The tent of Count Martissant smelled of waxed leather, ink, and a persistent hint of dampness. It was a vast space, furnished with a massive table covered in maps, a military camp bed, and a brazier that crackled softly, casting dancing shadows on the canvas walls. The man himself, seated behind the table, his hands clasped over the parchments, observed them with the air of a chess player assessing a lost position.

Dylan, Elisa, Julius, and Zirel stood before him in a line. A fine layer of dust and fatigue covered them all, but their posture was rigid, military. The smell of combat, acrid and metallic, seemed to still cling to their clothes.

"So," Martissant began in a neutral, worn-out voice. "Maggie is alive. That's the only good news from last night, I imagine."

It was Julius who spoke, his bass voice resonating in the confined space. "Yes. She's wounded, in shock, but stable. She's under the care of the healers."

The Count nodded, his gaze moving from one to the other, lingering on Dylan, whose hands were still nicked and knuckles scraped. "Tell me. From the beginning. And spare me the embellishments. I want facts."

It was Zirel who began the account, describing the infiltration, the diversion, the extraction of Maggie with surgical precision. He spoke of the sentries, the patrols, the geography of Pilaf's camp. A scout's report, cold and technical.

Then came Elisa's turn. Her voice was weaker, but clear. She described the sensation of being hunted, the unhealthy energy emanating from the camp, then the confrontation.

"Alka was waiting for us," she said, her eyes fixed on the Count. "She wasn't surprised. It was a trap. Maggie was the bait."

Martissant didn't flinch. "Continue."

Elisa then described Alka's power. The way she had taken control of Dylan's mind, turning him into a puppet. She spoke of the psychic struggle, the memories and fears Alka had projected to destabilize her. She omitted the most intimate details, focusing on the nature of the attack: a deep mental intrusion, a violation.

"She has a mind-control power of a magnitude I've never encountered," she concluded, a glint of shame and anger in her tired eyes. "She can turn an ally into a weapon against you in seconds."

The Count's gaze then turned to Dylan. "And you? What do you have to add to this... report?"

Dylan felt the weight of the stares. Elisa's, full of contained worry. Julius's, impassive but attentive. Zirel's, analytical.

"It's true," Dylan said, his voice hoarser than usual. "Everything she said. She entered my mind. She controlled me. I was... an empty shell." He swallowed, hating every word. "She forced me to attack Zirel. If Elisa hadn't interfered..."

He let the sentence hang. The crackling of the brazier seemed to intensify.

"And how did you free yourself?" asked Martissant, tilting his head.

Dylan hesitated. His stigmata pulsed faintly under his sleeve, as if remembering. "A breach. In her control. Elisa distracted her, and my own will... reasserted itself. For a moment. Long enough to drop my sword."

The Count emitted an unimpressed grunt. His attention shifted to Dylan's left arm. "These marks. They were there during the black structure incident. They are linked to all this, aren't they?"

A leaden silence fell over the tent. Dylan felt the pressure rising. This was the subject they all avoided.

"Yes," he finally admitted, refusing to lower his eyes. "They react to... to that energy. The energy Alka manipulates."

"And what do they do, exactly, these marks?" Martissant pressed, relentless. "Besides react?"

Dylan clenched his fists. He felt Elisa's gaze piercing him, a silent warning. Be careful.

"They give me access to a reserve of essence," he said, choosing his words carefully. "A raw essence. It can be used to... amplify strength, speed. Heal."

"Heal?" Martissant smiled, a thin movement of his lips devoid of any warmth. "You almost died saving that soldier, Tonar, a few months ago. Did these marks 'heal' you then?"

The memory of Tonar's agony, the sensation of his own life draining away, hit Dylan like a punch. "No. I sacrificed my essence for his. It's an exchange."

"An exchange," repeated the Count, as if tasting the word. "And today? Against Alka?"

Dylan felt the anger rising, a warm and dangerous wave. "I used that essence to fight. To allow us to flee."

"By stabbing yourself, if my information is correct," Martissant continued, glancing at Zirel, who remained stoic. "To tap into that reserve. Is that it? A ritualized self-harm to activate your power."

