Seraphim POV
Cylvana.
The name echoed in my mind like a bad joke. A city I'd only heard about in passing—
a cesspool of corruption and hypocrisy. And now, it was my new post.
I adjusted the strap of my bag, my boots echoing against the tiled floor of
headquarters. My jaw tightened as I replayed the conversation with Commander
Harris in my mind.
"Orders are orders, Seraphim."
Orders. No, this wasn't about orders. This was about control. Harris didn't trust
me—he never had. Not after I'd called out the inconsistencies in his handling of the
council's decisions.
I exhaled sharply through my nose, frustration prickling at the edges of my
composure. He wants me out of the way. Caelum is too close to the heart of it all,
and I was getting too close to something.
The thought gnawed at me as I approached the transport station. The sleek shuttle
that would take me to Cylvana loomed ahead, its metallic frame reflecting the harsh
midday sun.
Cylvana. A city known for its sprawling skyline, its decadence, and its filth—all
wrapped in the guise of progress. Justice was a hollow word there, used to mask
greed and ambition.
This isn't a transfer; it's exile.
I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. Part of me wanted to march back
to Harris's office, demand answers, demand to stay. But I wouldn't give him the
satisfaction of seeing me falter.
Fine. If Cylvana was where they wanted me, I'd go. But I wouldn't be silenced. I'd
unravel the threads of deceit no matter where they led—even if it meant doing it in
the shadow of a broken city.
The shuttle doors hissed open, a sharp reminder that my path had already been set.
With one last glance at the place I was leaving behind, I stepped aboard. The city
of Cylvana awaited, and I had no intention of making friends.
The shuttle hummed softly as it cut through the skies, the city of Cylvana growing
larger with every passing moment. The towering spires of glass and steel shimmered
in the distance, a deceptive beacon of progress. But I knew better. Behind that gleam
lay rot—an ugliness no amount of polish could hide.
When the shuttle docked, the air that greeted me was stale and heavy, reeking of
excess and desperation. The streets teemed with life, but not the kind that felt
welcoming. My boots hit the ground, and I walked forward, letting the chaos of the
city engulf me.
Cylvana was a symphony of contradictions. On one side, towering skyscraper reached
for the heavens, their facades pristine and shining. On the other, crumbling
tenements hunched over narrow streets, their windows broken and walls streaked
with grime.
I passed through the market district first. It was alive with noise—vendors shouting
prices, haggling customers, and the occasional bickering that bordered on violence.
My hand instinctively rested near my side, where my blade lay concealed beneath my
coat.
"Fresh produce! Imported spices!" a vendor called, waving a bundle of herbs in my
direction. I ignored him, my eyes scanning the crowd instead. The people of Cylvana
didn't look up as I passed. Heads bowed; eyes averted—it was as though they could
sense who I was. Or maybe they just didn't care.
The divide between the haves and the have-nots was sharper than a blade here. I
could feel it in the way the air changed as I crossed into the wealthier districts. It
smelled cleaner, felt lighter, but it was no less suffocating.
I finally arrived at my assigned quarters. It was a modest space—barely more than
a room with a bed, a desk, and a small window overlooking a cramped alleyway.
Functional, but uninspiring.
Dropping my bag onto the floor, I let out a long sigh and began unpacking. The routine
of it was grounding—laying out my gear, organizing my notes, setting aside the small
memento I carried with me. A worn emblem of my faith, its surface scratched and
tarnished from years of handling.
I ran my thumb over its surface, my thoughts drifting. Cylvana. What justice could
I hope to uphold here?
A knock at the door snapped me out of my reverie. I turned sharply, my instincts
flaring for a moment before I calmed myself. Crossing the room, I opened the door
to find a courier standing there, clutching a sealed envelope.
"For you, sir," the courier said, bowing slightly before hurrying off.
I broke the seal and read the message inside. It was an official directive—brief and
to the point.
"Report to the central district. Immediate investigation required."
I folded the paper, sliding it into my pocket. Cylvana wasn't giving me any time to
settle in.
I grabbed my coat and stepped back into the bustling streets. The city was already
calling, and I had work to do.
The investigation site wasn't far from the central district, but the journey there
felt like a descent into another world. The streets grew narrower, darker. The hum
of the city's life dulled, replaced by an eerie stillness that pressed down like a weight.
As I neared the gates, a sharp breeze cut through the air, carrying with it the scent
of rust and something acrid—blood, faint but unmistakable. My grip on my blade
tightened as I approached the cluster of officers standing near the outskirts.
The body lay crumpled near the gate, a stark contrast against the cold stone and
twisted iron. The officers gave me a wide berth, their nervous glances barely
concealed. I stepped closer, crouching to examine the scene.
The corpse belonged to an Awakened, evident from the faint glow that still clung to
the edges of their wounds. Their expression was frozen in shock, eyes wide, mouth
slightly open as if to scream. But what struck me most was the mark burned into
their chest—a jagged, unfamiliar symbol that pulsed faintly with a dark energy.
