Passing the Blame

22nd day of the 6th moon, 1162 HC

Hanna's death severs the connection maintaining her pain block, providing Mulsae sudden relief. His knees hit the stone with a hollow crack. Hands splayed, spine caved, he breathes, and for the first time in days the breath comes easily. No tension in his limbs. No fire behind his eyes. No war in his chest.

He feels lighter, and the ease makes him sick. It slithers through him, that shame. This isn't relief, it's betrayal. He tells himself that ease is monstrous. That to feel release now, even for a heartbeat, means he is selfish. Weak. Too quick to discard the weight of someone else's pain the moment it stops pressing down on him. He claws at the thought like an open wound, gasping, spiraling, aching for something to hold on to that doesn't make him hate himself.

Zudaeshi laughs coldly, the sound sharp and grating. "Oh, spare me the dramatics, Mulsae," she sneers, waving a lazy hand in his direction. But then she pauses. Something shifts behind her eyes. A flicker of calculation. Then suspicion. Her gaze cuts to Hanna. She is too still, too quiet, too limp. Zudaeshi rises suddenly. Her voice cracks like a whip. "Malric!"

Malric moves from the crowd. His eyes widen as he sees what Zudaeshi is seeing. He bolts to the rig. Presses fingers to Hanna's throat. Holds his breath. Then his face goes white.

"Your Radiance..." he swallows and speaks quietly, "My eternal apologies, Your Radiance. She's... dead."

Silence engulfs the room. Blame strikes like a hammer. "You killed her?!" Zudaeshi's voice erupts across the hall, shrill with fury. "I told you not to kill her!"

She slams her goblet to the floor as she rounds on Malric, eyes blazing. "You worthless rat-hearted idiot!" With a sharp flick of her hand, magic seizes him by the collar and flings him into the open area in front of the dais. He lands hard, sliding on the stone. She turns, snarling, "Mulsae! He's all yours!"

Mulsae rises with slow, heavy, deliberate ease. There's nothing graceful in his movements now, only cold precision. A fog spills off him and pools at his feet, a living shroud of wrath, billowing and cold like a cloud of death.

He steps into the circle. Malric scrambles backward, but Mulsae doesn't touch him. He doesn't have to. He raises an open hand then snaps it into a fist. Terror floods Malric's mind. Just the unbearable sensation of abject terror. The weight of death at the doorstep. Mulsae lets him feel the pressure of water's deep abyss.

Malric screams. High and sharp, like a hare caught in a trap. He curls into himself, shuddering violently. The crowd watches. Some laugh, reveling in the spectacle. Others look away, afraid to meet Mulsae's eyes. He is no longer Zudaeshi's toy. For this moment, he is Death's proxy.

Zudaeshi's smile sharpens as Malric screams. She lounges back against the throne, eyes gleaming, lips curling in delight. "Get him out of my sight," she purrs. "Lock him in his own fucking dungeon. He's yours now, Mulsae. Do as you like."

This is power. This is theater. This is the Water Master made her executioner. She savors it like wine. Mulsae says nothing. He lets the mist condense into ropes of water and thread itself around Malric to drag him by the throat. Malric scrabbles against the stone, choking on his own fear as Mulsae turns, silent, and begins the march. The crowd quiets as he walks. Damion marches heavily behind Malric's scrabbling form. No one dares speak.

Down the hall. Past stunned passersby. Through the depths of the palace, where torchlight flickers and the air grows cold. These are halls Malric strides in with pride, shoulders back, eyes gleaming with smug privilege. Now he drags behind like refuse.

They reach the dungeon. Mulsae opens one of the older cells, the kind Malric would never let anyone else use, the kind he once insisted be replaced. It's dank, muddy, and rusted. Perfect.

He flings the man inside. Chains clatter. Shackles snap shut. Mulsae doesn't speak. He doesn't need to. The horror is in the silence. He lets the emotions pulse once more through Malric's mind. Fear, failure, the weight of Hanna's name. Then he steps back.

Malric sobs quietly. Twitching. Shackled in the dark. His own creation turned against him. And Mulsae, still silent, stands towering before him. He slowly places his hands in his pockets and takes one ominous step forward. Damion stands behind his left shoulder leveling Malric with a gaze of unreadable stone.

The dungeon quiets. Stone swallows sound, muffling the last of Malric's sobs. Mist pools and spreads along the entirety of the cell's floor.

