《Requiem of Light》 [Overture] Chapter 1 - Lower District, 1798 | 43rd Year of the Emerald The streets are a dangerous place. If you¡¯re not careful, they take away everything that is precious to you - your money, your dignity, your life. But the streets have also taught me how to take it back, even if the price is paid in blood. No one gives a damn about you here. Everyone just fights for themselves, trying to scrape together enough to survive. The lower district is nothing but a battleground - fists, knives, and desperation deciding who gets to see tomorrow. You learn fast that trust is a risk you can¡¯t afford to take. The City Watch rules the upper district, protecting the posh and rich as they look down on us. To them, we¡¯re nothing more than scum ¨C filth from the gutter. After the Great Flood, the sea swept through the ravines and chasms left by the meteorites, washing away the toxic dust that had poisoned the lower levels, which became habitable again. To power their pristine city above, the upper class erected the Geodome - a colossal structure of steel and stone, towering as a monument to their greed. It draws energy from deep underground, from unknown sources of power. But its foundations are soaked with blood and bones. Thousands of us were enslaved to build it, crushed beneath its weight long before the first flicker of their city¡¯s lights ever reached the sky. Now, we¡¯re stuck down here. Anyone who dares to venture into the upper districts is rarely seen again. Sometimes, their bodies find their way back down to us - thrown into the chasm by the City Watch. A warning. A reminder of where we belong. I glance out the cracked window, up towards the sky. The bright, towering buildings of the upper district loom over the 110th like vultures circling their prey. Something¡¯s been stirring up in Duskreach in the last couple of months - more whispers from the depths and the alleys. Soon the hunter will become the hunted¡­ I reach for my crossbow, resting against an old oil can by my makeshift bed. Strapping it to my drop holster on my right leg, I check my belt. Four darts left, plus six already loaded in the crossbow. Not much, but enough for today¡¯s job. I breathe in the salty breeze from the sea, letting it wash over me as I take a last look at the upper district, illuminated by the last rays of the sun, before beginning my decent into the second ring. The shadows seem to stretch a little longer down here, as if they''re trying to pull you in deeper with every second that ticks by. The deeper you go, the worse it gets. Your life expectancy drops with every step. Tonight, I¡¯m heading to the fifth ring. Duskreach¡¯s lower district is like a maze, tunnels stretch endlessly through the caves, ladders rise up, and bridges cross the chasms. As I make my way through the second ring toward a supply shaft, I pass by a stall cobbled together from scraps. The vendor, an old woman with tired eyes, calls out to me. ¡°Map of the city, stranger. Worn, but still holds the way. It¡¯ll get you anywhere you need to go.¡± I eye the tattered parchment she waves in my direction, her fingers shaking as she holds it out. But it¡¯s all a lie. Duskreach isn¡¯t a place you can navigate with a map - it¡¯s something you survive by instinct. I shake my head, my boots grinding into the dirt as I walk on. Usually, I take the direct path from the second down to the third, but since I have to go even deeper this time, I chose the supply shaft near the docks. It connects all rings except the seventh and is an easy way to get almost anywhere without being seen in Duskreach. With the elevators out of commission at night, the shaft offers a deep, hollow wooden structure, perfect for climbing. Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more. The air smells of rust and dampness, thick with the scent of rotting wood and old sewage. The only obstacle in my path right now is two members of the Bloodhound gang, who hold sway over the first few rings. Small fry compared with the syndicates, still foes to be reckoned with. Each of them carries daggers the size of machetes and they are accompanied by a Growler - a wolf-sized beast, its paws more or less resembling hooves, making them able to run on almost vertical walls. They were bred solely for one thing: to kill. The yard I arrive in is cramped, even more than the alley I just came through, the walkway narrow enough that you can feel the walls closing in. This place isn¡¯t just storage; it¡¯s a hub for the supply routes, and that¡¯s why the Bloodhounds keep watch. The silence here isn¡¯t peaceful. It¡¯s the kind of quiet that sits on your skin like a weight, pressing down until you can''t tell where the stillness ends and the danger begins. The two guards stand near the entrance to the yard, their attention mostly focused on the narrow alley leading deeper into the district. Their pet, however, is lingering behind a pile of rusty pipes to the left, hidden in the shadows where the guards¡¯ view doesn¡¯t reach. I hide behind stack of crates peering out cautiously to not avoid the Growler. The beast is my first priority, but taking it down with my crossbow would make too much noise drawing attention from other the other gang members nearby. I scan the area, searching for anything that might help me slip by unnoticed. I wait for the right moment, watching the animal¡¯s movements as it sniffs the air, its massive body shifting restlessly. I need to act fast before it picks up my scent. Slowly, I pull out a small vial of poison from my belt. It''s not much, but it¡¯s enough. I slip around the stack of boxes, keeping low and using the shadows to my advantage. The beast doesn¡¯t notice me until I¡¯m almost upon it. With a quick motion, I press the vial to its muzzle, the scent of the poison overwhelming its senses. It jerks back in confusion, then staggers. It lets out a growl, but within moments, its legs give out, and it slumps to the ground, unconscious. I exhale quietly, wiping the sweat from my brow. That¡¯s one down, but I¡¯m still not out of the woods. I move past the beast¡¯s fallen body, careful not to make a sound, and silently approach the two gang members. I toss the vial, empty and thus no longer of use for me, across the yard, the sharp crack of it breaking on the cold stone echoes through the air. The two gang members immediately turn, searching the darkness for a threat, hands hovering over their daggers. ¡°You heard that?¡± one mutters, eyes squinting as he scans the shadows. ¡°We should check it out¡± ¡°You see to it ¡± the other snaps, ¡°Imma check on the mutt.