Chapter Two-Hundred Sixty-Three: Shattered Frost

Chapter 263

Shattered Frost

Balderico slid his finger on the trigger as his gun remained pointed at Celeste’s head. Fabien violently thrashed against his bonds, the leather straps biting deep into his wrists, drawing blood as he strained, but even as his skin broke, the wounds knit themselves back together in an agonizing cycle of rupture and rapid regeneration.

Fabien: “LET HER GO!”

He barked through hot tears.

A sudden, sharp icicle shot through the air, a jagged crystalline blade that hissed as it tore through the space between them. It struck with sickening precision, piercing straight through Balderico’s wrist. He let out a strangled cry of agony, his fingers instantly losing their grip as the gun clattered to the stone floor, and he stumbled back, clutching his mangled arm in disbelief.

Balderico: “WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAUUUGHHH!!!”

He collapsed onto the floor, his body jerking in violent spasms. He thrashed against the floor, his legs kicking blindly as he curled around his shattered wrist. Each movement was a frantic, uncoordinated struggle, his teeth bared in a silent snarl of torment while he writhed, clutching the bloody limb to his chest as if he could squeeze the agony away.

Tristan strolled in with Jordi following him. Celeste staggered to her feet and rushed to Fabien.

Celeste: “FAB!!”

She threw her arms around him, her fingers working with frantic speed to unbuckle the blood-slicked leather straps. As the last restraint gave way, Fabien’s strength finally buckled; he collapsed forward into her, the crushing weight of relief more overwhelming than the pain of his bonds.

Fabien: “Mon chaton… Thank you.”

He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his shoulders shaking with silent, ragged breaths as he pulled her against him, his voice a broken, trembling whisper. Celeste raked her fingers through his soft, white tresses, cradling him close.

Jordi: “Still at your old tricks, Balderico?”

He glowered at him. Balderico laughed ragged breaths as his blood soaked his dressing gown and dripped onto the floor.

Balderico: “If only I knew all it would take to address me as that is being your enemy, maybe I would have treaded more carefully.”

He laughed and coughed.

Jordi: “Shut up.”

He hissed.

Tristan glanced at Fabien and swung his gaze to Balderico, his green eyes thinning into dark, sinister slits.

Tristan: “Whatever game you’re playing, Balderico, it’s finished now.”

Balderico slumped against the cold stone, his blood pooling darkly around him. He coughed, a wet, rattling sound, and tilted his head to study Tristan. Despite the agony radiating from his mangled wrist, a jagged, amused smile split his face.

Balderico: “It’s uncanny, really.”

He wheezed, his gaze locking onto Tristan’s piercing green eyes.

Balderico: “That detachment... the way you look at me. You have her eyes, you know. Charlotte’s eyes.”

Tristan didn’t blink. Slowly, his brows knit together, a fierce snarl contorting his lips.

The air in the room seemed to drop several degrees, his presence shifting from merely threatening to predatory. Balderico let out a harsh, bubbling laugh that ended in a spasm of pain.

Balderico: “I suppose the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, even when the tree is frozen solid.”

He said, cold and detached. Balderico gasped ragged breaths between laughing. Jordi turned to Tristan. Tristan clenched his fists tightly as a mist of frost formed over them.

Tristan: “Shut up… I AM NOTHING LIKE THAT THING!!”

He screamed as the room’s temperature plummeted to subzero; the walls, floors, and chandelier were instantly claimed by a jagged, crystalline frost that raced across every surface like a living web. The air thickened into a biting mist of ice shards, turning the chamber into a frozen tomb where every breath felt like inhaling needles.

Balderico: “S-Sure…”

He shuddered, and his teeth chattered as frost formed on his skin.

Celeste didn’t wait for the ice to claim them. Ignoring the bitter chill, she slipped her arms beneath Fabien's knees and shoulders, heaving him up. He was battered and exhausted, but he leaned into her, his head resting heavily against her chest. She turned, her boots crunching over the frost-slicked floor as she stumbled toward the exit, carrying him out of the house and into the safety of the night.

Tristan stepped menacingly toward Balderico, but his advance was cut short by a colossal fist that erupted from the shadows with the force of a battering ram. The blow connected squarely with his chest, the sickening crunch of ribs snapping under the pressure echoing through the chamber.

