The cold wasn't the winter air biting through the ruined castle corridors. It was steel. A precise, intimate violation plunging between his ribs from behind, shattering the fragile dream like cheap glass.
A choked gasp tore from Juno Bittersweet's throat, more surprise than pain – yet. The world tilted. His knees buckled, the heavy thud of his armored body hitting the ancient flagstones echoing unnaturally loud in the sudden silence. His breath came in ragged, wet hitches, the familiar rattle of his sword and hammer against his backplate a discordant counterpoint. Warmth bloomed across his lower back, soaking his tunic, pooling beneath him. Iron and salt filled his nostrils – his own blood.
Vision blurring, he forced his head up. Through the encroaching darkness, he saw her. Claire. Princess Claire of Harland, the silver moonlight catching the tears glistening on her cheeks, her eyes wide with… what? Regret? Or merely the shock of witnessing the inevitable? Juno's hand, slick with blood, stretched out instinctively, a silent plea, a final question.
Then, the shadow fell over Claire. Hedge. The Gilded Hero. His magnificent armor, polished to a blinding sheen even in the gloom, seemed to mock the grime and desperation of their rebellion. He stood over him, not triumphant, but coldly efficient. The blade he'd pulled from Juno's back dripped crimson onto the stones beside his head. The pain, sharp and deep, finally registered, a white-hot brand searing through his core.
Claire… Hedge… why?
Memories, sharp as shards, pierced the fog of agony. Whispered plans in moonlit gardens, Claire's hand gripping his arm, speaking of a brighter dawn free from the Empire's iron fist. Hedge's booming laugh as they toasted victories, however small, his unwavering presence the rebellion's gleaming shield. Years. Years of struggle, of setbacks that always seemed to strike just as momentum built. The safe houses raided, the supply lines cut, the loyalists mysteriously captured. Now, the brutal clarity was a worse wound than the steel. The leak wasn't some faceless informant. It was the shield. It was the princess. The very heart of their dream had been its poison.
A desperate, guttural sound escaped Juno. He wouldn't die here, a discarded pawn in their treacherous game. Ignoring the agony screaming from his back, he focused inward, reaching for the wellspring of power that had earned him the title Adeptus of the Tower of Alchemical Resonance at Harland's University of Progress. Mana, the raw energy of the world, usually flowed through him like a second bloodstream. Now, it felt… punctured. Sapped. But not gone.
"Ah elem," he rasped, the words thick with blood. A simple healing cantrip, barely a spark. He didn't draw from his own ravaged reserves, but pulled weakly at the ambient mana swirling in the ancient stones and the cold night air. A faint, soothing warmth flickered over the wound, staunching the worst flow, knitting torn flesh just enough. Then, like a candle snuffed, the warmth vanished. A deeper, colder ache took root, spreading tendrils of icy fire through his veins from the wound. It wasn't just a blade Hedge had used; it was a vessel for something far more vile.
Gritting his teeth, Juno willed his STATUS into existence. The familiar, translucent blue screen shimmered before his fading vision:
Juno Bittersweet
HP: 11/1500 (The number flickered weakly, barely above zero)
MP: -500,000/500,000 (A negative value? Impossible! Yet the icy drain confirmed it)
Status:Cursed - High King's Traitor's Brand
Effect: Gradually ruptures mana conduits and core. Drains existing MP reserves to zero. Irreparably destroys magical potential and inflicts permanent physical maiming upon depletion. Activation Condition: Active hostility or treasonous intent towards the Harland Crown.
The words burned into his soul. Not just death. Annihilation. Of everything he was, everything he could be.
Hedge's voice, devoid of the camaraderie Juno once cherished, cut through the heavy silence, pitched just loud enough for the watching guards to hear. "Death is too swift for treason, Adeptus. Living with the Traitor's Brand? That is the Crown's justice. A fitting end for your ambition."
