Even after the destruction of Shade’s Valley, the events of the past few months still weighed heavily on Cyran’s heart. The orphanage had been mostly rebuilt by now, new and improved thanks to the additions and contributions from Veliky. The blemishes of the past had been repaired, neatly patched up and built over, until the incident was erased entirely. But Cyran could not forget. He was reminded of it every time he descended the stairs and ran his fingers over a banister that felt not quite right. He was reminded every time an aftershock rippled through the earth, and he immediately went into panic mode.

Shade’s Valley was nearly back to normal. But Cyran wasn’t. As they slowly returned to their regular routines, Cyran’s doubts lingered in the back of his mind, every time he left to run errands and noticed the steady stream of ash spewing from the volcano, or the quiet emptiness in Darkveil’s streets. Not everyone had returned after the evacuation of the city, and those that had were not entirely savory. The city was changing, dancing on the precipice of its ruin. Not for the first time, Cyran wondered if it had been entirely safe for them to return. Had he made the right choice? Returning to Darkveil had seemed the more natural choice than digging up his roots and planting them somewhere else, but now worry and doubt had burrowed their way into his gut. Mount Drakolt had not seemed to calm after the quake. It only seemed to grow more active with each passing day. The possibility of its eruption was a grim one. And Cyran didn’t want to be caught unaware again.

And time, inevitably, marched on.

It was a quiet afternoon as Cyran slipped out of Shade’s Valley to do his grocery runs for the day. Food had been difficult to procure in bulk as of late as vendors slowly trickled back into the city. They’d been eating sparsely, though between Del’s ingenuity and Cyran’s connections in the city they managed to stretch their food, and supplement it with hunting where it was necessary. But every once in a while, Cyran or Del - or Oriole and Andromeda on the off occasions one of the apprentices was available between training and child-watching - had to duck out into town for bread or grains or whatnot. Today was one of those days, where they planned on making a batch of soup to last a couple of days and needed some ingredients to make the stock. And vegetables, if they could get their hands on them.

Cyran didn’t have his daggers on him as he exited the building, though he didn’t need to keep his knives close to be ready at a moment’s notice. Just to be safe, Cyran locked the door behind him, tucking the key into his pocket before making sure the coast was clear. The orphanage wasn’t defenseless - Del was still there, as were Oriole and Andromeda. The children would be protected in the event of an emergency. And yet, he was still paranoid, for reasons he couldn’t quite explain.

… Something shifted in the dark of the alley across the street.^[1]

Then again, it wasn’t paranoia if they really were out to get you.

The assassin’s shoulders stiffened, barely a tightened coil of the muscles, though he continued on, as if he’d seen nothing. It could have been nothing, considering how many shady figures conducted back alley deals in the dark, but he wanted to see how they would react as he left the premises. Rather than stay put, though, the figure moved to follow after Cyran, matching his pace perfectly while maintaining a good distance.

Perhaps they would have been able to conceal themselves if their target had been anyone else, but most people would have a difficult job hiding from Cyran in the dark. The shadows were his domain, as cocky as that felt to say. But it was the truth. They seemed to favor him, even though he had no idea why such a connection existed, it was useful. Especially when the intruders entered their domain. His follower remained a constant presence in the back of Cyran’s mind as the elf made his way through the streets, constantly lingering, not making any sudden moves. Just… watching Cyran’s movements, unaware he was being watched in turn.

Cyran picked up his pace, rounding a corner. The figure cloaked in shadow picked up their pace to match Cyran’s. If there was any doubt that they were up to something nefarious, it had evaporated by now. But what to do about them? The assassin’s first instinct was to finish this business with a knife in the back and another body left to rot in the uncaring streets of Darkveil. Discrete. Quiet. But he stayed his hand, if only for the moment. If this was going to turn into a fight, he would finish it, but he just needed to be patient. The last thing he wanted was to take a life over a misunderstanding. Still, he remained wary, even as the figure drew closer, closer, closer -

Cyran stopped walking.

“Can I help you with something?”

The figure froze, clearly startled that they’d been called out. Cyran only hoped that the warning would be the end of it. If this was some random mugging, most half-rate criminals would give up when they realized they’d accidentally marked someone they shouldn’t mess with. But as Cyran turned around to face his follower, the man was still there.

The human was adorned in a long robe, with no real discerning features about him to make him stand out. He merely wrung his hands together, plastering a smooth smile on his face. “Ah, terribly sorry to startle you. I’m unfamiliar with the city and I’m afraid I’ve gotten myself turned around… you’re the first person I’ve seen on the streets in the past hour.”

And as he spoke, Cyran knew, in the pit of his stomach, that every single word was nothing more than a lie.[2]

His single visible eye narrowed, though his tone was casual as he spoke. “Don’t worry about it.” He murmured. “If you’re new around here, a word of advice - don’t sneak up on people if you don’t want to earn a knife to the gut.”

“Er, right, yes. I’ll keep that in mind.”

“So, where are you looking to go?”

“Excuse me?”

Cyran fixed him with an unimpressed stare.

“… You said you wanted to ask for directions.” He said after a moment of silence. “So what can I help you with?”

“Oh! Uh, I’m looking for the Dancer’s Den.”

Another lie. Cyran’s fingers twitched for a blade, but he resisted the urge. Cyran only hoped he’d scared the criminal enough to dissuade any further attempts at a mugging, or whatever this criminal was after. “If you take a right over on that street, you can keep walking until you come upon the town square. You can’t miss it - it’s one of the tallest buildings in the area.”

“Is that so?” His lips curled into a smile. “Thank you. I appreciate your help, kind sir.”

“Anytime.” He inclined his head, keeping an eye on the criminal until he was out of sight, and Cyran was alone on the street once more. He turned on his heel, making his way towards the market at a hurried pace, determined to finish his errands and return home as quickly as possible. The illusion of uneasy peace had been shattered in that single encounter, and the nervous storm brewing in his gut had only grown in intensity.

---

The streets were thankfully empty when Cyran returned to Shade’s Valley. It was a small mercy.

Arms laden with bags of food made it difficult for him to find his keys for a moment, but he managed. He made sure to keep an eye out for that strange man as he fished for his keys with one hand, but the moron seemed to have gotten the right idea about crossing a man who could see his every movement from a mile away. That didn’t make him any more reassured. He quickly unlocked the door before closing it behind him, locking the door and making sure the bolts on the side were secured.

Another small tremor wracked the earth - Cyran froze, squeezing his eyes shut. Only when it passed did he force himself to relax and make his way back into the kitchen.

“I’m home.” He bid to anyone that might have been listening, though only Del was in the kitchen, preparing the stew as he set the bags down on the table. The smell of brewing meat permeated the air, forcing him to at least relax a bit in her presence. A small part of him wished he could step up and wrap his arms around her waist to press a small kiss to her temple and remember what it felt like to be safe at home, but even though he had come to terms with the fact that these were things he wanted, they were not comforts he was allowed to have.

So he settled for pulling out the vegetables out of a paper bag, placing a couple of carrots and celery stalks on the cutting board next to her. In his open hand, he summoned a knife - a regular kitchen knife from the drawer - before settling down into the rhythmic motions of slicing and chopping with deft hands.^[3] The two began settling into familiar rhythms of cooking and prep, Cyran allowing himself to just exist in this moment.

But even he could not push these worries aside forever.

He set the knife down on the cutting board and turned to Del, reaching out to put a hand over hers.

“I was nearly ambushed by a man outside today.” He warned her, voice low, just in case any of the kids might come inside and overhear something they shouldn’t. “I’m fine, nothing happened, but I’m worried. If the orphanage has been marked as being an ideal place for mugging, or what, but we should keep an eye out. If you see any more of them outside, let me know. I might need to do some investigating.”

And perhaps pay a visit to Zarius. The young man always had a better idea of the comings and goings of the city than Cyran, who preferred to stick to himself… perhaps he might have some insight into what was going on.

“Just… if nothing else, please be careful. I don’t know what I would do if you or the kids were put in danger for any reason.” He sighed, suddenly feeling drained of all energy. Oh, why was it that any time they seemed to scrape together some semblance of peace, the world saw fit to steal it from their hands?

---

1. Shadow Sight
2. Insight Rune
3. Summon: Possession

Bringing Minions
Oriole (Warlord I)
Andromeda (Warlord II)

Bringing Pets
Yeux (Vampire Bat - counts against pet cap)
Nightmare Steed (Counts against pet cap)

Rebuilding the orphanage, and Darkveil at large, was a tenuous task. There was so much to do and focus on, so many people still struggling and without in the wake of the disaster, that despite Del's compulsion to help them all, she knew she could not. There was still so much that needed to be done, added, advanced upon, and fixed, and in the midst of it, there were still people to care for, funds to collect.

On top of that, the earthquakes had not fully abated, and each new tremor had Del in a state of heightened awareness that was taxing, to say the least. She was not the only one who was ill at ease, though. Most of the inhabitants of Darkveil were on edge, moreso than usual, and that was saying something. Though, within Del's particular bubble, there was only a scant handful that she could do anything about.

One such man walks in the door while she's in the midst of cooking, and Del feels her heart lift at the sound of his arrival. She turns her head to look at him, a smile in her voice as Cyran comes in to the kitchen to deposit his findings at the market. "Welcome home! Were you able to find potatoes?" There's a quiet urge to reach out and pull him near so she can embrace him in a proper welcome, kiss the tip of his nose and bask in the security of knowing he was alright and with her. She sets the urge aside, focusing on chopping the onion so she can add it to the pot of searing meat, the first of the steps for the stew. The feelings she was contending with had only grown in the weeks that followed, but she would not, must not, step beyond his comfort zone. She could be satisfied with the fact he was home and in the kitchen with her.

And it is a special sort of peace, working side-by-side with Cyran in the half-done kitchen, chopping vegetables for the stew. His steady, sure hands made light work of the vegetables, while she finished with the aromatics, filling the kitchen with a scent of cooking onion, garlic and bone-broth. If they let it to simmer, it should last at least couple of days, maybe three if they were able to top it off at some point.

Cyran's hand on hers pulls Del out of her reverie, amber eyes lifting to his as Cyran speaks. Her brows dive down in a frown of alarm-- he was fine, of course, nothing had happened, but it could have.

"Well. I'm glad you're alright, but that is... concerning." her teeth find her lip in a moment of thought, before she tries to give Cyran a reassuring look. Her hand squeezes his. "I will be sure to keep an eye out and mind the perimeter. If I catch anything off, I will let you know right away. I haven't seen anything so far, though." And that worried her. Was she losing her edge? Or maybe whoever it was, was after Cyran.

Her expression softens as Cyran expresses his concern for the kid's safety... for her. His shoulders sag, bearing the weight of so much. The children, the orphanage, his work, his own worries. Her heart aches for him in that moment. He was practically buzzing with the concern for all of these things at once. How could she help him release that built-up tension?

