The night air was thick with the scent of blood and burning wood. The massacre at Keep Valcian had left the Syndicate's high command in ruin, and now, Felix Cailen ran through the darkened streets, his breath sharp and ragged.
His legs ached, but he couldn't stop. He didn't know if that man—that thing—was still chasing them. He didn't know if Edmund Ardent would appear out of the shadows once more and carve through what little was left of them.
He had to keep moving.
He rounded a corner, nearly slipping on the wet cobblestones, and finally, he saw it—a decayed, forgotten structure, its stone walls cracked and crumbling, its entrance barely held together by rusted iron.
The Syndicate's emergency refuge.
Felix pushed inside, chest heaving, and immediately met the stares of the last survivors.
Varrel was there, standing rigid and furious, his gloved hands clenched into fists. His face, always cold, was icy with rage, the dim torchlight flickering against his angular features.
Ivara sat beside him, silent and still, her golden hair matted with dried blood. She had a wound on her arm, hastily wrapped in a strip of cloth, but her expression remained impassive.
Three other men—lesser-ranked but still alive—stood nearby, their eyes flickering with barely restrained terror.
Felix shut the door behind him, forcing himself to breathe.
They were all that was left.
The Syndicate's once-mighty high command had been wiped out in a single night.
Varrel exhaled sharply. "Tell me you have something, Felix."
Felix swallowed, still catching his breath. "I made it out before he finished them all. But… we lost nearly everyone. Those who escaped scattered."
One of the remaining men muttered a curse. Another let out a shaky breath, pressing a hand to his forehead.
Varrel, however, did not react. His gray eyes were unreadable, his mind already working through the situation.
"We have to assume they're dead or captured," he said. His voice was calm—too calm. "That means we're alone in this."
Ivara finally spoke. "And what, exactly, do we do now?"
Varrel turned toward her. "We rebuild."
Ivara's lips curled slightly. A ghost of a smirk. "With what?"
Felix shifted uncomfortably. She had a point. They had no soldiers, no safehouses, no resources left.
The Syndicate was crumbling.
"We find new allies," Varrel said simply. "And we make those responsible pay."
Felix felt a chill.
Varrel had always been composed, even ruthless, but this was something else.
This was vengeance.
Felix hesitated before speaking. "Varrel… who was he?"
The others turned to him.
He licked his lips, pushing forward. "That man—Edmund Ardent. I've never heard of him before. He just walked in and—"
Slaughtered them.
Tore through their strongest without breaking a sweat.
Like a demon.
Felix shuddered, remembering the sheer power Edmund had wielded. The shadows twisting around him. The golden aura shielding him. The way he moved like a force of nature, unstoppable and untouchable.
Varrel's jaw tightened. "I don't know who he is," he admitted. "But we will find out."
Felix didn't know if that was reassuring or terrifying.
"Then it's decided," Varrel said. "We stay hidden for now. Gather what we can. The Syndicate is not dead."
The others nodded, murmuring their agreement, but Felix barely heard them.
His hands were shaking.
That wasn't normal. He was a seasoned advisor, someone who had survived countless political schemes, backroom assassinations, and power struggles.
But this was different.
The meeting ended shortly after. Plans were made—rudimentary at best. They would lay low, regroup.
Felix needed air.
He slipped out of the ruined building and walked quickly down the alleyway, past broken windows and sagging rooftops, until he reached the small, aged church.
It was one of the oldest in Oryn-Vel, a modest shrine to Arlenus, the God of Wisdom.
Felix pushed inside.
The scent of wax and old parchment filled the air. The single stained-glass window at the back cast a dim golden glowacross the empty pews.
He made his way forward, lowering himself onto the stone floor, his knees pressing against the cold surface.
For the first time in years, he bowed his head.
"Great Arlenus," he murmured, his voice hoarse. "I do not ask for much. But… I need guidance."
His fingers curled into fists against his lap.
"What am I supposed to do?"
Silence.
The kind that stretched too long, too heavy.
Felix clenched his teeth.
"Who was he?" he whispered. "And why does he exist?"
Because Edmund Ardent wasn't natural. He wasn't human.
He was something else. Something far beyond them.
Felix squeezed his eyes shut. "If you have an answer, please give it to me."
He waited.
But no divine voice came.
No sign.
Only the soft flicker of candlelight, the quiet creak of the wooden beams above.
Felix let out a slow, shaking breath.
Then he opened his eyes.
Arlenus had not spoken.
But Felix already knew the answer.
If the gods wouldn't intervene…
Then he would have to find the truth himself.