CHAPTER 117: CONDUCTING THE SEARCH

I will admit, when Rodrick barged into the library like a spooked ox, wild-eyed and gasping out the words "The man in white is missing", I didn’t exactly leap out of my chair with poise and grace.

No, I half-choked on my own breath, sputtered something unprintable, and bolted for the door before Fitch could even finish raising a smug eyebrow. There are moments in life when clever remarks lose to the baser instinct of run now, quip later, and this was one of them.

The library’s air — that calm, hushed cathedral of ink and dust — was instantly behind me as I burst out into the courtyard, the cool slap of morning fog hitting my face.

Survivors and attendants were still scattered from the chaos of Fitch’s earlier performance, whispers rising like moths in the mist. My boots echoed too loudly on the cobblestones, and for once I didn’t even care that I looked like a lunatic racing without direction.

Within minutes, a search party was cobbled together, because apparently shouting "where the hell is he?" doesn’t count as a plan.

I ended up with Rodrick, who was still panting like a bellows but stubbornly insisting he was fine; Salem, who looked grim and steady in that way that made me suspect he had actually been fine all along; and, of course, the naked knight, who was somehow already armed with a flagon of wine and another women by his side. I didn’t ask where he had acquired either. The answer would have been more upsetting than the question.

"Four of us," Rodrick muttered, glancing about the fog. "Not much of a net."

"More than enough," the knight boomed, striking a pose that would have been heroic if he’d been wearing even a scrap of armor. "One naked man equals ten clothed ones."

"I hate that math," I said flatly.

But the others were already moving, and so I followed, my pen clutched tight against my palm like some nervous tick. The fog clung low and heavy, making every stone wall loom like a phantom, every broken archway stretch taller than it should.

It wasn’t until we reached the edge of the barricade and slipped past the watchmen that the weight of the silence truly landed. Out here, beyond the illusion of safety, the city felt less like ruins and more like a corpse — still, stiff, and starting to smell.

We moved quickly through the shattered streets circling along the edge of the barricade, every sound amplified through the silence. My boots crunching against grit. Rodrick’s ragged breaths. The occasional, suspiciously jaunty hum from the knight, who seemed to think a manhunt was improved by improvised background music.

We cut back toward the slope of the mountainside, and the fog thinned as though reluctant to follow. Ahead, a short stretch of forest huddled at the base of the cliffs, a tangle of dark trunks and undergrowth that looked far too inviting for anyone seeking cover.

"Into there?" I muttered, glaring at the tree line. "Of course. Because why wouldn’t our quarry vanish into the one place that looks like it was designed by lunatics who thought ’haunted’ was a compliment?"

Nobody bothered to answer, which was rude but also fair.

The trees swallowed us quickly, damp earth muffling our steps, the canopy cutting away what little light the morning had managed.

Branches clawed at my sleeves as though trying to drag me back, and more than once I caught myself glaring at the knight’s bare skin just to make sure he hadn’t impaled anything awkwardly sensitive. If he was concerned about brambles or thorns, he certainly didn’t show it.

We searched for what felt like hours. Salem ranged ahead, blade drawn, moving with the kind of silence that made me think he had been born for forests like this.

Rodrick lingered close to me, every crack of twig making him twitch, though his jaw was set with that stubborn soldier’s determination.

And the knight — well, he announced every step like a drunken parade float, humming, chuckling, even at one point declaring, "This underbrush has fine texture!" as if he were reviewing a rug.

I was about to start a thorough argument with him about texture — what, precisely, did underbrush need it for? — when Rodrick suddenly hissed, "There!" His arm shot out, pointing through the lattice of trees.

And I saw it.

A flicker of white through the greenery.

We bolted. No commands, no plan, just raw instinct dragging us forward. Branches snapped against my arms as we burst into a clearing, boots skidding on wet soil, and then I stopped so abruptly Salem nearly collided with me.

Because there he was.

The Man in White stood in the center of the clearing, still as a statue, his hood tilting toward us. The fabric of his robe was soaked through, stained dark and red, clinging to his form like some macabre second skin.

For a moment I couldn’t even process it. Couldn’t make sense of what I was seeing. Then my eyes caught on the ground beside him — and that’s when my stomach turned inside out.

His arm.

It was gone.

His entire arm, severed clean at the shoulder, lay discarded in the grass like some obscene offering.

My throat closed, words clawing up but strangling themselves. I had faced corpses, beasts, abominations with too many teeth, but this—this was different. This was the man who had walked untouchable through fire and ruin, who had commanded crowds with a tilt of his hood. Seeing him undone, diminished, broken—it made something in my chest shrivel.

Finally, I forced a shout past my lips. "Hey! What the hell happened here?!"

His hood tilted further, slowly, almost mechanically, as though the sound took a full eternity to reach him. When his voice came, it was a rasp, hollow and ragged.

"Nothing," he said. "Nothing at all."

And then he collapsed.

I lurched forward, instincts screaming at me to run to him, to do something, but a strong arm slammed into my chest, halting me. The knight. His grin was gone, his expression grim as steel.

"Don’t," he said firmly.

I didn’t resist. Not this time. Because I already knew. I knew what was coming next.

The knight strode forward, calm, deliberate. His bare feet left dark prints in the grass as he knelt beside the Man in White’s crumpled body. Over his shoulder, he barked, "Salem—bring me the arm."

There was a pause, then Salem obeyed, grim and reverent, lifting the severed limb with both hands as though it were some sacred relic. He placed it gently into the knight’s grasp, his face pale, his eyes wide with a mix of awe and nausea.

The knight nodded once, then set to work.