Del had an idea.

She sets the lid halfway over the pot so the stew can simmer, and turns her hand over in Cyran's, her smile soft and earnest. "Here," she pulls their joined hands up to their shoulder height, and lays her free hand demurely on his shoulder. Standing close, a familiar posture of their dancing, back on the Judeia. It seemed like a life-time ago... and only yesterday, at the same time. "Right now, we're safe. We can set up some contingencies, some extra escape routes, but right now, everyone is here, present and accounted for, safe and sound, and we've got a delicious dinner on that won't be ready for a while yet. So," The smile becomes a little shy, as she sways on the spot, encouraging movement. "Dance with me?"

His body sagged of its own accord when Del squeezed his hand. It was barely a press of her warm palm to his cold one, and yet, the touch made him unspool like tightly wound yarn, all the tension and worry he’d built up during his grocery run to simmering away to something manageable. Those feelings still lingered, but he at least felt relaxed seeing Del’s calm. They would be okay, because she would make it okay. That was what she did - where Cyran only saw disaster that he could only take care of with the sharp blade of a knife after the damage had already been done, Del rolled her sleeves up and got to work fixing it.

He thought of her holding up Shade’s Valley with her hands alone.

He thought of Spell Slicer, repaired with her hands alone, still inlaid with brilliant gold.

He thought of Wraithsbane, still resting delicately on the belt at his hip.

“They were hiding in the shadows.” He explained. “I can only assume they have no idea who lives here, and why that’s a bad idea.” Perhaps Shade’s Valley had been randomly marked as an ideal target for thieves… he would have to scout the building later to see if he could find any Robber’s Runes. He’d seen them before on other shops that had been labeled as ideal marks but it had never occurred to him that he might make that list. “Once you spot them they’ll be easy to follow.”

Though he hoped they would not make another appearance, Cyran couldn’t afford to be so optimistic.

Instead of answering, Del placed the lid over the pot of stew before grabbing onto his shoulder. Cyran recognized the posture that she assumed - they’d played this game many times before on the Judeia, a show for other people. He remembered the steps of the waltz intimately, as if they were burned into his mind - though that trip had been months ago, Cyran didn’t think he’d be able to forget.

But that had been a ruse for the other people aboard. It had never occurred to Cyran that they would be allowed to dance, just the two of them. And oh, he found that he wanted to so much that it ached.

He tried to force thoughts of these uncertainties out of his mind. Focus on the present. He was here, and the kids were all safe. Oriole and Andromeda were here, and so was Del. Dinner smells wafted through the room, not quite ready but enough that the scent relaxed him.

They would be okay… they had to be.

“There’s nothing I’d love more.” In contrast to the way he’d once spoken as Illias Mellora, there was none of that grandiosity and smooth charm in his voice. But the affection was there, a sort of tired, weary love but a love nonetheless. Not the kind of affection held between a noble couple that put on airs - these were only the sentiments of a single man with not much to his name, and the desire to hold onto this one small piece of his world while the rest of the realm began to crumble. That if everything fell, he would hold tight to Del and prevent her from falling with it.

She was here. She was real. She was safe. They all were.

Cyran was no singer, but even he could manage a small hum in the back of his throat. It was a deep sound, barely a rumbling sound and held none of the lyricism of Del’s voice, but it would guide them. Rather than the cordial posture he’d once assumed on the Judeia, though, Cyran adopted a more intimate stance… slowly, carefully wrapped both arms around her waist, almost if pulling her into a hug. And he began to sway with her - not the hurried pace of the tango nor the grand sweeping movements of ballroom dance. This was their song, and they moved with gentle, quiet movements. Perfectly in sync, as always.

And his worries began to drift away like smoke.

There's a quality to his voice, something soft like snowfall that causes a commotion in her chest, a veritable riot, as he agrees to dance. Nothing that he would love more. How terribly precious to have that honour. How much she echoed it.

Del was not a woman who had a lot-- she was more used to having what little in her life she cherished taken from her, and she would be damned if she let any one or any thing remove more precious things from her. Like the subtle curve to Cyran's lips, the delicate crinkle around his eyes that tugged on his laugh-lines.

How good it felt, to earn that smile.

This business with whoever Cyran had discovered, whoever had been too close to what they were rebuilding here, filled her with a sense of dread. She did not have much to give, or offer. This at least, sliding her arms over his shoulders as he pulls her close (so close, closer than the dances aboard the ship, nearly as close as the closet. As the tent), swaying on the spot-- this, she could do.

She relishes this tender moment between them, this pause, a moment where the everything but them seemed to be holding its breath. Frets and worry ceasing to exist while Cyran and Del managed to eke out their own quiet bubble, infinite, and yet so terribly, terriby brief. She would cherish it while it lasted.

As he hums for them the steps, Del closes her eyes, listing forward slightly until her forehead is pressed against Cyran's. She answers his deep hum with a middle tone to his, resonating, harmonizing, as they dance in the kitchen to their own music.

Words could only be said for the first time once, of course. There was a breath-stealing intimacy in that truth. A gentleness that feels beyond her, impossible if not for the fact that she was currenltly standing in that embrace. It isn't something she deserves, not yet; another thing she must earn.

With the whole world crumbling, what a time to fall in love.

---

A couple days pass in the midst of the rebuilding process. Del remains hard at work, building the structure upward for the second floor, though it would be some time before that area was livable. In the meantime, her side project, below the floor, was nearly done. She couldn't wait to show Cyran once he got home.

She follows him to the door as he prepares to leave for his errands that day, giving him a reassuring smile. The events of the days prior hadn't been forgotten, but Del had made sure to prepare as best she could, if only to ease their own minds about the potential threat that had been lurking. Though, still, there had been no sign. She wishes she could hope that it was nothing after all, but Del knows better. "It's only for a bit, we'll be alright. I have perimeter checks scheduled and minor hinderances to all methods of egress. Nothing dangerous, of course, but enough to call attention." An extra creaky floorboard here, a jammed window there, a broom set against a door jamb. Minor things, non-lethal to kids, that would be enough if someone was trying to get in.

Still, even Del found herself worried. She fidgets for a moment, before amber eyes lift to his silver, and give him a soft, crooked smile as her hand reaches out to lightly brush against his. "Be safe, my rogue."

The next few days passed with a strange sort of mounting tension the longer nothing happened. He’d rarely left the house, turning Shade’s Valley into a sort of fortress while they worked on construction - not even Oriole and Andromeda were allowed outside the house. The cracks were beginning to show, the two apprentices bickering every chance they got. Even the kids were beginning to feel the wear and tear in Headmaster Cyran. Try as he might, he couldn’t quell his worry, or the way his mouth pinched when he thought others weren’t looking.

Enough was enough. He refused to live in fear anymore and wait for disaster to strike. It was with great reluctance that he asked Del to watch over the orphanage for an afternoon while he set out to meet some contacts and figure out if anyone had seen anything suspicious in the past few weeks. Gods, it tore at him to leave even for a brief while… but he had to force himself to trust in Del. She’d saved him, more times over than he could count. Wraithsbane, hanging from his hip, was a reminder of that. The fact that she’d once held Shade’s Valley together long enough with her bare hands for them to save the children.

If there was anyone he could trust to watch his kids, it was her.

And that trust was obviously well-founded - she was a stubborn survivor with contingencies upon contingencies for any possible situation. If the strange men tried anything in his absence, then she would have them to safety in the bunker in an instant. As he pulled his hood over his head, wooden mask secured over his face until nothing was visible except for a single, onyx eye,^[1] something brushed against his hand. Del. He didn’t hesitate to reach out and grab her hand in turn, giving it a single squeeze. Not necessarily to reassure her, but to remind herself of his presence.

“And you as well, my Fighter.”

He ducked into the safety of the shadows as he left, almost like stepping into the cool water of a lake. The darkness cloaked him, rendering him invisible to any prying eyes that might be watching.^[2]

The Specter was on the prowl.

---

It was unfortunate that most of his usual contacts in the city seemed to have skipped town after the quake. Their usual haunts were abandoned - nothing left behind but smoke and dust and abandoned goods that criminals and smugglers hadn’t deemed important enough to bring with them. The first two informants that Cyran tried were missing, the third dead where a building fell on him. By the time he reached the fourth, he was quite put out, and growing more impatient with each passing second.

In Darkveil it was naive to think that there was a single person truly neutral with regards to politics. People scraped their way to the top whatever way they could, making alliances and pledging their allegiance to unseen, ever-watching ashen fathers. Hell, Cyran himself primarily worked for Zarius. He couldn’t claim to be apolitical, no matter how much he wished to be. Though through the months he’d at least garnered a couple of small-time thieves and muggers under his wing that didn’t really give a damn about much except where their next meal came from. A little bit of coin, and leftovers from the orphanage thrown their way, and they would sing like a canary.

The Specter’s eyes were modest - but the assassin had enough sway over them in the criminal underbelly that they he usually got what he needed to know. And if he didn’t, he could just ask Zarius. But Cyran didn’t want to go to the fellblood, not just yet. Zarius had his own host of problems, what with the destruction of the Rookery. It felt irresponsible to put the protection of his orphanage on someone who had his own fires to put out. He could handle this.

He would.

If he could find one of his regulars, at least.

Eventually, he came upon one of his regulars, a thief that usually worked for little more than scraps, which was why he liked working with the Specter, who was known to be rather generous with his compensation. The young thief was munching on a piece of bread when Cyran approached, his cloak swishing behind him.

“Master Specter.” They bowed their head in greeting.

He nodded, holding out his open palm, where a bag of solars and a separate cloth containing enough food to last the young man a couple of days.^[3] Not as much as he usually offered, but resources were stretched thin. Without preamble, he handed the offerings to the young man, who snatched them away like he was afraid Cyran would change his mind, as he always did during these encounters.

“I need you to tell me if you’ve seen any suspicious figures lurking around the streets as of late.”

The thief blinked at him.

“Begging your pardon, Specter, but you’re going to have to be more specific than that.”

Cyran closed his eyes, thinking back to that day. He could recall the details of that encounter well.

“Gray robes. No discernible features otherwise. Dress as if they’re part of some religion.”

The thief stopped moving, regarding Cyran with a suspicious look. “… That does jog my memory.”

Cyran arched a brow - invisible under the mask, though the prim silence that followed said he wasn’t particularly in the mood for games.

“I believe they call themselves the Harbingers of Smoke. Least, that’s what I’ve heard others say. They were shacked up in some abandoned temple on the other side of town for a while, but no one’s really seen them there in the past few days.” The thief hesitated, staring down at Cyran’s offering. Cyran took a step forward, urging. Impatient.

“If you know anything else, tell me.” A name alone wasn’t enough to go on. “What have you heard?”

The thief bit his lip.

“I don’t know if I should say.”

