The sun dipped low, setting Dystyx's skyline ablaze with molten orange. Syrith, cloaked in Threvana's obsidian talisman, crept through the narrow backstreets of the Ember District. Here, every building was charred brick and scorched timber—remnants of the Great Conflagration that Velkyrion's followers once unleashed. The air tasted of ash and smoldering cinders, and the district's denizens—silent-eyed and wary—kept to shadow.
Clutched in Syrith's hand, the splintered ruby shard pulsed faintly, guiding him toward the hidden cell beneath the Inferno Cathedral. Its fractured glow was the only light in the alley, as he paused beneath a burned statue of a weeping angel, her wings melted by past flames.
A soft hiss beside him made Syrith whirl. A pair of Ember Wardens, clad in blackened steel and carrying flame-forged glaives, emerged from a side passage. Their masks, carved to resemble roaring maws, hissed as they spoke into hidden comms—alerting the Covenant to his presence.
He pressed a finger to his lips, then launched a surge of storm-essence: a crackling ripple in the air that short-circuited their comms and sent sparks dancing across their breastplates. With swift precision, he incapacitated them—two silent thuds, and the wardens fell.
Syrith moved on, stepping over their bodies as the shard pulsed faster. The cathedral's heavy doors loomed ahead, black iron etched with sun-and-flame glyphs. He pressed an open palm against the center, and the ruby's magic, resonating with his storm, ignited the glyphs. The doors swung inward with a rumble.
Inside, the pews were ash-gray, and the altar had been transformed into a shrine of blood-stained relics. In the hollow of its marble base lay the first Echo of Betrayal: a silver chalice etched with his own royal crest—now tarnished, a symbol of his death. As he reached for it, a wailing chorus rose from behind the altar.
Seven flames flared in iron sconces along the walls, their ghostly light revealing seven hooded acolytes forming a circle. One held the chalice aloft; the others began a chant that warped the air with sorrow and malice.
Syrith stepped forward. "By storm's will, I claim this Echo!"
The acolytes halted their chant, heads tilting in unison. They advanced, robes brushing ash from the floor. Their faces remained hidden, but Syrith felt their gaze drilling into him.
He drew his dagger, its lightning edge shimmering. The storm-essence burned brighter now, fueled by the ruby shard. With a roar, he unleashed a bolt that shattered the nearest sconce, sending molten wax splattering across the floor.
The acolytes recoiled but pressed on, summoning tendrils of flame that curled around their arms like serpents. Syrith danced between the tongues of fire, each step guided by memories of courtly duels in forgotten palaces. He slashed through their ranks, the lightning blade humming as it severed burning robes and acrid smoke.
Two acolytes lunged together, their fire-serpents coiling around his legs. He slammed his free hand onto the chalice, and the Echo responded—its sorrowful wail erupting into a tempest of grief that shattered the flame-serpents and sent the acolytes staggering back, tears streaming down their cheeks.
Seizing the moment, Syrith snatched the chalice. The ruby shard glowed fiercely, and a pulse of storm-fire swept the cathedral, extinguishing all flames in a thunderous clap that shook the rafters.
When the dust settled, only Syrith remained, standing amid scorched pews and shattered sconces. The Echo of Betrayal hovered before him, a wraithlike silvery chalice. He reached out and touched its rim. Instantly, a voice—his voice—whispered truths he barely dared remember:
"You trusted blood that turned to poison… You fell by the hand of one you called kin…"
Pain lanced through his mind, but Syrith held firm, summoning Averith's voice in memory: "Trust in one another." He clenched his teeth and let the echo's sorrow feed into his storm-essence rather than drowning him.
Lightning danced in his eyes as the chalice dissolved into motes of silver light, merging with the ruby shard in his hand. Power surged through his veins—fortified, focused, tempered by grief.
Outside, the cathedral doors burst open. Roukhal and Averith stood in the threshold—her violet blade still aglow, his spear poised.
Syrith turned to them, storm-fire crackling at his fingertips. "The Ember cell is ours," he announced, voice ringing like thunder.
Averith rushed forward and embraced him, relief shining in her eyes. "You held fast."
Roukhal sheathed his spear, golden eye gleaming. "Only six more districts to go."
As night deepened over the Ember District, Syrith lifted his hand to the sky. In the distance, thunder rumbled—an omen that the king reborn had reclaimed the first echo of his death, and with it, a new step toward vengeance.