He was launched backward, a choked gasp of agony torn from his throat as he became a blur of motion, crashing violently through the stone walls. Each layer of masonry shattered against his spine like glass, sending white-hot needles of pain radiating through his entire nervous system before he finally collapsed into a heap of rubble, his vision swimming in a haze of red and dust.

Deimos flew in.

Deimos: “TRISTAN!!”

He cried out and turned to Rutherford, who stood in front of Balderico, protecting him. Deimos flew at Balderico and raised his fist.

Rutherford: “Pathetic worm.”

He scoffed, his voice dripping with pure disdain. Before Deimos could even register the movement, Rutherford’s massive hand caught him in a devastating backhand. The impact was thunderous, a bone-shattering strike that launched Deimos across the room like a projectile. He tore through the reinforced masonry of the outer wall, the stone exploding into a cloud of debris as his body was propelled out into the night sky and disappeared into the darkness.

Jordi clasped his hands together. His knuckles popped with static, his eyes igniting with a lethal, violet glow. With a sharp, sudden motion, he thrust his palms forward, releasing a torrent of raw, crackling electricity. A blinding bolt of purple lightning surged through the air, hissing as it slammed into Rutherford, enveloping him in a searing discharge that sent him staggering backward, his massive frame shaking under the assault.

Rutherford: “WAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!”

He screamed. The electricity coursed through him with relentless fury, forcing his massive muscles into a rigid, agonizing lock that defied his will. A thick, acrid scent of ozone filled the air as the searing heat of the bolt charred his very nerves, radiating a white-hot agony through his frame. His composure buckled under the raw power of the purple lightning, and with a heavy thud, his knees struck the floor, his body trembling violently as he fought to draw breath against the crushing weight of the discharge.

Balderico: “Rutherford, for heaven’s sake, stop playing with Jordi and get me out of here!”

He snapped. Rutherford let out a low growl, digging his huge fingers into the ice and shattering the frozen ground beneath him.

~

Amidst the jagged pile of broken masonry and pulverized stone, Tristan lay motionless, his chest heaving with shallow, ragged gasps. Every intake of breath was a sharp reminder of the ribs shattered in the impact.

Suddenly, the debris shifted, and Jaxon scrambled over the rubble, his eyes wide with horror as he caught sight of Tristan’s battered form. He dropped to his knees.

Jaxon: “Tristan!”

He gasped, pressing his palms against the center of Tristan’s chest—a red glow emitted from his hands. Jaxon’s energy flooded into him, weaving through the damaged tissue and snapping broken bones back into place. Tristan let out a shuddering exhale, the white-hot agony dimming into a dull ache as the warmth of the healing light took hold, knitting him back together.

Tristan: “Th-Thank you, Jaxon…”

He drew a long breath as Jaxon helped him up.

Rutherford charged headlong toward the remaining structural integrity of the wall, carrying Balderico. Stone and plaster exploded outward in a storm of dust as he smashed through the barrier, plunging into the cool air of the night and leaping into the darkness beyond.

~

Jordi sprinted toward the grand staircase, his boots skidding on the fine layer of frost that coated the wood. He descended the stairs in frantic bounds, his gaze scanning the wreckage below. Reaching the ground floor, he picked his way through the jagged shards of the chandelier and mounds of pulverized masonry that choked the hallway. Amidst the settling dust and rubble, he spotted Jaxon and Tristan.

Jordi: “Are you two okay?!”

He rushed to them.

Tristan: “Yes, Jordi, Jaxon healed me. Where are Deimos, Celeste, and Fabien?”

He asked with panic in his tone.

Jordi: “That big guy, Rutherford, smacked Deimos out the window, and Celeste left the house to get Fabien to safety.”

He replied. Tristan’s eyes grew large.

Tristan: “Deimos?!”

He gasped and ran outside.

Jaxon rushed to Jordi, throwing his arms around him. Jordi smiled and hugged him back.

Jaxon: “Are you okay?!”

He pulled back a bit to look up at him. Jordi smiled and nodded. He took Jaxon’s hands and kissed them.

Jordi: “Yes, Rutherford bailed with Balderico after I shocked him.”