“If it’s safety you’re worried about, you will have my blades.” The young man had been a dependable enough person over the months. “Though once we’re through here, I’d advise you to jump ship. There’s not much here for you.”

“Well… you’re here.”

Cyran blinked, taken aback. Of every answer he’d expected, that wasn’t the one. Or that this young man cared about the faceless assassin enough that he would stick around knowing that Cyran would eventually come by to give him food and money.

If he weren’t on the job, masking his emotions behind cold indifference, he might have cried.

“Lay low in the Deadwoods for a couple of days, at the very least.” He urged.

There must have been sufficient command in his voice - or perhaps something even akin to fear - that it gave the criminal pause. Eventually, he relented with a hesitant nod. “Right, right.”

“So. The Harbingers?”

“… Well, it’s not about what I’ve heard. It’s what I’ve seen with my own eyes.” He spared an anxious glance for the street, as if these Harbingers would manifest just at the mention of them. “There’ve been… people going missing in the past few weeks. People don’t know the pattern - but I noticed something odd about them. Powerful folks, not just in terms of wealth. But mages and such. Fighters. I’ve an old friend in the Militia. He was a real powerful healer, strongest I’ve ever seen. Anyways, with everyone going missing, I got worried about him and thought I’d pay him a visit. He assured me he was fine - few days later, he went missing, too. And when I visited him, I’d seen one of those guys in the gray robes. Doin’ nothing, just… watching.”

He shivered.

“I dunno what they want with all these people, but they took my friend away. I hope they burn in hell.” He glanced up at Cyran, hope sparkling in his eyes. “You going after them?”

Cyran bit his lip. Perhaps if he had less to look after, he would… the Specter of the past would have thrown himself into this without any hesitation. But he had things to lose now. Family, a business, a woman he loved. He had to focus on keeping his house and home safe above all else.

“Perhaps. Time will tell.”

The thief’s hope dimmed somewhat.

“Ah… yeah. Well if anyone could take ‘em out, it would be you. They say that no building can hold you from getting to your target. That you’re more ghost than man.”

Cyran shrugged, uncomfortable. “Perhaps. I need to know more before I make any moves.”

“Sorry, Master Specter. I told you everything I know.” He actually sounded rather miserable at that admission. Enough that this facade broke at the seams, enough for Cyran to place a hand on his shoulder, reassuring.

“You’ve done just fine. A deal is a deal - you should gather your things and get to safety. I have a feeling that things are going to pick up around here again.”

The young thief nodded in parting before scampering off with his goods, leaving Cyran to release a shuddering breath. A group that targeted powerful people…

Del.

He knew little about the people after her, though he knew enough to understand that she was undoubtedly powerful, moreso than even she even seemed to understand - and whoever was after her wanted that. If she had garnered the attention someone dangerous -

He didn’t even want to entertain the thought.

She would be fine. She would be fine. Cyran couldn’t allow himself to get distracted. He had a name, and he needed more information.

Hoping he’d made the right choice, the Specter turned on his heel and continued the hunt.

---

1. Mask of Memories
2. Dark Form (Shadow Dancer 3)
3. Summon: Possession

This mask he wore, the void of his eye the only visible part of him, made of wood and disguising his fine features-- what a visage to be visited by. She could see how those he interacted with would find him unsettling, terrifying, perhaps abhorrent. But, for whatever reason, that blank wooden mask only made her even more certain of who was beneath. Vulnerability was acknowledging the mask, and Del stood in its presence, searching his jet eye and finding fathoms of Cyran. There was a truth here, one they had not quite broached... but there was much she understood. Despite his mask, she saw him. And no matter what mask he wore, she would not turn away.

Just as he starts to pull away, going to the shadow to slip away, Del pulls him back. She isn't sure what compels her to do so, but as she does, still hanging onto his hand, she lifts it to her mouth, to lightly brush her lips against his gloved knuckles. Her eyes don't leave his face-- his mask-- for those brief seconds of contact.

Then, she lets him go, watching him slip into the darkness and then away, until he is out of her line of sight, feeling his absence immediately. She exhales slowly and turns around to the rest of the orphanage, trying to ignore the twist that had begun to form in the pit of her stomach. It would only be for a few hours. He would be safe. He would come back to her.

But she could never have imagined how.

---

A pile of children sit in the room together, while Rhi'as reads a story and Del sits with a little girl on her lap, idly braiding her hair. The last hour or two has been peaceful, with the knot of tension in Del's stomach slowly starting to unwind the longer they went without incident. Still, she's on high alert. She lifts her head as Eleanor makes another lap around the interior of the orphanage, checking for anything new or out of place, only to be met with a slight shake of her head. Nothing yet. That was good. It should have been good.

Why did the lack of anything bother her so much? Peace was good. The children being safe was good. But this wasn't quite peace, was it? This felt like a too-quiet forest, a particular silence that always put Del's teeth on edge. For what was a reason for the birds to stop singing and the squirrels to cease their scampering and chatter, for even the thrum of insect wings to quiet?

A predator, lying in wait.

There's a rattle from the kitchen. Eleanor pauses on the stairs, hand going to her dagger, but Del is already on her feet, tucking the sleepy child with her hair freshly done on the seat of a plush arm chair, never breaking her stride as she leans her back against the wall, and leans her head around slightly to look at the interior of the kitchen.

The window of the kitchen was open, on a slight angle, as though it had been abandoned mid lift. The broom handle that had been leaning against it was toppled to the foor.

A thrill of panic shoots through her; the crack wasn't wide enough for anyone to get through, but someone had unlocked the window silently and tried. Feeling her heart begin a steady drum beat, she calls out, eyes still on the window, her voice cutting clear and true through that terrible silence; "Drill."

A preagreed word, so as not to spark any fear in the children. Drills had happened before, especially as part of the rebuilding process, to make sure everyone knew proper exits and what was safe and what wasn't. Though Eleanor and Rhi'as would know what the word meant in this context; it was not a drill.

Andromeda feels her body run cold at the single, horrible word. They've been compromised. She doesn't need any more context to jump to action, moving to grab the child that Miss Del had left in the chair. There's no time to waste. To the kitchen, she calls, "I've got the kids." It is a far cry from the woman who was ready to abandon these children during the quake all those months ago - a far cry from the woman who did not understand her own weakness. She seems far more aware of them now, and that makes her more in tune with her strengths. She is fast, and she can defend the children while they usher them to the bunker. She lets out a sharp whistle - on her shoulder, Callope perks up, the tiny drake taking to the skies to grab Oriole. They've got work to do, and children to protect while Del takes care of the intruder.

Del feels a flash of pride as she listens to the sounds of children being filed away to their safe location, their little bunker where they had enough stores to outlast a couple of days if need be. She prayed that wouldn't be necessary. Eleanor and Rhi'as had truly come into their own in many ways since the devastating quake. They still had much to learn, but dust and ash, they learned fast.

She waits, stalk still and glaring at the window, her body coursing with alarm. Then, finally, Something; a shape darts past the kitchen window, running at a full sprint, and Del is off like a shot, running to the side door to try and cut off whoever this was. She opens the door and closes it behind her, ensuring she jars the handle so it locks behind her-- and if it didn't she was certain that either of Cyran's two apprentices could get it. She trusted them to handle themselves. If anything got past her, the pair of them would absolutely destroy anything or anyone foolish enough to remain.

The sound of footsteps leads her down the side alley, where construction materials lay waiting for use, covered by tarps and weighed down with bricks. It's also a dead end, blocked off by rubble that still needed clearing. Worse yet, it is once again too quiet.

She could never have conceived of who they were truly there for.

While Frost Gale had only been a couple of weeks ago at best, in Del's experience, pursuers rarely, if ever, were able to get on her trail again so quickly. The average was usually a month and a half, and her most recent, nearly six-month stint in Darkveil, had proven the safest in the better part of fifty years. She had no reason to suspect that anyone was there for her.

Something sharp pierces her trapezius, and Del reflexively reaches up to swat at the pain. Something smashes in her palm-- a metal dart with a fullered middle dripping with a liquid of some--

Oh, no.

"Is that her?"

She wheels around. Two people seem to have appeared at the mouth of the alley, but there are more shapes converging behind them. She squints a bit-- it's hard to see, hard to put the pieces of their faces together.

"Without a doubt. She should be pliable now."

There's some sort of gesture from the shorter silhouette, and all at once, the shapes behind them rush in. Del's breathing comes ragged now, panicked, fighting to stay upright as a group of masked figures swarm her.

She moves purely on instinct, staggering, taking blows to her torso even as she reroutes and diverts the flow of combatants. There is no mercy in this action, only a desperate need to get rid of these interlopers and protect the kids. She snaps arms, breaks knees at the joint, and fighting like a cornered animal who would not go down so easily. But she's slowing-- the poison, or whatever it was, sends spots across her vision, makes every draw of breath sting. One person slams the haft of an axe into her right side, striking her liver and sending a cascade of pain around her body. She keeps moving, grabbing this man by the face, her furious amber eyes the last thing he will ever see. A sickening crack follows as she slams their head into a wall, lips pulled back in a grim, desperate snarl.

Another of the masked intruders uses the opportunity to touch her with a spell[1], and her body, battered, bruised, covered in blood, can take no more. Though she has injured many, and four lie dead, Del hits the ground hands trembling against the ravages of the sickening spell placed on her combined with whatever ill concoction flows through her veins.

Her vision writhes, but she can hear, though it's distant, far away. Like hearing it through water.

No...

She thinks as fast as she can. There are no options at the moment, she is captured and being taken. They were there for her. It was her worst nightmare come true. If she was able to in this moment, Del would surely cry.

"I thought you said she was pliable."

"Is this not pliable enough for you?"

No, no no nononono-- not now. She can't give in yet. There has to be something.

Failed. I failed.

"You three, tie her up. What should we do about...?"

"Leave them. They have served their greater purpose. We have what we came here for." She can feel her body being moved, but she feels so dizzy it's nauseating. Her mouth is filled with blood. She claws at the ground fingers digging trenches into the cement before her arms are yanked behind her back. Think think think think. How could she give Cyran a clue to what happened, help him find her, help him find any kids if they were next?

"You didn't even try to run away. I'm almost disappointed." The voice coos at her. She does her best to bare her teeth, but this is only met with a low, amused chuckle. "Found something special, have you? Something worth fighting for?"

Cyran's face, smiling at her. Their foreheads touching. A warmth shared in a tent in the frozen North, the green blue ribbons of light of the aurora cascading above them, catching in his moonlight eyes. From her hair, gold flowers bloom and scatter where she lays.

Cyran, I'm sorry.

"And who do you think will be coming to save you~?"

In a burst of fury, Del lashes out again, somehow, but her blow is feeble and easily knocked aside. She sees a shape heading towards her face, accompanied by flash of bright pain. Finally, she goes under, and there is nothing.

---

[1] Vampiric touch (used by a kidnapper)

Silence.