¡± The first guard grumbles, his boots kicking up rocks and dust as he moves toward the noise. His partner shifts his attention toward the sleeping Growler. I slip behind the rusty pipes, keeping low and out of sight, as the thug scolds the sleeping beast, bashing his dagger against the pipes. Without another glance, I move past him and edge toward the yawning maw of the supply shaft. I can hear my own breath, ragged and shallow, cutting through the still night. It''s the only sound that feels real, the only thing I can trust. Looking down the pit I mutter to myself ¡°It¡¯s a long way down¡± before beginning my final decent. [Overture] Chapter 2 - Lower District, 1798 | 43rd Year of the Emerald The fifth ring isn¡¯t a place most dare to visit unless they have to. Even the thugs here carry a different kind of weight, like they¡¯ve lived too long in the muck to know how to get out. As I step onto the narrow, rusted platform of the supply shaft, the city¡¯s pulse beneath my feet quickens. It¡¯s a far cry from the eerie calm of the upper levels. Down here, there¡¯s nothing but the grinding of metal against metal, the distant sounds of machinery that never fully quiet. The air smells different too - like iron, sweat, and something else I can¡¯t quite place. I cover my face, trying to hide from the stares of the street-levelers, their eyes always watching, always calculating. No one speaks here, not unless they have to. The silence is as thick as the grime on the walls. I pass by a series of decaying warehouses, their doors half-hanging off their hinges, the faint glimmer of moonlight barely making it through the cracks in their ceilings. I¡¯m almost at my destination when I feel it - a shift in the atmosphere. The way the shadows move, how the very air seems to throb with a quiet tension. The fifth ring has always been a place of whispers, but tonight, it feels different. Something¡¯s coming. Something I¡¯m not sure I want to meet. I stop before a tavern, its crumbling walls barely holding together, the smell of stale ale and smoke seeping through the door. A henchman - big, with a scar running down his neck - eyes me as I step stop in front of him, his hand hovering near his cleaver. ¡°What do you want?¡± he growls, voice low and guarded. I don¡¯t blink, don¡¯t look away. ¡°Loneheart wants to see me.¡° The man¡¯s eyes narrow for a moment. He shoots a glance toward inside of the establishment, through a rugged dark curtain, concealing the clientele inside. After a beat, he jerks his head towards the back door. ¡°Don¡¯t keep her waiting,¡± he mutters, his fingers still twitching toward his blade. I move past him. ¡°If ya don¡¯t come back, I¡¯ll come after you, and you don¡¯t want that!¡± He laughs, the sound low and mocking. The two batwing doors swing open as I step through the curtain and into the tavern. The air hits me like a punch - a thick mix of old wood, tobacco smoke, and the sour stench of spilled drinks. The lanterns hanging above do little to fight the shadows that crawl across the walls, leaving the place drenched in a dim, grimy light. A few low murmurs ripple through the room, but the noise fades when they take note of my entrance. The bartender barely looks up as I approach. His hands are busy with a rag, but he catches the glint of my presence in the reflection of a glass. His lips twitch as though weighing something, but he stays quiet. The low murmur of the room picks up again, but it¡¯s not as bold as before - eyes follow me, but they keep their distance. I keep my voice steady. "Syra''s expecting me," I say, leaning against the bar with a casual air that masks the tension crawling under my skin. ¡°Syra doesn¡¯t take kindly to strangers. What¡¯s your business with her?¡± ¡°You don¡¯t want to know.¡± He grunts, then jerks his head toward a door tucked away at the back of the room. ¡°She¡¯s through there. You¡¯ll find her.¡± I nod once, pushing away from the bar. The back room is a far cry from the dimly lit space I just left - a small, bare room that smells like aged air and burnt incense. The old barrels stacked in the corners add to the unnatural mix of scents in the air. Syra Loneheart watches me as I enter, her purple eyes stalking me from the shadows. She stands as tall as I do, her presence cutting through the still air like a blade. Loose strands of dark hair frame her sharp features, though in the dim light, it¡¯s hard to tell if it''s black or just deep brown. A long, high-collared coat drapes over her shoulders, worn yet refined, its edges lined with reinforced leather¡ªpractical, but not without style. One hand rests on her hip, the other lightly tapping against the hilt of a dagger at her side, like she¡¯s measuring the weight of the moment. Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. ¡°You made it. Thought you might¡¯ve been too scared of the crowd out there to show.¡± "I¡¯m not here for games," I reply, eyeing her with a steady gaze. ¡°Let¡¯s get to it.¡± ¡°Straight to the point, then? Aight, let¡¯s talk business.¡± She steps into the dim glow of the lone lantern hanging overhead. Her eyes rake over me, calculating, as she continues. ¡°Have you heard about the riots near the dome?¡± ¡°Yes.¡± ¡°I lost a few good men out there,¡± she says, her tone hardening. ¡°And the ones who came back¡­ they¡¯re rambling about some magical artifact, whatever. Something big enough to turn heads - and not just theirs. Except for one, my right-hand man Garin. No one saw him since but the men swear they didn¡¯t see him get killed.¡± ¡°You think he was captured? And you want me to bail him out?¡± Syra nods and places both hands on the scarred wooden table between us, her fingers tapping a slow rhythm. ¡°The artifact they were talking about¡­ ¡± I need to find out more about this alleged magic artifact. The practice of magic is not uncommon here in the lower district, in the upper, it¡¯s forbidden and can get you hanged. ¡°What kind of artifact exactly? Was it an amulet, or a bone charm¡­?¡± Syra let¡¯s out a sigh and looks up at me. ¡°I don¡¯t know more than what they were rambling about. You should know I don¡¯t interrogate my allies¡± ¡°So, a magic artifact of decent size, that obviously mesmerized them enough to drive them insane¡± ¡°That¡¯s what the men are saying. Glowing, pulsing - something unnatural. Normally, I¡¯d dismiss it as heatstroke or drunken tales, but Garin doesn¡¯t drink on the job, and he¡¯s gone.¡± ¡°So, a scouting and recovery mission,¡± I remark, crossing my arms. ¡°What¡¯s in it for me?¡± Her hand dips to her belt, and she pulls out a small leather pouch. The distinct clink of silver rings out as she tosses it onto the table. ¡°Fifty in silver.¡± I study the pouch for a moment, then look back at her. ¡°That¡¯s more silver than I¡¯ve seen in months. It¡¯s also enough to get me gutted the second I walk out of here.¡± Her smirk falters, just for a moment. ¡°You turning it down?¡± I think for a moment, weighing my options. ¡°I¡¯ll take five silver,¡± I say finally, meeting her gaze. ¡°And you¡¯ll owe me a favor.¡± Syra straightens, her fingers drumming against the table as she processes the offer. Finally, she lets out a low chuckle. ¡°The streets taught you well, huh? But keep it to yourself, and whatever happens, always remember that you can¡¯t buy me.¡± She says with a pleased look then reaches into the pouch, pulls out a smaller handful, and slides it across the table toward me. I scoop up the coins, tucking them into my coat. ¡°Where was Garin last seen?¡± ¡°North side, up in the third¡± ¡°There is no dome entrance in the third, ¡± I remark. ¡°Listen, if I knew what he was doing there, I wouldn¡¯t need you.¡± ¡°Understood.¡± I turn to leave, but her voice stops me. ¡°Raven.¡± I glance back, keeping my face impassive. ¡°You¡¯d better not skip out on that favor.