The Hood's Mask (Part II)

“True.” Dane shifted his stance slightly. “Shall we try it?”

The Boss didn’t answer right away. The relic pulsed in his hand—steady, brighter toward the tree.

Bob glorped from the pouch at the Boss’s hip, tendrils stretching toward the trunk. His head popped free, faintly luminous; those black, unblinking eyes fixed on the Boss. “Gangster,” he said.

The Boss’s eyebrows lifted. “Shh. I get it.” Then, to Dane: “There must be a lot of monsters through this seam.”

Dane watched the exchange, every instinct on edge. “How would it know, I wonder.” He looked toward the tree again. Nothing—no pull, no hum. Just still air.

“Yeah, I… have no idea,” the Boss said. “I do know he feels intensely that there’s something good to eat through there.”

“Should just be another room—another vestibule,” Dane murmured, still watching the bark.

“That’s how it worked before.” The Boss exhaled softly. “I really have no idea how any of this works yet. Do you… have any idea about these rooms?”

Dane remembered a short passage he’d read once—dimensional rifts leading to spaces outside normal perception, bound by different rules of reality. The old term surfaced like a half-remembered oath, spelled out phonetically in the archives, its origin unknown. He’d only ever seen it once, buried deep within the Collegium’s Veil records—never in any public text. He looked back at the Boss, weighing what to say.

The Boss waited, too earnest by half. Mason’s face and body… but nothing else was the same. Those eyes—he’d seen many across a lifetime of mercenaries, murderers, and liars. These were different. Honest. Earnest. Caring. Like Lorne’s.

“I read something once,” Dane said at last, voice low. “I think it could have been about these seams. I don’t know much, though.”

The Boss almost looked disappointed. “I wonder if Nyx will know…”

“That,” Dane said flatly, “I definitely do not know.”

“I’m wondering if the—” the Boss started, then caught himself. “Never mind. Later.”

He adjusted his grip on the relic, its light holding steady. “Well. I guess the only way to tell is to go through. You ready?”

Dane nodded. He stepped in behind the Boss and laid a hand on his shoulder for contact. “Let’s go.”

The Boss moved first, disappearing into the tree a fraction of a second ahead of Dane.

He slipped through the bark, and the fog vanished. In its place, a sky the color of dried blood pressed low over a valley of bone-white spires. They jutted from the earth in uneven rows—broken towers among the ruin. Shattered arches leaned half-sunk in the dust. Everything looked dead. He looked behind them, and it appeared they’d come out of a crumbling stone wall.

Shapes lumbered far off between the towers.

The Boss looked around. “This place is extra creeptastic. Not a vestibule… huh.” He slid the relic into the side pocket of his pack, freeing both hands, and drew his sword.

Bob was already halfway out of his pouch before the Boss caught him. “Not yet.”

Cold bled through Dane’s gloves. The air tasted of old curses—thick, stagnant, hungry. At least, that's what it felt like.

He’d read accounts in the Collegium archives—fragments from two survivors who’d escaped a doomed expedition decades ago. Their words had matched this exactly: a dead sky, bone spires, and monsters that could rot anything living if you didn’t have the proper defense.

No one who entered Hollow Gate ever came near this sector again. Avoided it. Except idiots who thought they were better than those before them—searching for treasure or glory—the kind who were never heard from again.

“This…” His voice came out rough, barely a whisper. “This is the Nightmare Realm.”

The Boss turned toward him, eyes wide. “What—”

Before he could finish, Dane seized an arm. “Back. Now.”

“Move!” Dane kept hold of him and drove them both backward toward the wall. “Seam! Where?”

The Boss pointed. Dane approximated, turned the Boss to face him, grabbed both his arms, and pushed.

“Not aga—”

They fell through the stone wall and hit the ground hard on the other side, back in the fog biome. The impact knocked the breath out of the Boss. Dane ended up braced over him, his hands still gripping the Boss’s arms.

“—in.” The Boss wheezed. “We really need to stop ending up in this position. You’re lucky you didn’t land on my sword and get skewered!”

Dane let go, pushing himself back, then offered a hand.

“What happened?” the Boss rasped, sitting up. He took Dane’s hand, and they stood.

Dane turned, scanning the mist. “The seam opened into the Nightmare Realm biome.”

The Boss’s brows drew together. “That sounds terrifying… what does it actually mean, though? What’s in there?”

