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The first time Caitlyn steps foot in Stillwater Hold she finds the other half of her soul, for better or worse. Vibrant hair, sharp tongue, eyes of cobalt blue. So full of hope, still, was she — naive and inexperienced but never complacent. She thought she could make a difference — one that mattered, that would change the lives of those she deemed worthy.
What a fool she had been.
The second time she enters those endless corridors, she’s a criminal in all but name— the shackles around her wrists visible only to her, the skin rubbed raw and coated in shame.
Hated you? I’ve hated myself.
Hatred is a funny thing. It kills and kills until it claws its way out and kills you too. Perhaps she’s been dead a long time already — blown up in the council attack alongside her mother.
The third was merely an accident. A crooked scientist, Ambessa had told her, trailing blood and an impossible beast, sitting in a cell simply waiting for capture. It had been all too easy to agree.
God, she’s such an idiot.
By the fourth time, she knows the halls well enough to walk them blindfolded. She isn’t surprised when she sees the woman standing alone inside the cell, eyes haunted. The guilt chews on her bones like a dog, spitting them out a broken, bloodied mess.
Do you really think I needed all the guards at the hexgates? She asks, because I’m sorry doesn’t come as naturally as it should. She’s afraid it never has.
By the fifth visit, her boots find their path into the dark, dingy prison without even looking. She’s so bone-tired she can hardly walk, each step ricocheting in her skull like a death knell. The keys rattle in her hand, the only sound to be heard in this abysmal silence.
She makes the long trek down the hall to the farthest cell in the block — a place so far removed from sunlight or fresh air it’s a wonder anyone can survive it.
Jinx’s lifeless words come back to haunt her. Come to finish the job?
She drops her hand to her side, letting the keys jingle a bit louder just for some kind of noise.
The man in the cell doesn’t move an inch from his hunched position in the corner, legs curled up against his chest and arms dangling over his knees. His head is bowed, long chestnut hair falling to cover his eyes. He’s a mess, to say the least, all covered in grime and trembling like a leaf.
“I assumed you would be a bit more… imposing,” she says, voice echoing, “given the nature of your capture.”
The man still doesn’t look up. He doesn’t even flinch; he’s still as a stone.
“I need you to tell me everything,” Caitlyn continues, watching him. “I’ve already taken statements from everyone you have been in contact with within the past six months.”
The man answers her with silence. Caitlyn sighs, fighting the urge to scratch the insatiable itch beneath her eyepatch.
“Thankfully for you, no one but the council is aware of your status as the Herald. And, of course, those you tricked into your commune.”
At this, glimmering amber eyes peek through the veil of his hair. The trembling in his shoulders only intensifies.
Caitlyn has dealt with her fair share of unruly, insolent criminals— those who only talk when beaten within an inch of their life. This, she can already tell, will be a similar case. She wonders, in the part of her mind she’s tried to ignore for weeks, what method of violence would work best on a man like him. Guilt quickly simmers in her stomach at the thought.
She steps closer.
“Any information you give me will only aid your case.”
The man before her darts his eyes back to the wall, curling even further into himself. She takes a minute to study him, noticing the crooked bend of his right knee and hunched spine. This isn’t the body of a god— it’s hardly that of a man, really.
“Please be careful.” Vi had told her, grabbing her hand.
“I know,” she’d said, “but he deserves a fair trial, and if no one else is going to give it to him, then it’s up to me”.
“He could be dangerous, Cait.”
She watches him for a moment longer. No, dangerous isn’t the word she’d use.
“Jayce has been asking for you.”
Now this gets his attention. His head snaps up so fast she can practically hear the crack of his neck.
“J…Jayce? He’s alive?”
Caitlyn manages to hide her shock at hearing his hoarse, whisper-like voice. “Yes. He was unconscious beside you when you both were found. He’s since recovered, but the council deems it unsafe to let him come here. They… believe he may be still affected by the Arcane.”
The words taste like a lie.
The prisoner’s eyes, nearly black from blown pupils, finally meet her own. She feels a chill settle on her spine.
She’d known him, once, had found her way into their lab on slow days or when she needed a break from it all. He’d always give her the space she needed, listening quietly as he worked and occasionally offering advice when Jayce was absent. She likes to think he’d been her friend, once, too.
“Viktor,” she says, voice growing soft, “please. Jayce… he hasn’t been well since your return. He asks about you constantly, begging the council to believe your innocence. They don’t, of course.”
“Do you?” Comes a rough, half-conscious voice.