That was the only sound in the underground bunker of Shade’s Valley, where a little over a dozen children and two criminals were huddled. A silence so loud that it roared.

Oriole’s palms were clammy as he gripped his quarterstaff - on the other side of the stone room, behind the ladder, Andromeda held two knives in each hand ready to rain hell on anyone that made their way down this ladder without sounding the all clear signal first, a canary’s call. Her face, a mask of grim determination - her aim, sure and steady, ready to pin an intruder straight in the throat. The children shifted uncomfortably, scared, but determined to stay silent, remain unseen. It was a shame that even so young they had become survivors. All waiting on bated breath in anticipation of a moment that would never come.

Not when the true target was fighting a losing battle outside.

The noise from the struggle failed to permeate this thick stone dungeon. There was no way for them to know what was happening to their mentor. Perhaps if they had had any inkling, they wouldn’t have wasted their time sitting around and doing nothing. Hell, even if she didn’t, she should have gone up to help Del the moment the kids were safe. She should’ve provided backup. She should’ve-

Should’ve, should’ve, should’ve. Andromeda could spend hours later agonizing over the what-ifs, all the ways she’d failed. But ignorance, as they say, is bliss. Waiting, on the other hand, was agony.

How long had it been? A few moments passed, with no sound. Not even the creak of floorboards overhead, or any indication that criminals had broken into Shade’s Valley. Had Del succeeded? If so, why hadn’t she made her way downstairs?

Something was wrong.

Enough was enough - Andromeda straightened, tucking her daggers away before glancing upwards at the trapdoor. Undisturbed. “Stay with the kids. I’m going up.”

The words seemed to break some sort of trance that had settled over the group. Oriole relaxed his rigid battle stance, blinking in confusion. “Miss Del’s taking care of things. Won’t you just get in the way?”

She shook her head. “It’s quiet. Too quiet. I’m going to go see what’s happening.”

“… But if there really is a struggle, you're just going to be a hindrance, not a help.”

Andromeda fixed him with a sharp glower. “I’ll be careful, jackass. Now shut up and give me your grappling hook and spyglass.”

Oriole, thankfully, didn’t argue, though he shot her a withering look as he unhooked his tool pack and threw it at her. Andromeda secured it around her waist before making her way up the ladder, boots pounding against the rungs. When she got to the trapdoor, she steeled herself, taking a deep breath before making her way into the unknown.

Remember what Master Cyran taught you. Move on the balls of your feet - stick to the shadows. Use the environment to your benefit. She tiptoed through the halls, daggers brandished to strike anyone that stood in her way. But the halls remained eerily silent and empty as ever. There were no signs of a break-in anywhere, nothing ransacked or stolen, no blood on the floors. Eyes narrowed, she continued on through the kitchen, where she’d seen Miss Del last. Even this room was pristine and spotless, save the window, which had been left ajar. Someone had gotten in… or tried to, before they got interrupted. Andromeda hissed between clenched teeth, dashing to the window and locking the bolt once more.

An attempted break-in, then.

Had Del managed to chase them outside? That would explain things. She had to check, at the very least. Leaving the kitchen alone, Andromeda called Calliope to her side before making her way out to the street.

The main road was as empty as it had been as of late… nothing particularly strange about that. This place was a damn ghost town, had been ever since pretty much everyone jumped ship and fled to other parts of the world. Not like anywhere was really safe - these quakes had been happening even as far down south as Moonglade as far as she could tell.

But no criminals in sight.

Andromeda tried to peer into the shadows, but she didn’t have the keen eyes of her masters, who could see into the darkness like it was a second home. If there was anyone lying in wait, watching her, then there was no way for her to tell. She didn’t feel any eyes on her… but Andromeda sure as hell wasn’t going to give anyone the opportunity to spy. She unhooked Oriole’s grappling hook from her belt, propelling herself up to the slant-angled roof of Shade’s Valley. Pulling herself upwards, she ducked behind the chimney before pulling out Oriole’s spyglass next. From up here she had an eagle’s eye view of the surrounding area, and anyone that might still be lingering around…

She didn’t have to look long to find the bodies and the blood.

In the dead-end back alley, four corpses in gray robes, bloody and mangled with broken limbs bent at unnatural angles and faces that resembled squashed tomatoes. There were traces of blood on the street, already rapidly being covered by the falling ash. There was no doubt in her mind that this was Miss Del’s work? But where was Del herself?

No… it couldn’t be.

It wasn’t possible.

Andromeda gripped the spyglass hard enough that the flimsy brass creaked under her hands - the sensation brought her back to the present, just in time to hear the sound of footsteps against cobblestone, not even bothering to conceal their presence. She stiffened, ducking behind the safety of the chimney. Whatever those footsteps belonged to, it wasn’t Del.

A couple seconds later, a man in a gray robe made his way down the street. She couldn’t see his face very well from where she was positioned, but the scowl on his face under the hood was as clear as day. He was grumbling something under his breath, but it was difficult to tell from here. All she could do was watch and wait as the robed man bent down to pick up one of the bodies, his sleeves rolling up as he did so. Angry red marks lined his swollen wrist, as if someone had put enough pressure on the skin there to break it.

The injury seemed to pain him, but not enough to hinder him from dragging the body into the center of the alleyway, dropping it, and moving to the next one. She’d thought perhaps he was recovering the bodies, but the longer she watched him, the more obvious it became that he was only piling them up to dispose of them. When he finished, he straightened, clicking his tongue.

“Only four of them. I expected more of her. The legends, it seems, have been greatly exaggerated.”

Her.

And that was the moment Andromeda saw red.

She didn’t give a fuck about stealth anymore. She didn’t care if she lost the element of surprise. Andromeda wasn’t really thinking at all in that moment. The only thing in her mind was the roar of anger as her lips parted in a scream, so raw that it tore at her throat, and the feeling of a knife in her hand as she threw herself off the roof, hurtling right towards the robed kidnapper.

“What the -“

Those were the last words he managed to choke out before the assassin threw them both to the ground, using his body to break her fall. The impact stung like a bitch, but she didn’t give a damn about the pain. She’d felt worse before. The only thing she cared about was wrapping her hands around this bastard’s neck and squeezing the life out of him.

“Where is she?”

The man let out a startled wheeze, face beginning to turn red. He scrabbled to knock her off of him, but she could feel his pulse under her fingertips, the way it began to slow, the life draining out of him with each passing second.

Not good enough.

“WHERE DID YOU TAKE HER?” Andromeda screamed, her voice bouncing off of the walls. “WHERE? GIVE HER BACK!”

“I didn’t know… she had… a stray mutt.”

Andromeda’s world tilted on its axis as the ground and the sky inverted, pain blossoming in the side of her face - she hit the orphanage wall with a THUD, crumpling to the ground in a heap. Her vision was blurry as she cracked an eye open, barely able to follow the cultist picking himself off the ground. The remnants of fire magic sizzled at his fingertips, the spell he’d fired at her. Everything ached. The cultist stared down at her, lips curling into a disdainful sneer.

“You caught me by surprise, but you’re going to have to do better than that if you want to smother the undying flame.”

She propped herself up onto her elbow, every part of her being screaming in protest. It was only hatred and fear that kept her moving at this point, bringing two fingers to her lips. The shrill whistle pierced the air, forcing the cultist to pause in confusion - though not for long. He turned his attention back to Andromeda, arching a brow before taking a step forward.

“Our instructions were only to bring her alive. The rest are just kindling.” He gestured towards the pile of bodies on the ground. “You can burn with the others.”

In his distraction he missed the baby Drake that attacked itself to his face, scratching and biting with her claws. Andromeda managed to part her lips in a strained smile at the sight of her loyal pet tearing his face into shreds.

Attagirl.

“Get off of me, contemptible creature-!”

Calliope detached herself from his face before he could grab her, white wings fluttering as she hovered around him like a gnat, breathing out a burst of cold air along his face. The cultist fired firebolt after firebolt at her, which Calliope nimbly dodged before swooping in for another attack. The fight gave Andromeda enough time to grab another one of her daggers, thrown right at the cultist’s stomach.

And another.

And another.

Ice splintered from the wounds, blood freezing as soon as it was exposed to open air.^[1,2] The cultist’s mouth hung open in shock, staring down at the blades protruding from his pudgy gut. But Andromeda wasn’t done. It wasn’t enough. Never enough. She was moving purely on instincts at this point, and the desire to kill and main until this man was six feet underground. She threw daggers at the robed man until she had no more knives to throw, no more hurt to inflict.

A bit overkill, perhaps. The man was already dead, and Andromeda was alone. No Del, no Master Cyran. Just her, and the realization she’d failed.

Body giving out without the adrenaline to support it, Andromeda fell to her knees, and let out another haunted scream.

---

Further investigation had yielded frustratingly little results. No one had as much information as his first contact, and if they had anything to say, it was just some made up story in an attempt to win coin that Cyran’s insight rune picked up on instantly. Those thieves left empty handed, and Cyran, with only his mounting frustration.

It was beginning to grow late. There was little sun to be seen in the cloud and ash covered land, though even under the gray sky Cyran could tell that it was getting darker. He’d been out for hours by now, surely, long enough that the sun had begun to set. He’d lost track of time entirely.

But he was growing desperate.

Perhaps I should see if Zarius knows anything about the harbingers of smoke… it was a targeted lead, and Zarius often had his fingers in a lot of pies. If he hadn’t heard anything about this group, Cyran would be surprised. It was that urgency that led him down familiar streets to the Rookery, a haste to his movements that made any remaining inhabitants of the city shy away from the masked man who wasn’t even attempting to be subtle at the moment. Just one more stop, and then he could return home -

No.

Dread, unlike anything he’d ever known, curled in his chest. All at once, Cyran stumbled, losing his footing from the sheer force of the emotions that were assaulting him. Panic, overwhelming fear that spread from his chest all the way to his feet, fight or flight response beginning to set in. No, no, no, they can’t take me, not here.

Thoughts that weren’t his assaulted his mind, fleeting impressions of pain from a battle, sluggishness, stay awake stay awake stay awake! Rational thought had eluded him entirely until he couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe. From under the mask a single eye darted back and forth, searching for an escape route, somewhere to flee so they couldn’t get him-

Who couldn’t get him? A distant part of his mind whispered that this wasn’t real, these sensations, but that part was drowned out by every instinct in his body gripping him and screaming in protest. Cyran clutched at his chest with one hand, the other raised out in front of him as he stumbled blindly, looking for purchase, until he managed to find a wall to lean against, running face-first into it, fingers scrabbling at stone foundations the same way she was gripping at the floor until her fingers were raw and bloody in an attempt to keep herself here, with him-

Cyran squeezed his eye shut, feeling no more centered even with a wall against his side, holding him steady. The word spun around him, a dizzying merry-go-round of panic, sinking realization, and regret. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

And then…

Nothing.