“It means we’re not equipped for it.” He brushed grit from his gloves, voice low but sharp. “That biome’s not like the others. The creatures there aren’t just corrupted—they’re mana-types. Nasty. You can cut them down, but more just keep coming. Endless waves with barely a respite. No one ever figured out how to stop them completely or made it through unscathed. It’s rare to even come across that biome—people avoid routes that connect to it.”

The Boss was still catching his breath, a hand pressed to his ribs. “That bad?”

Dane nodded once. “No one survives long in there.”

“Infinite spawn rate, one life. Nope. Bad juju,” the Boss muttered.

He really does say the strangest things.

“Perhaps there’s another route,” Dane said, looking west.

The Boss followed his gaze. “So what—avoid it forever? What about Nyx?”

Dane hesitated. The dungeon’s structure was unpredictable, but not without pattern. By the old maps, the fog biome should’ve been barely a quarter of the way down. The Nightmare Realm was deeper, past the halfway mark. They shouldn’t have been able to reach it from here.

Something had changed. The landscape no longer matched what it should. Landmarks felt misplaced, sections rearranged. It reminded him of the temple in the jungle, a structure pulled from somewhere deeper and set there by mistake. Maybe the dungeon itself was shifting its pieces. Or perhaps it only felt that way because they were using the seams Boss had shown them, cutting through paths that were never meant to connect. Though whatever had happened in the first chamber had been the dungeon’s doing, not Boss’s. He was sure of that.

If the relic’s pull really pointed toward Nyx, then their fastest path lay straight through the danger, through whatever biome bordered the Nightmare Realm. Reckless, but did they have a better option?

He looked at the Boss, who was adjusting his gear after sliding his sword back into its scabbard. Then he checked on his creature, tucking Bob more securely into the pouch.

“Not until I say, next time,” he murmured. “We talked about this.”

Bob chirped, a soft, wet trill.

“Didn’t I promise snacks if you behave?” the Boss said, tone half-tired, half-affectionate.

Dane watched them in silence, the odd domesticity of it catching him off guard. Moments like these reminded him that this man was not Mason Draegor—the cruel, sadistic high mage who’d ruled over the mercenaries—nor the boy who’d murdered his mother and siblings, but the bewildered stranger he’d met in the dungeon after the ritual.

He’s come a long way since our first meeting. His fighting style, his magic—both improved. But it won’t be enough for the Nightmare Realm as is.

“I’ll teach you to fight in rhythm with me. We’ll work on your mana control. If we have to go through that place, we’ll go in ready,” Dane said firmly.

“Okay. You sure we shouldn’t just find another route? One that avoids the death flag?”

“Death flag?”

“Never mind. Yes.” The Boss cleared his throat. “That sounds like a good plan. The training. Uh, preparation.” He clasped his hands behind his back.

Bob glorped.

Dane had to turn away to hide his smile. Why even bother with the act anymore?

He turned back toward the Boss. “You remember what I said before—how you just kept getting stranger and stranger?”

The Boss blinked. “Yes…?”

“I meant it,” Dane said quietly. “At first, I thought it was some sort of madness setting in. You tried joining conversations. You said strange things—most of which, to be honest, I don’t understand—but your laugh was genuine. You made jokes. Poor ones, mostly.”

The Boss’s mouth twitched. Dane caught it; it looked like he bit back whatever he wanted to say.

He exhaled slowly. “Back at the manor—when Ronan had you hidden away—I tried to watch you that week, figure out what you were. I thought you were playing some long game. But you weren’t, were you?”

The Boss’s expression stayed unreadable—at first. Then his jaw shifted, a faint muscle twitch near his temple. A bead of sweat slid from his hairline. He rubbed the back of his neck like it ached, eyes drifting to the fog instead of meeting Dane’s. The kind of tells Mason Draegor would never have—never need—spoke louder than any denial.

“You mostly gave the right orders,” Dane continued, voice low, “but your voice was wrong. You moved wrong. And your mana—there wasn’t any. Not even a trace. At first, I thought I’d misread it. Fatigue, backlash from the ritual. But even then, it didn’t make sense. Mason Draegor liked being felt before he was seen.”

The Boss swallowed hard. Bob stirred in the pouch at his side.

“And that other fog—the one he wove around me, around all of us—it lifted,” Dane went on. “From the moment we found you, that pressure had already vanished. I’m certain I wasn’t the only one who felt it.”

He drew a slow breath. “I thought it would come roaring back once we reached the manor. But it never did. The compulsion field was gone. The men started thinking again—arguing, laughing, fighting. Noise. Chaos. The kind of life that didn’t exist in Mason Draegor’s world.”