Elisa intervened, her voice sharp as a blade. "Count Martissant, without that ability, we would all be dead. Dylan held Alka at bay long enough for us to save Maggie and retreat."

"Held at bay?" The Count stood up, walking around his table. He wasn't tall, but his presence was authoritative. "From what I understand, this woman held you all at bay. She manipulated you, wounded you, and she let you go. She didn't pursue you. Why, in your opinion?"

Julius spoke for the first time since the report began. "Because it suits her. We are a message. Witnesses to her power. She wants the fear to spread."

"Or perhaps," countered Martissant, stopping in front of Dylan, "she is interested in you personally, Dylan. In what you have become. These marks... this essence... Could that be the real reason for her interest? Could that be why she didn't try to kill you?"

The words echoed in the silence. It was the fear Dylan had carried within him from the start.

"I don't know," he lied.

"Really?" The Count plunged his gaze into his. "Because according to Elisa's account, she spoke to you. About your father. She 'chose' you. Doesn't that intrigue you? Doesn't that make you wonder if you aren't, in some way, a tool in a conflict far vaster than our little border war?"

Dylan didn't answer. He felt sweat beading on his back.

"Here is my position, then," declared Martissant, resuming his place behind his desk, recovering his bureaucratic tone. "You retrieved the hostage. That is an operational success. But you have also confirmed the existence of an existential threat. This Alka is not a mere commander. She is a scourge. And she is linked to you."

He placed his hands flat on the table.

"Consequently, here are my orders. Dylan, you are suspended from all offensive missions. You remain in the camp. You will be subjected to evaluation by the alchemists and archivists. We must understand the nature of these stigmata. Is it a curse? A disease? A power? And to what extent do you represent a danger to this camp?"

Elisa opened her mouth to protest, but a look from Julius silenced her.

"Elisa, Julius, Zirel, you will resume your usual duties. You will be debriefed separately by my intelligence officers. Everything you saw, heard, or felt concerning the powers of Alka and Dylan must be recorded."

His gaze returned to Dylan, hard and merciless.

"You saved a life today, Dylan. But you may have also opened a Pandora's box. Until we understand what you are, and what this woman wants with you, you are as much a resource as a risk. Do not forget that."

The verdict had been delivered. They were no longer heroes, but pawns in a game they no longer controlled. Dylan was sidelined, like a dangerous animal caged for study.

The meeting was over. Martissant had already lowered his head over his parchments, dismissing them without another word.

They filed out of the tent, one by one, into the harsh morning light. The contrast with the muffled darkness of the Count's tent was blinding.

Zirel was the first to leave, without a glance, lost in thought. Julius placed a heavy hand on Dylan's shoulder.

"He's doing his job, kid. Protecting the camp."

"By treating me like a time bomb?" Dylan retorted, bitter.

"If the shoe fits..." Julius grumbled before walking away himself, leaving Dylan and Elisa alone.

Elisa turned to him, her face pale, but her eyes burned with a cold determination.

"He's wrong," she said simply.

"About which part?" Dylan asked, exhausted. "Fearing me or suspecting me?"

"Both." She moved closer, lowering her voice. "Martissant only sees the threat. He doesn't see that you are the only person to have wounded Alka, to have resisted her control. He doesn't see that you might be the key, not the threat."

"And you, do you see it?" he asked, defiance in his voice.

She held his gaze without blinking. "I saw you fight. I saw you resist. I saw you choose to leave rather than let your rage consume you. That's all I need to see."

She placed a brief hand on his arm, right where the stigmata pulsed.

"They want to study you? Fine. But never forget who you are. Not what you have, or what Alka has made you. But who you are, Dylan."

Before he could answer, she walked away, blending into the camp's bustle, leaving behind the echo of her words and the weight of a trust he no longer felt he deserved.

Dylan remained alone amidst the resurgent activity, Martissant's orders echoing in his head like a sentence. He was no longer a soldier. He was a specimen. A subject of study.

He lifted his eyes to the sky, a pale, impersonal blue. Peace was an illusion. The war had simply changed form. And his next battlefield would not be the Karthak plain, but the depths of his own being.