A Wolf's Howl, A Fairy's Wing

Erik was resting with his back against the backboard of his bed, arms crossed and jaw clenched, as if stoicism alone could pin his thoughts in place.

It didn't work.

The dark stone ceiling above him stared back like a blank page that refused to offer guidance. He rubbed his forehead with one hand, covering his eyes, but he wasn't really blocking out the room.

He was trying to block out the images that kept replaying: Meilin kneeling in ash, hate pouring out of her even when defeat had already closed its fist around her throat; the sudden whirlpool of aetherium gathering in her chest as she tried to turn herself into a weapon; Elora's calm voice presenting her 'two options'.

Two options. He hated that phrase.

Because it wasn't just Elora's options, it was his life, distilled. Ever since Frostvik burned and his father died, and betrayal became a constant shadow behind every alliance, it always came down to two options: do the ugly thing and live, or refuse and let the universe punish him for daring to have lines.

He exhaled through his nose, slow, controlled—then did it again because the first breath hadn't been enough. He'd didn't usually have trouble making the hard decisions… but usually those decisions would simply result in his enemy's deaths. He was fine with death. So much so that it had become a small part of Nora's religion.

But this was different. He didn't like the idea of messing with people's heads, partially because it reminded him of the possibility for any of his loved ones to have done the same to them, partially because the idea of having people around him who only cared for him because they'd been brainwashed was unnerving to him, and partially because it went counter to his believe in freedom.

He believed in freedom for himself, of course, but also for his enemies. And if that freedom caused them to be killed by him, then so be it. That was easy. Death… was easy.

Option one was simple in the way a hammer to the skull was simple. Wait for Emily. Suppress Meilin's mind with that heavy-handed enslavement spell, squeeze out answers by asking only what he already knew to ask, and then… dispose of her.

Elora had said it without flinching, and of course she had. Meilin was an enemy. A confessor. A symbol of the faction that had carved cruelty into the world and called it order. Erik fully agreed with her perspective on this.

And yet, even that "simple" path had teeth. Because if he chose it, he would be choosing his morality over what was obviously the best choice for his and his family's survival.

He could already hear Astrid scoff at him—playful, maybe, but not wrong. He liked direct solutions. He liked hammers. He wanted certainty in their situation, and so did Astrid. She'd tell him to just kill the bitch—whether she was brainwashed or not—and trust in their family's strength to pull them through into the future.

So why did this feel like surrender?

His hand slid down from his face, and he stared at his palm as if it might answer him.

Option two…

His jaw tightened. His muscles flexed.

Option two was Elora's preferred route, and that alone should make him wary. Not because she lied—she didn't. He trusted her with his life and his family's lives. But Elora's mind was built to find the most efficient way to win, and her patience with the idea of morality had always been… selective. She'd only even bothered offering option one because she knew where his boundaries lived.

Yet, Nora's ability still made something primal in Erik's gut twist with discomfort, even after he'd forced himself to accept it. He could accept devotion when it was chosen. He could accept worship when it was at least somewhat freely given, however strange it made him feel sometimes. He could even accept the unsettling reality that Nora's faith wrapped itself around people's minds and souls in a way that wasn't entirely natural.

But Elora's second plan wasn't about choice. It was about incentive. About breaking Meilin's resistance and forcing her mind into the shape of an "apostle," as Elora called it, a follower whose very voice began to carry Nora's vibration as they worshipped the ground Erik walked on.

Erik sat up abruptly. His hammer wasn't in his hands, but he could almost feel its weight anyway—like an old habit his body expected whenever his mind turned vicious.

He planted his feet on the stone floor and began pacing.

One step. Two. Turn. Repeat.

It would be rape, a part of him had thought earlier, plain and brutal, refusing to let him hide behind euphemisms. Not necessarily the physical act—though that, too, would become a question he didn't trust himself with—but the assault on the mind—the forced rewriting of a person into a shape that pleased him and served him.

And the worst part? He didn't trust his future self to keep caring.

He'd seen what power did to people. He'd seen it back on söl, and here on Earth. If he approved Elora's second plan now, what was to stop him from doing it again? And again? Perhaps until every person who dared disagree with him had their mind broken so they were grovelling before him in worship?

Sure, his conflict with the hunters wasn't exactly a mere disagreement, but it was a slippery slope.

He'd even seen this in himself. When he met Elora, he was still a gentle young man. Burning with a desire for revenge, yes, but not yet a killer. That part came later. The first time was hard, but it quickly became easier. From there, it wasn't long before death was a part of his life, and he stopped caring.

He didn't regret this evolution, though. He'd accepted death as the natural end of life, and his nature as a shapeshifter aided this acceptance. He was putting his life on the line for his goals, and so did his enemies. This was the way things were supposed to be, and he'd keep taking their lives to advance his goals until they took his.

Reshaping a person's mind because it was convenient, however… that was anything but natural.

He stopped at the wall, one hand flattening against the unyielding stone. Then he pushed off the wall, frustration rising hotter.

The realisation that factions could twist so quickly if their ideology at its core was built on cruelty. The possibility that Meilin's sadism wasn't purely hers, but cultivated, amplified, and encouraged by a proselytiser's influence until it became indistinguishable from her own nature.

That knowledge had slid a splinter under his skin.

If Meilin had been warped by influence—if there really was a "before" buried under indoctrination—then option one became darker in a new way. Killing her and dissecting her might be killing a monster… or it might be killing a woman who'd been dragged into monstrosity by a proselytizer's voice and an ascension process he didn't fully understand.

And option two…

Option two could be framed as a rescue.

That was the trap.

He could already feel how easily his mind wanted to justify it: convert her, sever Imogene's bond, strip away the rival ideology, make her safe, make her useful, and maybe—just maybe—whatever kinder version of her existed would surface again under Nora's faith.

It would be neat. Clean… And oh so convenient.

Erik's fist clenched. His nails bit into his palm, and a dark thread of irritation surged through him

He forced it down.

Because the truth was simpler than all his moral spiralling.

He wanted a third option.

A path where he could extract the information he needed, neutralise the threat, and still look at himself without wondering when his lines had shifted.

He could imagine it, almost: find Imogene's proselytiser, kill them, break the ideological spine of the Humanitas Sangh. Let the remaining hunters—those who weren't already monsters on their own—have a chance to breathe without that constant pressure twisting their minds.

He might not even need Meilin anymore, then. Perhaps the hunters would just disintegrate from the top down, so he could simply stroll in to take care of Imogene, kill Edda, and take possession of Audumla's dimension.

But imagination didn't make it real. He didn't know where the proselytiser was, let alone Imogene, Edda, or the dimension—all things that, ironically, Meilin might be able to tell him.

He didn't have the power to remove Imogene's Bond of Service without cooperation.

He didn't have the luxury of time.

And, perhaps most infuriating of all, he didn't have the strength yet to force the universe to give him a better choice.

That was the root of it. Not morality. Not lust. Not fear for the future.

It was weakness.

Erik stopped pacing and stood still, shoulders rising and falling as he breathed in deeply.

Then, a knock on the door.

"Master…?"