A thick, suffocating silence settled.
Fee stopped chewing. The elf's amber eyes narrowed.
Kevin's face was frozen between confusion and horror. "What?"
Lancelot's good hand curled into a fist.
Hogan's dark, unreadable eyes flickered toward me, then back again.
The refugees turned, their expressions shifting—shock, fear, rage.
Even the fire seemed to quiet.
Bolton licked his dry lips. "I created the slime," he said again, slower this time. "And someone took it from me and turned it into this."
A woman gripped her wrist so tightly her nails drew blood.
A burly man in the back—scar over one eye, two fingers missing—stood so fast his stool tipped over. "What did you just say?" he rasped.
Bolton held his gaze. "I created the slime," he repeated. "And someone took it from me."
Lancelot stood. His chair scraped against the stone. His shadow stretched long against the wall.
It wasn't just anger. It was betrayal.
"Do you know how many people have died?"
Lancelot's voice was low. Controlled. Dangerous.
Bolton didn't flinch. "Yes."
I saw Fee set her bowl down deliberately, elbows resting on her knees. Her lips curled, but it wasn't a smile.
"You're telling me," she said, voice mocking, "that this whole time, we've been fighting your science experiment?"
Bolton exhaled. "I—"
Fee moved so fast I barely saw it. She grabbed him by the collar, yanking him forward. Lessa and Leil's hands twitched toward their bows, but even they hesitated.
Even they felt the betrayal.
Bolton grunted, his body jerking forward.
"You killed my people. My w-w-wolf." Fee's whisper burned hotter than any fire. "Your slime didn't kill her directly, but it's still all the outcome of your experiment."
Bolton's voice was tight. "Fee. Listen—"
Hogan rose from his seat. The usual easygoing air was gone.
"You know," he said, quieter than usual, "I'd really like to hear a good explanation right now, old man."
"Let go of him, elf." Lancelot's voice was sharp.
Fee didn't move. "If you're defending him, you're as guilty as he is."
Lancelot's jaw tightened. His injured arm twitched. He wasn't at full strength, but if it came to it, he'd put Fee through the floor.
"I'm not defending anybody. I'm just—"
"Fee." I stepped in.
Her long elven ears twitched.
I sighed and placed a hand on her shoulder. The muscle under it was rigid—like a bowstring pulled too tight.
"He's an idiot," I said. "A reckless idiot. But killing him won't fix this."
Fee's grip loosened. Just a little.
Bolton took the opening.
He tore himself free, stumbling back and fixing his collar. Exhaling through his teeth, he straightened.
"You want an explanation?" His gaze swept the room. "Fine. Here's your explanation."
I already knew the story.
"The slime wasn't supposed to do this," Bolton said. "It wasn't meant to consume everything in sight. It wasn't supposed to spread like a plague."
I could feel the weight of every glare aimed at him. The only reason no one lunged at him was because Lancelot stood in their way, a massive shield between Bolton and the crowd.
"It was designed to help mages convert atmospheric arcane energy into usable power. A new way to revolutionize spellcasting—unlimited mana, directly absorbed through external catalysts. It was a breakthrough."
Fee snorted. "I didn't understand a single word of that. And I'm guessing no one here did either."
The refugees grumbled in agreement.
Bolton had explained it to me before—back when the slime was nothing but a harmless blob sealed in a glass vial. I'd watched him tinker with it, trace glyphs onto its surface, theorize its potential.
Back then, it was just science juice. Now?
Now it had killed thousands.
"So what happened?" Hogan asked.
Bolton's mouth pressed into a thin line. "Someone stole it."
Silence.
"Who?" Lancelot demanded.
Bolton's face darkened. "I don't know."
Lance's shoulders stiffened. "Don't lie to me."
Bolton exhaled sharply through his nose. "I really don't know. But I have a theory." His voice was measured, careful. "There's a reason the black slime is only inside PrideFall Castle."
The tension in the room shifted.
"That's where it started," Fee muttered, realization dawning across her face.
