The wind had stilled. Not even the breath of the obsidian-armored drakes stirred the cold night air now. The city of Blackros—dark, ancient, secretive—loomed silently in the distance as if watching with bated breath. Ava stood shoulder to shoulder with Sil, her cloak fluttering behind her as the pale blue glow from the cracked vault painted their faces with ghost-light.
No one spoke. Even the Gilded guards, trained to be unwavering in the face of war, uncertainty, or the arcane, stood like statues, unsure whether to defend or flee.
"We need to move it," Ava said, voice taut. "Before it fully opens."
Sil tilted her head slightly, watching the glow ripple across the obsidian surface like veins under skin. "We don't know what's inside."
"We know enough," Ava replied. "We saw what it did to the air, to the city. We can't stop now."
Ash crouched by the wheel of the rune-wagon, checking the integrity of the runes after the attack. "The enchantments are still holding. Barely. But whatever's in that vault... it's resisting. It wants out."
Nicholas, finally stepping from the shadows he'd retreated into during the attack, glanced at Ava. "And you still think delivering it is a good idea?"
Ava turned to face him. "No. But neither is leaving it here."
Sil spoke next, her voice quiet but firm. "Then we finish this. We get it to the drop site, and we figure out what the hell the Gild wants with something this dangerous."
---
The convoy moved again.
Every street they passed through was silent. Windows dark. Doors bolted. Not even the distant bark of a city hound echoed through the alleys. Blackros had turned inward, hiding from the monster rolling through its veins.
They pushed through the district of Old Glass, where the cobbled streets still bore scorch marks from the mage wars. The vault pulsed now and then with a sound like distant thunder, as if something inside were testing its restraints. The glow from the crack brightened with every step.
Ava walked with her sword drawn now, her fingers wrapped tight around the hilt. Her eyes never left the vault.
Sil walked beside her.
"You feel it too?" Ava asked, her voice just above a whisper.
Sil nodded. "It's calling to you."
"It knows me."
"I know."
Ava glanced at her, something flickering in her gaze. "What am I, Sil?"
Sil took a moment before answering. "Something old. Something the world forgot to name."
"That thing in there called me Avarielle. I haven't heard that name since before I burned the Nine Spires."
"Names carry power. Maybe it remembers you. Or what you were."
They walked in silence for a time.
Then, without warning, the ground shook.
A tremor tore through the road, hurling the front drake to its knees. Ash rolled with the shockwave, slamming his chains into the ground to steady the wagon.
And from the cracks in the earth, mist bled upward—pale, almost silver, like the breath of something dead. Shapes moved within it.
Figures of shadow, barely more than outlines. Not the assassins from before. These were different.
Older