~

Celeste moved with gentle urgency; she found a patch of soft grass beneath a sprawling oak and carefully lowered Fabien to the ground. She knelt beside him, her hands trembling as she brushed a stray lock of white hair from his forehead, her eyes searching his pale face for any sign of lasting harm as she checked the rhythm of his breathing. Fabien took her hand and kissed it.

Fabien: “Thank you, mon chaton…”

Celeste didn't answer with words; instead, she leaned forward, cupping his face in her hands. She kissed him deeply, pouring every ounce of her relief and love into the contact. As their lips met, the cold terror of the night seemed to fade, replaced by the warmth of each other’s presence. It was the sweetest thing Fabien had tasted all day, a grounding tether that pulled him back from the brink.

Tristan, Jordi, and Jaxon went out to them.

Jordi: “Are you okay, Fabien? Did he do anything more to you?”

He knitted his eyebrows and knelt to him. Fabien drew a long breath.

Fabien: “No, you guys came in time. Thank you all.”

He said weakly and started to rise to his feet.

Deimos flew above them, then down.

Deimos: “TRISTAN!”

He cried as he flew to him and threw his arms around him.

Tristan: “Deimos!”

He wrapped his arms around him, as he almost lost his footing.

Tristan: “Are you okay?!”

Deimos caressed his soft white tresses.

Tristan: “Yes, Jaxon healed me, but are you fine?”

Deimos nodded and kissed Tristan.

Deimos: “That was a butter knife scratch.”

He smiled.

Celeste glared at Jaxon.

Celeste: “It’s YOUR FAULT!”

She roared, pointing to Jaxon. Fabien raised an eyebrow at her and looked to Jaxon, who embraced himself. Jordi stood in front of him.

Jordi: “Celeste, it’s not his fault. It’s Balderico’s. We got there in time to save him.”

He said firmly.

Celeste: “He never told us who he went with, only ‘cause YOU asked! If he told us when he saw Fabien get in his limo, we could have stopped it all!”

She snapped, her foot coming down hard against the ground. Fabien stared at her in shock before turning his sharp, anger-filled gaze upon Jaxon.

Fabien: “...You KNEW him and saw me go with him, and said nothing?”

He asked with anger in his tone.

Tears welled in Jaxon’s eyes.

Jaxon: “You hurt my feelings!”

He blurted. Fabien’s expression hardened, his eyes narrowing as the sting of betrayal eclipsed his exhaustion. He pushed himself fully to his feet, swaying slightly before steadying his stance.

Fabien: “Your feelings? You’re worried about your feelings, Jiro? I was being tortured and held captive by that fucking lunatic while you kept your mouth shut!”

He took a sharp step toward him, his voice low and vibrating with a dangerous, controlled fury.

Fabien: “You didn’t just hurt my feelings. You cost me everything that happened tonight.”

He added coldly. Jaxon looked away and sobbed.

Jaxon: “I’m sorry!”

Fabien: “Sorry doesn’t erase what that man put me through, you fucking idiot! I had to relive the night Finley Lloyd almost raped me! Not that you fucking care!”

He spat, the words jagged and cold as ice. Celeste bared her teeth at Jaxon.

Celeste: “Fuck you, Jax! All you care about is yourself and Chelsea!”

She snapped. Without another word, the two turned their backs on Jaxon and walked away, making it clear that no amount of tears would bridge the chasm between them tonight.

Jordi knitted his eyebrows. Tristan hung his head and heaved a deep sigh. Jaxon wept openly, his shoulders shaking violently with the crushing weight of the rejection and the overwhelming guilt of his silence. Jordi knitted his eyebrows and wrapped his arms around Jaxon. Jaxon sobbed into Jordi’s chest. Tristan and Deimos stood in uncomfortable silence around him, the air heavy with the unresolved tension of the night as they watched his breakdown.

~

Several hours after returning home, Celeste and Fabien had showered and changed into sleepwear—Fabien in green plaid pajama pants, and Celeste in a black tank top and matching panties. Cuddled up in bed together, Celeste rested her head softly against Fabien’s chest.

Celeste: “Fab?”

Fabien looked down at her.

Fabien: “Hmm?”

Celeste: “Why did you go with him?”

Tracing soft circles across his chest, she looked up and asked. Fabien drew a shaken, heavy breath, wrapping his arms around her and pulling her tight against him.

