LOCATION: ASHVALE — HALIX'S COUNCIL CHAMBER
The chamber shimmered with holy light.
But it wasn't warmth.
Just filtered radiance through stained glyphglass—each beam precise, cold, ordained. The floor gleamed white, scrubbed clean. Seven high-backed seats encircled a raised dais where Halix stood.
Clerics bowed in rows behind her.
Aelira stood beside them. Silent. Hands clasped. Eyes lowered. Just another faithful shadow among many.
The ceremony was minor—just a binding of new Silencers to the Creed. Rites spoken. Oaths sworn. But Halix made all things feel weighty.
And today, the weight shifted.
Just slightly.
Halix's gaze swept the room then landed on.
"Aelira."
She didn't speak loudly.
But the room obeyed.
Aelira looked up, composed.
"Mother."
"Tell us what loyalty means to the Daughters of the Chain."
Not a rebuke.
Not yet.
Just a question laced in silken barbs.
The clerics tensed, sensing theater.
Aelira paused—a heartbeat too long. Then:
"It means sacrifice. It means silence. It means… not wavering, even when it hurts."
Halix studied her. Not the words.
The way she said them.
The lack of tremor. The forced calm. The calculation.
Aelira had never been a liar.
But today, she wore the shape of one.
"Beautiful," Halix murmured.
And then she smiled—only for the crowd.
The ceremony resumed.
But the cold never left the air.
---
LATER THAT NIGHT…
LOCATION: ASHVALE — HALIX'S INNER PRAYER VAULT
The glyphfire burned low in the altar sconces. Incense curled like strangled thoughts.
The Inquisitor stood at attention. Gloves red. Eyes lowered.
Halix didn't look at him. Just traced a finger along the chain of her sanctum, deep in thought.
"She lies well now," Halix said, almost to herself.
The Inquisitor didn't reply.
"That's the problem with kindness," she continued. "It only needs one fracture to become defiance."
A pause.
Then:
"I want to know what the prisoner whispers at night. Every word. Every breath."
The Inquisitor bowed deeply.
"And if she speaks of my daughter…" Halix finally turned, voice smooth as cut glass.
"Document it. Then burn it."
The chain behind her tightened, glyphs pulsing once.
Not an alarm.
A warning.
Aelira's silence had begun to crack.
And Halix would not let it become a scream.
---
LOCATION: HOLLOW CREED — TRAINING PIT (MIDNIGHT, SAME NIGHT)
The torches were dying.
One by one, they dimmed until only ash-glow remained—pale fire, casting more shadow than light.
Lucan stood in the center of the pit, arms folded, jaw set in the kind of silence that weighed more than words.
Across from him, Zekk picked up the training blade Lucan had thrown.
No armor. No rules.
Just survival.
Lucan tossed a wooden blade to the dirt.
"Pick it up."
Zekk did.
Lucan: "Why are you here?"
Zekk squared up. "You said one lesson."
Lucan's reply was a strike—fast, low, sweeping his legs from under him.
Zekk hit the ground, breath gone.
Lucan circled.
"Wrong answer. You're here because you don't know what you are."
Zekk coughed, rolled to his feet.
"I want to learn."
Lucan came in again. A feint. A twist. A backhand across Zekk's arm.
Another fall.
"You want meaning. That's worse."
Zekk didn't rise immediately, just glared.
Lucan stepped once. Pivoted. Swept the boy's feet out from under him with a heel-turn that snapped like a trap.
Zekk hit the dirt.
No grunt. No cry.
Lucan circled again. Slow. Measured.
"First rule," he said. "Don't lead with conviction. It's the loudest thing to kill."
Zekk got up.
Swung.
Blocked.
Lucan caught the blade mid-strike. Twisted Zekk's wrist with a flick, disarmed him.
"Second rule—"
He backhanded him.
Hard.
"Pain tells the truth. Learn the language."
Zekk staggered, lip bleeding now. Picked the blade back up with a trembling grip.
Lucan tilted his head.
"Third rule: when you're bleeding, don't ask how. Ask why you're still alive."
Then—
A flicker.
A pulse beneath Lucan's skin.
[SYSTEM SURGE: TEACHING SYNC — INITIATED]
[MENTOR STATUS: LUCAN MALRYK — COMBAT SPECIALIST | EMOTIONAL INHIBITOR: SEMI-ACTIVE]
[STUDENT READ: ZEKK ARAKAI — TRAUMA-PRIME POTENTIAL]
[OPTIMAL BREAKPOINT: NEAR]
Lucan frowned. Just slightly.
Then struck again.
Zekk dodged half a beat too slow.
Cracked ribs. Again. He collapsed, coughing blood onto the pit floor.
"Still breathing?" Lucan asked.
Zekk didn't respond.
He pushed himself to his knees.
Spat red. Grabbed the blade.
"You should hate me by now," Lucan said.
"I don't," Zekk growled.
Lucan blinked.
"Why not?"
Zekk stood.
Not tall.
But steady.
"Because I hate what made me weak more."
Lucan paused.
[SYSTEM ADAPTIVE RESPONSE: VALID TRAUMA RESPONSE DETECTED]
[INTEGRITY SPIKE — +4 MENTAL FORTITUDE]
[INITIATING SHADOWCAST PERMISSION TREE...]
Lucan charged.
No mercy. Just speed.
Zekk blocked once—barely.
Then struck low, desperate, not skilled—just… real.
The blade kissed Lucan's thigh. A light hit. A flicker of effort breaking through instinct.
Lucan stopped.
Looked down.
Then met Zekk's eyes.
Not smiling.
Not cruel.
Just… accepting.
"Better."
He stepped back.
"You're not casting a shadow yet."
He turned, cloak brushing sand.
"But now the world knows you're trying."
Zekk stood there, chest heaving.
Sweat stung his eyes. Blood on his tongue.
But his grip?
Unshaken.
And behind his eyes—
A shadow began to rise.
---
LOCATION: PRISON VAULT — BENEATH ASHVALE
There was no light.
Just the dull hum of restraint glyphs, flickering with pale pulses, syncing with Nyza's heartbeat.
Her arms hung limp in the chains. Muscles screamed. Wrists raw. But her fingers—those still moved. Slight. Careful. Practiced.
They thought she was broken.
They didn't understand the Echo Veil never trained for rescue.
They trained for silence.
And survival.
Blood ran from her fingertips, slow, dark, steady. Glyph-ink had long been burned out of her veins by the nullmetal shackles—but there was one trick even the Creed of Chains hadn't scrubbed out.
Memory glyphs. Cast once. Etched into pain. Triggered by will.
She breathed out. Whispered something against the stone—not words, not prayer. Just rhythm. Old Echo code, born from mirrored halls and glassbound rituals.
With the last of her strength, she smeared a line of blood across the floor beneath her.
Wrote in crooked glyph-strokes:
⟡ mirrorlock fracture | delay: two days | burst radius: two meters
It would detonate just enough force to snap the lock.
Not a full escape.
Just an opening.
But that was all she ever needed.
Seconds.
Seconds could fracture fate if you weren't afraid to bleed for it.
She slumped back, eyes fluttering shut, lips cracked.
Not unconscious.
Just waiting.
Just counting.
Two days.
That was all she had.
And when the glyph sparked—
So would her escape.