The room felt too still.

Liz sat at the edge of the Aria Hotel's war table, arms crossed, spine rigid. The digital map above the surface pulsed with a low red glow – soft, almost ambient, like a warning trying not to scream.

Chloe stood at the far side, hood down, hair damp, voice level.

"All three dead zones were empty," she said. "No patrols. No constructs. No traps. Just... residue."

She paused. "The kind that clings."

No one interrupted.

Ying remained where she always did during debriefs – standing at the head of the table like it was a command dais. Her hands were behind her back, but Liz noticed the tension in her shoulders. She hadn't blinked in the last two minutes.

"They were used," Chloe continued. "Maybe recently. Holding cells, some. Others... worse. The Cathedral site had signs of ritualised abuse. Mirrors. Shackles. Bloodstains at altar height. Not fresh. But not old either."

Victor responded dryly. "Sounds like a monastery for sickos."

"If they've cleared out, it wasn't abandonment. They must have finished using it," Dan said quietly.

Liz flinched, just slightly. She didn't need the full report. She knew her best friend. And she could feel it – the weight pressing behind her eyes. Not a memory. Not a vision. Just bruises in the psychic air. Echoes of pain ground so deep into stone they had become texture.

And even now, the room buzzed faintly with it.

Ying's frown deepened. "Could they have known we were coming?"

A long beat of silence.

Chloe shook her head. "No way. We scouted this place a week ago. In and out. No sign we were tracked. No aura trace. No surveillance pings. If someone cleared those sites, it wasn't because of us."

Ying's lips pressed thin. She turned to the table, tapping one finger against the map – the ringed zones of Prague's Old Town flickering with red. Suppression zones. Blank spots. Places that felt too quiet.

Her voice was low. "We know nothing about King Tomas."

Victor leaned forward slightly. Dan didn't move.

Ying looked at Liz.

"He's on every screen," Ying said. "Every poster. Every loudspeaker. And yet... no one talks about him. No records. Nothing. We need to understand him, Liz. Fast."

Liz nodded once. The pressure in her chest hadn't eased since Chloe started speaking.

"Take Dan and Victor. Walk the streets. Pose as citizens. Keep your halo buried. Listen. Watch. And scan."

Ying's gaze sharpened. "Especially for Tomas."

Liz didn't blink.

"I'll find something," she said. Her voice was even, but inside, something curled like a blade warming in fire.

…………………

They moved like locals. Heads down, expressions neutral. Just another trio crossing the Charles Bridge beneath the midmorning sun, shoes clacking softly on centuries-worn stone.

Liz walked between them – Dan on her left, tall and calm; Victor to her right, oversized coat draped over his shoulders like a monk in mourning. Tourists bustled around them, pointing phones toward the river, toward the spires, toward the heavens. No one looked anyone in the eye.

Above them, a digital screen flickered to life.

KING TOMAS PROTECTS.

A face filled the display. Symmetrical. Clean. Too smooth to be real. His eyes didn't blink.

Liz looked away.

To their left, a pair of Enforcers watched the crowd. Not moving. Just standing – serene as statues. Their auras were dimmed, passive. But she felt it anyway. A coldness that didn't stem from temperature – a stillness in the air, like water before the break of ice.

They weren't tense. That was the worst part. They were calm. As if nothing bad could ever happen again. Because it already had.

Victor muttered from her right, voice dry. "They don't look so tough."

One Enforcer turned his head slightly as she passed – not a full motion, just enough for his visor to catch the sun. He didn't speak. Didn't move. But Liz felt it.

Not attention. Recognition. Like something in his mind had teeth. And it had just licked its lips.

Dan didn't look up. "Power's not always about what you show. It's about what others believe you'll do."

Liz let the words pass over her, eyes scanning the cobbled path ahead.

Tourists smiled, sipping cappuccinos. Vendors sold overpriced glass trinkets. A boy skipped past holding a paper crown.

But underneath it all, something pulsed. Like the stone beneath their feet remembered things it wasn't allowed to speak of. A tension in the mortar. In the stillness between footfalls.

She swallowed, then leaned in slightly. "Too many Enforcers here," she murmured. "I'll scan deeper into Old Town. The crowd's too noisy."

