The dining hall’s phosphorescent glow seemed to press in, suffocating Vana under Morana’s unblinking stare. It was a gaze that promised retribution, a cold, unwavering judgment that made the air itself crackle. Gro’nak, still sprawled on the floor, found his voice first, a whimper of protest as one of Morana’s hulking guards hauled him upright by the collar of his grimy tunic. The other guard, a silent monolith of muscle, stepped forward, his hand extended towards Vana. “Warden summons you to the Spirespire,” his voice rumbled, flat and devoid of inflection. “Now.” Vana’s heart gave a tired thump against her ribs. She glanced at Kresnik, who had fully settled back onto his bench, his head bowed, seemingly oblivious to the unfolding drama. Only the subtle tremor in his massive shoulders hinted at the storm he’d just navigated. He hadn’t looked away from her until the guard approached, and now, he offered no sign of acknowledgment. Just as well, she thought, pushing herself up from the bench. Another scene was the last thing either of them needed. She followed the guard through the suddenly hushed hall, past rows of Dissonants who averted their eyes, past the steaming cauldrons of nutrient paste, and out into the winding passages of Gloomspire. The journey upward was long, through spiraling tunnels where the mineral veins shifted from a warm azure to a stark, blinding white. The air grew thinner, cleaner, losing the earthy musk of the lower warrens and taking on a sharp, metallic tang. Morana’s office, nestled at the highest point of the Spirespire, was a stark contrast to the rest of the city. No lush fungal gardens, no communal warmth. It was a cavern carved with brutal precision, its walls polished obsidian that swallowed the light. A single, enormous quartz monolith, pulsing with an inner violet luminescence, dominated the far end, humming with a low thrum that vibrated through the floor. A desk of rough-hewn ebony stood before it, severe and imposing, with Morana already seated behind it. “Ivana Radmila,” Morana’s voice was as sharp as chipped flint, each syllable clipped and precise. She didn’t look up from a slate tablet she held, her long, elegant fingers scrolling through its glowing surface. “Or do you prefer ‘Vana’ now that you’ve charmed our resident brute?” Vana stood before the desk, flanked by the silent guards. The air was heavy with the monolith's hum, a pressure on her very bones. “Vana is fine, Warden. And I didn’t charm anyone. I merely… offered a distraction.” Morana finally lifted her gaze, her eyes like chips of glacial ice. “A distraction? You silenced an entire hall, Ivana. You calmed a creature that has resisted every attempt at control, every discipline, every inducement we have applied for cycles.” She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Kresnik’s rage, you see, is not merely an inconvenience. It is a vital component of Gloomspire’s defenses. A raw, untamed power that channels the essence of the Veil’s most volatile minerals. His outbursts are… calibrated. Necessary. His fury feeds the Aegis Shard, the central stone that protects us from the surface’s prying eyes.” Vana frowned. “You’re saying you *want* him to rampage?” The idea was monstrous, a deliberate torment. “I am saying,” Morana corrected, her tone laced with menace, “that Kresnik is an instrument of war. A deterrent. And a blade must be sharp. Predictable. Your… song… dulls its edge. It introduces an uncontrolled variable into our carefully balanced system. Do you understand the implications of such instability, little wolven?” Vana’s empathic senses, usually dulled by her own internal noise, picked up a tremor of genuine fear beneath Morana’s icy exterior. Not fear for herself, but for the city. For its structure. It was a chilling realization – Morana truly believed Kresnik’s pain was for the greater good. “I only tried to prevent harm,” Vana said, trying to keep her voice steady. “His rage was endangering others.” Morana’s lips curled into a thin, humorless smile. “A commendable sentiment, for a newcomer. But Gloomspire does not tolerate sentimentality. We demand utility. Kresnik had a previous handler, you know. A promising Dissonant, with an ability to manipulate sound. He was tasked with managing Kresnik’s… oscillations. But he failed. Failed to maintain the necessary intensity. Failed to keep the edge honed.” The violet stone behind Morana pulsed, its hum deepening. “He was recycled. His soul-song, deemed unfit for a living body, now contributes to the city’s lesser wards. A simple, efficient solution for those who cannot adapt.” She watched Vana’s face carefully, letting the words hang in the air, a veiled threat as sharp as any blade. “We cannot afford another failure, Ivana. Not with the Gauntlet approaching. You are his new handler. Control him. Or you will join his predecessor.” A cold dread coiled in Vana’s stomach. Not just for herself, but for Kresnik. The idea of him being deliberately provoked, his trauma exploited, made her hackles rise. This wasn’t just about survival; it was about a profound injustice. “Is that all, Warden?” Vana asked, her voice perhaps a shade too defiant. Morana leaned back, a flicker of something unreadable in her eyes. “Almost. I believe in giving my chosen instruments all the necessary information. Knowledge is power, after all.” She gestured to the guard who had brought Vana. He stepped forward, placing a thick, bound file on the desk. Its cover was a drab, unadorned gray. “This contains all pertinent data regarding Subject Delta-Seven,” Morana explained, her gaze fixed on Vana. “His psychological profile, his history, the origins of his… specific triggers. Study it. Understand the monster you are tasked with taming. Fear, Ivana, can be a powerful motivator.” Vana took the file. It felt cold against her palms, thick with documented suffering. The guards stood aside, indicating her dismissal. She didn't trust herself to speak, merely nodded, and turned to leave the oppressive chamber. The descent felt even longer, the air growing warmer, thicker, as she returned to the labyrinthine warrens. Her mind reeled with Morana’s words. *Recycled*. The callousness of it, the cold efficiency. And Kresnik, an engineered weapon, deliberately fractured. It made her own fragmented memories feel like a dull ache compared to the raw agony she imagined he must carry. She found a quiet alcove near the communal baths, a small nook carved into the rock, hidden by a curtain of phosphorescent moss. The air here was damp, humid, and smelled faintly of mineral springs. She sat on a low stone ledge, the heavy file resting on her knees. Her fingers trembled slightly as she untied the worn leather thong that held it shut. This was Kresnik’s past, laid bare. His pain, offered as leverage to make her fear him. But what if it made her understand him instead? She opened the cover. The first page was a summary, terse and clinical. *Subject Delta-Seven. Alias: Kresnik. Species: Undetermined. Status: Dissonant, high-tier threat potential. Primary ability: Kinetic Force Manifestation (Trigger: Auditory – specific harmonic frequencies, high-decibel bursts).* Below it, a list of incident reports, dates, containment breaches. She skipped past the jargon, searching for something, anything, that spoke to the giant she had seen. Her gaze caught on a small, indented section near the bottom of the page, under “Initial Contact & Witness Testimony.” There, scrawled in an old, faded script, was a name that made her world tilt: *Ivana Radmila*. Her own name. Listed as a witness. Before she could even process the impossible implication, her eyes scanned further, finding another name beneath it, followed by a brief, devastating description. It wasn't just *her* name that rooted her to the spot, but the terrifying confirmation that came next, an echo from a memory she didn't know she had. This file was not just Kresnik's past, but a piece of her own, twisted and returned to her by the hands of her enemy.

A Warden's Warning