¡± A wry grin tugs at her lips, her gaze drilling into me. ¡°Because trust me, you won¡¯t want us to come after you to redeem it...¡± ¡°I wouldn¡¯t dream of it,¡± I reply before stepping out of the backroom, through and out of the tavern, the heavy air of the fifth ring meeting me. The coins in my pocket may have been light, but the weight of her words was heavier than anything I¡¯d carried in a long time. [Overture] Chapter 3 - Upper District, 1795 | 41st Year of the Amethyst The scent of oil paints hangs in the air, blending with the faint traces of candle wax from the sconces along the walls. My brush hovers over the canvas, its bristles stained with deep cobalt, but I hesitate before making the next stroke. The model before me, an alabaster bust of some long-forgotten aristocrat, remains indifferent to my gaze. "Enya," Master Calloway¡¯s voice breaks the silence, smooth yet expectant. "You¡¯re overthinking again." I exhale, forcing my shoulders to relax. He¡¯s right. I always hesitate, always second-guess. But here, in the vaulted halls of the ¡°Vermilion School of the Arts and Sciences¡±, surrounded by gilded frames and students who have never known hunger, I can¡¯t afford mistakes. A wrong step, a poor impression - everything is scrutinized, weighed. My hand steadies. With a single stroke, I deepen the shadows beneath the statue¡¯s chin, shaping the hollow of its throat. The paint glides on effortlessly, the movement calming, familiar. Across the room, other students murmur to each other, laughing softly, carefree. Their last names carry weight in the upper district - patronage, legacy, influence. Mine is an empty space on parchment, a family name that never was. Cragstone Court had seen to that. A sharp snap - Master Calloway claps his hands. "That¡¯s enough for today. Clean your brushes and leave your canvases to dry." I place my brush down and flex my fingers, wiping the stray flecks of paint onto my apron. As I glance toward the windows, the golden light of the late afternoon spills into the chamber, tinting everything with a fleeting warmth. For a moment, it almost makes this place feel less hollow. Almost. As I leave the art studio, I smooth down the front of my uniform - deep navy wool, crisp pleats, silver embroidery at the cuffs. Functional, elegant, but still unmistakably distinct from the softer pastels and fine silks worn by some of my peers. They wear their heritage in every stitch, every imported fabric, while mine is simply... issued. The halls are quiet at this hour, the afternoon lessons winding down. Sunlight filters through the arched windows, casting long, golden streaks across the polished stone floor. My footsteps echo softly as I make my way toward the east tower. The library there is one of the oldest in the academy, its collection carefully curated for the intellectual elite. I take the winding staircase two steps at a time, fingers grazing the cool iron railing. At the top, I pause just long enough to steady my breath before scanning the library. I find Selene sitting on the gallery¡¯s guardrail, legs dangling over the edge. "If Master Calloway catches you again, you know he¡¯ll bar you from next week¡¯s lecture, right?" She only notices me now, tilting her head in a lazy shrug before slipping off the rail. Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original. "And if so? Any time spent away from him is a blessing." Her voice carries through the towering shelves, bouncing off the slate walls and polished stone floor. I¡¯ve always liked the sound of it - how it shifts to match my mood more than her own. For reasons I¡¯ve never quite grasped, she always puts me first. She brushes off her own duties, sometimes at a cost, just to help me. And though I don¡¯t know why, I¡¯ve come to respect her for it. Because unlike the others, she never treats me as an outsider. Never like one of¡­ them. "Alright." She appears in front of me, a stack of books balanced in her arms. Her bright yellow - almost golden - eyes seem to stare straight into the depths of one¡¯s soul. I¡¯ve long since grown immune to that gaze, but every time she turns it on someone, I wonder if I should look away. There¡¯s an intimacy to it, something she doesn¡¯t share with just anyone ¨C maybe not even her own parents. "Don''t tell me you expect me to read all of this by tomorrow again. I¡¯m not staying up past midnight." My voice stays calm as I lift the weight from her arms. Glancing down, I notice the books are far older than anything the professors typically assign. Selene just shakes her head and gestures toward a nearby table - where she must have spent the entire afternoon, judging by the scattered papers and crumbs littering the floor. I set the books down on a chair and turn back to her, waiting. I frown as Selene flips through the pages, her movements sharper than usual. Whatever she¡¯s looking for, it¡¯s unsettling her more than she lets on. ¡°I saw something this morning. In the church.¡± Her voice is quiet but edged with urgency. I sigh. ¡°If this is about Master Calloway again, I -¡± ¡°No. Listen.¡± She looks up, her eyes catching the dim library light. ¡°One of the banners - when the wind caught it, I saw something on the back. It wasn¡¯t the church¡¯s emblem. Just for a second, but I know what I saw.¡± I hesitate, watching her. ¡°And what exactly did you see?¡± She leans in, resting a hand on one of the open books. ¡°A symbol. I don¡¯t know what it means yet, but I¡¯ve seen it before. Here.¡± Her fingers trace the ink of a brittle page, the old text dense and curling at the edges. ¡°It was used in a war - an ancient war, before the world was even made. A war between heaven and hell.¡± I exhale through my nose. ¡°Is this going to turn into some end-of-days prophecy?¡± ¡°Not prophecy,¡± she mutters. ¡°History.¡± I glance at the book, at the faded depictions of figures locked in battle. The contrast is stark - one side bathed in radiant light, the other in shadow. But what strikes me most is the imbalance. ¡°So, what?¡± ¡°Hell was forbidden the use of magic¡± Selene says. ¡°It was steel against divine power.¡± I furrow my brow. ¡°That doesn¡¯t make sense. Why fight a war when one side has already lost?¡± Selene just shakes her head. ¡°That¡¯s what I want to know.¡± Something about this unsettles me, though I can¡¯t quite place why. I drum my fingers against the tabletop, trying to shake the faint tug at the edge of my thoughts. Then, a flicker - images slipping through my mind like half-remembered dreams. A bird. Banners shifting in the wind. But in my dreams, the banners were always empty. I rub at my temple. ¡°You think the church is hiding it?¡± ¡°If they weren¡¯t, the symbol wouldn¡¯t have been concealed,¡± she says simply. Before I can respond, the deep chime of the church bell echoes through the library, the sound filling every corner. I huff a quiet laugh, shaking my head. ¡°Fitting.¡± Selene doesn¡¯t smile. She crosses her arms, eyes dark with thought. ¡°Too fitting.