His gloved hand flexed once. “It was so sudden. Almost three years under, and even the Collegium hadn’t been able to break it. I couldn’t trace the source in the manor, not even in my more lucid states. Then there you were—and it was gone.”

He looked toward the Boss again. “Ronan said you needed rest and kept you out of sight. I watched. You forgot names. Flinched at horses. Thanked people. Still made jokes—well, you smiled and laughed.” A dry breath escaped him.

The Boss crossed his arms, bristling. He looked offended.

“My suspicions only grew when, by the end of your week back at the manor, you sparred with Caldris—still no mana, no wrapped blade, just brute strength. The men said you were holding back. I knew better.” Dane’s voice stayed even. “When Ronan brought up the new dungeon raid, I asked to go. He refused.”

The Boss’s gaze stayed steady on Dane’s. Listening.

“Ronan took you into that dungeon alone, accompanied only by men who’d never spent time around Mason,” Dane continued. “I thought he was protecting your secret—how much you’d lost, perhaps. The memory gaps. The personality change. Whatever it was, he wanted to keep it between you two. Whatever compulsion there had been still clung to him.”

The Boss’s lips parted, but no words came.

Dane looked away, jaw tight. “Which means the man I spent seventeen years hunting—the one who killed my family—might already be gone.”

His voice dropped lower. “Because if the spell broke when you came back… then maybe you weren’t Mason Draegor at all. Maybe he died in that chamber, and something else stood up wearing his face.”

He let out a rough breath—almost a laugh, but hollow. “I didn’t want that to be true. I told myself I wanted the truth, but what I wanted was my target.” His voice cracked faintly. “Something I could aim at. Someone to make it make sense.”

He shook his head, exhaling hard through his teeth. “Because if he’s gone—then what the hell am I supposed to do with it? With all of this?” His hand came up, pressing briefly against his chest as if trying to hold it in. “The years. The rage. Their names. Their faces. Every night I went over it in my head—what he’d taken, what I’d do when I found him. And the Collegium having me stand down...”

His breath faltered. “And now I might never get the chance. If he’s dead. If there’s no way to get him back…”

The fog seemed to close in around them. Bob gave a faint, uncertain chirp—the sound small and wrong in the silence.

“So tell me,” Dane murmured, voice rough, “what does a man do when his vengeance seems within reach—and the person responsible is gone, and there’s no one left to aim it at?”

He sank down onto a root with a dull thunk, the fight gone out of him.

He’s not going to tell me anything.

The Boss approached slowly, hesitant, and rested a hand on his shoulder.

Dane didn’t look up. He just drew in a long breath, steadied it, then rubbed a hand over his face. The gesture was small, human, tired. He shrugged the hand on his shoulder away.

The silence sat heavy between them. When he finally spoke again, his voice was steady—back to business.

“Right,” he muttered. “We should start preparing.”

The Boss nodded. “Where do we start?”

Dane studied the faint glow from the opening of Bob’s pouch. “Your magic, when you cast,” he said evenly, “are you taking mana from him?”

The Boss hesitated. His hand hovered over the pouch, as if deciding whether to lie. “It’s not constant. He gives me some when I ask.” A beat. “You want to see?”

“Yes. Let's test it.”

“Okay…”

The Boss pulled a bit of ration from his pack and held it over the pouch. “Payment first.”

Bob stretched up, inhaled the snack, then gave a soft glorp of satisfaction. His surface rippled once, those black, unblinking eyes fixing briefly on the Boss. One tendril touched his finger, and it was done—quick, unremarkable.

“That’s it?” Dane asked.

“Enough to have more mana,” the Boss said with a shrug.

“Inefficient,” Dane said quietly. “You’re asking, not directing. Once he’s fed, you can draw what you need. Don’t let him decide when to start or stop.”

He straightened, tone shifting. “Since you have mana again, use it properly. I need to know how deep your well goes and how long you can keep the flow steady. If we’re going to sync, it starts there.”

“Wrap it around yourself,” Dane said. “No sword this time.”

The Boss blinked. “Around myself?”

“Yes. Think of it as an external layer—like a shield. Let it coat you.”

“Right. No pressure,” he muttered, settling his stance. "Not sure what I'm supposed to be doing or feeling."

"Just concentrate."

Dane watched. The man went still—steady breathing, focus narrowing. No visible sign of anything, only the small tells: tightened shoulders, clenched jaw, controlled breaths. Bob peeked out from his pouch, head tilting, silent witness.

