Vol 1 - Ch 22 - A Pact in Blood and Iron

Parking by Gramps’ home, Caelan took a deep breath. Ever since seeing Sam again, his mind felt like a mess, playing a constant replay of never calling out to her.

Days of agonizing over it led him here, to Gramps. He needed guidance.

The front door stood open—a warning sign. Gramps would never allow that. Caelan drew his pistol, moving sideways for cover before peering inside. With deliberate moves, he went into the house. Every corner scanned for signs of an intruder.

When he finished the living room, he moved to the kitchen. His heart beating like thunder in his ears.

Then stopping when he saw the hand sticking out from behind the counter.

Oh God, please no! He focused on stilling his breaths. First, make sure the room is safe, then check on the fallen person. Coming in at a slow pace, he looked over all possible corners, his limbs shaking.

Caelan dropped to his knees, pulse hammering. “Gramps? Can you hear me?” No response. His eyes, half-open, showed only white. Focus. First-aid. Don’t panic.

Caelan pressed two fingers to Gramps’s wrist. Weak. Too weak. His blood turned ice cold. The tips of the old man’s fingers had also gone blue. The soldier could feel his breaths going rapid as realization struck.

He’s going into cardiac arrest!

Caelan called emergency services right away. Got everyone he could think on the line.

Then—silence. Gramps had stopped breathing.

Fifteen minutes. That’s how long he spent forcing life back into the man who raised him. The worst fifteen minutes of his life. The massive control over his inhuman strength. His arms went numb but never stopped. Sweat and tears blurred his vision.

When paramedics arrived, everything became a blur. He recalled getting in the ambulance. The sterile smell filled the ambulance as they worked to revive him. The sirens blasted full force as they made a mad dash towards the hospital.

Please God… not now!

-----

Doc stared at him with his weathered eyes. They had seen too much—each glance carried a lifetime of hardship. For a long moment, Doc only stared. Then, his shoulders shook—first a quiet rumble, then full, unrestrained laughter that seemed to shake the walls.

Like Gramps…

Under the table, his fingers curled into fists. He shoved the memories aside. Focus. Yet the similarities stood out. They both felt larger than life as if nothing sort of divine intervention could bring them down. Despite their rough exteriors, both carried a quiet, unwavering kindness.

He shoved the sentiment down and focused on Doc. Once he wiped away the tears, Doc glared at him. “Give me one reason not to throw you out, boot so far up your behind you’ll be spitting leather for weeks.”

Caelan smirked, leaning back into the chair. “Didn’t think you would mind one less Unspoken in the world.”

Eyes narrowed, Doc kept his silence. But the veins popping on his forehead revealed enough. “Can’t say that rings a bell.”

“Huh. That so?” Caelan scoffed, tracking every twitch in Doc’s posture. “Are you in the habit of kicking tattooed people out, then?”

Doc crossed his arms and straightened. “Ah, so that’s when. How do you know who they are?”

“I study at Hollowbane, under Falkner.” His arms tensed—brief, but noticeable. Caelan chose to press even further. “He’s doing well for himself, even became Master of Creation. Did you hear?”

Doc’s demeanor darkened. “So, the Executors are still breeding snooping little rats.”

“You are only half-right.” The displaced stretched his arms, hoping to elicit more reactions. “I’m indeed involved with the Secrets course. And if you wanted to keep secrets, maybe don’t leave them out in the open?”

He let the old doctor grumble for a moment. “Look, I’m not here to poke at old wounds…”

“Could have fooled me.”

“Hah! Guess that’s fair.” Caelan raised his hands in the air. “I’m just curious how the former Master of Creation ended up patching up drunks in the Wastes.”

Doc’s growl rumbled low, a warning rather than a threat. “The more you talk, the more Bernice starts sounding like a damn good idea.”

Think I’d snitch? Please. I’d rather not share a scaffold with you.”

The doctor took a large breath in. “Is that related to you falling from a plane?”

“In a way. When it happened, I was being smuggled by one faction within the Executors. To protect me from the other.”

Doc ran a hand through his beard. “Guess that didn’t work so well.”

A smirk formed on the young man’s lips. “Yeah, almost dying was step one of the plan. Real strategic, huh?”

