Chapter 530: Messenger

The man’s legs gave out before Arion could ask whether he understood what had happened to him.

He dropped heavily onto both knees in the frozen leaves, catching himself with one hand while the other pressed against his ribs, his shoulders shaking hard enough that Arion initially thought another transformation had begun.

Nothing changed.

The restored human body remained human.

No claws returned, no black armor pushed through his back, and the dark pathways that had covered his throat did not reappear beneath his skin. His blond hair hung over his face as he bowed forward, breathing in short, uneven pulls that gradually became deeper with every passing second.

Arion stepped closer.

Behind him, he heard movement near the vehicles.

"Stay back," he said without turning.

Otto did not sound pleased. "Is he changing?"

"No."

The man laughed.

It was an ugly, broken sound, but unmistakably human.

"No," he managed.

Arion stopped several steps away.

The infected soldier—or former infected soldier, if the distinction meant anything anymore—slowly lowered his hand from his side and stared at his fingers again, flexing them one at a time as though their ordinary shape required confirmation.

Then he pressed both palms against the ground.

"It stopped."

Arion studied him.

"The transformation?"

The man shook his head.

"The pain."

His voice was rough from disuse, each word emerging carefully, but there was nothing confused about his expression when he finally looked up.

His eyes remained entirely black.

Arion crouched, keeping enough distance that nobody watching through the drones would decide he had lost whatever judgment they still believed he possessed.

"What pain?"

The man’s hand returned to his left side, just below the ribs.

"The wound."

"What wound?"

For a moment, the man seemed surprised Arion did not know.

Then he pulled aside what remained of his torn uniform.

There was no injury beneath it.

Only pale skin stretched over a lean torso, marked by old scars and grime from what had clearly been years without conventional medical care.

The man touched the spot repeatedly.

"It was there."

Arion’s attention sharpened.

"The wound that infected you?"

"Yes."

"How?"

The man looked toward the forest.

"I was bitten."

Hendrik’s voice came immediately through Arion’s earpiece.

"Do not move closer."

Arion ignored him.

The man continued.

"During an evacuation. Beast season." His brow furrowed, and for several seconds he seemed to be sorting memories that had not been used in a very long time. "We were moving civilians toward the southern road. One got through the barricade."

His fingers pressed harder against his side.

"It opened me here."

Arion looked at the unbroken skin.

"How long ago?"

"I don’t know."

That answer finally carried fear.

The man looked around at the forest, then toward the vehicles and armed personnel beyond Arion.

"I stopped knowing."

Arion understood that much.

If he had survived inside the infected territory long enough for his uniform to deteriorate to strips, time had probably become meaningless well before the physical transformation finished.

"Was the wound always painful?"

"Yes."

"Even after you changed?"

The man’s black eyes settled on him.

"Especially after."

Arion went quiet.

The beasts had never communicated pain to him.

Hunger, recognition, attention, obedience—those he understood, or at least his mind translated them into something close enough.

This man had carried one thought through the forest.

Make it stop.

"The wound didn’t heal?"

"It closed over sometimes." His voice became quieter. "Then opened again. Every time the infection changed something."

Arion looked once more at the perfectly restored skin beneath his hand.

"And now?"

"Gone."

"Pain?"

"Gone."

The relief in that single word was enough to make Arion’s stomach tighten.

Behind him, Otto finally approached, stopping outside the distance Arion had requested rather than remaining by the vehicles.

The man noticed him.

Recognition passed across his face.

He straightened as much as he could while still kneeling.

"Your Majesty."

Otto stopped.

Arion glanced toward his father.

That settled one concern immediately.

The man knew where he was.

He knew who they were.

He knew enough of himself to understand hierarchy.

Arion returned his attention to him.

"What is your name?"

The answer took only a moment.

"Elias Varen."

"Rank?"

"Lieutenant."

Hendrik was already searching.

Arion could hear rapid movement over the channel before the commander spoke.

"Lieutenant Elias Varen, Fifth Northern Response Battalion. Listed missing during the eastern evacuation eight years ago."

Elias closed his eyes.

Eight years.

The number seemed to strike harder than anything else had.

His shoulders dropped.

Arion gave him several seconds.

Then asked, "Do you remember becoming infected?"

"Most of it."

"Do you remember attacking anyone?"

Elias’s face tightened.

"I don’t know."

That was honest enough that Arion believed him.

Hunter finally came closer as well, although his weapon remained lowered rather than holstered.

"We need to move him."

Arion agreed.

Not because Elias appeared dangerous.

Because they had no idea what he was.

The fact that Arion had restored his body did not establish whether infection remained within his glands, whether anything inside the forest still influenced him, or whether Claudia’s old compounds had ever reached human populations in ways nobody understood.

"We’re taking you to a secure medical center," Arion said.

Elias nodded immediately.

"No restraints unless necessary."

Hendrik looked at him.

"Your Highness—"

"He came here asking for help, not attacking."

"He approached a royal convoy in a fully infected state."

"And stopped ten meters away."

Hendrik’s mouth tightened, but Otto settled the argument.

"Medical containment, not detention. Full precautions until Victor clears him."

That distinction mattered.

Elias seemed to understand it too.

Hunter contacted the secondary team and requested an isolation transport, while Hendrik began locking down every recording from the encounter under the same classification surrounding Arion’s abilities.

Victor was already on his way.

Apparently Hendrik had contacted him the moment the drone identified a human thermal signature, and the physician had responded with language severe enough that nobody repeated it over the open channel.

Arion suspected he was furious that the first documented infected human in years had appeared while Victor was several districts away.

Elias accepted a thermal blanket from one of the medics but refused assistance standing until he had tried himself.

His legs shook.

They held.

He stared down at them with the same disbelief he had shown his hands.

Arion watched carefully.

Elias’s pheromones were weak from exhaustion, but recognizably alpha beneath the residual corruption clinging to him.

The isolation transport arrived twenty minutes later, accompanied by a medical unit prepared for considerably more violence than they encountered.

Elias allowed every scan.

He allowed them to take blood, attach monitors, check his pupils, test his reflexes, and secure a pheromone filtration collar around his neck.

The only moment he resisted was when one physician asked him to lie back.

"I need to speak to him first."

The physician looked toward Arion.

Arion stepped closer to the open transport door.

"What is it?"

Elias stared at him.

His black eyes were unnerving in an otherwise completely human face.

"Are you being controlled by someone?"

"No."

"Were you sent here?"

"Yes."

Every security officer within hearing distance stiffened.

Hunter’s hand moved toward his weapon.

Arion remained still.

"By whom?"

Elias looked toward the forest behind them.

"I don’t know his name."

Arion’s expression hardened.

"Then why did you come?"

Elias swallowed.

When he answered, his voice was quiet but perfectly coherent.

"I’m a messenger for you."