Rain fell over Vayne City like liquid glass, coating the spires in a sheen that reflected the neon arteries running across the skyline. Far below the shimmering heights, deep into the districts the world had forgotten, a vehicle hummed like a ghost through the industrial mist.
The Phantom Sled—a matte-black levcraft shaped like a dagger—glided silently through the underground tunnels of the Lower Spires. Its frame was coated with void-reflective plating, distorting its appearance with every flicker of light. Inside, Elias Vayne sat in silence, dressed not in his usual suit but in something far older.
A long coat of woven onyx-thread armor wrapped around his tall frame. The coat bore sigils stitched in moon-silver, humming faintly when the sled passed through old wards. His boots—polished abyss-leather—were soundless, even on metal. Beneath the coat, a sleeveless shirt of scaled fabric molded to his chest, lightweight but capable of deflecting spectral energy.
On his right wrist, he wore the Dominion Bracer—a cursed heirloom that mapped ley-lines and pulsed in response to soulbound magic. It blinked twice, then went still.
The air here smelled like rusted time. The deeper they went, the more the scent shifted—from stagnant water and scorched circuitry to ancient stone and the bitter tang of dried blood.
He disembarked near a collapsed metro tunnel. Metal bones of the old city jutted from the earth like ribs, framing a chasm hidden behind a veil of illusion. As soon as his boots hit the ground, the veil unraveled like smoke.
Beneath the illusion: an archway.
The stones were engraved in a script older than language—pre-Rift, possibly even pre-human. A low, harmonic hum emanated from the entrance. He adjusted his bracer. The temperature dropped.
He stepped inside.
Torchflies blinked to life around him—small, orb-like drones emitting gentle bioluminescent light, trailing in his wake like curious spirits. The passage curved downward in a corkscrew, descending into a forgotten chamber of the city known only in secret ledgers and veiled whispers.
The Archive of Null.
Few believed it existed.
Fewer survived it.
As Elias reached the chamber's end, a circular room unfolded before him, domed and impossibly vast. Ancient statues, faceless and towering, stood vigil in alcoves along the walls. Between them, stained glass windows shimmered with trapped lightning, illuminating carvings of ancient wars and burning cities.
At the center: a pedestal. And upon it, a sealed container of obsidian and bone.
The air smelled of ozone and dying dreams.
Elias approached slowly. The bracer on his wrist flickered, then turned red.
"Don't touch that unless you're ready to lose everything, Vayne."
He froze.
From the shadows behind one of the statues stepped a woman—tall, dressed in robes of violet and ash. Her face was hidden behind a half-mask, but her voice carried authority, danger, and something older still.
She was the Custodian.
"You know me?" Elias asked.
"Everyone who walks between memory and magic knows your name," she replied. "The Phantom CEO. The boy who survived the Veil War. The man who now owns half the realms."
She stepped forward, revealing a staff made of obsidian wrapped in gold filament.
"But the Coeur... you should have burned it."
Elias didn't flinch. "It spoke. It said my brother's name."
The Custodian froze. Then, almost imperceptibly, she nodded.
"Then it's too late."
Elias's eyes darkened. "What is in Echelon-01? What was sealed with the Coeur?"
The Custodian slowly removed her mask.
She was not human.
Her skin glowed faintly with a web of stardust veins. Her eyes were galaxies trapped in glass. And when she spoke again, the words echoed as if carried through time.
"Not what, Elias Vayne. Who."
He stared at her.
She pointed to the pedestal. "The file Echelon-01 is not a record. It's a person. A fractured soul kept alive through memory magic and bound to the Coeur. Your brother was the key."
Elias stepped closer, heart pounding. "He's alive?"
"Not yet. But soon. And when he wakes, so will everything he tried to destroy."
Lightning flashed through the stained glass.
Back in the Vayne Tower, Mireille watched a second pulse hit the archive servers.
The lights dimmed for half a second.
Her tablet vibrated with a new warning: ARTIFACT SIGNAL—LEVEL RED.
A message scrolled across the console.
"HE IS COMING."
She stood, heart racing. Rain battered the tower windows. Somewhere far below, Elias Vayne was walking toward the past.
Toward war.
Toward his brother.
Toward destiny.
And in her chest, something stirred.
She whispered to the empty room: "Don't die, Elias."
And reached for her weapons.