Dan gave a slight nod. "Be careful."

Victor smirked. "We're tourists. What could possibly go wrong?"

Liz didn't answer. The air behind her eyes was already tightening – like something waiting to be heard.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

She stepped away from them, weaving into the next wave of pedestrians. The sun felt too white. The shadows too long.

And King Tomas was still smiling, watching her from above.

…………………

Old Town breathed around her – narrow streets curling like veins, facades warped with age and repair. Flower boxes spilled over from third-floor balconies. Wooden signs creaked softly in the wind. But Liz felt none of it.

Her attention was turned inward.

She walked alone now, her steps slow, deliberate, threading through side alleys and silent courtyards. The farther she got from the river, the more the world seemed to flatten – not physically, but psychically. A dullness. Like the city had learned to mumble instead of scream.

She let her halo open, just a crack.

Threads of thought unspooled around her. The quiet static of human minds living under glass.

Don't stop walking. Just keep smiling.

Don't question. Don't ask. Not again.

He sees everything.

She was taken last week. Her name's gone. Her room's gone. Her photo's gone.

Liz winced. Each voice was shallow, sanded down. Like every original thought had been filed smooth at the edges. Emotions weren't absent – but they were muted. She felt fear. Anxiety. The brittle fatigue of survival. But not outrage. Not grief.

And not once did she hear a name.

She focused harder. Tomas.

Nothing.

She pressed into the thought of him – the name, the face from the screens, the gold statue. The protector. The king.

She got… white.

Not white light. White space. A blank.

Like a door had been erased instead of locked. No resistance. No defences. Just absence. A hollow cut into the minds of thousands.

She moved down another alley, heart pounding harder now. Past a butcher wiping blood from his apron. Past an old man sweeping a perfectly clean stoop.

She brushed the old man's mind.

He protects us. That's enough.

"Who?" Liz whispered aloud.

But the man didn't flinch. Didn't blink.

She tried again – harder this time. Focused everything into a pulse of intrusion. Dug deep into a nearby woman's surface thoughts as she arranged fruit on her stall.

He—

The thought dissolved mid-sentence. Not shielded. Not resisted.

Erased.

She focused harder – fixated on the billboard's face, on his too-smooth smile, on the memory of him from the hotel footage.

She reached toward the mind of a baker dusting rolls in powdered sugar.

Tomas. Say his name. Think it.

Nothing. The thought sputtered and died.

She tried again — a man buying fruit. His inner voice was mid-sentence, and then—

Static.

A full blank. Not resistance. Not fear. Like someone had cut the film and left the reel spinning.

Then… something flickered. Not a thought. A symbol.

Not from them. From him.

The face from the billboard filled her mind's eye – twisted into something wet. Smiling wider than human muscles allowed. Teeth too many.

"HE SEES."

Liz gasped and recoiled.

The world snapped sideways – not visually, but psychically. Like her mind had been kicked out of alignment. She staggered into the wall. Her vision doubled. One version of the alley blinked at her like static, the other too bright. A shrill whine pierced her ears – not sound, but memory. A scream she'd never heard before but would never forget. Blood trickled from her nose. She wiped it away blindly. Then vomited onto the cobblestones.

She leaned against a wall, gasping. Something was wrong in this city. Very wrong.

This wasn't just fear. This wasn't loyalty. This was… engineered.

She'd seen psychic shielding before – in demons, in Contractors, in the Institute's vaults. But this was different. This was collective amnesia sculpted like a prison. Someone, or something, was scrubbing the truth clean before it could even form.

She wiped the blood with the back of her hand, panting. Her vision blurred for a second. Across the street, a young girl stared at her with wide eyes – then turned and walked away. Silently.

Liz forced herself upright.

The name was gone. Not from reality. But from thought. The people still obeyed. Still feared. Still served.

But they didn't know who he was.

And she still couldn't find him.

…………………

The side alley opened into a narrow, forgotten courtyard – just wide enough for a cracked fountain, two benches, and a crooked tree straining toward a sky it barely saw. The water basin was dry, its base choked with leaves and broken glass. A rusted plaque read 1911 – In Peace, We Rebuild. Ironic.