The fear gripping his heart dissipated as quickly and suddenly as it had begun, leaving Cyran panting and alone where he was desperately hanging onto a wall to keep himself centered. His body felt weak, even though he hadn’t even encountered any battle.

What the hell was that? A psychic attack from an enemy? No - it couldn’t be. The enchantments he’d imbrued in his ear-sheaths protected him from mental assault. If not an enemy, then…

Del.

As soon as the thought occurred to him he knew it - whatever the sensation had been - came from her. Instinctually, he gripped the ring on his finger, clasping the cool metal as if it were a lifeline. Squeezed it once, a prayer.

Please. Don’t leave me.

But their bond felt empty.

No, no, no, no, please, please, please -

His legs were shaky as he forced himself to stand, sweat coating his face. He didn’t care. He had to make it to the orphanage - he had to know. Everything would be fine… it had to be, right? She’d fought off some would-be assailant and carried the fight, and that was why he wasn’t feeling the panic anymore. Because she was Del, and she always managed to come out on top. She was a fighter… even when the odds were against her, she never gave up. She had to be okay, or else he’d just left her to get hurt while he galavanted around the city playing detective.

(The lies were flimsy, even to him. If Del had actually won, he would have felt her relief.)

The trip back to the orphanage was a blur. He wasn’t sure what route he’d taken, or how long it took to get him there. All he knew was that he had to get home as fast as possible. He didn’t relax even when he saw Shade’s Valley, still standing strong. It hadn’t been burnt down or collapsed again in his absence. Perfectly still and silent… save for an odd sound, almost like a dove’s cry. A strange shuffling sensation. Summoning Spell Slicer and Cold Steel to his hands, Cyran made his way closer to the sound, sticking to the shadows.^[3] around the corner of the street, into a back alley, he found it - the source of the noise.

Andromeda.

The young woman was curled up on the ground next to a pile of bodies, shaking like a leaf. Cyran’s heart felt as cold as ice as he stepped closer to her.

“… Eleanor? What’s the matter?”

Andromeda snapped up to look at him, face blotchy, ash-streaks down her cheeks where her face was covered in tears and snot. Dark eyes shimmered as she stared up at him, eyes widening. She sniffled, sounding more broken than he’d ever heard her.

“Master Cyran, I can’t find her anywhere. She - they must have taken her, she’s gone.”

The Harbingers of Smoke abduct powerful people.

The children had never been the intended target.

“No, no, you’re wrong, you have to be.” He should have been comforting her - here his apprentice was, distraught by whatever had happened to her, and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to say anything while his world crumbled around him without his pillar to support it. Andromeda just had to be wrong. She had to have made a mistake.

There was no way Del was taken. If she was, then it was his fault for leaving her alone, not being there for her!

“She’s here somewhere, she has to be. There’s no one that could have possibly been strong enough to do such a thing.”

But Andromeda only shook her head.

“I… I heard him. He said she was the only one they needed. He had these injuries on him. Like she fought back.” She wiped at her face, letting out an ugly sob. “I failed, Cyran. I couldn’t help her.”

Neither could I.

There was nothing Cyran could say to make her feel better. There was nothing he could say to help himself. His body moved on autopilot, taking his cloak off and draping it around her shoulders. Andromeda let out a shuddering breath, grabbing onto the material and getting snot and blood all over it.

He glanced at the body next to her.

Gray robes. Five knives sticking from his torso.

He scooped down to pick her up. It was a sign of how truly distraught she was that she didn’t offer any resistance - merely allowed Cyran to rest her head on his shoulder and press a kiss to her head.

“Come on. Let’s get you inside. I’ll take care of this.”

How, he didn’t know.

“I failed.” Andromeda repeated, barely a whimper. “I failed.”

Everything was unraveling around him and it was taking all his strength not to fall apart while he took Andromeda inside and set her down on one of the plush chairs in the foyer. She gripped his sleeve for a moment; refusing to let go.

“No - no, Eleanor… she’s not gone. Knowing her, she’s escaped her captors and she’s on her way back here right now, you’ll see.” He managed a wobbly smile. “I’ll go outside and look for her. Maybe she’s hiding around here. Where’s Oriole?”

“In the bunker, with the kids.”

“You go back and stay with them. I need to find Del.”

“Master Cyran…” Was that pity or concern in Andromeda’s eyes? It was difficult to tell, and Cyran didn’t stay long to find out. He made his way outside, fiddling with the ring around his finger as he returned to the bodies. Five in total - four that were in a pile, that looked more like bags of bones and meat than corpses, and the one that Andromeda had killed. No sign of Del, save for the signs of battle that he would recognize anywhere. She’d clearly fought someone, killed a couple of people… and then?

No. She was okay. She had to be.

He continued forward when his boot caught something underfoot. Something soft. He stopped, lifting his leg up to look at what he’d caught when he noticed it.

The pile of golden flower petals.

---

1. Ice Rune (warlord)
2. Holy Enchantment (Warlord)
3. Summon: Possession

"Mreee?"

The Ironwood Ore and Timbre had taken a back seat for the reconstruction of Shade's Valley, something Del had insisted upon. The kids needed their spaces to sleep far more than she needed a designated forge. Still, she had been able to salvage the anvil and make a makeshift forge and carpentry spot in what passed for the back yard, a small little set up walled off by boards of wood where Del could make the things needed to make the repairs go as smoothly as possible.

The little Flitten Cyran had given her when her shop opened not so long ago had been brought along, kept safe in Del's room and keeping her, and the children who came to play, company.

Only, there was one missing. The big lady who smelled like wood and metal and sometimes flowers, who he could smell, faintly, but not see. But there was a scent that was just as familiar, that of steel and ice also flowers, sometimes, the ones that he brought to the big lady.

Drawn out of hiding by the sudden silence and the lingering scent of metal flowers, the Flitten squirmed his way out from a pile of wood and stepped his tiny way across the battle-ridden alley. He stumbled on his bouncy path on something in the ground, before coming to a proper halt at the pile of gold-leaf flowers. The petals swirl gently in the wind, kicking up in the breeze as Chip leaned down gave them a sniff. He lifted his head up to look at Cyran, mewling plaintively, his ears flicked back in distress.

Where Chip had staggered, there was a series of divots dug into the firm rock of the ground, as though it had been dug out with fingers. The stone that had been removed was nowhere to be found at the moment, either carried away with whomever had dug it up, or otherwise swept up by the fighting.

Chip gets distracted for a moment by a billowing petal and pounces on it, victorious, before getting distracted once again by looking down the alley. A small trail of gold leaf petals, strewn amongst the ash on the ground. Chip decides his current prey is enough and comes back to Cyran, touching his shoe with his paw, the golden petal held in his tiny mouth as a gift to the Specter. He mewls again, the sound slightly muffled.

No. No. No.

“No!”

There’s a funny sort of feeling that accompanies the sensation of loss - it is one that Cyran is as intimate with as an old bedfellow. There is a sort of shuddering feeling, like a candle being extinguished, as the last bit of hope dies out in your chest. There is anger, an empty sort of loathing as you look for someone to pin the blame on, only to realize that there is no one that you can fault but yourself. You are the one that has caused this to happen - your inaction, your uselessness. That your patience has made you slow to act, and it has made you too soft and weak to protect what you vowed you would. And then you reach the inevitable conclusion, the truth that had been eluding you for so long. It should have been you. It should have been you.

He’d been branded with loss so many times before - when he was separated from Marlow, when he nearly lost Vi’ira in the search for the Sol Stone, when the orphanage burnt down in front of his very eyes, when he thought he’d seen Cirice die… and now this. How many times would he have to be the one to watch this happen? How many times was he destined to fall? What good were a murderer’s hands when all they could do was enact revenge for a wrong?

Cyran only had his love and his blades, and what fucking good did that do others if he wasn’t smart enough or strong enough to actually keep them safe? Was this his punishment, or a reminder that it was foolish of him to think he was anything more than a half-formed monster, a shadow-touched criminal who flew too close to the sun and got surprised when his wax wings melted and he plummeted, plummeted, plummeted -

The sound of something shifting set him on edge immediately - the sound, no louder than a mouse skittering around, forced him to grab Spell Slicer and Cold Steel once more, bringing himself to his feet. Devastation melted away into preparedness, and something deeper. More primal. The very air grew darker around him, the shadows reaching out to comfort him, until even the scant rays of sunlight peeking through ash-clouds were afraid to touch him for fear of facing his wrath - a gaunt look hung in the pitch of his only visible eye, a promise. I’m going to fucking kill you.

He was slipping.

And with it, his fine-tuned composure.

But there were no enemies abound, much to Cyran’s disappointment, the hatred churning in his gut burning to be quelled. Instead, from the pile of wood, a little creature popped its head out with an inquisitive mrrp?

“Oh, Chip…”

The hatred, the loathing, it evaporated into something manageable. Anger ebbed and flowed until it morphed into something that he hadn’t wanted to confront, the emotion he’d desperately been trying to stave off -

Misery.

Cyran crouched down, pulling his mask off to hang it from his belt, idly wiping at his wet cheeks. A sadness so deep and ancient that it could not be contained within himself, desperately searching for a way to be free. Tears mingled with ash on his face, though he couldn’t be bothered to clean himself up. Instead, he reached out with a trembling finger, running over the scruff of his forehead. Chip responded with another inquisitive mewl, ears flicking back as he tilted his head, trying to piece together what could possibly be bothering Cyran before turning his attention back to the golden petals that had been scattered by the wind.

The flitten nearly tripped over a small mark in the concrete, an odd sort of abnormality - a mark, like stone had been scooped with a spoon. No, perhaps not a spoon. They almost looked like… hand marks, where someone had grabbed onto earth in a desperate bid to hold themselves down. Silent, he opened his palm, mimicking the movements that had left such an impression. As he did so, a soft feeling on his boot caught his attention. He turned, watching as Chip held out a golden petal to him, eyes sparkling. Cyran sniffled, reaching out to allow the flitten to hop into his open palm.

“Is this for me?” He asked, gently plucking the petal from Chip’s mouth, the familiar sensation of softness in between his fingers. “This is wonderful, Chip. Thank you.” He’d seen these bursts of brilliant gold in Del’s hair before, usually only when she was happy or flustered. Her anger was an entirely different storm - thunder and howling rain, the smell of ozone. In the midst of a fight, she would not have simply grown a garden. This was purposeful.

The divots, where she fought even when outnumbered. The flowers, left behind for him to know that she’d been taken, a cry for help.

Oh, my fighter, you never give up, do you? Even when the depths threaten to pull you under.

It was not an entirely bad fate to fall, he supposed. If he was destined to fall, then it meant he would always find Del where she had been submerged.