¡± [Overture] Chapter 4 - Upper District, 1795 | 41st Year of the Amethyst The attic room is quiet, save for the faint creaking of the wooden beams framing the slanted ceiling. It isn¡¯t large, but it¡¯s enough - my bed pushed against the far wall, a small writing desk cluttered with books and loose pages, and a chest where I keep the few belongings that I can truly call my own. The skylight window above my bed lets the moonlight spill in, washing everything in an eerie purple glow. The color deepens the shadows in the corners, stretching them out like grasping fingers. I change into my nightclothes and sit on the edge of the bed, running a hand through my hair. The mattress sinks beneath my weight, familiar, grounding. I should be exhausted, but my thoughts won¡¯t settle. It¡¯s been days since anyone has seen Selene. She¡¯s skipped classes before, but not like this - not without a word, not without a trace. I exhale and push myself under the blankets. The moon casts strange shapes across the ceiling, shifting as the clouds pass overhead. I try not to let it get to me, but the room feels colder than usual. Closing my eyes, I force myself to breathe evenly, slowing my thoughts, letting sleep take me. A sound jolts me awake. Soft, almost imperceptible, like fabric catching on something. My pulse kicks up, but I stay still, listening. A shadow flickers across the skylight. I sit up, my breath catching in my throat. The movement was quick, almost too quick, gone before I can truly register it. I swallow, trying to steady my nerves. My heart is pounding, and I don¡¯t know why. Maybe it was a stray branch moving in the wind, or a bird passing overhead. Still, my hands feel clammy. I exhale, shaking my head. I¡¯m more on edge than I thought. Forcing myself to lie back down, I squeeze my eyes shut and focus on the sound of my breathing. My body is tense, but eventually, exhaustion wins over, pulling me into restless sleep. I dream of the city. Barefoot, I wander the empty streets of the upper district, my steps silent against the stone. The air is warm, the temperature oddly pleasant. Above me, the moon glows green, not in a sickly way, but with a strange familiarity, like something I¡¯ve seen before but can¡¯t quite place. Everything feels too quiet, but it doesn¡¯t unsettle me. I stop in front of a narrow alley. It feels like something calls to me from within, though I hear no voice. It tugs at my chest, pulls at my limbs, urges me forward. I step inside, the passage winding sharply before opening into a dead-end corner. The moment I round the bend, my breath catches. Selene. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. She sits slumped against the wall, barely covered, her school uniform in tatters. Her arms are wrapped around herself, fingers digging into her skin as if she¡¯s trying to hold herself together. She¡¯s shaking, her breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps. Her hair hangs over her face, shielding her expression, but I can hear her crying. The walls around her are covered in something dark, something smeared in streaks and symbols. I try to make out what it is, but the green moonlight distorts the color, makes it impossible to tell. The air here feels thick, oppressive. Black particles float like ashes in slow, unnatural movements, as if the world itself is holding its breath. I take a step forward, then another, but my body feels heavy. My limbs resist me, my movements sluggish, like I¡¯m wading through deep water. I try to call her name, but no sound comes from my mouth. My own voice is gone, swallowed by the air. Behind Selene, the wall bears a single mark. A star, a pentagram, pierced by a downward-facing sword. It¡¯s painted in the same strange substance as the rest of the symbols, crude but deliberate. Something about it sends a jolt of unease through me. Selene¡¯s shoulders shake harder. I try again to move, to reach her, but with every step, my body slows further. It¡¯s like time itself is slipping away from me, stretching into nothingness. My breaths grow shallow, panic rising in my chest as the weight of the dream presses down. Then, everything warps. The world around me twists, colors bleeding together, the green glow of the moon swallowing everything in darkness. I jolt awake. The morning sun streams through my skylight, casting a warm, golden light across the room. The window is open. I don¡¯t remember opening it. The purple moon lingers on the horizon, its last remnants mixing with the sunlight, painting the air in strange hues. [Overture] Chapter 5 - Lower District, 1798 | 43rd Year of the Emerald Loneheart is an odd bird¡­ Rising from the ruins of the lowest rings after the Great Flood, she seized control of underground resources - oil, coal, anything that could keep the lower districts running. Murder, prostitution, treason - down here, they¡¯re just another part of daily life, and she¡¯s made herself a name as the leader of the Dark Watch Syndicate. They say her assassins are the best in all the rings, some even whisper that they take contracts in the upper district. Syra must have really lost some good men in that riot; otherwise, she wouldn¡¯t be asking me for something this discreet. Or maybe I¡¯m just cannon fodder, a disposable tool she¡¯ll toss once she has what she needs. Either way, I can¡¯t let my guard down. This job feels promising for once - probably because I have no idea what I¡¯m walking into¡­ Slipping through the shadows of the second ring, I make my way toward the Geodome. At night, the streets are quieter, emptier - a rare advantage in a place where eyes lurk behind every broken window. From my vantage point above, the dome dominates the skyline, its massive frame stretching toward the heavens like some steel titan. The foundations lie deep in the fourth ring, but even from up here, the weight of it presses down on the district below. I crouch near the edge of a crumbling rooftop, scanning the scene below. The city watch¡¯s men stand watch around the Geodome, their signature blue coats standing in stark contrast to the ash-stained streets. There¡¯s more of them than usual, stationed around the perimeter, hands resting on the hilts of their swords. A few carry halberds, their polearms glinting under the dim torchlight. The riot from last week still lingers in the air - not just in the bloodstains smeared across the pavement but in the way the guards carry themselves, hands hovering near their weapons, heads snapping at every stray sound. Some fool lost his mind, dragged a mob with him, thought they could storm the dome and take whatever scraps of power they imagined were inside. They never stood a chance. Order was restored with bolts, steel and blood. But whatever the cause, that mess has nothing to do with Loneheart¡¯s men. They must¡¯ve been after something different. Suddenly, something catches my eye. Two guards who don¡¯t belong. Their coats aren¡¯t blue but red, black, and gold - unfamiliar colors that set them apart. Their armor is light, but the way they walk, the way they stand, tells me they¡¯re not just for show. Each of them has a longsword strapped to their back - an odd place to carry a weapon that size. I don¡¯t like unknowns, and these men scream trouble. If they¡¯re here, then there¡¯s something inside worth protecting. That means I need to be extra