Victor nudged her toward the bench.

Liz didn't argue. Her legs needed a break more than her pride did. She sat, hands pressed between her knees, still trembling from the psychic backlash. The metallic taste of it lingered at the back of her throat – like something half-burned.

Dan stood nearby, arms folded, watching two children kick at invisible enemies across the square. Their laughter echoed strangely in the air. Hollow. Almost staged.

Victor settled beside her with a grunt. He didn't speak at first.

Then—

"You need to slow down."

Liz didn't turn. "We don't have time."

"You'll burn yourself out."

She shook her head. "If Dad's being used like Chloe thinks—"

Victor cut in, his tone quiet, but edged. "Elizabeth."

She looked at him.

His face was different now – softer, but weathered. Tired in a way muscle couldn't hide. There was no joke in his eyes.

"I want him back too," he said. "You know I do. But losing you won't save him."

A pause.

"You're his reason. His anchor. You always were. He's holding on for something. And it's not us."

Her throat caught. She hated how much she believed him.

Dan's voice joined, low and steady. "We're doing this together. Max would wait for you. So, you wait for us."

He added, gently, "You're not just fire, Liz. You're what holds the rest of us steady. You lose yourself in this – and we don't just lose a psychic and a warrior. We lose our reason."

Liz answered softly, edged in bitterness. "Feels like reason died five years ago."

Victor wouldn't let it go. "He's alive. Which means you've got something stronger than reason."

Liz let out a shaky breath. The pressure behind her eyes had eased, but not the ache in her chest. She wiped the blood from under her nose with the sleeve of her jacket. It had already dried dark.

"I'm fine," she said, not very convincingly. "I can keep going."

Victor didn't push further. He just leaned back on the bench, staring up at the greying sky.

Dan nodded once. "We know. Just… let us keep up, yeah?"

Liz blinked fast. Then nodded, eyes fixed on the dried fountain.

"Okay," she murmured. "Just… let's hurry."

…………………

Dusk peeled over Prague like bruised skin.

By the time they reached the Aria Hotel, the city's glow had shifted – less gold, more clinical. Neon signs blinked over cobblestones, and the glass doors whispered shut behind them with too much polish, too much quiet.

Upstairs, the suite was already awake.

Chloe sat cross-legged on the floor, her blade – Tensō – resting across her lap like a sleeping predator. She moved a whetstone in slow, practised arcs, eyes distant. Focused. Detached.

Ying stood before the far wall, another map glowing faintly before her. It was newer – patched together from street scans, aura surveillance, drone feedback. But it had more blanks than marks. Entire zones glitched or flickered. Psychic blackouts. Holes in the city's soul.

Liz stepped inside and didn't speak at first. The weight of it all pressed into her shoulders like wet concrete.

Ying turned her head, expectant.

Liz exhaled.

"Tomas is everywhere," she said. "And nowhere."

Chloe responded, without looking up. "You felt it too, didn't you?"

"It's like trying to grab smoke with your bare hands. You think you're holding something – then it's gone."

Ying didn't react. She just nodded. "Figured. He's not just avoiding detection. He's erasing presence."

Victor dropped into a chair with a grunt, stretching out one leg. His coat slid down his shoulder, revealing bruises from somewhere – probably self-inflicted by boredom or tension.

Dan crossed the suite without a word and handed Liz a glass of water. She took it, didn't thank him, didn't need to. He just sat on the armrest nearby, the unspoken gravity of his presence anchoring her again.

Outside the window, a billboard sparked to life. One of the big ones across the Vltava. Liz didn't even need to look.

She knew that face.

King Tomas. Crown gleaming. Teeth white. Smile perfect.

But tonight… it looked different. Not friendly. Not benevolent.

Smug.

Like he knew something they didn't. Like he was watching her – specifically – and waiting.

Liz's voice dropped to a whisper.

"He's hiding," she said. "Right in front of us."

She took a step closer to the window. The billboard flickered again – just a blink. Just a hiccup.

But in that frame, she swore his head turned.

"We'll find him," Liz whispered. "Even if I have to burn this city to the bones to do it."

Ying didn't look away from the map.

"Then we dig."

No one answered. No one argued.

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