"What do you make of it, sir?" one of the officers asked, his voice tight.
I didn't answer immediately. My eyes traced the jagged lines of the mark, trying to
make sense of it. It was nothing I recognized—not from any texts I'd studied, nor
from the countless missions I'd carried out before.
"This wasn't just a killing," I said finally, rising to my feet. "It's a message."
"A message? From who?"
I turned to face the officer, my expression cold. "That's what I'm here to find out."
The surrounding area offered little in terms of clues. There were faint scorch marks
on the ground, signs of a struggle, but nothing definitive. Witnesses were scarce—
just a few beggars who claimed they saw shadows moving in the night but couldn't
describe anything concrete.
Then there was the energy. Faint, almost imperceptible, but lingering. It brushed
against the edges of my senses, cold and oppressive. I clenched my fists, forcing
myself to focus.
"Is there anything else?" I asked the officers.
One of them hesitated before stepping forward, holding out a small scrap of paper.
"This was found near the body."
I took it, unfolding it carefully. The paper was old, worn, and bore a single phrase
scrawled in hurried handwriting:
"The shadows rise. The balance breaks."
A chill ran through me as I read the words. I folded the paper and tucked it into my
coat.
"Seal off the area," I ordered. "No one comes near this gate without my permission.
I'll report to the council once I've compiled my findings."
"Yes, sir," the officer said, saluting quickly.
As I turned to leave, my gaze lingered on the body one last time. The mark, the
energy, the cryptic message—it all pointed to something far greater than a simple
crime. Cylvana was bleeding, and this was only the beginning.
The weight of the investigation hung heavy on my shoulders as I left the gate behind.
The city's streets seemed quieter now, as if Cylvana itself were holding its breath,
waiting for something to break.
I slipped through the winding alleys, my mind replaying the image of the mark and
the ominous words on the scrap of paper. There was a truth hidden in these shadows,
something far older and darker than I had been prepared for. The cathedral's bell
tolled faintly in the distance, drawing me toward its echo like a moth to a flame.
The cathedral loomed ahead, its spires piercing the night sky. It was one of the few
places in Cylvana that still exuded a sense of purity, though even that felt faint—
like a candle trying to hold its flame against the wind.
Inside, the air was thick with incense, the faint murmurs of prayers drifting from a
few scattered worshippers. I moved past them, my boots echoing softly against the
marble floor, until I reached the altar. The flickering candles cast long shadows,
their light dancing over the stained glass above.
I knelt, letting out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
"Guide me," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "Grant me the strength to see
through the lies, the courage to face the truth."
The silence that followed was deafening. I clenched my fists, frustration gnawing at
the edges of my resolve. Was I even worthy of guidance anymore? Cylvana was a city
lost in its own corruption, and I was just another piece in a game I didn't fully
understand.
"You seek answers, but fear what they might reveal."
The voice was soft, almost ethereal. I turned my head to see an old priest standing
a few steps away. His face was lined with age, but his eyes held a piercing clarity.
"What do you know of fear?" I asked, my tone sharper than intended.
He smiled faintly, unperturbed. "Fear is the shadow cast by the light of truth. The
stronger the truth, the darker the shadow."
I frowned, his words weighing heavily on me. "And what of justice? Is it not my duty
to uphold it, no matter the cost?"
"Justice is not always what it seems, my child," the priest said, stepping closer.
"Sometimes, it's the light that blinds you to the real battle—the one fought in the
heart, where shadows and truth collide."
I said nothing, his words echoing in the quiet.
After a moment, he placed a hand on my shoulder. "Remember, Seraphim, the
strongest light often burns in the darkest places."
I stayed at the altar long after he left, my mind a storm of conflicting thoughts.
The mark on the Awakener's body, the cryptic message, the lingering energy—it all
pointed to something far beyond me, yet tied to my very existence.
As I finally rose and left the cathedral, the city seemed darker, the shadows deeper.
The priest's words lingered in my mind, like an ember refusing to fade.
The streets were nearly deserted as I made my way back to my quarters. The city's
faint hum of life seemed distant, muffled by the weight of the investigation and the
priest's words.
Standing at my window, I looked out at Cylvana's skyline. The lights of the wealthy
districts sparkled like stars, mocking the shadows that consumed the slums below.
This city wasn't just bleeding; it was rotting from the inside out.
I clenched my fists, the image of the mark and the dead Awakened burning in my
mind. Whoever was responsible for this wasn't just a murderer—they were a force
of chaos, and I would bring them to justice.
But the priest's words still whispered in the back of my mind: The strongest light
often burns in the darkest places.
My reflection stared back at me in the glass, sharp and unyielding. "This city is
bleeding," I murmured. "I'll find the wound—and the hand that caused it."
The skyline blurred as I turned away, my resolve sharpening. Tomorrow would bring
more answers—or more blood. Either way, I would be ready.