Mulsae's fury drains. The rage that had powered every step here begins to fade, leaving behind something heavier. Something quieter. This is what Zudaeshi wants. Not justice. Not order. Just punishment. Senseless. Performative. Detached from any moral anchor.

Mulsae breathes in slow. He watches Malric twitch and flinch at the ghost of shadows. A man crumpled. Just afraid. Just small. A realization sinks into Mulsae: Malric was only following orders. Malric didn't kill Hanna. Mulsae killed Hanna. Malric did exactly as he was ordered to and Mulsae framed him for Hanna's death. He can't punish Malric for something he didn't do.

The mist pulls back, almost reluctantly. Mulsae eases off the emotional push into Malric, until only silence remains. Mulsae watches. And something inside him begins to shift.

Malric doesn't speak. Doesn't beg. Just curls tighter into himself like something trying to disappear. Mulsae backs up to the wall opposite Malric and sinks to the stone floor, the cold seeping into his spine. Damion stands back, guarding the door. Mulsae draws his knees up and rests his arms on them, eyes on Malric. The corridor stretches silent and empty outside this cell, but the weight of everyone's perception of him clings like a second skin.

If I walk away now, they'll whisper I went soft. That I failed to carry out Her vengeance. That I've lost my edge. The thought curdles in his stomach. Every vulture perched in velvet and lace watches him. Waiting. Judging. Measuring how far he'll go.

But if I go further, if I hurt him more... He presses his forehead to his forearm. Then I revert back to what I have vowed not to be any more.

He tries to think like a general, like a strategist charting a campaign. What would satisfy the Council Ministers? A scar, maybe. Something visible but shallow. Something that says Malric paid without making him bleed too long.

But even that feels wrong. Malric followed orders. He did as he was ordered, knowing he'd be severely punished if he didn't. Malric is an evil prick. But he didn't do the crime he has been sentenced for. He deserves to face retribution for his evil nature. But he doesn't deserve to be punished for a crime he was framed for.

Mulsae clenches his fists. How do I fake cruelty without harming someone who doesn't deserve it? There is no satisfying answer. No clean solution. Only the narrow ledge between deception and damnation. But this much is clear: Mulsae's performance must continue. Lirae is more important than fairness for Malric.

The damp air clings to Mulsae. Iron. Rot. Old sweat. Malric is curled in the corner, the chains slack around his wrists, breathing steady but shallow, like someone who's just outrun a monster and hasn't yet realized he survived.

Finally, Mulsae's voice cuts the silence, low and level. "You didn't fail Her. You did what you were told. You always do." He sighs warily. "Keeping a human alive under Her command is a razor's edge. I get it." Malric doesn't respond. His eyes are open, but wary. He's waiting for the other blade.

Mulsae leans in, elbows to knees. "I'm not going to torture you. But we're going to pretend I am." Malric twitches, unsure he heard correctly. "You'll stay here a week," Mulsae continues. "I'll visit daily. We'll let the people gossip."

Malric's throat bobs. "You'll..." he blinks rapidly, "... what?"

"We'll talk." Mulsae's tone turns clinical, almost bored. "About procedures. Anatomy. About how to keep people like her alive longer next time." He offers a smile that is tight, bitter, sharp. "Isn't that what you've wanted from me all along?" Malric hesitates, then nods, small and stiff.

Mulsae rises to his feet, dusts off his hands, and walks to the cell door. Damion steps aside. Mulsae opens the door, mist pours off him and collects on the floor. He pauses in the doorway. No smile now. Just cold certainty. "If you breathe a word of this," Mulsae says softly, "I will kill you. Slowly." He turns slightly. "And next time, I won't pretend." Mulsae and Damion step out, the door clanging shut behind them.

Exhaustion creeps into their very steps. Mulsae and Damion lumber through the halls, making the arduous journey from the dungeons to their room. They haven't been to sleep in almost three days. The pressure has been constant, and now that it's been released Mulsae feels like he's on the verge of collapse.

He sees their door down the hallway. They're almost there. Almost to relief. He can see it now: They're going to step into the room, close the door, and collapse to the floor in sobs. They're almost there. One step in front of the other.

Relief sinks into his bones as he places his hand on the doorknob. We're here. Just a couple more steps. He swings the door open and sees bright red hair and hair as black as the abyss waiting for them.