“Wouldn’t surprise me those numbskulls could only think of that.” Doc tensed for a second, then leaned in. The shift said more than words could. “And how are the Unspoken involved?”

“I found leads—members, hideouts, the kind of intel that should have mattered. Every single one was a dead end." That still brought Caelan's blood to a boil. "Then, agents started to go missing. When I took matters into my own hands, I almost got killed. And finally, the same person attacked me on the place, crashing it to hide evidence."

“That’s who you want dead?”

Caelan snapped his fingers at Doc. “Yes, sir. "Bet they’re still hunting me. So, I plan to use that to my advantage.”

Doc huffed, arms crossing over his chest. “So you wanna flip the board, huh? Make them the ones looking over their shoulders?”

“That’s the idea, yes.” Caelan came closer to him, eyes on his. “I’ve got the groundwork laid out. But I need your expertise to finish the job.”

Eyes closed, Doc looked even older. While waiting for him to answer, Caelan recalled what he knew of the old professor. Itzam Tzopelic. Never showed up in the games, a name buried in old lore. Academy professor turned rebel. Thought dead after the Vortigane Rebellion.

Ironic how he's a stone's throw away from Anthuria.

Doc huffed, eyes cracking open. “Why in the hell would I care if some random Unspoken dies? They are dregs from a bad solution, aye, but why risk going after them?”

Caelan took a long breath in. This was the moment he had been waiting for. “Because if not for them, the Vortigane wouldn’t have followed a false idol.”

The chair clattered to the floor as Doc shot up. His face burned red, hands gripping the table hard enough to splinter wood. His glare could have melted steel. “Where did you hear that?”

“Some tragedy, huh? Thinking you backed the Matron’s chosen… when all along, you armed her killer.” The displaced kept his eyes locked on Doc’s. “As the sponsors of your work, their fall must feel like an open wound.”

Doc looked about to flip the table and grab Caelan’s neck. You could see the gears in his head working towards that. His voice dropped to a growl. “Boy, I’ll give you five seconds to start running.”

“I know what it’s like to be used.” His words froze Doc in place. “To be a tool in someone else’s ‘grand plan.’ To wake up one day and realize you are just a pawn in a game you can’t see.” Images of his many brothers and sisters perishing flashed in his mind. “And how little the ‘players pay the actual cost.”

Doc stared at him, looking for a lie or misdirection. Then, all the fire left the old man. He now looked as if the years had caught him. "I knew all the boys. Both the children and grandsons of old Vortimir.” He took a deep breath, his chair back in place. “For all my brains, I was too blinded by loyalty to see. To figure out who had made them throw away everything. All for a mad dream.”

A thousand-yard stare. Caelan had seen many eyes like Doc’s. “You crafted their weapons, didn’t you?”

Doc let out a breath, shoulders slumping. “Worse.” He rubbed a shaking hand down his face. “I didn’t just build their weapons. I convinced the others to help.”

Time to press a little. Caelan rested a hand on Doc’s shoulder. He tensed up at first but soon relaxed. "Might not mean much in the grand scheme, but don’t you think you’ve earned a little payback?”

Doc looked up, eyes widening—then narrowing just as fast. Like steel cooling after the forge. “What sort of help you need?”

"Knowledge, and tools." He pulled a folded paper from his pocket. "I've outlined a basic plan already, but I need three things for it to work. A suitable site, proper weapons, and ways to neutralize without killing the bastard.”

“Wasn’t the whole point of all this for you to kill him?”

Caelan smirked at Doc. “Oh, I’ll kill him. But not before I get some answers. And I bet you’ve got a few… experiments in mind.”

The old man placed one massive hand over his chin. “Doc stroked his chin. “Bernice’s been sitting around too long. She’s overdue for a workout.”

The displaced offered his hand. “So, we have a deal?”

Doc grumbled, eyeing Caelan’s outstretched hand. “Don’t know what’s worse—your piss-poor attempt at manipulation, or me buying into it.”

He then shook Caelan’s hand with vigor.

Glad to be working with you, partner.” A warmth settled in Caelan’s chest—before he smothered it. No distractions. No hesitation.

One step closer to putting that bastard down.