The cold link around Iker’s throat was not physical, yet it choked him, a constant, subtle pull on his very core. He felt the vast, empty space of Maialen’s prison, not as an observer, but as a silent hum beneath his own skin, a low thrumming that mirrored her forced stillness. He braced a hand against the cold stone of Nerea’s wall, his vision momentarily blurring at the drain. “Well,” a dry, familiar voice sounded, not in his ears, but directly behind his eyes. “You always did have a flair for the dramatic, Aranoa.” Iker flinched, his shoulders hitching sharply. *Maialen?* he thought, the word a raw, unbidden whisper in his own mind. *Where else would I be? You just turned yourself into my cell door,* she projected, her mental tone laced with a familiar, sharp irony. *And quite a drafty door it is, too. I can feel your indigestion from here.* He wanted to retort, to tell her to get out of his head, but Commander Zuriñe’s voice cut through the air, thankfully audible and external. “Secure the perimeter. Patrols at five-minute intervals. No one in, no one out.” Her voice was crisp, efficient, a stark contrast to the swirling chaos of Iker’s internal monologue. Zuriñe knelt by Nerea’s bed, her fingers pressing against the child’s neck. “Pulse steady. She’ll sleep for hours.” She glanced up at Iker, her gaze piercing. “The Azabache Keystone… it’s stable now. The entity retreated.” *Yes, it did,* Maialen thought, her voice a low growl in his skull. *It didn’t like being tethered to two souls instead of just one. Though I’m not sure which of us it finds more irritating.* “It’s stable,” Iker repeated aloud, trying to sound normal, trying to ignore the constant buzz of her presence. He felt a phantom brush against his own thoughts, like someone rifling through an open ledger. *Stop doing that!* *Stop thinking like a drunkard in a tavern brawl, then. You’re broadcasting like a lighthouse in a fog,* Maialen shot back, a hint of amusement flickering through their link. *Honestly, your internal monologue is appalling. Is this how you’ve been coping all these years?* He rubbed his temples. “Commander,” he said, forcing his voice to an even keel, “We need to talk about what happened here. And what this means.” Zuriñe rose, her eyes sweeping over the room, settling on the two Wardens she’d brought with her. One was a burly man named Borja, whose face was a mask of grim concern. The other, a younger woman named Miren, stood rigid, her gaze darting toward the corners. Zuriñe’s gaze lingered on Borja for a fraction too long before she turned back to Iker. “Indeed, Aranoa. But first, a matter of internal discipline.” Her voice dropped, a subtle shift in tone that Iker, from long experience, recognized as predatory. “Lieutenant Borja, a word.” Borja’s posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. He moved away from Miren, following Zuriñe out of Nerea’s room and into the vast silence of the main hall. Iker watched them go, a knot forming in his stomach. *She knows something,* he thought. *She suspects one of them.* *About time,* Maialen’s thought chimed in. *He’s been practically radiating guilt and a distinct scent of stale consecration herbs since he arrived. You’re slipping, Veil Warden.* “I’m not a Veil Warden anymore, Maialen,” he muttered under his breath, earning a curious look from Miren, who still stood by Nerea’s door. *Semantics. You still smell like one. A rather stressed, emotionally constipated one, I might add. It’s quite potent through this… bond of yours.* Iker closed his eyes, taking a steadying breath. This was going to be a long, *long* exile. He could hear Zuriñe’s hushed, urgent voice drifting from the hall, followed by Borja’s low rumble, then silence. A moment later, a sharp, metallic clang rang through the manor. Miren flinched, drawing her shortblade. Iker moved, faster than Miren could react, stepping into the hall. Zuriñe stood over a disarmed Borja, her own hand resting on the hilt of her ceremonial sword. Borja’s chin trembled, sweat beading over his stubble. “Tell me, Lieutenant,” Zuriñe said, her voice like ice, “who ordered you to falsify Aranoa’s mission report from the Eztia outpost? Who instructed you to plant the traces of the forbidden consecration compound?” Borja swallowed, his gaze flicking to Iker, then back to Zuriñe. “I… I didn’t know it would go this far. They just said… they said he needed to be removed. That he was a liability, too unpredictable.” A bitter bile rose into Iker’s mouth. *They sent me to die,* he realized, the truth hitting him with the force of a physical blow. *They deliberately sacrificed my unit, sacrificed me, to get me out of the way.* “Who is ‘they’?” Zuriñe pressed, her sword half-drawn, reflecting the flickering lamplight. Borja shook his head, a sheen of sweat on his brow. “A faction. They believe the Lurking Sorrow can be controlled. Weaponized. They want to open the Gloom fully, not just guard against it. They think your methods are archaic, Zuriñe. They think you’re holding back true power.” His voice was rising, a desperate, frantic confession spilling out. “They said Aranoa was too close to understanding the Azabache Keystone, too close to Maialen’s true purpose. He was going to interfere with their plans to bind the entity fully, to use it as a…” A choked gasp escaped Borja’s lips, cutting off his words mid-sentence. His eyes rolled back, and his body began to contort. Not like a man having a seizure, but like something *inside* him was trying to tear its way out. Dark veins, thick and pulsating, erupted across his face and neck, turning his skin a mottled, bruised black. A low, guttural shriek, a sound that seemed to scrape against the very fabric of reality, tore from his throat. His limbs spasmed violently, his fingers clawing at his own chest. “Borja!” Zuriñe shouted, stepping back, her sword now fully drawn, its blade ringing with silver light. Iker braced against the doorframe, his nails digging into splintered pine. He recognized the insidious, consuming hunger of the Lurking Sorrow. It wasn’t possessing Borja; it was *devouring* him, using him as a puppet, then destroying the evidence. Borja’s body continued to twist, ribs snapping like dry kindling beneath his tunic. His jaw unhinged, impossibly wide, and from the cavernous opening, a tendril of pure shadow, viscous and writhing, lashed out, striking a heavy ancestral portrait on the wall. The painted linen blackened and disintegrated into fine gray ash. Borja’s eyes, now entirely black, fixed on Iker, then on Zuriñe. “The truth… will unravel… all of you,” a voice rasped from Borja’s mangled mouth, a voice that was not his own, but a chorus of ancient sorrows. “You cannot stop… what is coming.” Then, with a final, sickening crunch, Borja’s body collapsed, imploding inward upon itself, leaving behind only a crumpled husk and a spreading stain of shadow on the polished floorboards. The Lurking Sorrow had taken its secrets, leaving them with nothing but a dead body and a horrifying confirmation.

The Traitor's Gambit