I had seen his flesh-weaving before, but never like this. Never with the weight of a life so precarious in his hands. He pressed the limb against the torn shoulder, his fingers moving with impossible precision, tendons drawn taut, sinew stitched together as though guided by unseen threads. Flesh rejoined flesh, veins kissed veins, every movement grotesque and miraculous all at once.

Salem watched in silence, eyes gleaming with something like reverence. Behind us, a few of the other parties began catching up to us before quickly turning to face away, unable to stomach the sight. I couldn’t blame them. It was not clean work. It was not gentle. It was brutal, raw, a man sculpting another from the inside out with his bare hands.

And yet—there was beauty in it. A kind of primal artistry.

By the time he finished, the knight’s chest was heaving, sweat dripping down his brow. The Man in White lay still, his arm once again attached, though pale and trembling as though unsure of itself.

At once, professional healers from the other parties began rushing forward from the perimeter, their relics and chants spilling into the air, smoothing what the knight had wrought, weaving magic over muscle and blood until the seams became whole.

Only then, when the chaos seemed to ebb, did I dare step forward. My legs felt like lead, each step dragging through mud that wasn’t there. I crouched beside him, careful, tentative, my voice low.

"What happened?" I asked. "Please. Just...tell me."

The hood shifted slightly, enough for me to glimpse the shadow of his jaw, the faint tremble of lips. For a moment, I thought he would answer.

But instead, he turned his face away.

And said nothing.

I forced myself to breathe. In. Out. In again. The healers were still clustered around the man, their hands glowing, their chants steady, their faces tight with focus. It was all noise in the background, though.

I needed to anchor myself. I needed to cling to something that wasn’t blood, wasn’t horror, wasn’t the sight of him crumpled in the grass like a broken puppet.

So I spoke.

"Right," I said, my voice brittle but firm enough to catch the attention of Rodrick and Salem both. "There’s something else I need to tell you then." My laugh came out dry. "The Lady of Fangs has proposed a ceasefire."

The words hung in the clearing like smoke.

The Man in White stirred. His hood shifted just slightly toward me, and then, for the first time since we found him, his voice rasped with something other than pain. It was faint, but it carried. "A ceasefire? She offered that?"

I nodded. "Through Fitch, yes. Not a joke. Not some elaborate ploy to lure me into a pit with spikes at the bottom—though I admit I considered that as a likely possibility. No. She’s serious."

For a moment, silence.

Then, unbelievably, he laughed. Not the cruel laugh that belonged to some predator in white robes, but a sound almost light, almost...relieved.

"That is...remarkable," he whispered, as though the very idea had lifted a weight from his chest. "Do you realize what this means? A chance to redirect the war. A chance to keep her fangs buried in the shadows while we strike at the cult." His words grew more animated, his body almost shaking with sudden energy despite his injury. "This is a great opportunity. Greater than anything I’d hoped."

His sudden brightness was so at odds with the blood still staining the grass that I felt dizzy just looking at him. Still, I found myself nodding. "I thought you’d say that. And honestly, I agree. It’s insane, yes, but—insane is our natural state, isn’t it?"

Before he could answer, there came a rustle behind us. Leaves shifted. A faint whistle curled low through the branches. My spine went stiff.

Fitch.

I turned, and sure enough, there he was, leaning casually against a tree trunk as if he hadn’t just nearly dismantled an entire courtyard of soldiers hours ago. His grin flickered as his eyes swept over the scene, lingering with deliberate relish on the Man in White’s newly restored arm.

I didn’t waste time. "Tell your mistress we’ve agreed. Both of us."

For the briefest second, something like genuine surprise lit his face. Then the grin sharpened again, foxlike and sly. He inclined his head in a mockery of a bow. "Then I shall tell her. Thank you for your cooperation."

And just like that, he was gone. No flourish, no great sound. One heartbeat he was there, the next the forest had swallowed him whole.

The silence afterward was heavy, almost choking. I realized then that it was official. Whatever else might happen, whatever schemes twisted in the Lady’s long shadow, the ceasefire had been struck. Whether it lasted days or hours, whether it bought us glory or doom, it was ours now.

I glanced up at the sky, where the fog was at last beginning to burn away, streaks of pale blue showing through. The air tasted sharp, metallic, like the promise of coming storm.

Salem shifted beside me. When I looked at him, I saw not relief but something darker carved into his features. His jaw was tight, his hands clenched, his eyes shadowed by a storm of their own.

"What is it?" I asked.

His lips parted, the words almost inaudible. "Weak."

I blinked. "What?"

His voice grew harsher, strangled with anger not at me but at himself. "I’m so weak. All this time I’ve been coasting on talent, on fury, on instinct. It’s not enough. Not anymore. I relied on what came naturally, and it’s made me slow. Rusty." His gaze dropped to the ground, then lifted again with a fire that made me take a step back. "I’m going to train. Alone. Harder than I ever have. I won’t drag us down again."

There was pain in his voice, raw and real, but also a clarity I hadn’t seen before.

I swallowed and nodded slowly. "Then do it. If that’s your path, Salem, I won’t stop you. Saints know, we need you sharp. Sharper than all of us, perhaps."

He inclined his head, just slightly, the gesture more vow than acknowledgment.

The healers were lifting the Man in White now, attendants bracing his sides as though he were a wounded king. He did not look at me. Not once. His face remained turned away beneath the hood, silent as they guided him toward the treeline.

I watched them go, their figures dwindling into the trees until only the faint shimmer of healer’s light marked their passage. The clearing grew still again, the hush after chaos, my breath ragged in the silence.

And that’s when I saw it.

Not blood, not torn cloth, not the scar of battle left behind — but something far stranger. There, resting in the grass where he had fallen, glimmering faintly in the thinning mist, lay a single feather, black as midnight, sharp as ink against the pale morning light.