He straightened, moving to put Chip on his shoulder. It was a Herculean effort to take in a breath and calm himself. He couldn’t allow himself to be lost in his emotions. Then he’d be no good to anyone, and Del was still out there. The Harbingers, they likely needed her alive - that was why they’d gone through all the effort to take her. She wasn’t dead, that much was for sure. He could still feel their connection, muted though it was. Her soul was still within him, a reminder that her heart still beat, somewhere in Darkveil.

And wherever that was, he would find her.

“What do you suppose they took her for?” Cyran asked Chip, voicing his thoughts out loud. It was easier to think through the problem than allow himself adrift in the sea of grief once more - logic and rationality became the anchor to keep him steady. “The crown wants her. That much we know. But the Harbingers are a cult…”

A cult that kidnapped powerful people.

Del had been someone powerful in the past. Cyran didn’t know the details - but there was someone who did. Someone who knew exactly why the Harbingers might be interested in taking Del for themselves.

He had to pay a visit to Eameia.

It was the only lead he had. Without knowing where the Harbingers had taken her, he had to start with what he could.

They would not be able to hide for long.

“What do you say, Chip? Are you up to saving your master?” Cyran asked, grabbing the mask from his belt once more to affix it to his face - Cyran wasn’t needed right now. Softness wouldn’t help Del right now. She needed him to be the Specter.

The shadows stirred around him, nervous at their master’s grim resolve. Cyran ignored them as he made his way back inside the orphanage, where Andromeda had yet to leave the chair he’d placed her in. His voice was cold when he spoke. “I’m going after Del. The cultists shouldn’t return - if my suspicions are correct, they only wanted her. Watch over the orphanage while I’m gone. Dinner is in the icebox, and bedtime is at eight. And if any more robed figures arrive…”

He unhooked Mercy’s Lament from his belt and tossed it to her.^[1]

“Stick this in their back for me.” He hissed.

Andromeda stared at the jagged blade in her hands, gripping the hilt with blood-stained hands and grim determination.

“Give them hell.”

Oh, he thought, I’m going to give them a nightmare.

He locked the orphanage behind him, clenching his hand into a fist at his side before calling upon the darkness. “To me!” He barked.

And they had no choice but to obey.

Around him, the darkness coalesced into a figure made of shade and shifting darkness, a mare of pure darkness so potent it looked solid.^[2,3]

The steed bowed its head at the Specter, reverent. He silently grabbed the reins of the mount, pulling himself onto its back before taking onto the streets.

Just hold on a moment longer, Del. I’m coming for you.

He only hoped that she could feel his promise, wherever she was.

---

1. Dagger of Torment (Fall Shop Item) given to Andromeda
2. Summon Mount
3. Nightmare Steed

Chip gives off little buzzing purrs, amplified by the flutter of his wings, as Cyran picks him up. The Flitten has no way of knowing what the Steel-y Man is asking him, but Chip is enthusiastic nontheless. He nuzzles the steel-y man's thumb with his chin, gathering little pets for himself before scampering up to his shoulder to perch, and watch the world go by, as Cyran goes to war.

The streets of Darkveil are quieter tonight, either because of the general lack of safety in a city in the midst of rebuilding itself, or, because of the bumps in the night that have terrorized the terrible. Cyran himself is a vision of wrath, his nightmarish steed cantering through the streets on his path to rescue Del. Chip burrows himself into the safety of Cyran's hood as they go, enjoying the wind on his fuzzy little face as they take off in search of the Warm Lady.

Meanwhile...

The paralytic has started to wear off, but not fully. She is in and out, not able to see where she is due to a blindfold, not able to fight back as the poison in her veins dances along her nerves, wracking her with shudders instead of any meaningful movement, before it forces her under once again. The things that stir her, though, Del knows are not her own. A terrible, earth shattering grief that makes her choke on her breath; a vicious and unstoppable wrath, not unlike that of an unrelenting blizzard descending on a mountainside; a desperation, a desire to reach out and locate, find, unite, an affection so powerful that experiencing it is the fullest of all the moments she is awake, until the paralytic eventually wears off.

But before that, in those moments of cognizance where her body struggles to shake off the effects of the poison, little bursts of gold-leaf petals trickle from her hair. Thoughts of him she seizes firmly, grasping life-preservers while she is drowning at sea, memories that she cherishes more than she had words to describe. Meeting him in the shadows; curled up together at the top of a spire on Hearth's Day; the shock of their new connection; fighting alongside one another; dancing together; resting together; cherished, protected, shielding, affectionate, tender, gentle, warm, playful, adoring-- if these were to be her last moments, then at least she would not spend them in regret. She would hold fast to these memories, and hold them dear to her heart, and not give in to despair.

They only last a few seconds at a time, but they have to be enough. Each time she rouses, her thoughts go to Cyran immediately; how could she cause him so much pain through her own failure. She didn't want to leave. It wasn't his fault, it was never his fault. She hadn't been strong enough. And he would put himself at risk to save her.

Del also knew, in her heart of hearts, that she could not stop Cyran even if that option was available to her. No one would be able to stop him. And so, she leaves a trail of love and memory behind her as she slips in and out of consciousness. She might have failed to evade her pursuers this time, but she could make Cyran's pursuit of her easier, safer in the long run, so he would not have to guess. And if he could not get there in time, then... at least, he might know her final thoughts were of him. Comfort offered to him, though she could not see him-- she could not bear to stand him feeling so hurt, and knowing she was the cause.

As the petals scatter, Del is pulled under once more, until she next awakens.

The Rookery had been no more spared from the quake’s destruction than Shade’s Valley had. Cyran had been too wrapped up in his own rebuilding efforts to do little more than pay a visit - partially unintentional, but partially because he was not ready to have the conversation he was sure was coming. The past few months had only proven that it wasn’t safe for him to keep an orphanage here in the city… he wanted to avoid questions from Zarius for as long as he could while he didn’t know how to answer them. His avoidance would cost him, he knew - now he was in no state to field off the heavy conversation he knew would inevitably come. Del’s kidnapping, the cult, the business with the crown, the quakes… the world was closing in around them, and Cyran didn’t know what to do anymore.

He was just a man, for gods’ sakes.

A man who promised murder to anyone who tried to stand in his way.

While the Rookery was being rebuilt, Zarius had accommodated for whoever needed lodgings - Cyran himself had declined, not wanting to put the fellblood out. They’d all been devastated by the quake. But he was given the address of where Zarius and some of his other family members and allies were staying, under the stipulation that he told not a single soul of their location, which would serve him just fine. He knew the way to the house Eameia was staying in, even on horseback. The scenery blurred around him, his body nearly moving on instinct. He hardly had time for rational thought, not with the hatred burning in his core, fueling him to urge Nightmare faster, blazing a warpath through the streets. Anyone still left lingering in the streets were smart enough to stay out of his way, the Specter shrouded in an aura of death that promised danger for anyone stupid enough to stop him.

When he made it to the safe house, he tugged sharply on Nightmare’s reins, pulling the steed to a harsh stop. She obeyed, silent save her hooves clipping against ash-cobblestone while Cyran gently guided her into a back alley. If he strode up to the entrance atop her, that would attract too much attention, and he didn’t have time for attention and questions. He needed to be discrete.

He stepped under the dark of an awning, allowing the shadows to cloak him.^[1] It was regrettably easy work, sneaking into a fortified compound. Then again, things were a lot smoother when one wasn’t looking for danger, electing to merely sneak past a handful of armed men who were only looking for visible threats. He didn’t need to take care of them. Terribly easy, too, to bypass doors entirely by tracing one into the wall.^[2] There was only one thing that he was here for, after all.

The fellblood woman enjoying a relaxed afternoon in her foyer.

Cyran dropped his invisibility, stepping into the light. Perhaps it should have occurred to him that it was not polite to sneak up on someone in their private lodgings, no matter how temporary. But he wasn’t exactly thinking right now. Not while he was still so frantic, only a singular thought looping through his mind - she’s gone, she’s gone…

“She’s gone.”

He spoke without preamble, voice raw with anguish. He didn’t have to say who she was - Eameia would be able to guess easily enough.

“She’s gone, and I wasn’t fast enough to stop them from taking her. I thought that she would be safer here, where the crown can’t touch her, but…” But it wasn’t the crown that had taken her, this time. Cyran straightened, attempting to scrap together some semblance of composure. “I’m going after her. But I need to understand why they want her. I know you want to protect her. I do too. And I can’t do that when I’m in the dark about everything. Please, Eameia.”

The room was littered with scrolls, tomes, and loose pieces of parchment and paper. Many boasted complex arcane sigils and glyphs whose meaning was beyond the comprehension of someone unfamiliar with wizardry and the equations of spellcraft.

Eameia was sitting at a table in the center of the well lit room, combing through the pages of a large weathered book bound in leather. The edges of the pages were yellowed and brittle from age.

She looked up abruptly at the sound of Cyran's voice, startled by his sudden appearance out of seemingly thin air.

The young fellblood stared at him for a moment, processing the words and their greater meaning before a look of dismay overtook the previously surprised expression on her face. She looked down at the pages of the book again as if it held any relevance to the situation, but it did little to offer any assistance in addressing the distraught elf.

She took a breath and got up from her chair before stepping across the room over to a large mirror mounted on the wall. Tracing her fingers through the air, she started casting some sort of spell on the reflective surface.

"Can you tell if she is alive or not through your ring?"

At her inquiry, Cyran twisted the ring on his finger out of reflex. It provided little in the way of comfort, knowing that the other end felt cold and empty. There had been bursts here and there - as if she were drifting in and out of consciousness. The emotions he gleamed from her were never pleasant, but they meant she was alive. “As far as I can tell, they knocked her unconscious when they took her. I can… feel her, drifting in and out.”

"Did you see who it was who took her? Any description at all?" She asked, though her focus stays firmly on the mirror.

That was far easier for him to answer.

“Cultists, in gray robes. The Harbingers of Smoke. They want her alive for… something. I don’t know why, or how long they’ll keep her that way.” There was an unspoken question in his tone - a continuation of their last conversation. He’d let it go last time, but there was no more denying it. He needed to know.

She frowned. "Our intel suggests that some of the people after Miss Delaela are not merely interested in her bounty, but are after her for themselves."

There's a moment of hesitation from the young fellblood. It was not that she didn’t understand the dire nature of the situation. There was no need to protect Del's past if Del ended up dying.

"Miss Delaela, at least the version of her from the past, was incredibly powerful. She was a weapon from the Rune Wars at the command of King Darius. She does not have the same power that she used to, but these people may believe that she does and wish to steal that power from her by any means possible. They very well may kill her in their vain attempts."

A weapon.

If Cyran were not already so distraught, his world would have tilted on its axis at that information. Not out of shock or fear of what Del once was, but sadness. The Rune wars… how long had she been imprisoned? How had she been imprisoned? To be used for the will of another and cast aside, it made his blood boil.

And now the Harbingers wanted to use her, to turn her into that once more, for whatever reason.