Caitlyn watches him, studies the way he picks at his nails until blood coats his fingers, realizes she’s been in this exact place before. She steps forward until her hands grace the bars, holding eye contact.
“If you give me reason to, then yes.”
The man remains silent. The drip, drip, drip of the leaky ceiling ricochets through her skull, keys clanging noisily against the metal as though taunting them.
“Why are you really doing this, Ms. Kiramman?” He finally asks, lifting his head to peer at her properly. Long hair drapes across his forehead, now twice the length Caitlyn remembers it being. She thinks back to when he’d curl the ends while concentrating, making them stick up in every direction, the picture of a perfect mad scientist.
“You’re not a monster, Viktor. You never were.” She finally says. Her voice is low yet echoes off the stone all the same. “The true monsters were those of us that failed you.”
She lets the words sit in the silence of the prison, lets them soak into the stone like the countless carvings on the walls. She can hear the breath catch in his chest, the shuffle of his bare feet on the cold floor.
“Jayce believes in you.” Caitlyn adds, grabbing a hold of one of the bars. “And I… I believe you deserve a fair trial. So please, tell me everything you know.”
“You won’t want to defend me.” Viktor replies, turning to face the wall. The chains rattle loudly and he grimaces, tucking his arms closer to his body. “Not after…” He trails off, shoulders hunching.
“Viktor—“
“You’d be better off defending my old mentor,” he continues, turning his head to glance back at her again, “though, I suppose… we are already past that point.”
Caitlyn pauses, considering his words. “Your mentor… Dr. Reveck?”
A huff that could’ve been a laugh if he had the energy for it escapes him. “Guess we are alike after all.”
Caitlyn steps back, jaw tense. “I’d like to believe you’re more human than that man ever was.”
“Innocence is often decided by the guilty.” Viktor shrugs, chains clattering at the movement.
She stills her face, shoving down the reflexive retort on the back of her tongue. He’s not wrong, is he? A guilty woman deciding the fate of a man who only wished to cure? Perhaps they are more alike than she thought.
“Tell me what happened, Viktor.” She says instead, dragging her hand down the metal.
“If I tell you, will you promise me one thing?” Viktor asks, voice echoing through the hall like a death knoll.
Caitlyn doesn’t reply, just waits patiently for him to continue.
“Will you take care of Jayce when I am gone?” He asks, voice stronger than it was moments before. There’s a broken sort of tone to it, she thinks. “Whether it be from rotting in this cell or by execution, I doubt it will matter.”
Something is twisting its fists into her chest, squeezing without remorse. She feels her mouth go dry.
“If we can prove you innocent—“
“You won’t,” Viktor replies, looking at the grime that coats the floor, “because I am not innocent.”
“I heard what Jayce said. That you were being controlled by the Hexcore, that the commune was a farce—“
“I converted them. I killed them all.” The man’s voice grows low, almost lower than she’s ever heard it. His shoulders slump imperceptibly, the tremors getting worse. “I killed them.”
The monotone voice is unsettling, to say the least. Caitlyn takes a small step backwards, as if by reflex, eyes tracking the man’s form. But instead of the harsh breakdown she expects, all he does is sit. His hair trails down the back of the tattered, ill-fitted prison shirt in unruly waves, shaking with the movements of his shoulders. His right knee half collapses under him, twisting against the ground in a way that screams of weakness.
This isn’t the Viktor Caitlyn once knew. A man who, above all else, wore his pride like a badge of honor. A man who spoke in clipped sentences and light jabs, whose mere demeanor could prove his intelligence. He stood with the sort of confidence that came from fighting to be heard.
But this… this is a man who has lost everything. A man who’s been reduced to flesh and blood after tasting divinity. He’d seen what no other had and reached for it with trembling fists, determined to do whatever it took to harness it.
Caitlyn sighs so deeply she feels it settle heavily under her ribs. “You said you would talk—”
“Only if you promise…” Viktor trails off, breathy. “…promise to care for him.”
Caitlyn nods slowly, then remembers he cannot see her. “Of course.” She says, grabbing hold of the bars again as thought it will stabilize her. “But only if you promise to tell me everything you know.”
She thinks she sees him nod his head but can’t be sure. The exiled scientist is still hunched in the corner, back to her, shaking through what she suspects might be silent sobs. It’s a heartbreaking sight, but Caitlyn has witnessed the art of war play out before her eyes — this is hardly the first man she’s seen break.
“Speak.”