careful. I shift my focus, scanning the area for a way in. The main gates are too obvious, crawling with watchmen. But then I spot it - a maintenance hatch, half-hidden by a tangled mess of pipes venting out steam. The pipes snake around the outer structure, hot enough to boil flesh, but the steam rising from them will help obscure my movements. I slide down from my perch and carefully pull myself up on one of the pipes. The heat makes my skin prickle, and the air is thick with the scent of copper, oil and rust. keeping low, staying patient. Every step is slow, deliberate. The hiss of escaping steam covers the faint creak of the hatch as I pry it open. Cool, stagnant air greets me from inside. I slip through, pulling the hatch shut behind me, sealing myself in the dark. "Inside at last," I mutter under my breath. The maintenance shafts are a maze of cramped tunnels and rusting grates, but they connect every vital system in the dome. If there¡¯s a way to reach my target unnoticed, it¡¯s through here. If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. I move carefully, my hands and knees pressing against the metal grating of the vent. The map I got earlier today - crude, incomplete, and barely legible - gives me just enough to go on. Stitchers don¡¯t part with information easily, but a few coins loosen even the tightest lips. They¡¯re the only ones who can move freely between the upper and lower district, a rare breed of worker bound to no faction, answering only to the city¡¯s need for power and function. They keep the turbines spinning, the pipes flowing, the machines humming. The city hates them, yet it would fall apart without them. No one attacks a Stitcher. No one questions them either. I follow the map¡¯s rough guidelines, winding through the crawlspaces that snake beneath the dome. The heat is suffocating - thick, oily air clings to my skin, carrying the scent of rust and scorched metal. Pipes groan somewhere above me, their worn bolts creaking as they shift under pressure. Steam hisses through the vents in sudden, violent bursts, sending waves of damp heat across my face. The whole place feels alive, like the breathing lungs of a beast forced to serve the city above. The vibrations under me grow stronger - I must be getting close. Finally, I reach the edge of a grated platform and peer through the gaps. Below, the turbine hall stretches into the darkness, massive and industrial, filled with the steady thrum of machinery. The central turbine dominates the space, an iron colossus spinning with slow, relentless force. Around it, smaller generators hum, their deep, electric buzz mixing with the rhythmic clatter of chains and the occasional echo of shifting metal. I take a breath, feeling the heat radiate from below. This is it - the heart of the Geodome. If Loneheart''s people were after something here, it must be important. I want to move on, but something holds me back. It¡¯s been too easy getting in - too quiet. Whatever I¡¯m really after isn¡¯t here. I lift my gaze to the ceiling. The dome stretches high above, a vast expanse of copper and steel, its surface layered with intricate reinforcements and massive support beams. Faint light filters through slatted vents, catching on the metal and casting long, shifting reflections. The sheer scale of it is overwhelming, a feat of engineering that looms over the hall like a sky forged by human hands. Suddenly, a sharp pain lances through my skull, hot and blinding. My vision blurs, the world tilting as if I¡¯m about to tumble off the platform, though I know I¡¯m not moving. Still, instinct takes over - I press myself flat against the metal grating, gripping it with both hands, waiting for the dizziness to pass. Then, as quickly as it came, the pain fades. I blink, exhaling slowly. Everything seems normal. But the moment stretches too long, and a prickle creeps up my spine. Something is¡­ off. The light doesn¡¯t hit the walls the way it should, or maybe the shadows are too deep. I can''t place it, but the feeling settles in my gut, a quiet wrongness I can¡¯t shake. I move quickly, taking the direct path downward, climbing across vents and maintenance platforms. No one is on duty during this late hour, so I don¡¯t have to worry about guards or workers. Each time I glance at the hall, something shifts. The angles seem sharper, or the lights flicker - except they aren¡¯t flickering. By the time I reach the lower levels, the changes come faster, like a slow, creeping distortion that adjusts itself every time I blink. I land lightly near the base of the massive turbine, just a few feet from its towering form. That¡¯s when I notice it. Silence. No hum of machinery, no distant clang of metal, no rush of steam. The ever-present sound of the Geodome, the lifeblood of this city, is gone. All I hear is my own breath, my own footsteps against the steel. Under normal circumstances, the quiet would be a relief. But right now, it¡¯s all wrong. [Overture] Chapter 6 - Upper District, 1797 | 42nd Year of the Amethyst I run my fingers along the rim of my cup, listening but not really hearing. The street beyond the caf¨¦ window is lively - vendors calling out, people wrapped in thick coats against the early winter wind - but the world inside feels quieter, more distant. Selene sits across from me, stirring her tea absentmindedly, her gaze lowered. Next to her, Cyrus leans back in his chair, arms crossed, watching us both with that easy confidence of his. He¡¯s waiting for someone to speak. Probably me. It¡¯s been two years. Two years since that night. Since the dream I still can¡¯t explain. Since Selene vanished and reappeared after a few day as if nothing had happened. Only, something had happened. She isn¡¯t the same girl I grew up with. It¡¯s not something you¡¯d notice right away. If you hadn¡¯t known her before, you¡¯d think this was just who she was - quiet, reserved, polite. But I remember the Selene who used to argue for the sake of arguing, who always had something sharp to say, who never hesitated to speak her mind. She still talks, still smiles at the right moments, but there¡¯s a delay to it, like she has to remind herself how she¡¯s supposed to react. Her words come softer now, sometimes halting, like she¡¯s picking through them more carefully than before. And she never used to be clumsy. She reaches for her cup, and for a second, I think she¡¯ll miss it. She doesn¡¯t - but there¡¯s a hesitation there, like she had to readjust at the last moment. It¡¯s a tiny thing. Barely noticeable. But I notice. I always do. ¡°Where do you want to go for the festival?¡± Cyrus finally asks, breaking the silence. Selene shakes her head. ¡°I¡¯d rather not impose.¡± ¡°¡®Impose¡¯?¡± Cyrus raises a brow. ¡°Come on, it¡¯s New Moon¡¯s Fest. You¡¯re not spending it alone.¡± She glances at me, then back down at her drink. ¡°I just mean¡­ I don¡¯t want to be a burden.¡± I frown. She¡¯s never talked like this before. A burden? As if we weren¡¯t all practically inseparable growing up. As if Cyrus and I would ever turn her away. ¡°My place is too small,¡± I say, leaning back. ¡°And my parents aren¡¯t exactly¡­ welcoming.