Roald moved silently, boots whispering against the cold stone floor. The corridors stretched in endless angles, each turn an opportunity—and a trap.
Every shadow seemed to shift. Every torch flickered in his peripheral vision.
He knew the castle now in pieces, memorized the routes where incapacitated guards lay silent, either unconscious or worse. Springtrap had cleared the way. He did not dare thank her aloud; she would have smirked and vanished.
A faint clatter echoed down a distant hall. He froze.
Her.
Captain Velanora.
The flash of her black cloak, the precise shift of her shoulder, the soft but commanding step across the polished floor. Roald pressed himself flat against a pillar. Breath caught. Heart thundering.
He watched her. Every turn she took, every subtle gesture, he tracked. Fingers tightened around the strap of his pack. She might lead him—accidentally, unknowingly—to Lomor.
A flick of her gaze, a tilt of her head, a sharp nod to a distant guard—her presence was magnetic, terrifying, and unyielding. Roald followed in silence, counting steps, timing her pauses.
He crouched lower when she pivoted suddenly, passing near his hiding place. His stomach knotted. He could see the strength in her stance, the precision in every movement. She would kill without hesitation if she caught him.
But he could not look away.
And then—it came.
A scream.
Not the sharp, disciplined shout of a soldier. Not a guard raising alarm.
Guttural. Young. Male.
It tore through the corridors like metal through cloth, reverberating in the vaulted ceilings, bouncing along stone walls, searing into his chest.
Roald's head jerked. His stomach dropped.
He knew that voice. Or at least, the timbre, the fragile edge beneath the fear. His mind scrambled—his eldest brother? Lomor? Someone else?
He could hear it again, a raw, ragged howl that ended in a strangled sob.
Instinct seized him. He moved.
Hiding behind the next pillar, he leaned around the corner. Shadows swallowed the hall beyond.
And yet—the scream came again. Louder. Closer.
Somewhere in this labyrinth, someone was in pain.
Roald clenched his fists. Step by careful step, he edged forward. Each breath measured. Each heartbeat a drum in his ears.
The castle that had once seemed so orderly now twisted around him: echoing halls, carved stone gargoyles, flickering torchlight, the faint metallic scent of weapons left abandoned.
And that voice—his only guide—called him onward.
He had to find him.
No one else could.
Not Nux. Not the guards. Not even Springtrap.
He had to.
Velanora paused at the corner ahead, one hand brushing a carved column. The movement was casual, almost bored—but something in the tilt of her head, the pause of her foot against the stone, the angle of her shoulder suggested intent.
Roald's eyes widened just enough to catch the hint. He pressed himself lower. She was letting him see. He wasn't supposed to touch her, follow her too closely—but she was guiding him.
A shadow fell across the hall, and she turned slightly, briefly exposing the direction of the next corridor, one hand drifting toward the archway as if testing the space. The gesture lasted less than a heartbeat. Enough.
Roald followed. Step by careful step. Every time she pivoted, every time a cloak shifted or a boot scuffed the floor, he caught a detail: a light brush of stone, a pause, a glance toward a side door he wouldn't have noticed otherwise.
It wasn't fast. It wasn't direct. But it was enough.
And then he heard it clearly—faint now, deliberate, yet guttural:
"Ahhhh!"
The scream echoed down a narrow corridor, followed immediately by a softer, strangled cough.
Velanora's head tilted as she approached the source. A tiny smirk flickered in the shadows.
Roald froze. She knew.
She already had a plan.
Every step she took was precise, directing him without exposing him. Hands brushing walls, a subtle shift in weight, a foot nudging a loose tile that would have clattered if disturbed too harshly—each movement a breadcrumb for him to follow.
Finally, they reached a set of double doors at the end of a dim hallway. From behind it came the sound again, clearer this time—Lomor's voice, ragged, performing agony he didn't feel.
Velanora's hand hovered near the handle. She looked back, a silent confirmation: Go.
Roald's heart nearly stopped. His brother—or the closest approximation of it—was here. Alive.
But he had learned one thing: appearances in this castle were deceiving. Every scream, every stumble could be a trap, or, as he now suspected, a carefully staged plan.
He swallowed, pressed himself closer to Velanora's shadow, and moved forward.
Step by measured step, into the room where Lomor waited.
Roald pressed forward, each step careful, breath measured. His eyes never left Velanora's back, tracing the precise curve of her shoulders, the almost imperceptible shifts in weight that marked her path.
The scream came again, closer, louder—but this time with an edge that made his stomach twist. Pain, fear, urgency—it was all there.
Velanora paused at a junction, one hand brushing the cold stone wall. She turned her head just slightly, and Roald caught the faintest tilt of her chin toward a side corridor, her foot nudging a loose stone. He understood. Follow.
He did.
The hallway narrowed, torches flickering against carved stone walls. Shadows clung to every corner, every archway. The air smelled faintly of iron, dust, and something sweeter, almost medicinal.
Another scream—guttural, raw—echoed ahead. Roald's fists clenched around his pack strap. His heart hammered in his ears.
Velanora slowed deliberately, letting him catch up without turning. She brushed a lock of hair behind her ear, the movement casual, almost human—but deliberate. Each step told him he was on the right path.
Then they arrived at a larger chamber, the doors slightly ajar.
A rope swayed gently in the dim torchlight.
Roald froze.
Lomor hung suspended, arms bound, legs dangling just above the stone floor. Bruises ran across his forearms and chest; scratches marked his face. His clothes were torn in places. His head lolled slightly, and when he moved it, the rope creaked ominously.
Roald's mind raced. His brother. Alive. But…why here? Why like this?
He took a cautious step closer.
Velanora's hand hovered near the doorway, fingers brushing the frame. Her eyes flicked toward him—calm. Expectant. Guiding without speaking.
Roald's gaze darted back to Lomor. Every bruise, every cut, every mark looked real at first glance. The kind of injuries that made blood rise in his throat. But something was off.
The coloring was uneven. Smudged. The cuts seemed too precise in shape, too shallow in depth. Like someone had tried—and failed—at painting them.
He blinked.
"Brother…" he breathed.