Chapter 75 Epilogue 3: The Reformatory

Chapter 75 Epilogue 3: The Reformatory
The classroom was bright—uncomfortably bright for creatures who had spent centuries in darkness. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, reflecting off whitewashed walls and polished floors. A bored-looking instructor stood at the front, his light-blade sheathed at his hip, his expression suggesting he would rather be anywhere else.
"Question," he said, reading from a laminated card. "What do we do if we find a lost shadow wandering on the streets?"
Three figures sat at desks in the front row. They were manacled—not because they were dangerous, though they were, but because they had a tendency to attack each other during lectures.
Greg Sanders raised his hand first. His beard had grown long, his eyes wild with the particular madness of a man who had been forced to attend conflict resolution workshops for six months.
"Yes, Greg?"
"We pull out our light sword," Greg said, his voice sharp with certainty, "and we slash it into tiny, tiny pieces."
The instructor sighed. "That is not the correct answer."
"It's the only answer."
"Sit down, Greg."
Greg sat, muttering about the good old days.
Soren raised his hand next, his movements languid, his expression bored. Even in manacles, he managed to look regal—though the effect was somewhat diminished by the oversized "I'M LEARNING TO SHARE" sticker on his chest.
"Yes, Soren?"
"Idiot." Soren gestured dismissively at Greg. "You don't slash. You enslave. We pull the shadow under our command, use it to gather intelligence, build an army, and then—" He spread his hands, the manacles clinking. "—we conquer the world."
The instructor pinched the bridge of his nose. "That is also not the correct answer."
"You lack vision."
"I lack patience. Sit down."
Soren sat, clearly unrepentant.
Bram raised his hand last, his grey eyes calculating, his smile thin. He had been the most disruptive student—charming when it suited him, vicious when it didn't, and entirely too fond of manipulating his classmates into fighting each other.
"Yes, Bram?"
"Sure," Bram said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Like that worked for you, Soren. Conquer the world. Very original."
Soren lunged across the aisle. Greg grabbed his collar. The instructor raised his light-blade warningly.
"As I was saying—" Bram straightened his tunic, unmoved by the chaos. "—the correct approach is subtlety. You win the shadow's trust. You make it feel valued, appreciated, seen. Then you use it to convince all the other shadows to join the right cause."
"The right cause being?"
"Destroy the Slayers, enslave the humans, kill my dear sister." Bram smiled. "Obviously."

The instructor set down his laminated card and rubbed his temples.
"We have been over this," he said slowly, as if explaining something to particularly stubborn children. "The world has changed. Queen Hallie has established new rules. Shadows are no longer enemies to be destroyed OR tools to be enslaved. They are citizens."
"Citizens," Greg repeated, as if tasting poison.
"With rights," the instructor continued.
"Rights," Soren echoed, horrified.
"Which must be respected."
Bram laughed. It was not a nice laugh.
The instructor sighed again. He had been sighing a lot lately. The Council had promised him this assignment was temporary—just a few months, just until the worst offenders learned basic cooperation. But it had been nearly a year, and progress was... minimal.
"Let's try a different scenario," he said. "What do we do if a Slayer and a shadow are arguing in a public space?"
Greg perked up. "Kill them both. Problem solved."
"You can't just kill everyone who disagrees with you."
"Watch me."
Soren leaned forward. "You side with the shadow. Obviously. The Slayer is the true enemy. Always has been, always will be."
"The Slayer is not—"
"Enslave the Slayer," Bram interrupted coolly, "then command him to kill his whole bloodline. Prevent future threats."
The instructor stared at them.
They stared back.
"At this rate," he said quietly, "you are never leaving this reformatory."

Lunch was served in the common room—a bright, airy space with round tables and uncomfortable chairs. The three prisoners sat at separate tables, as per regulations, because the last time they sat together, Soren had tried to strangle Bram with his manacles and Greg had set fire to the dessert cart.
Greg ate his meal in angry silence, glaring at anyone who walked past. He had not adapted well to the new world order. He spoke often of the "glory days" when Slayers hunted shadows without consequence, when the lines between good and evil were clear and sharp and drawn in blood.
Soren picked at his food with aristocratic disdain. The portions were too small, the flavors too bland, the company too beneath him. He had been a king once. Now he wore an "I'M LEARNING TO SHARE" sticker and ate institutional casserole.
Bram was the only one who seemed genuinely content. He smiled at the guards. He charmed the kitchen staff. He had already identified three potential allies among the other prisoners and was slowly, patiently, working to win their loyalty.
The instructor watched him with narrowed eyes.
"Bram."
Bram looked up, his smile innocent. "Yes?"
"We know what you're doing."
"I'm eating my vegetables. Very healthy."
"We're watching you."
Bram took a bite of broccoli and chewed thoughtfully. "Good," he said. "I'd hate to think you weren't paying attention."

The afternoon session focused on empathy exercises.
"Imagine," the instructor said, "that you are a shadow. You have been wandering the streets for days, lost and afraid. You see a group of Slayers approaching. How do you feel?"
Greg raised his hand. "Hungry."
"Hungry is not an emotion in this context."
"It's the only emotion that matters."
Soren raised his hand. "Vengeful. The Slayers have hunted my kind for centuries. I would use their approach as an opportunity to strike."
"You would be outnumbered and likely destroyed."
"Then I would die with honor."
Bram didn't raise his hand. He simply leaned back in his chair, his grey eyes fixed on the instructor, his smile faintly mocking.
"I would feel—" He paused, as if searching for the word. "—curious. Why are the Slayers approaching without weapons drawn? Why do they look... concerned? Perhaps they mean me no harm. Perhaps the world has changed more than I realized."
The instructor blinked. "That's... surprisingly insightful."
Bram shrugged. "I've been paying attention."
Greg and Soren stared at him with expressions of profound betrayal.
Traitor, Soren mouthed.
Bram ignored him.

The day ended as it always did—with the prisoners returned to their cells, the doors locked behind them, the lights dimmed to a soft, soothing glow that was supposed to encourage restful sleep.
Greg paced his cell, muttering about light swords and glory days.
Soren sat on his cot, brooding about empires and revenge.
Bram lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, his grey eyes thoughtful.
He thought about Hallie—his sister, his enemy, the woman who had beaten him. He thought about her new world, her new rules, her stubborn insistence that light and darkness could coexist. He thought about the shadows that had abandoned him to follow her.
And he smiled.
The reformatory was temporary. He was patient. He could wait.
The world was changing. But change, Bram knew, was never linear. There would be setbacks. There would be opportunities. There would be moments when Hallie's attention wavered, when her precious balance shifted, when the cracks in her new world grew wide enough for him to slip through.
He closed his eyes and dreamed of thrones.
Outside his cell, the instructor made a note on his clipboard: Subject shows signs of improvement. Continue monitoring.
He had no idea.
The reformatory had a long way to go.