Fabien: “He came to Danny Donger’s… He was eyeing me up as many patrons do, and ordered a steak and an expensive drink. He asked me to do a waltz dance to Kenny G, and tipped me one thousand dollars.”

He explained. Celeste knitted her eyebrows.

Fabien: “And he invited me to the gala ball at the Donati Tower.”

He pursed his lips.

Celeste lifted her head.

Celeste: “Fab, I am earning a lot of money. You don’t need to go with every man who invites you to a gala.”

She said with worry in her tone. Fabien drew a short breath.

Fabien: “I know, mon chaton. I know this, but… I don’t want to emulate Craig… or fucking Jiro where I depend on you to do everything for me.”

His eyelids dipped.

Celeste: “But you’re not! Fab, he could’ve done worse, and JAXON said jack fucking shit until Jordi pressed him! What if he never told him?!”

She cried. Fabien’s eyelids dipped, and he heaved a deep sigh.

Celeste: “You’re not bein’ like them! Craig never did anything around the house, and Jax wants you to do everything for him. You don’t need to go with some weirdo in a fancy suit ‘cause he waves money at you. It’s a dumb move and greedy!”

Fabien pulled the covers up slightly, the warmth of the bed offering little comfort against the sudden chill of Celeste’s words. He stared at the ceiling, his jaw tight as the reality of her disappointment washed over him. The guilt, which had been simmering underneath his exhaustion, suddenly boiled over, hot and stinging. He didn’t want to argue—he didn’t have the energy—but the accusation of greed felt like a physical blow.

He turned his head away from her, staring into the dark room. He let out a long, shuddering breath, the silence between them heavy with everything he couldn’t bring himself to say.

Fabien: “Are you saying it’s my fault this happened…?”

Celeste knitted her eyebrows and shook her head.

Celeste: “NO! I’m saying you don’t need to do this, Fab! If people wanna give you a big tip, fine, but don’t go anywhere with them!”

She said beseechingly.

Celeste: “Jax is a fucking idiot, and something could’ve happened! I don’t want that!”

She snapped. Her shoulders slumped.

Celeste: “...I don’t know what I would do if something happened to ya.”

The weight of her words—the raw, vulnerable fear in her voice—finally cracked his defensive shell. The sting of her accusation remained, but it was eclipsed by the realization of the pain he’d caused her. He slowly rolled back to face her, the darkness of the room doing little to hide the shimmer of tears in his eyes. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly as he brushed a knuckle against her cheek, desperate to reassure her, even if he couldn’t quite find the words to forgive himself just yet.

Celeste caught his hand, guiding it to rest against her skin as she surged forward, tangling her legs with his and tucking her head under his chin. She held him tightly, her breath hitching as she buried her face in his chest, silently anchoring him to her, needing to feel the steady, reassuring thrum of his heartbeat against her own to believe that he was truly here, safe and whole.

~

Wrapped together in Jaxon’s bed, Jordi spooned him from behind, clad in black silk pajamas against Jaxon's bare skin.

Jordi: “Jaxon, can we talk?”

Jaxon knitted his eyebrows.

Jaxon: “I dunno. Can we?”

He whimpered.

Jordi: “Why didn’t you warn Fabien or alert Tristan or Celeste about Balderico?”

Tears spilled from Jaxon’s eyes as he squeezed them shut and turned around to meet his gaze.

Jaxon: “He hurt my feelings! He said I depend on everyone to do everything for me!”

He cried. Jordi paused and heaved a deep sigh.

Jordi: “Look…”

He whispered and cupped Jaxon’s face.

Jordi: “I know Fabien can be… difficult. I had my share of dealing with his antics. I can’t be in his Bungle server because he refuses to ban Blair, so I understand.”

He began.

Jordi: “...but I also know sometimes you have to set your personal vendettas aside for the greater good. I do this all the time, Jaxon.”

He said firmly, but gently.

Jordi: “Something that traumatized Fabien occurred. Fortunately, it didn’t go any further, but your inaction didn’t help either.”

He added in a firm tone. Jaxon turned away.

Jaxon: “So now you hate me.”

Jordi heaved an exasperated sigh and shook his head.

Jordi: “No, Jaxon, I don’t hate you. You did… tell us, but you have to learn to set your feelings aside sometimes. I do this for my grandfather… and now for my job because my boss’s grandson happens to be Blair.”

He said with strain.

