The Villain Who Seeks Joy-Chapter 92: The Bent Spine

The workshop was quiet, save for the hiss of steam and the clack-clack of Hollow pacing the rafters.

I had the Centurion stripped down to its chassis on the main bench. The damage was uglier in the daylight. The central spine—a composite of reinforced bear femurs—had torqued thirty degrees during the avalanche. The glass plating on the left flank was spiderwebbed with stress fractures, though it hadn’t shattered.

"It’s a mess," Gareth said, leaning on a broom. He looked better than he had yesterday, though his ears were still peeling from the frostnip.

"It’s twisted," I said. "Not broken."

Mira was mixing a bonding paste in a stone bowl. "Bone has memory," she said. "If we heat it and clamp it, it might snap back. Or it might shatter."

"It won’t shatter," I said. "It’s soaked in Darkflow residue. It’s tougher than green wood."

I set up the steam kettle—the same one I’d fixed for the Rune Craft club weeks ago. I ran a hose from the spout to a canvas sleeve wrapped around the Centurion’s spine.

"Steam," I said. "Twenty minutes. Then we crank the vice."

While the bone cooked, I checked the leash.

It was quiet. Two threads—Marrow in Shade, Hollow above. The third thread, the heavy line for the Centurion, was severed while the construct was dormant. My chest felt light, almost empty without the weight of the wall.

The door opened. It wasn’t Cael or Lyra.

It was a man I didn’t know. He wore the gray robes of a Senior Factotum—the administrative class that ran the academy’s paperwork. He held a clipboard and a sour expression.

"Armand Valcrey," he said.

"Here," I said. I didn’t step away from the bench.

"I am Factotum Hynes. Asset Management." He tapped his clipboard with a long, clean fingernail. "I’m here to catalogue the equipment damage from the... excursion."

"The assessment," I corrected.

"Call it what you like. The Foundation has raised concerns about the loss of student property. Carriages. Tents. Supplies." His eyes landed on the steaming Centurion. "And unauthorized constructs."

"This is authorized," I said. I tapped the Brass Token pinned to my work coat. "Chartered."

"Chartered for operation," Hynes said smoothly. "Not for modification. This device..." He walked around the bench, wrinkling his nose at the smell of wet bone. "It utilizes scavenged materials from a Class-4 prohibited entity. The Chimera."

"It utilizes glass," I said. "Glass is glass."

"It utilizes evidence," Hynes corrected. "The Chimera carcass was seized by the Crown. You stripped parts of it before the seizure. That constitutes tampering."

I saw where this was going. They couldn’t expel me for surviving. So they were going to try to dismantle my gear on a technicality.

"The rivets and plates were in the trash," Gareth said, stepping forward. He crossed his arms. He looked like a dockworker who had just been told the pub was closed. "We scavenged refuse. Commerce Code, Section Nine."

Hynes sneered at him. "This isn’t a dock, boy. This is an Academy. And I am confiscating this... wreckage... for safety review." 𝒇𝓻𝓮𝓮𝙬𝙚𝒃𝒏𝓸𝙫𝒆𝙡.𝓬𝓸𝒎

He reached for the Centurion.

"Don’t," I said.

I didn’t shout. I didn’t flare my aura. I just spoke with the flat certainty of a man who knows exactly where the line is.

Hynes froze. "Are you threatening a Factotum?"

"I’m warning a civilian," I said. "That spine is under forty pounds of steam pressure. If you touch the clamp, it blows. You’ll lose your skin."

Hynes snatched his hand back. He looked at the steam hose, then at me.

"The review stands," he snapped. "I will file a requisition order. You have until tomorrow to surrender the device."

"File it," I said. "Send a copy to Saintess Liora. She signed the Charter."

He glared, turned on his heel, and marched out.

"He’ll be back," Mira said, scraping the last of the paste from her bowl. "With guards."

"Let him come," I said. "By tomorrow, this won’t be wreckage. It’ll be a wall again."

I checked the time. "Steam is done. Gareth, grab the wrench. Mira, hold the hips."

We went to work.

It was brutal, physical labor. I pulsed the Anchor Step into my hands to keep them steady as I cranked the heavy iron vice. The bone groaned, a deep, organic sound like a tree splitting in winter.

"More," I gritted out.

Gareth leaned his weight into the lever. The spine hissed. It moved—a millimeter, then an inch.

"Hold!" Mira shouted. "It’s aligned."

"Lock it," I said.

We tightened the clamps. The bone sat straight, steaming and cooling in the new shape.

I let out a breath I’d been holding for ten minutes. My wrist throbbed, but I ignored it.

"Let it cure," I said. "If we touch it before it’s cold, it warps again."

The door opened again. This time, it was Cael.

He didn’t look like he’d slept. He wore his field coat, damp with snow. He held a small, crumpled piece of paper.

"We need to talk," he said. "Now."

We left Mira and Gareth with the sled and walked out to the edge of the training yard. The snow was melting into gray slush.

Cael handed me the paper. It was a rubbing—charcoal on rice paper. It showed the imprint of a boot sole.

A distinctive tread. Climbing spikes. And a maker’s mark in the heel: a stylized falcon.

"Where?" I asked.

"The Devil’s Elbow," Cael said. "I went back up at first light. Before the wind could scrub the ledge."

"You climbed the pass alone?"

"I needed to see," he said. "This print was on the overhang. Where the snow was loosened."

"The avalanche trigger," I said.

"Yes. It’s a climbing boot. High-end. Custom fit." Cael looked at me, his hazel eyes hard. "I know this mark, Armand. It’s not sold in the city. It’s a bespoke cobbler in the Capital. They only make boots for two kinds of people: competitive alpinists, and high-altitude surveyors."

"Or assassins who can afford the best," I said.

"Or," Cael said, "someone who teaches Vertical Mobility at this school."

I went still.

"Proctor Kellen," I said.

"He runs the climbing electives," Cael said. "He signed off on the route safety check three days ago. He said the snowpack was stable."

"He lied."

"He placed the bait," Cael corrected. "And he dug the trench."

I looked at the rubbing. Kellen. I knew him—a quiet man, wiry, always checking knots. He didn’t seem like the type to feed students to wolves.

"Money?" I asked.

"Or leverage," Cael said. "The Foundation owns debts. Maybe Kellen has one."

"We take this to Liora," I said.

"We can’t," Cael said. "Not yet. A boot print isn’t proof. He’ll say he was doing a safety inspection. It’s his job to be up there."

"Then we need to find the bait container," I said. "Or the shovel."

"I looked. The ledge is clean."

I handed the paper back to him.

"If he’s the leak," I said, "he knows we survived. He knows the plan failed. He’ll be nervous."

"Nervous men make mistakes," Cael said.

"We help him make one," I said.

I looked back at the workshop. The Centurion was cooling on the bench. My army was small: a dog, a bird, a sled, and a few students who knew how to dig.

But we were digging in.

"Tonight," I said. "We don’t go to him. We make him come to us."

"How?"

"We announce a salvage run," I said. "Publicly. We say we left something on the mountain. Something that proves the avalanche was man-made."

Cael smiled. It was a sharp, dangerous expression. "A lie."

"A lure," I said. "We bait the trap with fear. If he goes back up the mountain to clean his tracks..."

"We’ll be waiting," Cael finished.

"Get Lyra," I said. "We need to write a notice for the board. One that Kellen can’t miss."

The wind picked up, swirling the slush around our boots. It was cold, but I didn’t feel it.

I felt the leash. And I was ready to pull.