Time slipped by. Sweat gathered at the Boss’s temple. His focus wavered once, then steadied again, sheer stubbornness keeping him upright. When his stance finally sagged, he let the hold go with a sharp breath. “Phew. I think that’s it.”

“That’s your limit,” Dane said. “For now. You’ll push it further.”

“Sure. Right,” the Boss said between breaths.

Dane glanced toward Bob. “You said he can sense monsters?”

“Yeah. Mana types.”

A faint smile touched Dane’s mouth. “Then let’s go monster hunting.”

“Your smile is scary." The Boss sighed. "Sure, why not. Let's feed the blob.”

Bob seemed happy at the prospect. They found a small cluster of plant-type creatures nearby. Bob handled most of it, with Dane and the Boss only stepping in to finish stragglers. After each fight, Bob fed, then the Boss drew from him—simple rhythm, no wasted motion.

They repeated the process several times until the air quieted again.

“Now let’s test your stamina again,” Dane said.

The Boss didn’t argue. He reset his stance and focused. This time his control held longer—smoother.

Dane gave a short nod. “Better. That’s the rhythm. Keep that, and we’ll move to weapons once you can hold for an hour.”

Bob gave a pleased glorp and curled back into his pouch.

They climbed to higher ground as the fog thinned around them. Dane checked the perimeter while the Boss started a fire. Bob settled near the flames, round and still.

When the food was ready, Dane passed him a share. They ate in quiet. The exhaustion between them had settled into something almost easy. Familiar.

After a while, the Boss looked up.

“I want to hear more,” he said. “Are you ready to tell me? Like… what you did once Ronan and I left for the dungeon?”

Dane shifted, settling into a more comfortable position by the fire. The flames cracked softly, catching on damp wood.
“With my head clearer than it had been in years,” he said at last, “I reached out to my Collegium handler. Made a report.”
He poked at the embers with a stick, eyes distant. “I left out my assumptions about you. Kept it brief—told them I was no longer under the spell web.”
A pause, long enough for the wind to fill it.
“They wanted me to retrieve your book. That was the new mission. Still no kill order.”
He gave a short, humorless exhale. “Not that I would have, at that point.”

The Boss looked up from his meal. “I appreciate that.”

Dane’s mouth twitched—something almost like a smile, gone as quickly as it came.

“After that, I went to meet with Commander Kieran…”
The Boss looked up, interest sharpening.

Dane caught the look, shook his head faintly but kept going. “I reported what I had to, but I needed him to keep an open mind. If I’d told him everything I suspected about you, he’d have shut me out on the spot. So I gave him what I could—the change in the men, how you seemed like a different man—just enough to make him wait.”

He paused, thumb tracing idle lines in the dirt near the fire. “He didn’t believe a word of it. But he kept quiet. That was enough.”

His gaze flicked toward the flames. “Enough to keep me useful—to keep him using me as his inside man. He didn’t know who had first placed me in Mason’s ranks, and that made him wary. But he was desperate, and I could see it. Whatever he thought of me, I’d given him more hope than he’d had in a long time.”

Dane looked across the fire. “I know I’ve said this before, but he truly is an honorable man.”

The Boss looked away, muttering, “So I’ve heard. He only ever gives me death glares.”

“Well,” Dane said dryly, “you look like the man he’s wanted revenge on for a long time. The epitome of everything he despises.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” The Boss rubbed his neck, grimacing. “And then what?”

“After that meeting, I started poking around the manor—per my handler’s orders.” Dane’s voice stayed even, eyes on the fire. “Finally free from Mason’s web, I searched for anything I might’ve missed. Secret rooms, hidden illusions—anything that could lead me to the book.

“The manor felt different—clearer. No one was under Mason’s control anymore, but for some reason, they stayed. Maybe fear. Maybe habit. Or maybe they thought you’d kill them if they tried to run.”

He paused briefly. “I spent time in your study, your quarters. Nothing crucial. Never found the book I was looking for.”

Dane hesitated. Pocket Dimension. One of the books in Mason’s study had mentioned the term—oddly similar to those old notes on dimensional rifts. Better to think it through before bringing it up.

“It was actually quite boring, all things considered,” he went on. “Ronan had chosen a capable adjutant—kept everyone sharp. I was getting restless, waiting, trying to decide what to do next. You and Ronan had been gone longer than expected.”

He shifted, poking the dirt absently with a stick. “Then a message came from Commander Kieran. He wanted me back at the ritual chamber—to inspect it, look for anything new, bring home the guild tags of the fallen if I could. That was one order I didn’t mind following. I made up an excuse about a scouting run; the adjutant approved two days outside the manor.”