Bolton nodded. "Someone—someone with access to my work—replicated it. Warped it. It was designed to draw arcane energy from the atmosphere and convert it into usable magic for mages. But now…" He hesitated. "Instead of consuming arcane, it's consuming organic material."
A ripple of unease passed through the group.
I crossed my arms. "Try saying that again, but in a way the rest of them can actually understand." The only people who had followed that explanation were me and a few other mages. And most of them were dead.
Bolton shot me a look but conceded with a sigh.
"What he means," I said, stepping in, "is that the slime wasn't meant to destroy anything. It was supposed to be a tool. But now, someone—a powerful mage, no doubt—has taken it, twisted it, and turned it into a plague."
"And whoever did this must have had a grudge against the royal family," Lancelot added, his muscles tensing. "They targeted the castle first before letting it spread."
The room sat with that realization. The implications.
"That's why we need Bolton," I said, keeping my voice steady. "He created the base form of the slime. If there's anyone who can figure out how to stop it, it's him."
All eyes turned to Bolton. He adjusted his collar and cleared his throat. "Yes, yes," he grumbled. "In fact, you should be grateful to have me on your side. This would be impossible without my help."
"Don't push it, wizard." Fee's tone still had an edge, but the heat had cooled. Even the refugees, who minutes ago looked ready to cave his head in, seemed less hostile.
"So," Lancelot said, his voice final, "we destroy the slime, find whoever's behind this, and kill them."
"Right," I affirmed, then leaned in to Bolton, dropping my voice. "Aren't you glad to have a sister who can defend you in tough times, Bolty?"
He gave a long-suffering sigh. "Yes, yes, whatever." Then, quieter, "Thank you."
The others didn't accept it. Not fully. But they had to.
Even as the tension eased, I could feel the distrust hanging in the air, thick as fog. It would take time. If we even had time.
"We need to move," Lancelot said finally. His voice was colder now. More distant.
Bolton nodded. "We should gather resources, return to the surface, and go on with our respective tasks."
Right.
Lancelot started giving orders. "Kevin, pack some food from storage. You'll be with me and Mage on patrol."
Kevin hesitated. "Well, there's one more thing." He raised a nervous finger.
Lancelot's brow twitched. "What now, Sir Kevin?" His voice was rougher than before, hoarse with exhaustion.
Kevin shifted uncomfortably. "I've made a decision about my place in the team." He swallowed. "I'm leaving."
Silence.
Lancelot's expression went blank, like he hadn't even registered the words. "What do you mean by that?"
Kevin glanced around, as if looking for backup. When none came, he took a breath. "I need to get back to my parents," he said, his voice quiet but firm. "I haven't seen them in a week. I have to at least make sure they're okay." His eyes flicked to Lancelot. "You understand that… right?"
"No, I don't understand." Lancelot's voice was ice—not cool, but cutting. The flickering torchlight in the stronghold threw sharp shadows across his face, emphasizing the tension in his clenched jaw. "We need you now, more than ever. And you want to abandon your station?"
Kevin bristled. "It's not like I'm leaving forever," he countered, though there was an edge of defensiveness in his voice. "I just need to check if they're okay. Once I know, I'll come back. Maybe even rally a few other knights."
A gust of stale air shifted through the tunnels, carrying with it the distant murmur of refugees—women and children huddled in the far chambers, unaware that their last safe haven had already been compromised.
"This is ridiculous," Lancelot muttered, raking a hand through his damp hair. The underground made everything feel humid, suffocating. Hogan tried to reason with Kevin, but the knight barely looked at him.
"But I cannot control all your actions," Lancelot said at last, his voice taut. "You're your own man. Do what you want."
Kevin exhaled in relief—then hesitated, as if remembering something. "There's one last thing I need to tell you."
Fee groaned. "Oh, come on."
Lancelot darkened beside me, his body still as stone. "What more could you possibly want now?"
Kevin swallowed. "I'm taking Meili with me."
The air in the stronghold shifted. It wasn't just surprise—it was something colder, more unsettling. The low-burning torches crackled in the silence.
Meili. The child.