Jordi: “If you wanted to get on Fabien’s good side—”

Jaxon folded his arms.

Jaxon: “I don’t want to be on his good side!”

He huffed. Jordi pursed his lips.

Jordi: “Still, what you did was wrong, Jaxon.”

He chided. Jaxon drew back, feeling attacked.

Jaxon: “I’m sorry…”

Jordi: “Don’t do it again, please?”

He reached out and cupped his face. Jaxon leaned into Jordi’s hand and smiled a bit.

Jordi: “If you have to…, think of yourself doing it not for Fabien, but maybe Tristan… or… me.”

Jaxon’s gaze dropped to the silk sheets, the small smile vanishing as he wrestled with the complicated knot of his own resentment and loyalty. He remained silent for a long moment, the gears of his conscience turning under the weight of Jordi’s words, before he finally gave a slow, deliberate nod of acknowledgment, realizing that his love for his friends had to outweigh the sting of a bruised ego.

~

In his bedroom, Tristan lay motionless under the slowly spinning ceiling fan. Deimos rested beside him in a black tank top and dark plaid pajama pants, while Tristan wore his silver silk pajamas. The night’s chaos weighed heavily on Tristan’s mind: saving Fabien from Balderico, Balderico’s cruel remarks about his resemblance to his mother, and Jaxon’s betrayal. Balderico knows Charlotte, he reflected, concluding, only because of his ties to Narcisse.

Is there anyone else Narcisse will recruit to ruin my life? He wondered. Then he thought about Dougal. I haven’t seen him in a while, he thought. The last I recall was he attacked Celeste, Fabien, and Jaxon in a funhouse, and disappeared, he pondered, cupping his chin. I know Dougal doesn’t stay quiet, he concluded.

Tristan turned to Deimos and smiled faintly, reaching out with just the tips of his fingers to trace the line of Deimos's shoulder before slipping silently out of the plush bed.

He reached into the drawer of his bedside mahogany nightstand, retrieving his gold cigarette case containing Sobranies and a brass lighter, then glided across the expansive bedroom toward the floor-to-ceiling French doors.

With a gentle click, he opened one side and stepped out onto the stone balcony overlooking the misty, quiet grounds of the estate. Tristan leaned his elbows against the cool balustrade. He took a thin black cigarette from the case, slipped it between his lips, and flicked the lighter.

The small golden flame illuminated his face for a split second—framing his dark-rimmed glasses, the soft curve of his jaw, and the pale white hair spilling over his shoulders—before catching the end of the cigarette. He snapped the lighter shut, took a slow draw, and exhaled a thin, elegant stream of smoke into the dark sky.

Behind him, the soft rustle of sheets broke the silence, followed by the heavy, familiar sound of footsteps.

Tristan didn’t need to turn around to know who it was. Moments later, a pair of warm, solid arms wrapped around his waist from behind, pulling Tristan back against a broad chest. Deimos rested his chin on Tristan’s shoulder, his breath warm against Tristan’s neck, still heavy with sleep.

Deimos: “Can’t sleep?”

He mumbled, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. Tristan leaned back into the heat of Deimos’ chest, taking another small drag of his cigarette before tilting his head back slightly.

Tristan: “Just thinking…”

He murmured, a small, subtle smile playing on his lips as he flicked a speck of ash over the balcony edge.

Tristan: “Go back to sleep, Deimos. I’ll be right there.”

Deimos tightened his grip around Tristan’s waist, burying his face a little deeper into the crook of Tristan’s neck with a grumbled, quiet hum.

Deimos: “Not going anywhere without you.”

Deimos: “What are you thinking about?”

Tristan heaved a deep sigh.

Tristan: “Everything that occurred tonight.”

Deimos kissed Tristan’s neck, causing him to shiver.

Deimos: “Look, Jaxon does this bullshit. His feelings get hurt, and he fucks things up because of hurt feelings. I deal with this from Lazaros.”

Tristan twisted his mouth.

Tristan: “I believe Jaxon feels remorse for his actions. Lazaros doesn’t and never will.”

He said firmly. Deimos nodded.

Deimos: “You’re right.”

Tristan: “Balderico mentioned I resemble… that thing.”

He said with strain.

Deimos: “So they’re in contact.”

Tristan nodded soberly.