To hell with them all. I’ll kill them all before they can try.

The young mage reached for Cyran's hand and held it in hers. She felt the cold press of Del's Eternity Ring against her skin and tried to connect with Del's soul through it. Her mind was bombarded with flashes of the millenia of memories she had gained from Del once before and her knees nearly buckled and took her to the floor.

There was a shifting in the corner of the room and Cyran spotted Eirynor, eyes locked on him with one hand on the hilt of his rapier. Had the tall half-elf always been standing there? Cyran hadn't seen anyone else in the room when he revealed himself.

"I am fine," Eameia spoke, her voice strained as she closed her eyes tight and quelled the waves of memories.

Eirynor did not move an inch, ready to spring to her defense even against a friend…no, a foe he could not hope to compete with in the slightest.

Eameia gripped Cyran's hand tighter and pushed through the memories, focusing just on Del as she is now and her bond with Cyran. She muttered a few words under her breath and opened her eyes as she managed to complete the spell.

The magic took hold of the mirror and the surface began to distort like a still pond disturbed by a rock being dropped at its edges. Eameia and Cyran's reflections were warped, stretched and squashed until they were replaced with a completely different scene that slowly stabilized and comes into focus.

A series of interconnected streets, intimately familiar to both mage and assassin. Darkveil, as eerily empty as it always was, save a handful of gray-robed individuals, dragging a familiar elven woman. She looked worse for wear, but alive, the rise and fall of her chest slow but steady enough. As Cyran and Eameia watched, Cyran, too horrified to speak, and Eameia too focused on her spell, Del’s eyes fluttered once - not quite conscious, but between the waking and dreaming worlds. At the same time, a burst of emotion fluttered through Cyran’s ring, as if confirming everything they were seeing was true.

And as she held onto that thin thread of wakefulness, her feelings shifted, forcing herself to feel some semblance of happiness. On the mirror, her rampant curls erupted in a shower of golden flowers, fluttering through the wind and leaving a trail on the cobblestone behind her. From the vision, it was impossible to tell where they were taking her from direction alone, and difficult to tell how close they were to their destination, but the sight made his heart ache all the same.

Even now, she still trusted him to find her.

The shadows stirred around him, unbidden.

“I know those streets.” He murmured, twisting the ring once more. His mind, focused on a singular word, a mantra- Del, Del, Del. He’d already failed her once today. He would not do so again, even if it meant destroying every last cultist in his wake. Perhaps if he watched longer, he would have time to glean where they were taking her, but he didn’t have time. If he followed them now, he might be able to catch up with the clues Del was leaving him.

He had to act fast, catch her before they…

Cyran closed his eyes, memories flitting through his mind. Of him and Del stargazing under the infinite sky, of dancing under the sparkling lights under the chandeliers on the Judeia. Running through thunderstorms without a care in the world, the way she smiled and laughed when they were alone. Her joy, her selflessness, her anger.

Her.

Just Del.

“Whoever she was in the past, she’s not a weapon to me.” He said firmly, his resolve renewed. “She is the love of my life. She’s a person. I won’t let them turn her into that again.”

His resolve renewed, he straightened as he turned to look at Eameia.

“Thank you. I… I don’t know how to repay you.” She could just as easily have said I told you so and left him to find her on his own, but she hadn’t wasted time jumping in to help him. Help her, really. He bowed at the waist, respectful. “I’ll settle for owing you a debt. Whatever you need, you may call upon me. This, I swear.” As he straightened, his single eye glimmered with unshed tears, muddled silver that shone even in the dark. He could fix this. He would.

“Just… thank you.”

There was nothing else for him to say. He nodded back at Eirynor, apologetic for breaking in, before leaving the duo to their evening in peace. He’d gotten everything he needed.

Outside once more, he made his way to Nightmare, who stood still, waiting for her directions. Cyran gripped tightly to the reins, concentrating as he recalled where he’d seen Del. He knew these streets well enough - he just had to find the trail.

And then he set to the streets once more, anguish morphing into something like dark determination.

If they wanted a weapon, he would give them a weapon.

---

1. Dark Form (Shadow Dancer III)
2. Create Door

Chip emerges from the interior of Cyran's hood to look at the lady with branches on her head, but knows from his time in the Warm Lady's forge to simply remain watching, not speaking. The two-legged ones are feeling very intensely about things, Chip can tell. He trills at the Branches Lady when she touches her head, waggling his antennae at her in comfort, before he is distracted by the images in the mirror. First, he is distracted by his own, puffing up in alarm at this interloper who is ALSO on the Steel-y Man's shoulder, and again when the reflections shift and change and warp and...

There! The Warm Lady! Chirp mrrps, fluttering his wings in excitement. Then, the spell ends, and his little ears flick back. He looks up at Cyran and rubs his chin along his collar, and settling back down into the hood. There was still adventure afoot, and Warm Lady's to find. He chirps at Branches Lady and The Quiet One as once agin, Steel-y Man leads them out and to the streets of Darkveil.

Once more astride Nightmare and heading in a direction he knew, it wouldn't take Cyran long to find signs of his quarry and their cargo. Fluttering among the motes of ash on the cobbled streets were gleaming flickers of gold-leaf petals, trying to lead Cyran in the right direction, comfort him, or perhaps both. And on that path, there were hurried footprints, trampling through the streets at a hurried pace.

Through the ring, Cyran feels a flash of awareness, distress, anger, pain, and a flash of vindication before their connection falls silent again. A few streets up, though, and to the right, a shout of anger and pain echoes through the street-- decidedly not Del's voice, as well as some quieter sounds of arguing before all falls silent once again.

It wouldn't be long before Cyran found the source.

A dip in the alcove, covered in shadow, would be all to visible to Cyran's keen eyes. One of the hooded grey figures, nursing what looked like a leg broken at the knee, hides in the darkness, awaiting anyone passing to ambush them and take their means of travel to get back to safety. It was a terrible thing, to be exposed. But he wasn't like the others. He wasn't dead.

Not yet, anyway.

A flash of pain, a burst of pride and satisfaction. The emotions were stronger this time - Cyran could feel the sudden burst as he rode atop Nightmare, following the trail of scattered gold, the weeping petals that Del had left behind for him. He paused, the sudden blunt sensation hitting like a hammer. The yelp of pain that echoed through the silence in the following moments, an unfamiliar masculine voice, only furthered his alarm.

What was she doing? The sensations were overwhelming, and none of them pleasant. He could only assume that she’d been hurt somehow, though that didn’t explain the pride. The only thing that made sense was…

Del was fighting back in her bursts of consciousness. And she’d managed to get one of them.

Even when she was defenseless and at their mercy, she wouldn’t stop giving them hell every step of the way.

She must be so tired.

They were close. Cyran couldn’t afford to sit on his ass for long, not when he could practically reach out and touch her. He nudged Nightmare with his boot, urging the horse forward once more. “Iorwe!”

Nightmare responded immediately, taking to the streets with renewed speed, twisting and turning through alleyways. He was so close… just a bit faster and he could reach them, reach her -

It was only his keen eyes and familiarity with the shadows that he spotted the injured, hiding figure tucked in the darkened corner of the alley in the moments behind the ambush.^[1]

There was a tense moment that magic crackled in the air, like electric energy gathering in a concentrated point, until fire crackled to life. Cyran caught the light flickering in the shadows, the firebolt aimed right for his head - not a blow to maim, but to kill. Instinct kicking in, Cyran waved his hand in the air, manipulating the saddle on Nightmare’s back until the buckle came undone, throwing him to the side.^[2] A risky maneuver on a galloping horse, but the force of gravity tugged him to the side, the firebolt flying harmlessly over his head as Cyran fell.

Natural grace caught him as Cyran hit the ground, tucking into a roll on ash-covered cobblestone while Nightmare continued on her gallop before slowing to a stop with the sudden loss of her master’s weight.^[3] Cyran stood, straightening to his full height as the injured cultist limped from his hiding place. From under his robe Cyran could make out the way his leg was bent at an unnatural angle, even hidden beneath layers of cloth.

Good. Even in all of his anger, the maelstrom of worry and grief, there was still a burst of sick satisfaction at the sight.

“We were told you might follow her.”

Cyran remained silent as the grave.

He wasn’t in the mood for games. Not when he still had to follow them while the trail was still hot, not while he still had time to intercept them before they escaped his grasp entirely. With a withering glower, he turned his back towards the single, injured cultist, the message clear in his language. You aren’t worth my time.

As he moved to reposition the saddle on Nightmare once more, though, a searing heat prickled at the back of his neck. Cyran tugged the horse out of the way just as the alley in front of him lit up in brilliant flame, towering over the rooftops.^[4,5] Cyran was effectively trapped in, blocked off from following Del.

No!

He grit his teeth, calling the shadows to his side as if to call forth a darkness strong enough to quell the light of the flames, desperate to keep moving, keep following after her, when a sick laugh sounded out behind him. “I’m afraid I can’t let you intercept her. Plans are in motion, and now that the flame has been sparked, there is no stopping them.”

The thin thread holding his composure together didn’t so much as snap as it did burn away, leaving behind nothing but embers and smoldering ash. Cyran whirled around, a snarl on his lips invisible by the mask on his face, nothing reflected in his only visible eye except for the cultist’s inevitable demise. “I was going to let you live.” He uttered - a death sentence.

The cultist smirked, raising up his hands, where fire danced gleefully in his palms. “How wonderfully your shadows will feed the flame.”

The first firebolt missed him narrowly as Cyran twisted out of the way, tapping his other shoulder with his hand, clicking his heels together at the same time.^[6,7] Magic surged through his body - with startling speed, he dashed across the stone in a zig-zagging motion, dodging bolt after bolt that struck harmless stone right at his heels with enough heat to leave scorch marks and singe his hair. The cultist’s eyes widened, panicked as he failed to hit the target that was too fast for him to even see. With one hand, he threw up a wall of flame between himself and the Specter -

Too slow.

One moment, Cyran was on the ground, and the next, hovering in the air right behind the cultist, his leg hoisted in the air, the executioner’s guillotine. Gravity did most of the work as Cyran brought the knife from his boot down on the cultist’s neck, spraying a ribbon of red across the ground below him. The ring of fire around them extinguished before the cultist’s body hit the ground.

Steel clicked against stone as Cyran landed gracefully, trailing more blood along the ground. He grimaced, retracting the knives in his boots once more. How far he’d gone, that the only lament he had for this man’s death was the mess he’d left behind. It was only fitting. Cyran turned his back on the body, making his way back to Nightmare.

No more distractions.

---

1. Shadow Sight (Shadow Dancer I)
2. Minor Trickery
3. Cat's Grace
4. Ring of Fire - Cultist
5. Expanded Mind (Astral Soul I)
6. Quicken
7. Ice Skates

Cyran's journey would take a little while-- not long, but enough time for the ones in their grey robes to carry their unconscious and now bleeding captive into their hideaway, down into a shack on the outskirts of town. The door was unceremoniously through open as they move briskly through the shack. Not much longer. This place wouldn't matter, soon enough. It would burn with all the rest.