¡± Understatement. If I so much as asked to bring someone over, my mother would probably have a fit. Selene gives me a small, knowing smile. She understands without me having to say anything else. Cyrus sighs, dramatic as ever, and spreads his arms. ¡°Looks like my place it is, then.¡± That was always going to be the answer. His house - his mansion, really - has more rooms than he knows what to do with. His parents host gatherings for the city''s elite every year, and this time will be no different. But we¡¯ll have the top floor and the roof terrace, a place to watch the moons change places away from the noise below. ¡°So it¡¯s settled,¡± he says, standing and stretching. ¡°I¡¯ll let the staff know to set things up.¡± Selene nods, but something about her expression lingers with me. Like she¡¯s grateful, but also uncertain. Like she¡¯s still standing at the edge of something I can¡¯t see. I watch her carefully as we leave the caf¨¦, stepping back into the cold, into the crowds. I don¡¯t say anything, but I know. The girl I grew up with is gone. This version of Selene is different. Softer. Smaller. Changed. And the worst part? Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author. I don¡¯t think she even realizes it. Cyrus¡¯ house is less of a house and more of a statement. A towering mansion of polished stone, tall windows, and ivy-clad walls, perched on the upper terraces of Duskreach like it was carved into the city itself. The entrance alone is grander than any home I¡¯ve ever set foot in, flanked by statues and lanterns that cast long shadows over the pathway. The roof terrace, though, is my favorite part. A wide, open space lined with a wrought-iron railing, offering an unobstructed view of the city below. The night air is crisp, carrying the faint scent of burning wood from the festival preparations down in the streets. Cyrus paces near the center, where our torch stands unlit, its fuse trailing along the stone floor like a waiting serpent. He keeps checking it, running a hand along the waxed rope, making sure everything is in place. Excited energy hums off of him - he usually is not that fond of traditions, but this one can keep him on edge for an entire day. I stand on the guardrail, gripping one of the pillars for balance, gazing out across the city. From here, Duskreach sprawls endlessly, lights flickering in the streets, but the sky - the sky - is what truly holds my attention. No clouds, only the endless stretch of stars, scattered like shattered glass across the heavens. And at the center of it all, the amethyst moon, glowing with its deep, violet light. Selene sits nearby in an armchair, legs tucked up, a scarf wrapped loosely around her neck. She isn¡¯t looking at the city, nor at the sky. Just¡­ somewhere. Her expression is distant, unreadable. ¡°One minute,¡± Cyrus says. His voice pulls me back, and I turn to see him holding out two smaller torches. He hands one to me first, then hesitates before offering the second to Selene. Our eyes meet for just a second - Are you sure? - but I say nothing. Selene blinks, then silently takes the torch and stands. The world quiets. All eyes turn to the clock tower. Everyone is waiting, watching. A deep, resonant chime rings out, the first of twelve. It rolls through the city like a wave, heavy, ancient, the kind of sound that settles in your bones. The second chime follows, then the third, each one measured and deliberate. By the twelfth, silence reigns. And then, movement. The amethyst moon shifts. A low rumble stirs the air, but strangely, the wind itself is silent. I feel it more than I hear it, a presence pressing against my body. Slowly, impossibly, the moon slides to the side, revealing the glow of something else behind it. The emerald moon. For a moment, they hang together, splitting the sky in two - the right side bathed in deep violet, the left in a luminous green. And in between, where the colors meet, a strange, shifting haze of both, a gradient that turns the horizon into something almost unreal. Then, the shift continues. The emerald moon moves, its radiance swallowing the amethyst entirely, replacing the sky¡¯s soft purple with a deep, verdant glow. The stars, once scattered across the night, seem to retreat behind the overwhelming light. It is time. ¡°Now,¡± I whisper. As one, we lower our torches. The fuse catches instantly, sparks leaping along its length like tiny, frantic stars, racing toward the waiting torch. In an instant, it erupts - a burst of fire rising high, illuminating the entire rooftop in gold and casting long, flickering shadows onto the guests below. We turn back to the city. One by one, more flames ignite. First near the watchtowers, then along the streets, in windows, on rooftops. A chain reaction of golden light spreading across Duskreach, until the entire city becomes a sea of floating embers, scattered like fireflies in the night. I exhale, watching as the glow stretches outward, endless, beautiful. Beside me, Selene stares, her face bathed in the emerald light. There¡¯s awe in her eyes, the kind of wonder I haven¡¯t seen in her for a long time. And yet - Something lingers in my chest. A feeling I can¡¯t place. A certainty, quiet but undeniable. Something has begun. Something far greater than I can imagine. [1st Act] Chapter 7 - Lower District, 1798 | 43rd Year of the Emerald I move carefully, blade in hand, every step deliberate. The Geodome is massive, a labyrinth of steel and machinery, its structure built around two vertical shafts with stairwells and freight elevators. Somewhere below, the turbines hum, sending a steady tremor through the floor. The noise has started again, a faint vibration, just enough to remind me how deep I am. As I reach the stairs, something feels off. The air is different. Cleaner. Not thick with rust, oil, and damp stone like the rest of the lower city. I slow down. The stairwell ahead is swallowed in darkness - the torches that should be burning are out. I move on, careful, nearly blind in the shadows. The cold metal of the railing under my fingertips guides me down, step by step. As I reach the lower level, a flicker of light catches my eye. I flatten myself against one of the thick steel pillars that hold up the ceiling. Three guards move past - the same special ones I saw outside, clad in red, gold, and black. The longswords on their backs catch the light as they walk. Two of them carry torches, but their glow is strange, cold and bright instead of warm like an open flame. I follow, keeping to the shadows, slipping from pillar to pillar along the circular walkway that wraps around the turbine shaft. They stop at an iron door - maintenance, by the look of it. A grated window is set into the top. One of them raps his knuckles against the metal, another mutters something cruel and spits through the grate. Then they move on, disappearing down another corridor. I wait until they¡¯re gone before stepping closer. A faint, ragged sound seeps through the door. Breathing, labored and uneven. I crouch, peering in through the grate. A man sits inside, slumped in the corner, barefoot and chained to the floor. His clothes are torn, his hands covered in cuts and bruises. But despite his battered state, the