Valena and Maedor. Sitting at the chairs as if this were their room. Mulsae and Damion stand just inside the open door. "What the fuck are you doing here?"

"We need to talk to you."

Mulsae steps aside and points to the door, "Get. Out." Damion also steps aside to provide free passage to the exit, too. "Out," he adds.

Valena leans back and gets more comfortable in the chair. "Before the story spreads," Valena says, voice smooth as silk over glass, "you might want to decide what version you want told."

"The story is that you came in like a demolition team and destroyed the plan I had been so delicately holding together," Mulsae points to the open door again, "Get the fuck out."

Maedor rolls his eyes, "You didn't look like you were doing a godsdamn thing."

Mulsae shakes with fury then marches in a circle through the room with a growl to blow off the boiling steam inside him. Damion toes the door shut, "I'm closing the door only so our voices don't carry down the hall. But I am going to reiterate to you that you are unwelcome and you need to leave. Now."

Maedor stands and walks over. But instead of reaching the door, he goes behind Damion and begins unbuckling his arm bindings. "We didn't know She would react so strongly to the offer to buy the human," he says softly.

Mulsae stops his circling march and bellows, "I did! I knew! But you wouldn't listen to me!"

"How could we have possibly known that? You said nothing other than to stop." Valena says snidely.

"This is Her palace. We were in the middle of a crowd of enemies. I couldn't say a fucking word." He throws out his arms, "I tried to send a message to your mind, you sensed it, and you actively rejected it!"

"There is no way I will ever trust you with my mind," Valena says with a shake of her head.

"Then use that fucking mind of yours," Mulsae says in exasperation, "You're so godsdamn clever but you apparently haven't put the pieces together."

Valena purses her lips, "What pieces?"

"Who do you think knows Her the best?" He punches his chest, "ME! She fucks me every night and discloses to me her deepest darkest thoughts and secrets." He draws in a breath and yells, "EVERY FUCKING NIGHT FOR FORTY-NINE YEARS! I godsdamn know her and you should have TRUSTED ME!" He wants to explode across the room like a bomb.

"No one can trust you, Mulsae," Maedor says lowly, "Especially not after what you did to Damion."

Mulsae shakes with fury, "That was sixty years ago! I have worked every fucking day to be a better person. Every fucking day. I'm a Sanctum Master, without a known heir, I can't just execute myself. All I can do is be better, and I work on it every fucking day."

Maedor crosses his arms. "We didn't come here to fight."

"Then you picked the wrong fucking room," Mulsae turns, shoving open the bathing chamber door. "Get out—" his voice cracks on the word, "Get out of our room."

He slams the door, but it doesn't catch. The jam's broken. Still broken from the night Hanna tried to kill herself. The door bounces uselessly off the jam. Mulsae chokes on a sob. If he hadn't saved her that night. He gasps. If he let her die that night. He falls to his knees. She wouldn't have suffered so much. He falls to his hands and gasps heavily.

He curls into the floor, grief tightening his lungs. The door creaks quietly, swinging on its broken hinge. He hears them talking animatedly with Damion. They argue back and forth. Mulsae doesn't follow. His head hurts. He's exhausted. He can't think any more.

"He's the fucking MASTER of the WATER Sanctum!" bellows Damion "He was keeping her pain muted!"

Their arguing voices continue on. Mulsae is done with this. Done with them. Done with their self defensive bullshit.

"Have you stopped trusting me, then?" Damion shouts. "You really think I would've lived here with them if he was torturing her? After what he did to me?"

Mulsae crawls to his feet and shuffles to the door. He stumbles out, his body swaying like it might fold again. His face is blotched, his eyes red and wet, the hollows beneath them darker than night. There's nothing sharp or polished left in him. There is no mask, no pride. Just grief, naked and devastating.

He looks at them like he barely sees them. His voice is shredded and quiet, "Leave. Let us grieve in peace."

Maedor gasps with a hand flying to his mouth, "I didn't realize."

He steps over to Valena and pulls her arm, "We're really sorry. We'll leave you alone."

Valena looks at him confused. She opens her mouth to speak but he covers it with his finger, "WE are very sorry. We're leaving. We're very sorry."

He drags her out, and just before the door shuts, his voice catches, "We're so sorry for your loss."