Seraphine led Renny down the center, a dry smile resting on her face. She carried a thin chain that clinked softly with each step. One end was fastened to a collar buried low beneath Renny's shirt; the other threaded through a ring set into the stone.

The binding wasn't meant to immobilize him; it gave him just enough room to move. Three, maybe four steps. Enough to stumble, to run, before it yanked him back with a harsh, rope-burning pull. Freedom, but only as far as someone else allowed.

Renny pleaded as she dragged him along, tripping and bumping into her more than once. Annoyed, Seraphine smacked the back of his head. "You should've thought twice before trying to act smart with me," she said, then hauled him upright and kept walking.

At the edges of the square, the horses waited. Not horses exactly, horse-like things: high-shouldered, leather-skinned, with mouths like iron grates and ears carved into horns. Strapped to each flank was something obscene, a long iron shaft ending in a blunt, clubbed head, like a corrupted golf mallet, polished to a cruel shine.

The riders were minor Velzira sadists, their faces hidden behind green masks. They spat at Renny's heels and laughed, the sound sharp and eager.

Seraphine's lips curved. "Run, Ezraphor," she said softly. "Run for me."

They started. The horses thundered, hooves ringing like distant drums. The riders swung in wide arcs, mallets singing through the air. When they landed, it came with a slow, methodical thud, the sound of scores being kept. Each strike measured something new in him: count one, count two; the tally rose with every flail of his arms, every fold of his ribs.

The chain dictated the pace. Renny ran until the collar caught, then the pull wrenched him sideways with a rope-hiss. He spun, and a mallet met him. A horse looped close, hooves skimming his calves. Another strike crossed his thigh, sending a convulsion through him, a cruel response to that buried hunger inside: the hope that if he just ran faster, if he somehow broke free, the blows would end.

They never did. They only intensified. The Velzira pest-work of the square fed on that hope. The riders struck to teach him to run, and struck harder to teach him to stop wanting it.

Renny's breath came in a shattering rush. For a moment, the world narrowed to the iron taste of mallets, the bark of hooves, the small, grinding music of his bones. He tried to force the Royal Eye once — twice — but the agony of the activation layered on top of the physical torment made it impossible. Each attempt failed, the power collapsing back into him like a hot coal. Seraphine watched him with a smile that never reached her eyes.

At last, the square was tired of its sport. The riders slowed; the mallets' thuds thinned and stopped. Seraphine stepped forward and unclipped the ring, the chain sliding free from the collar at his throat. He sagged to the ground, every breath a jagged pull.

She crouched, close enough that he could see the malice in the curve of her lips. "That was only a taste," she said, voice cool. "Consider this mercy. I'll give you a grace, one month, same date, the twentieth. Miss me again, Ezraphor, and you will walk dead. Remember that."

She rose, the square echoing with the silence of the thing she'd left behind, and walked away as if she'd merely taken her pleasure. Renny stayed on the stone a long time, the memory of each strike still ringing under his skin.

***

The next morning, Renny woke in his apartment, battered, aching, every muscle humming with a dull burn. Whatever he had imagined Seraphine's punishment to be, it wasn't that. He lay there a moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to process what he'd seen. That place, that square, what even was it? He couldn't begin to fathom how deep Hell went. If that was just a fragment of her "mercy," then he hadn't even scratched the surface of what this place truly was.

"Damn," he muttered, dragging himself upright. His body protested with every motion. Groaning, he reached into his trouser pocket and drew out a single strand of silver-white hair, Seraphine's. He'd snatched it in that moment when he'd pulled her down. At least he'd gotten something out of the encounter.

He cracked his neck, stretched his back, and winced at the soreness spreading through him. Times like this, he thought, I almost miss being pushed around in that damned chair. Back then, he hadn't needed to move; now, running felt like survival itself. And right now, survival meant getting to the Garden before she decided to come for him again.

Taxis were too risky. Mention the Garden, and word could spread fast. He showered, dressed, and slipped out, boarding a bus like always. When it stopped a few blocks short of the Garden, he got off, adjusted his collar, and ran the rest of the way.

By the time Renny arrived at the Garden, he slowed his pace and scanned the surroundings carefully. No one in sight. The gate looked far better than it had the first time he'd come here, polished iron curling with faint silver veins, vines blooming with quiet life along its frame. It seemed that restoring the Garden was actually working.

He slipped inside, shutting the gate softly behind him. The air was thick with the scent of wet soil and faint incense.

Then came the blur of motion, Oliver, the little creature, bounding toward him in frantic excitement. It lunged at his chest, nearly knocking him off balance, and clung to him with a vibrating hum of affection. Renny staggered, letting out a strained laugh.

"Alright, alright... easy there," he muttered, prying at Oliver's tiny claws, but the creature refused to let go until it was good and satisfied.

All around, the gardeners moved about their work, tending to soil, pruning branches, whispering to the roots. None of them looked up. Their motions were precise, unbroken, like actors in a play who couldn't see the audience. Sometimes, Renny wondered if they even knew he was here at all.

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