“I gathered a small group of men who knew how to keep their mouths shut—enough pay for silence—and we set off.”

The Boss leaned in, eyes reflecting the firelight.

Interesting that he’s curious about this.

“We reached the dungeon entrance early morning,” Dane said, still watching the fire. “The scouts who’d gone before weren’t wrong—there were corpses, but the scene had changed. Most of the monsters were already dead or tearing each other apart when we arrived. It looked like the frenzy had burned itself out.”

“We had a few small skirmishes,” he added, tone matter-of-fact. “Nothing we couldn’t handle.”

Bob made a faint noise, and Dane glanced at him. “The motes were almost gone,” he continued. “After the ritual—when we were leaving the dungeon—I still remember seeing some. This time there were barely any. Dregs at the bottom of a cup. It was wrong.”

The Boss frowned, listening. “You mean, like… the monsters drained it all?”

“Maybe,” Dane said. “My honest opinion? Mason’s ritual has something to do with it—the lack of motes, the imbalance. I just don’t know how yet—or why it’s affecting more than one dungeon. These seams… it all feels connected somehow.”

He paused, gaze distant. “But why?” The question hung between them.

He sat back. “We made it to the ritual chamber. I gathered what I could—guild tags, weapons, anything that might help the Collegium trace what happened. I had one of the men deliver the tags and weapons to the guild. I met with my handler, made my report, and headed back to the manor.”

His expression shifted as he remembered. “Not long after, calls rang out that the Boss had returned. You were unconscious—and so was the woman, Nyx. Ronan had you both moved, secured in your chambers. She woke first, spent hours in the study.”

Dane’s mouth thinned slightly. “The timing was… odd. I was still trying to make sense of what I’d seen in that dungeon—how the motes had nearly vanished, how the monsters had changed—and then you appeared again, alive, with her at your side. Ronan trusted her immediately.”

He huffed softly. “Within an hour, he gathered four of us for an operation. Absolute secrecy, he said—and, if possible, no killing unless necessary. That was a first—an order like that had never been given. He claimed we were going to an auction. Said we’d be freeing people.”

Boss sipped his tea.

He drew a slow breath. “Then, two days later, I saw you in the hallway. You, her… and that creature.”

Bob gave a sleepy, oblivious glorp.

The Boss’s expression darkened. “I remember that.” His voice came quieter, rougher. “I was actually happy to see you.”

Dane met his eyes for a moment, then looked away. “Well,” he said evenly, “seeing the mage woman at your side, I started to wonder if I’d been wrong. If maybe you were up to some long scheme after all. And I still couldn’t sense your mana. The whole situation made me uneasy.”

He looked back toward the fire. “So I reported to Commander Kieran right after that.”

The Boss let out a breath somewhere between a laugh and a sigh—tired, disbelieving. “So you were his informant.”

The fire cracked softly between them.

“On the motes and the auction. No wonder he showed up.” His tone sharpened. “That really sucked, you know?”

“Yes,” Dane said quietly. “I heard about it from him later.”
A faint, rueful smile tugged at his mouth as he glanced at Bob.

“So he did remember,” the Boss muttered. “Why didn’t he ever ask me about Bob?”

“One moment. You’re jumping ahead.” Dane poured water into a small cup near the fire. “Would you like some tea?”

“Oh, sure,” the Boss said after a beat. “Normal tea, right?”

Dane laughed under his breath. “No poison. It’s medicinal. Learned the recipe from an alchemy student when I was younger. Tastes good.”

“Mhm. Alia said the same thing. Hers was hit or miss, though.”
The Boss eyed Dane, took the cup, sniffed it, then tasted a little.

Dane let the faintest smile slip as he watched him sip the tea like a suspicious child.

The Boss smiled. “Not bad! Hey… uh, you wouldn’t happen to know of stimulants?”

“Stimulants?”

“Uh… like, in the morning, when you wake up. To help you move…”

Dane blinked. Stimulants?

“Never mind. Please continue. It seems you’d like to boast about your cleverness.”

“I don’t have much I can boast about,” Dane said, voice quiet, “and this might be the only time I get to tell it in detail.”

He took a sip, settling back.

Dane turned his cup slowly between his palms, the firelight sliding across the tin.
“After we separated at the auction,” he said, “Ronan led us below—me, Brask, Kerric, and Caldris. We waited for the guard rotation and slipped downstairs.”

The Boss stayed quiet, listening.