Tristan: “Due to Narcisse. It just awoken, so it’s Narcisse. He recruited Dougal and others to make my life a living Hell.”

He said irritably, flicking some ash over the balcony edge. He took another long drag and exhaled a plume of smoke into the air.

Deimos: “Dougal has been quiet lately. Think he’s back in prison?”

Tristan shook his head.

Tristan: “That would’ve been on the news.”

Deimos rested his head on Tristan’s back.

Deimos: “It’s not like him not to stay away.”

Tristan hung his head.

Tristan: “I know.”

~

Balderico’s study was bathed in the warm, amber glow of the fireplace, a stark contrast to the chill of the night outside. Balderico sat behind his massive mahogany desk, his movements fluid and unencumbered—the mangled wrist that had been torn apart by Tristan’s ice now fully healed, leaving no trace of the injury. He swirled the rich, amber liquid in his crystal snifter, the scent of expensive brandy filling the room.

Across from him, Rutherford sat in a high-backed leather chair, his massive frame dwarfing the furniture. He was silent, his thick hands resting on his knees, his eyes fixed on Balderico with a watchful, heavy stillness. The electricity that had incapacitated him earlier seemed like a distant memory; he was once again the immovable wall of muscle that served as Balderico’s primary enforcer.

Balderico took a slow, savoring sip, his gaze drifting toward the window.

Balderico: “They think they’ve won because they escaped. A temporary victory, Rutherford. Merely a reprieve.”

Balderico’s lips curled into a thin, sharp smile.

Balderico: “May I ask what took you so long?”

Rutherford grunted.

Rutherford: “I… had stuff to do.”

Balderico chuckled, swirling the brandy in his glass.

Balderico: “You had stuff to do? Like what?”

He smiled. Rutherford dug his huge fingers into his knees, feeling his patience descend.

Rutherford: “Stuff…”

Balderico grinned.

Balderico: “Stuff…”

He echoed.

He rose from his desk.

Balderico: “My apologies, Rutherford; sometimes I forget your brain capacity is limited, and therefore your thought process is, as well. I should consider myself fortunate that you uttered the word ‘stuff’ in response to my question.”

He said in a condescending tone. Rutherford’s lips contorted into a snarl.

Balderico: “I see my words have stung.”

He took a sip from his glass and smiled.

Balderico: “Might I remind you that I implanted a bomb in your brain?”

He chuckled. Rutherford’s scowl died on his lips, and he sat eerily still.

Balderico: “Indeed I did! I don’t trust any Etheressum as far as I could toss them, sans for my radiant muse! So the moment you decide to misbehave, I only need to click a single button—BEEP—and your skull will burst open like those piñatas at those parties my niece likes to attend.”

He let out a peal of chuckles. Rutherford glowered at him. Balderico leaned back in my chair.

Balderico: “And candy comes out! I wonder what would come out of yours.”

Rutherford folded his arms.

Rutherford: “Sorry, won’t happen again.”

He muttered. Balderico smiled tightly.

Balderico: “No, Rutherford, it absolutely won’t.”

He waved his hand.

Balderico: “I see I’ve taken up much of your time. Do your ‘stuff’. You’re dismissed.”

Rutherford rose and marched outside of his study.

Balderico spun around in his chair, looking out the window to see Rutherford marching on his estate and leaping into the air.

He watched the massive silhouette vanish into the tree line, a cold sense of satisfaction settling in his chest. The bomb was a necessary precaution, a leash for a beast that understood only strength and consequence. Rutherford was but a blunt instrument, yet even the crudest tool had its place in the grand design he was weaving. His enemies—Tristan and his little troupe of idealistic fools—believed they had gained the upper hand by fleeing into the night, but Balderico knew better. Let them savor their hollow victory; every move they made only drew the noose tighter, and when the time was right, he would pull it with a surgeon’s precision.

His thoughts drifted back to Fabien, a sharp, predatory glint igniting in his eyes. The young man was a masterpiece of fragility, a delicate clockwork toy whose springs were wound tight by his own vanity and a pathetic need for validation. It had been laughably simple—a thousand-dollar tip, a few hollow flatteries, and the promise of a gala—and he had practically walked into his cage with a smile. Balderico took another sip of brandy, already envisioning the next time he would capture Fabien. Something about him sparked Balderico.