Claire finally moved. She stepped over Juno's outstretched hand, her silken slippers avoiding the spreading pool of blood with practiced grace. Not a glance. Not a flicker of hesitation. She walked straight to Hedge's side, her head held high, the picture of royal composure. The betrayal wasn't just political; it was a personal evisceration. Juno's tears weren't just for the stolen dream, but for the shattered trust, the years of shared laughter and whispered fears now revealed as a meticulously crafted lie. He wept for the people in the shadowed villages and oppressed cities who had dared to hope, who had risked everything to support them. Their hope had been fed to the wolves by the very hands they trusted.
Hedge watched his tears with detached interest. "Your illustrious family," he stated, his voice like polished stone. "The Bittersweets could have shielded you. Thrown their considerable weight behind your little uprising. But they chose preservation over treason. Smart. Loyal." A cruel smile touched his lips. "Thank the Old Kings I was close enough to… intervene decisively. Claire and I will be handsomely rewarded for preserving the realm. As for you…" He gestured vaguely towards the arched exit. "You have ten days. Ten days to crawl beyond the borders of Harland County. Cross the boundary, and the Brand's unique signature will resonate with the Crown's detection grid – broadcast on every police frequency, every military alert, every Adventurer's Guild bounty board. The reward listed will make you the most hunted creature in the province. Exaggerated, naturally. Encourages… enthusiasm."
He paused, letting the impossible deadline sink in. "You are permitted what you wear and carry. Nothing more. I suggest you start crawling. Ten days… might be optimistic for someone in your condition."
Shit. The cold dread that had nothing to do with blood loss seized him. He's right. Fuck. His mind raced, cutting through the pain and despair with frantic inventory. Armor – damaged but functional. My Common Iron Sword on my back. Blacksmith Hammer 'Truth's Weight' slung beside it. The compact arcane pistol 'Whisper' holstered at my thigh. My spatial pouch – small, but still bound to me. Inside… He mentally probed the extradimensional pocket. 5000 gold sovereigns. 250 raw mana gems – pure power, now useless to me directly? Rope. Tinderbox. Basic alchemical flasks – acids, bases, maybe a healing draught or two. Tobacco and rolling paper – a bitter laugh threatened. And…
His lifeline. His secret. The one asset his supposed closest allies never knew existed. A bond forged deep within the Tower's forbidden archives, studying the taboo intersection of holy light and corrosive blight.
Golden Smog. I need you. Now.
No grand incantation. Just a focused thought, a desperate pull on a bond deeper than blood. The air beside Juno shimmered, not with light, but with a coalescing, sentient vapor. It swirled with internal luminescence, gold shot through with veins of emerald and amethyst – the colors of potent toxins and potent cures. It pulsed with a low, intelligent hum.
The Golden Smog didn't hesitate. It didn't question. It sensed its master's agony, his peril. With a silent rush, it enveloped Juno completely, a cool, surprisingly dense cloud. The world blurred, then vanished. The sensation was less flying and more being rejected by the very air, displaced instantly.
One moment, Juno lay broken and bleeding on the cold stones, the faces of his betrayers the last thing his fading eyes saw. The next, he was hurtling through impossible, swirling colors, the Smog's protective embrace the only solid thing in a vortex of non-space. The castle, the betrayal, Hedge's cruel pronouncement – all ripped away in an eyeblink.
G-force pressed him into the Smog's resilient form, a welcome counterpoint to the icy fire of the curse still gnawing at his core. Relief, sharp and dizzying, warred with the searing pain and the crushing weight of his new reality.
Thank the Forgotten Ones I never revealed you, he thought, the words echoing only in the silent communion between master and construct. He was right about one thing. Ten days is nothing. But with you…
The Smog pulsed, a wave of cool reassurance washing over him. It understood speed. It understood evasion. It understood poison – and perhaps, in time, counter-curses.
With you, Juno thought grimly, clinging to consciousness as the Smog navigated the hidden pathways between places, I might just make it out of Harland alive. Barely. But alive. And then…
The icy fire of the Brand flared, a grim reminder. Alive, yes. But hunted. Broken. Magic bleeding away with every passing second. The dream was ashes. Only the ember of survival remained, fanned by the sentient poison mist carrying him towards an uncertain, hostile horizon. Ten days had begun.