“Ronan cut the seals, and the illusion holding the estate together began to fracture. Light ran through the cracks like veins under glass. I caught sight of one fragment that didn’t look too bad—still glowing, still stable. I don’t even know why I did it, but I reached out and took it. Small piece of the framework.”

He looked down at his hand, memory flickering behind his eyes. “I thought it might come in handy later. Repaired it when I had time on the road and at basecamp, reinforced the field. Turned out I was right.”

“The illusion?…” The Boss’s brow creased. “Ah!” He pointed. “That earthquake in the temple—that was your doing.”

Dane nodded once. “That was me. When Commander Taron and a few others scouted ahead. They didn’t think you were coming back—and Kieran looked about ready to string me up. So I made it seem like they’d tripped something. Risky—that fragment wasn’t meant for that kind of amplification. Nearly burned me out.”

“I remember thinking you looked pretty constipated,” the Boss said.

Constipated? He exhaled through his nose. “Still—it slowed them down long enough for you to come back.”

The Boss tilted his head, studying him through the firelight. “Why were you so certain I would?”

Dane’s eyes flicked toward him, then down to his cup. “Like I’ve been saying—I had my suspicions from the start, that you were somehow… different. But the moment I knew was after the auction. You appeared at the wagons with a Moonveil stag walking beside you.”

He paused, voice low. “That stag followed you willingly. Stuck to your side. Didn’t shy away, didn’t resist. Jumped right into your carriage. I was… shocked. I’d read about them back in my student days—never thought I’d see one in person. But a creature that pure, one that can instantly tell a bad soul from a good one…” He gave a small shake of his head. “And it chose you.”

The Boss nodded slowly. “Ah. The stag.”

“Yes, the stag,” Dane said, almost incredulous. “In no world would that have happened if you were the original Mason.”

He looked back toward the fire. I was almost scared it would judge me.

The Boss’s mouth twitched faintly. “Hmm.”

“I got ahead of myself again,” Dane said, thinking for a moment. “I kept an eye on you at muster—at least as much as my other duties allowed. But when your… friends—”

“Oh, Nyx and the women?”

“Yes.” His tone flattened. “When they came by, I couldn’t hear a thing through the sound barrier, so I just lingered nearby. Later that night, Ronan assigned me to keep an eye on you. Fortuitous, really.”

The Boss groaned. “Oh no. That night.”

Dane’s mouth quirked. “I followed per Ronan’s order. You were talking to yourself, laughing at nothing. Did you forget I was tailing you? Anyway, I was already debating whether you’d finally lost your mind when you walked right in front of the Field Marshal’s tent. Excellent timing—you picked the exact moment he and Commander Taron decided to step out.”

The Boss dropped his face into his hands. “Don’t remind me.”

“I couldn’t not remind you,” Dane said, dry amusement threading his voice. “That very awkward conversation—you could hardly even call it that.”

“What? What?”

Dane started laughing so hard there were tears at the corners of his eyes. “You—you were blushing like a cadet talking to his crush.”

The Boss pouted. “Shut up. Fuck.”

Dane reined it in after a moment, catching his breath. “Ah. There’s that word again.” He tilted his head. “You still haven’t explained it.”

“Never mind,” the Boss muttered. “Please just—skip to the part where I walked away.”

“I did escort you back,” Dane said. “Field Marshal Kieran noticed me following you. That’s probably the only reason he finally turned around.”

He paused, voice quieter now. “After that, I made my way to the Field Marshal’s tent. Cut in through the back.”
He lifted his gaze, meeting the Boss’s eyes. “He was waiting for me.”

The night before entering Hollow Gate—

The cut flap at the back of the tent let a cool breath through. Inside it was warm—lamps burning low, ink drying on open maps. Kieran stood over the table, coat off, sleeves rolled to his elbows. The lamplight picked out a thin scar along his forearm, pale against darker skin.

He didn’t turn when Dane entered.
“You cut through the back,” he said evenly. “How unoriginal.”

“Figured you’d want to see me.” Dane straightened, keeping his hands where they could be seen. “You were expecting me, no?”

Kieran turned, arms folding. “Observation or arrogance?”

“After what you just saw with Mason,” Dane replied. “I assumed you’d want a report. Besides—you saw me.”

Kieran’s gaze slid away for the barest beat. He cleared his throat. “That was… an odd display. Uncomfortable.”

Dane’s mouth twitched. “I imagine it was.”

“Ronan put you on Draegor’s detail?”

“Yes. Tonight, and likely through the expedition.”

“That should’ve been your post already,” Kieran said. “Keep him close.”

