Kael slept poorly.
When he did sleep, his dreams were thick with roots—twisting through walls, winding around his ankles, whispering names he didn't know.
When he woke, the feeling didn't fade.
It deepened.
Like something had been grafted to him while he slept.
Something that wasn't letting go.
At first, it was small things.
A hesitation in his steps.
A flicker of blankness when someone spoke his name.
Thoughts that stopped halfway through forming, as if snagged by invisible threads.
He noticed.
Sariel noticed.
Even Elric noticed—but said nothing.
Not yet.
On the third morning after the Lower Sanctum ritual, Kael found a thin scar encircling his wrist where the twine had been tied.
It didn't hurt.
It didn't itch.
But when he flexed his fingers, the skin tightened—almost imperceptibly.
Almost.
He knew then:
The "binding" wasn't just a tracker.
It was a leash.
Gray Division didn't move openly at first.
They didn't have to.
Kael saw the signs.
Disciples trailing too close behind him in the corridors.
Unfamiliar faces loitering near the herb gardens.
Questions asked in passing that shouldn't have mattered, but did.
Sariel confirmed it two days later.
She cornered him outside the storage caves, her voice low and fast.
"They're watching for deviations. Mood shifts. Energy signatures. Memory anomalies."
Kael said nothing.
She pressed harder.
"They think you're already compromised. It's only a matter of time before they act."
That night, under the half-shuttered stars of the Hollow's outer courtyard, Kael sat alone with the bottle.
It pulsed faintly in his lap.
Slow.
Steady.
Not warning him.
Not yet.
But aware.
Waiting.
He tried to meditate.
Tried to center his mind around the old exercises Elric had taught him: breathing through the bones, slowing the blood, listening inward.
At first, it worked.
The hum of the Hollow faded.
The whisper of stone and root withdrew.
Silence expanded within him.
And then—
A tug.
Subtle.
Soft.
Persistent.
Like a hand brushing along the edges of his mind.
Searching.
Cataloging.
Claiming.
He snapped his eyes open, heart hammering.
The courtyard was empty.
The bottle's glow had sharpened, veins of gold streaking the green like cracks in old glass.
Kael clenched his fists.
The mark on his wrist burned cold.
No blood.
No wound.
But something inside it pulled at him, like a fisherman reeling in a slow, steady catch.
He had to act.
Soon.
Elsewhere, deep within the Hollow's administrative quarters, a quiet meeting unfolded.
Varra stood at a long stone table, flanked by two Gray Division operatives.
Councilor Marren sat at the head, fingers steepled.
"The artifact reacts to emotional stress," Varra said calmly. "It shields him from mental penetration."
"And if stress is escalated?" Marren asked.
Varra's smile was thin.
Precise.
"Then the shield must fracture."
A brief pause.
Then Marren tapped the table once.
"Proceed."
No emotion.
No hesitation.
Orders, pure and simple.
By the time Kael returned to his quarters, a message awaited him.
No seal.
No signature.
Just a single line:
Final evaluation scheduled. Third dusk. Lower Sanctum. No delay.
He stared at the parchment for a long time.
His fingers itched to burn it.
His instincts screamed to run.
But the bottle in his pouch pulsed once—steady, grounding.
Not fear.
Focus.
A soft knock.
Kael tucked the note away.
Sariel entered, her face pale under the lantern light.
She tossed something onto his bed.
A map.
Rough.
Hand-drawn.
Showing the outer tunnels of the Hollow—and the exits beyond.
She spoke without preamble.
"You have three days to decide."
Kael looked at her.
No words.
Only understanding.
If he stayed, they would break him.
If he ran, they would hunt him.
There was no third option.
No safe path.
Only forward.
The bottle warmed in his hand, pulsing to a rhythm he didn't recognize.
Yet.
He folded the map.
Tied it into the inner seam of his cloak.
And sat down to sharpen the old knife Sariel had left by his bedside days before.
In three days' time, the Hollow would come for him.
But Kael would be ready.