Avatars of destruction were so particular about the totality of their devastation, after all.

"Did anyone hear that, back there?" one whispers, tentative and more than a little uncertain.

In the darkness, he gets a derisive snort in response. "What do you think you heard, Acolyte?"

"...Utger, my lord," he mumbles, furitive. The Acolyte glances over his shoulder as the others carry the troublesome woman towards the hatch in the floor that led to the basement. "I thought I heard him scream. I thought--"

"Shhhh," the man purrs, reaching out his hand to gently cup the Acolyte's. The young man freezes, petrified rather than soothed. "Fear not for Brother Utger. He has accomplished his task. He is one with the Torrential Flame, now."

The Acolyte's confusion becomes stronger than his fear, and he stammers. "But-- forgive me, my lord, but you said he would rejoin us, with new--" The words die in his mouth as the hand cupping his face grips his jaw suddenly, holding the Acolyte's face in the vise of his grip. The serene smile never falters.

"He has rejoined us, Acolyte. His soul is one with the smoke. And his end has ensured we will have all we need." Now, the priest's expression takes on a livid, derisive snarl. "Do you trust in our Lord and Master? The Flame Eternal? Imperator of Smoke?"

The Acolyte swallows, this time much too afraid to let his curiosity get the better of him. He tries to nod vigorously against the grip of the Priest's hand, though he doesn't budge. The Priest's features melt into a smile once again, his expression sanguine. "Good. Now bring her to the temple. Prepare the ritual, and be quick about it. I suspect we will have company, before long."

The Acolyte doesn't question or argue. He nods mutely, and when released, sprints away to join the others in their task. As they work, there's a sound of something scattering and hitting the floor. This time, not flowers, but rocks, pieces of cobble, that bounce on the floor in the dark. The Priest's brow arches, but it is hardly the only sound in the room. As the trap door is opened, and the entrance to the basement revealed, the group heads downstairs with their quarry in tow, opening the hidden entrance that would lead them through the underground route to the heart of the temple.

The trail had not been lost entirely. Cyran managed to get atop Nightmare once more, after the trail of petals that Del had left for him. He wouldn’t be able to intercept them - not with the lead that cultist had cost him. But his dearest Del... she was still leaving hints for him to follow. The petals led him through the city, all the way to Darkveil’s outskirts, which were even emptier than the main part of the city. Hardly anyone resided this far out here, so removed from the city and so close to Mount Drakolt. If Darkveil was a lawless city, where only the strongest and most influential survived getting their throat slit by an assassin or in the dark of an alley, then the borders of the town were even more so. Harsh weather, and no one around to hear you scream - it was the perfect environment for a cult to make their home.

And perfect for an assassin to follow in the shadows without being noticed.

When the streets started thinning out and hiding places grew fewer and further in between, Cyran left Nightmare stashed between a couple of houses for easy access. She’d come when called, and Cyran could continue on foot, where he wouldn’t be caught if someone managed to glance behind them. Not that there ended up being any risk of that, anyways. As Cyran traversed the cityscape, the only sign of Del and her kidnappers were the trail of gilded petals left in her wake, petals that Chip occasionally bounced on when Cyran bent down to examine them.

Eventually, the petals led Cyran to a nondescript shack.

The building itself was unremarkable - squat, single-storied, clearly a place that had once been inhabited by squatters but since been cleared out. As if even the homeless criminal population of Darkveil could not stand to be here while the world fell apart. But it had left an ideal place for cultists to nestle in, if the petals outside the front door were any indication.

Cyran came to a halt, Spell Slicer and Cold Steel held in a white-knuckled grip. Wraithsbane hung from his hip, Nothing tucked in his sleeve and ready to use at a moment’s notice. An arsenal of daggers ready to cut down anyone that might be lying in wait inside.

Del had once told him, I would accept every blade in your arsenal... But never forget that the man who wields them is what I cherish.

It was a lovely sentiment. One he wished he could allow himself to hold onto. But how could the man matter when he’d allowed something like this to happen? Right now, Cyran was unimportant. Nothing more than a force, a darkness that rippled through the shack as he cased the perimeter under the cloak of shadow.^[1] Unsurprisingly, empty.

He would not expect cultists to conduct their dark work so brazenly out in the open, though he would have welcomed it if they had. Assured in the fact that there were no traps or hidden mechanisms that would trigger when he stepped inside, Cyran traced a hole in the wall that allowed him to pass smoothly through as if through a door.^[2] The inside was no more impressive than the exterior - sparse furnishings, dust, and cobwebs were the only items of note. With his patch off and his darkened eye allowing him to see through the thick dust and dirt, Cyran was unimpeded by the dust that wafted through the air as he started his investigation.^[3]

The wooden floor was so covered in grime and random odds and ends that Cyran almost missed it. But as he drifted to the back wall, he nearly kicked at a couple random pieces of stone on the ground, which forced him to pause. How did stone get in here? This cabin was surrounded by nothing save for dead grass and dirt. Cyran bent down, picking up one of the pieces to examine it. The chunk seemed to be shaped rather oddly, not quite round but not ovoid, either. Only when Chip reached out to paw at the chunk of stone clutched in his hands did Cyran remember where he’d seen such a shape before.

The finger-shaped divots that had been carved from stone.

Del hadn’t just been trying to keep herself rooted. She’d been gathering more pieces to lead him along.

As Cyran blinked away fresh tears, something rippled behind him.^[4] Cyran turned, just barely catching a glimpse of darkened curls and blood-red cloth. A woefully familiar transparent figure hovered behind him, offering a joyless smile when Cyran met her gaze. He’d always found that unnerving about her. Even someone as shrewd as the Specter could not read the emotions of a woman who so rarely experienced them.

Cyran didn’t have time for her nonsense.

“Go away, Rowan.” He bid, waving a hand through her ghostly form. Rowan made no movement to vacate - she merely stood there, glancing around the room.

“Another lover, dead due to your misgivings. I’m beginning to wonder if you picked the wrong moniker, Cyran.” She almost sounded amused. “Black Widow would have been more apt, I imagine.”

Cyran bristled, every instinct in his body telling him to drive one of his daggers into her neck, but it was a moot point. She was already dead, and just trying to get under his skin in the only way she knew. He took a breath, forcing himself to calm. “She’s not gone. Not if I have anything to say about it.”

“I figured you intended to rescue her. In that case, I wish you luck.”

Cyran paused where he’d been investigating the area around Del’s hint. A few of the planks were discolored and oddly positioned in comparison to the rest - a trapdoor. He’d been content to ignore his unwelcome intruder, but Rowan’s words gave him pause. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

“Lunala knows how many trained mages, fanatics who have taken your intended from right under your nose. They must have been powerful to kidnap the illustrious Miss Asiliari. Do you seriously think you could take them all on your own?”

What was her game? She must have been leading up to something, but Cyran wouldn’t let her in his head. Perhaps she wanted to egg him on, provoke him so that he would die here and she would be free of him. He ran his fingers along the side of the trapdoor, looking for an opening. “I’ve no other choice. It’s not as if I have time to grab backup.” He grumbled. “Now, do you have a point to all this, or will you leave me in peace? I’ve learned the same technique Del used to touch you in the dream world. It would be easy for me to banish you.”

Rowan held her hands up in the air, the symbol of the universal gesture for peace.

“You think so little of me. I’m here to help.”

“Help?” Cyran let out a humorless laugh. “What could you possibly hope to gain?”

“More than you could ever imagine.”

Cyran fell silent. He’d always imagined that Rowan’s machinations ended in his death. If that was the case, she should be happy… right? But in his silence, Rowan hovered closer to him, a scientist analyzing a butterfly pinned to a corkboard. “There’s something I’ve always wondered, Cyran. Why the darkness accepted you, but rejected me.” Envy dripped from her words - she did not voice it, but Cyran could imagine what she was thinking. It should have been you that died in our home that night, and me with command over the shadows. “You were always so soft, after all. But then, when I saw you interact with Miss Del, and your lovely little goddaughter, I put it together. Your depravity Is a different flavor from mine, but it shines nonetheless. Especially when those you love are put in mortal peril.”

She hummed.

“But it’s still not enough, is it? Despite your best efforts it’s not enough to protect those you love. Marlow, Cirice, Delaela. You understand the gift I’ve given you, but you haven’t fully embraced it.”

Cyran’s shoulders stiffened. “I’m sure you could imagine how difficult it is for me to embrace something so ugly.”

“And therein lies the problem. For as long as you consider yourself distinct from the shadow, you’ll never be able to truly understand your full potential. Have you ever considered what might happen if you gave in completely?”

“I’d be more like you.”

Rowan allowed the answer to hang in the air for a moment as the cold dread sunk into Cyran as to what she was proposing.

“I can save her just fine without your meddling.” He snapped.

“Can you?” Rowan’s words were crisp and carried all the weight of someone who believed he couldn’t. “One man against gods knows how many, armed with the power of their belief. They haven’t killed yet, but who knows how long their mercy will last? Until they throw her into the pyre of the volcano? Until they hear that a rat has wormed its way in? I come extending an olive branch to you, Cyran. I’m trying to help. All I ask is one measly question. What are you willing to give away for your loved ones?”

Cyran didn’t hesitate.

“Everything.”

Rowan smirked.

“Then what do you truly have to lose?”^[5]

---

The Harbingers of Smoke, ringers of the Torrental Flame and the Kindling that Ignite the Spark rarely bothered to keep guards around their base entrance. Few who made it this far were even conscious enough to put up much of a fight. And those that made it further in did not last long when they met the High Brothers who resided further in. Gods help anyone who found themselves on the receiving end of the flame. As such, there were only three men at the bottom of the ladder when the Specter dropped down. Three unsuspecting men, believing themselves to be safe after the newest offering had been brought into the depths.

And yet.

The darkness came for them anyways, shadows so oppressive that they smothered the flame.

Cyran sliced the first with Spell Slicer, preventing him from fighting back with a firebolt. The second was taken out with Cold Steel, ice splintering along the wound on his neck. The third was a little bit faster to react, nearly letting out a cry of alarm before Cyran’s arm fully engulfed in darkness, forming clawed points all the way up to his shoulder, infested with a sickly black rot. The claws raked down his back from shoulder to pelvis, deep enough to cut through layers of gristle and bone all the way to the spine.^[6]

Those three never stood a chance. Cyran straightened, stepping over the bodies as he silently strode through the hall, further into the depths.

---

1. Dark Form
2. Create Door
3. All Eye
4. Guardian Spirit - Rowan Only
5. Taken Archmage I and Astral Soul II in pact
6. Death Swipe, enhanced by Spirit Shroud