“I intend to.” Dane hesitated. “But that wasn’t the only reason I came. I wanted your opinion—of him.”

Kieran’s eyes sharpened. “Opinion? I’m not convinced. He’s still the same deceitful man underneath, with ambitions I can’t yet read.”

Dane let that sit, then said quietly, “And yet you didn’t kill him when you had the chance.”

Kieran’s jaw tightened. “I could have. I chose not to—for reasons of strategy and discipline. But something about him… doesn’t align. Every gesture feels misfitted, every word too soft. It’s like watching someone wearing his face wrong.”

The phrasing landed like a fist. Dane felt it—true, and useless and dangerous all at once. “You think it’s an act.”

“I think,” Kieran said low, “you want it not to be. I don’t trust you either, not fully.”

Dane’s jaw hardened. “Maybe. But there are signs—small ones. He’s traveling with a Moonveil stag. Not only that but that night we saved people bound for slavery. He actually cared about their safety.”

Kieran’s brow pulled down. “You expect me to believe that? Him caring—and a Moonveil stag following him?”

Dane’s jaw set. “I saw it. I heard it. When we freed those captives, he asked if they were safe. That man never would have cared before. The stag followed him willingly, unbound. Those beasts sense rot—if the old Mason were still in there, it would’ve fled, or at least attacked.”

Kieran was still for a long moment. “You’re certain?”

“More certain than I was before.” Dane rubbed his thumb along the rim of the cup in his hand. “I’ve had suspicions since the ritual. You know that.”

Kieran exhaled, the sound rough. “His behavior has been odd. But odd can be a mask. I’d be a fool to trust him, and a worse fool to trust anyone completely—especially you.” He let the last sentence hang without malice; it was statement, not threat.

“When you told me about your family,” Kieran said after a pause, voice harder now, “that wound—there’s no mercy in it. Are you that certain?”

“Yes.” The word was small, iron. “I’m certain. It doesn’t make me merciful. It makes me deliberate.”

Kieran’s face softened for the width of a breath—something weary beneath the discipline. “I’ve lost people to him, too. Don’t mistake that for kinship.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

A low silence settled. There were ghosts in that tent the size of mountains—things that never spoke but were felt in the throat.

“So what do you want from me?” Kieran asked finally.

“Consider that something strange has happened,” Dane said evenly. “He’s different. You saw it.”

“Different doesn’t mean better.”

“No,” Dane said. “But it means not the same.”

Kieran stepped around the table until he was close enough that Dane could see the nick under his jaw and the clean line of his cheek. “And if you’re wrong? If he’s wearing innocence like a perverse mask?”

Dane didn’t flinch. “Then I’ll end him myself.”

They watched the lamplight shiver together. Outside, the wind pressed hard against the canvas.

“I’ll keep it in mind,” Kieran said at last. “You’ll stay on Draegor. When I call for you, you come. No excuses. You answer to me before Ronan. Understood?”

“Yes, Field Marshal.”

“And if you see even a trace of the man he used to be, you bring it to me immediately—if need be, end him.”

Dane nodded. “You’ll know before anyone.”

Kieran studied him a heartbeat longer, then turned back to the maps. “Then go—before I start thinking I trust you.”

Dane’s mouth tugged faintly. “We wouldn’t want that.”

He moved for the flap. As he went, Kieran’s voice came softer, reluctant. “Whatever he is now—it still wears the face of the man who killed so many loved ones and set tyranny loose. Don’t forget that.”

Dane looked back once. “I never could.”

Outside, the night was sharp and cold. The tent flap fell shut behind him with a small sigh. He lingered a long moment beneath the lamplight, feeling the memory like weight in his hand.

You didn’t lie, he thought. But you didn’t tell him everything, either.

Dane’s hand turned the cup absently between his palms, eyes catching the firelight.
“On the day we entered the dungeon—the first chamber—I told Ronan I’d stick by you. Still thought you were half-mad, talking to yourself as you walked through the ranks to find the Field Marshal.”

The Boss grimaced. “Yeah, I really should… break that habit.”

Dane huffed softly. “You think?”

He leaned forward slightly, gaze unfocused as memory took over.
“You approached that wall and touched it. For what it’s worth, I think anyone could’ve triggered it. But I had my stylus out when everything went to hell. When the floor broke apart, I used the burst to redirect myself toward where I saw the Field Marshal collide with you. I followed you both through the opening.”

The Boss blinked. “You followed us through that?”

