
The hovel fell into a stifling silence. Zachary looked up at the broken ceiling, a slow sigh escaping his lips. Without thinking, he asked, "What would you think of her coming here? To the Forgotten Shore?"
Harper's head snapped up. Panic, dread, and pure disgust washed over his face, the drowsiness of the liquor vanishing in an instant. "Gods, no! She can't!"
He began to tremble. "Sh-she shouldn't even be eligible for infection yet. There's a chance she might never be, right?" There was a frantic, crazed light in his eyes—the look of a man trying to outrun a shadow that was already attached to his feet.
"It's a nightmare here, isn't it?" Zachary said, shaking his head. "Forget the Labyrinth and the Dark City... just the Castle alone. The Host—"
"You think I don't know that!?" Harper exploded, surging to his feet. "The gazes! The Guards! The constant pressure of being thrown out! Of being nothing! It's all so heavy, so tiring! I go to sleep thinking maybe it isn't so bad, but I cry, Zachary. Gods, I cry! And when I wake up, I'm still here! It's terrible! I know it! But... but..."
Harper's energy vanished as quickly as it had come. He slumped back into his seat, a tired, broken silence stretching through the room. Finally, with a contained sob, he looked at Zachary.
"I'm... I'm not blind, Zach," he said, sounding utterly defeated. "I know what the Host does is wrong. But... what else is there?"
Zachary looked at him. A small, understanding smile—one that didn't reach for mockery or irony—appeared on his face. "A choice."
"What, this?" Harper spat, gesturing toward the door with open disdain. "What your 'Changing Star' is doing? You think that's an alternative?"
Zachary chuckled softly, looking at Harper with clear, steady eyes. "No. A choice to be better."
Harper stared at him as if he had suddenly grown a second head, but Zachary wasn't deterred. That nameless feeling flickered in his heart again, but this time it was accompanied by a warmth that cleared the clouds in his mind.
"I know what they call this place," Zachary said, his gaze drifting toward the door. "The graveyard of hope... a Boulevard of Broken Dreams." He let out a short, dry chuckle at the words.
"Hope," Harper spat, the word dripping with disgust. "Hope is a dangerous thing. It drives people insane. There is no place for it here. Look at the skulls above the Gate! Good or evil, it doesn't matter—those belong to people who hoped for something more."
"Yet you're still going, aren't you? Is there really a difference between hoping for another day and hoping for something beyond it?" Zachary sighed, tilting the bottle to check for any remaining dregs. "A lot of people like to draw a line between living and surviving... but that's a luxury for the strong. You've heard them say it—that weakness is a sin. Well, in my book? Surviving is a virtue."
Zachary leaned forward, his crimson eyes locking onto Harper's with unsettling focus. "Staying alive, hoping for another day. You're doing it even if you haven't realized it. Why else would you agree to spy for the Guards?"
Harper's eyes blew wide. He began to tremble at the sudden confession, but Zachary's gaze pinned him to his seat before he could bolt or stammer out a lie.
"Why else would you fight to endure just one more day? Haven't you thought it? At least once, in passing: Just another day. Just one more, and I'll see them soon."
"Don't you dare talk about them!" Harper hissed. He was trapped between the terror of being caught as a spy and the raw agony of his secrets being aired. "What would you even know? You've been here mere months! Yes, I once thought that way... I dreamed of seeing them. But those foolish dreams have no place here. They poison your mind."
'Ah, foolish dreams. Aren't they my specialty?' Zachary let out a dry chuckle. "On the contrary, Harper. Dreams save us. They transform us into something better. We can—"
"Don't do this, Zachary," Harper warned. His voice was timid, but the pain beneath it was sharp enough to cut. "You don't know what you're doing. Hope died here long before you arrived."
"But that's the thing, man." Zachary stretched his arms, looking at the faltering boy in front of him. "Hope... is a good thing. Maybe the best of things. And no good thing ever dies."
Without Harper even realizing it, tears began to escape his eyes. He had waited so long for someone to say those words. He had stayed quiet, accepted degrading errands, and suffered the Host's abuse just to cling to the safety of the Castle walls—all for the flickering chance that he might one day return. To apologize to his father for being ashamed of the store. To hug his sister and tell her he was sorry for being jealous of her tuition.
That hope had been dying, ember by ember, until only ash remained. Now, it was being reignited—not in the halls of the Castle, but in the heart of the Slums that had long since forgotten how to dream.
"Let's go home, man," Zachary said with a soft smile.
And finally, the boy broke. Harper lowered his head into his hands and wept.
As he watched the boy's shoulders shake, Zachary cursed himself. This wasn't how the script was supposed to go. He was supposed to turn Harper into a double agent, a pawn in the game against the Host. But something in him... it reminded him too much of himself.
'Ha! Look at you. Comforting people with the words you wish someone would say to you.'
"Returning home..." Zachary shook his head and looked toward the door. Beyond it lay the Slums, and further still, the Bright Castle. Towering over it all was the Crimson Spire, a jagged needle of coral and blood that loomed over their lives, ready to crush the feeble dreams of every Sleeper on the Shore.
'What did I even get myself into?' Zachary clicked his tongue as the weight of it all settled on his shoulders. Cassie's vision, the prophecy, his own precarious standing, and most importantly...
'What am I even going to do about Nephis?'