tattoo on his neck stands out - a helmet below two crossed swords. Darkwatch. I exhale, muttering, "Hell of a place to take a nap, Garin¡­" The man stirs at the sound of my voice. His head lifts, eyes sluggish and unfocused. "Who are you?" His voice is hoarse. "The executioner? Did you come to sacrifice me too?" "No." I hesitate. "I''m a friend. Syra sent me." That gets his attention. The candlelight inside his cell flickers, casting my face in uneven shadow. "She sent you to bail me out?" He lets out a dry, bitter laugh. "Syra doesn¡¯t send strangers to do her dirty work." "The others failed." "Their minds are weak," he mutters. I study him. "And yours isn¡¯t?" His lips curl into a faint grin. "I¡¯m the only one who could resist it." I narrow my eyes. "Resist what?" "Oh..." His grin widens. "You don¡¯t even know why I¡¯m here, do you? You don¡¯t know who they are." I keep my voice steady. "Then tell me." "How about you get me out first?" He lifts his shackled hands slightly. "You help me, you help Syra. And that means I help you." I let out a slow breath, considering. Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon. "Fair enough." I stand and turn away. His chains clink as he shifts. "What are you doing? Where are you going?" I glance back, meeting his gaze. "Quiet. If you want to get out of here, you have to trust me." A pause. Then he lowers his hands. "Fair enough. Do what you gotta do." I scan the hall again, listening for footsteps. Garin is in bad shape. Climbing is out of the question, maybe even walking. The vents won¡¯t work. That leaves the door. I crouch again, running my fingers along the iron frame, checking the lock. Standard five-pin mechanism - the kind they use in the upper district. Nobles love to feel secure. Picking it is easy. The problem is the latch. The rusted hinges. Once that door swings open, the noise will carry. I straighten, glancing at Garin. "I need a distraction. I¡¯ll be back." He exhales sharply, shifting his weight. "Take your time. Just don¡¯t get yourself killed.¡± I press myself against the wall, listening. The corridor is silent - no boots, no voices, just the distant, muffled rasp of Garin¡¯s breathing behind the iron door. Still, I wait a few moments longer, scanning the ceiling where thick pipes snake along the walls. I reach up and press my fingers against one, just to instantly recoil. It¡¯s blistering hot, despite the air here being uncharacteristically fresh. Steam. The pipes must be carrying scalding vapor through the structure, a vital part of whatever keeps this place running. My eyes follow the pipes, tracing their path as they disappear into Garin¡¯s cramped cell and extend out the other side, running toward the second vertical shaft. That¡¯s my lead. Keeping low, I move along the circular walkway, slipping into the stairwell that descends deeper into the structure. Two levels down, I spot a cluster of pressure valves mounted on the wall, each one attached to a thick, reinforced pipe. A small plaque beside them catches my eye. "Always keep pressure valves at noon for optimal flow. Do not increase individual valve pressure without permission of maintenance crew staff." A grin creeps onto my face. I brace my hand against the cold metal railing, then reach for the nearest valve. At first, it doesn¡¯t budge, but as I apply more force, it suddenly gives way and spins effortlessly. I do the same with the other two, setting them loose before making my way back up to Garin¡¯s cell. "I''m back." Garin¡¯s tired eyes flicker up at me, then at the still-locked door. "That''s it?" "Not quite. See those valves above your head?" His gaze shifts upward, scanning the pipes running along the ceiling. "I need you to turn all three of them counterclockwise. As far as they¡¯ll go." Garin exhales sharply again, pushing himself up against the wall with a grimace. He steadies himself, then grips the first valve. The strain is evident in his face as he forces it to turn. A deep hiss fills the room, steam surging through the system. He moves to the second. Another rush of pressure. Before he touches the last one, he hesitates, casting me a wary glance. "You sure about this?" Not in the slightest. But I nod. With a heavy clank, the third valve snaps into position. The pipes groan, the sound of steam howling through them like an untamed beast. For a moment, nothing. Then - A deep, distant boom shakes the structure. The sound rolls through the corridors, followed by a sharp crack as metal gives way. Suddenly, the entire level erupts into chaos - pipes bursting along the walls, valves hissing violently as superheated vapor floods the walkways. I don¡¯t waste time. My pick is already in the lock, fingers working carefully despite the rising noise. Pin by pin, I work through the mechanism, ignoring the deafening screech of steel and the blinding clouds of steam filling the air. Finally, a faint click. The latch groans as I push the door open. I step inside. The stench is overwhelming - damp rot, blood, and filth. Garin watches me, his expression torn between gratitude and sheer horror. ¡°You were supposed to get me out, not bring this whole place down with you!¡± I drop to one knee, picking the lock on his restraints, the rusted chains finally giving way. As soon as he¡¯s free, I haul him up, throwing his arm over my shoulder. The corridor is nearly unrecognizable. Steam rolls across the floor in thick waves, turning everything into a ghostly haze. The heat is suffocating, sweat already clinging to my skin. We move as fast as Garin¡¯s condition allows, his steps weak, stumbling. I adjust my grip, guiding him toward the first vertical shaft - But he suddenly pulls me in the opposite direction. "I know a better way!" He¡¯s nearly shouting to be heard over the chaos. "I overheard the guards talking - there¡¯s a broken skylight. It¡¯ll take us right up to the cliffs!" I hesitate for a split second, glancing down toward the lower levels. More voices. Shouting. More than I expected. I look back at Garin. His expression is empty, void of anything but determination. Whatever he¡¯s thinking, he¡¯s already committed to it. With no better option, I follow. [1st Act] Chapter 8 - Lower District, 1798 | 43rd Year of the Emerald Garin pulls me forward with surprising strength, his grip like iron around my wrist. I stumble but keep pace, letting him lead me through the twisting corridors. The air is heavy with heat and steam, our footsteps echoing against stone and metal. We make sharp turns, passing broken pipes spewing mist, the distant shouting behind us growing fainter. Then, Garin takes a final turn - and we step into something entirely different. The room before us is vast, stretching over two levels. It isn¡¯t as immense as the turbine hall, but it looms in its own way. The center is dominated by a towering monolith, carved from stone so dark it looks like it drinks in the light - except for the ancient glyphs etched into its surface. They glow with an eerie luminescence, a soft, pulsing radiance that spreads outward, filling the space with an unnatural glow. The air is wrong. A deep, low hum thrums through the chamber, not the steady drone of machinery but