“I wasn’t going to let you out of my sight,” Dane said dryly. “Especially not alone with him. You would’ve been killed right there on the beach.”

He stirred the ashes with a stick, the embers flaring red.
“I kept him updated after that—through the biomes. He really didn’t want to believe anything I said about you, but he went along because of what I’d told him before—the auction, the freed prisoners, the Moonveil stag.” He nodded faintly toward Bob. “And you, Bob.”

Bob perked up at the sound of his name.

“That’s why he looked at you like that when we were deciding how to move into the jungle sector. I saw you two talking a few times—it was strange. Still, I didn’t suspect anything.”

Dane’s mouth quirked. “He remembered that night at the auction, as you were wondering about earlier. That horrifying creature landing on his face, as he called it.”

The Boss winced. “I’m never living that down.”

“Kieran asked if it had harmed anyone. I told him not that I’d seen—and that it seemed to help you during a fight. He let it go. Just told me to observe as usual.”

The Boss tilted his head. “Okay, so that’s why he didn’t follow up about Bob.”

“Yes,” Dane said. “I told him about it. He didn’t take kindly to having his mind tampered with. Not that anyone would—and that kept him guarded again.”

He glanced down, thumb brushing the edge of his cup.
“When we ran into the Droswains, I didn’t recognize them. But something felt wrong. I know most mercenary groups by name, and these didn’t match up. They moved too quiet. Too precise. I warned him to keep an eye on them.”

The Boss’s brows drew together. “You didn’t know they were Droswains?”

“No.” Dane shook his head. “Just a bad feeling.”

“I had information,” the Boss admitted, voice low. “Rumors that there might be Droswains here. I just… didn’t know for sure. And honestly, I didn’t want it to be them.”

Dane nodded slowly. “That’s why the Field Marshal was furious. It wasn’t just about strategy. He thought you were in on it—or part of whatever game they were playing. Being outmaneuvered only made it worse.”

The Boss’s expression darkened. “He thought I led them to us.”

“Yes,” Dane said quietly. “And maybe, in his position, I’d have thought the same. I’ve just spent more time with you.”

The fire popped between them, sending sparks into the cold air. He leaned back, the flicker of light throwing thin gold across his face.
“The fact that you and I had fooled him only made it worse—from his perspective.”

Dane stirred the ashes. “I told him to hold judgment. Said I’d keep watching. For a while, he did—he even started to doubt his own certainty. But after what happened in the jungle, with the Droswains, it broke whatever trust had started to form.”

The Boss looked up. “Do you think he ever believed you? What you were saying about me?”

Dane gave a humorless smile. “He wanted to, for a time. But after the Droswains, no—probably never again.”

“Right.” The Boss looked to the side, eyes catching the firelight.

Dane let the silence sit a moment. He steadied his breathing. No point lingering on ghosts.
“For now,” he said quietly, “we’ll get you ready for the Nightmare Realm.”

The Boss yawned and stretched his arms. “Oh joy. The Nightmare Realm. Seriously, who comes up with these names?”

“It’s apt,” Dane said.

“Mhm.”

Another pause.

“I know you aren’t him,” Dane went on quietly. “I can’t even fathom what happened in that ritual. I’ll keep trying to keep you alive. We need each other for the Nightmare Realm. And I understand you may not trust me with your whole truth.”

He rose, checked his scabbard, steady again. “That’s fine. Not yet.”

He doesn’t need to admit anything. This man isn’t Mason. That’s enough for now. I’ll find the way to the real one. Staying close is the surest route.

“One last thing,” he said.

The Boss looked up. “Yeah?”

“You don’t have to act like him around me. It’s just the two of us, and you…” Dane looked away, mouth almost curving. “You make me laugh.”

The Boss blinked. “What?”

“Don’t get me wrong. You say strange things. You’re kind of an idiot.”

“An idiot?” He bristled.

“A competent idiot,” Dane said, deadpan.

The Boss huffed a laugh. “Well, gee, thanks. Almost had me saying you were cute for a second there.”

“Cute?” Dane frowned. “No one’s ever said that about me.”

“Don’t worry,” the Boss said, smug. “It’s been redacted from my mind.”

“Asshole.”

“Idiot.”

They both laughed.

“Get some sleep,” Dane said at last. “I’ll keep first watch. We have more training tomorrow.”

“I can’t wait.”

The Boss rolled out his sleeping roll, checked on Bob, and settled onto his side.

Dane stayed by the fire, eyes tracing the slow collapse of the coals. For the first time in years, the quiet didn’t feel hostile.

This is fine for now.