something deeper, something alive. Layered beneath it is another sound - distant, faint, like the remnants of a choir lost to time. The voices shift, fading in and out, neither fully present nor entirely gone. Garin presses forward, unbothered, his gaze locked downward, as if staring at his own feet is the only thing keeping him together. I, on the other hand, hesitate. Just for a moment, my body frozen as my mind tries to make sense of what I¡¯m seeing. One second too long. From the edge of my vision, hands. I react on instinct - throwing Garin forward onto the ground as I roll into a dash, unsheathing my sword in one fluid motion. I spin, blade raised, just as four of them step into the light. The special guards. Their long swords are already drawn, their polished steel catching the glow from the monolith. Above, on the second level, two more figures stand at the balcony railing - crossbows aimed directly at my head. Garin, still on the floor, reaches toward me weakly. His face is empty, his eyes hollow. "Forgive me." Then, he goes still. Trapped. I barely have time to process what¡¯s happening when a voice cuts through the humming air. "Look who it is!" One of the guards sneers. "The little rat who thinks he can chew through steel." Another chuckles. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. "You were just in the right place at the right time, weren''t you?" A pause. Then - "Take him!" I move. Dashing to the side, I drop into a slide, my boots kicking up dust as I slip behind one of the thick pillars supporting the second level. Just as I do, two bolts snap through the air, slamming into the stone with a thunk, inches from where my head had been. Heavy footsteps pound toward me. "Come on out, you little shit!" One of them growls. Above, I hear the subtle click of a crossbow being reloaded. I exhale slowly, drawing my own. I wait. The instant the first guard rounds the corner - I jam the crossbow under his chin and pull the trigger. The bolt punches through flesh and bone, bursting out of the top of his skull with a sickening crack. Blood splatters against the wall, dark streaks running down the stone as his body stiffens - then collapses. No time to hesitate. I sprint toward the door. And run straight into the third guard. The impact knocks me off balance, forcing me back a step. Behind me, the fourth guard - still standing by Garin¡¯s motionless body - shouts. "I''ve changed my mind!" he calls. "Kill that bastard! He''ll be of use anyway!" The guard in front of me swings - a brutal, decapitating strike. I barely react in time, my blade coming up to parry, steel shrieking against steel as we lock together. Then, the whistle of a bolt behind me. I shift my weight forward, twisting at the last second. The guard stumbles, just as the bolt slams into his back - followed immediately by another. He shudders, gasping, his breath a wet, gurgling rasp before he slumps to his knees and collapses face-first. Blood spatters my face, warm and thick. The door behind me is blocked. Two guards remain, advancing cautiously. Above, I hear the crossbows resetting. No escape. They move in. The first swings, and I deflect, twisting my blade to knock his off course. The second lunges, forcing me to pivot - one step back, another parry, steel flashing in the dim glow of the monolith. I¡¯m fast, but they¡¯re stronger. Each hit drives me back, my footing slipping on the smooth stone. Then - pain. A sharp sting lances across my side. A second cut follows, biting into my shoulder. I stagger. Another blow knocks my sword from my grasp. It clatters to the floor, sliding away into the shadows. I drop to my knees, facing the monolith. The room spins, my vision darkening at the edges. A dull ringing fills my ears, drowning out everything else. Somewhere in the haze, I reach for my crossbow, turning - Just as a longsword pierces my skull. The blade drives through my left eye, splitting through bone, sliding deep into my brain. Everything stops. I can¡¯t feel my body anymore. Fortunately, I don¡¯t feel pain either. But the sword - it''s still there. Lodged deep in my skull. A foreign presence. Cold. Unnatural. My vision blurs, the last flickers of light fading from my one remaining eye. My body sways. Then, weightless, I fall. Downward. Into the embrace of endless sleep. [1st Act] Chapter 9 - ????? ????????, ???? | ?? ???? ?? ??? ??????? Cold. It creeps into my bones, numbing my skin, hollowing me from the inside out. My fingers press against rough stone, but I barely feel it. My arms are weak. My body - distant. Disconnected. I kneel. Breath slow. Shallow. Something drips down my face. Blood. My left eye. Or where it used to be. I should be in pain. I should feel something. But all I feel is the cold. A deep, biting chill that doesn¡¯t belong. I exhale. The air is light. Too light. Like breathing nothing. I look up. The platform beneath me glows, casting a faint, ghostly light. There¡¯s no sky. No ground. Just a void, stretching in all directions. Endless. Silent. I move. I don¡¯t know why. But I crawl forward. Hands against the freezing stone, body sluggish. The platform extends into nothing, a thin path suspended in the dark. No walls. No horizon. Just me. Just this. I keep crawling. Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. I don¡¯t know. Cold. Then - something ahead. A shift. A larger platform. Wider. Twisted. I stop. My breath catches. My pulse echoes, slow and hollow, like sound bouncing in an empty space. I lift my head. The sight before me is wrong. The chamber where I died - distorted, inverted. The monolith juts downward from an unseen surface, as if hanging from the sky. But the sky isn¡¯t there. The stone above ripples, like water disturbed by something beneath. A weight presses on me. Not gravity. Heavier. My limbs drag, my body sinking into the stone beneath me. I cover the left side of my face. I don¡¯t move. I just breathe. Then - light. A flicker in the dark. I squint. My sword. It rests on a smooth slate of stone, untouched. Waiting. But something is wrong. Shadows coil around the blade, twisting like living ink. The edges swallow the light, bending it inward. A wound in reality. A void of its own. I raise my left hand, pressing my palm against the place where my eye should be. Blood leaks between my fingers, just as cold as my frozen skin. My right hand moves. Fingers stretch forward, reaching for the hilt. A pulse. I jolt. My arm seizes, my fingers burning. Strength floods through my veins, a force shoving its way back into my deadened flesh. The moment I grip the hilt, the stone beneath me reacts¡ªwhite glyphs igniting, casting pale fire against the darkness. I look down. A single drop of blood runs down my left hand and drips down on the cold stone below me. Then - heat. Burning. The back of my left hand ignites, pain flooding through my nerves. My vision explodes - blinding light, consuming the left side of my world, even though there¡¯s nothing left to see. It grows. Brighter. Brighter. A flash. A roar. Thunder cracks through the void, splitting through my skull. A final surge of burning light - through my hand, through my eye, through me¡ª Then - Nothing. Darkness.