Dauntless, unstoppable, Cyran's persistance guides him down a hallway that is carved from stone and earth. This was shaped, some time ago, by magic, he would be able to tell. Here and there, the lights that line the tunnel, for eyes not accoustomed to the shadow, flicker wanely on the walls. At Cyran's passing, his indomnitable stride wicks them out, smothering the flame with his purpose, much like the three men at the bottom of the ladder.

The tunnel goes on for a ways; it stretches in a winding path beneath the ground, but it is a singular route, making the trail easy to follow. The earth gives way to stone-- proper, laid stone, part of a caved in wall becoming the entrance to the tunnel proper, as Cyran finds himself nearing the Temple.

The abandoned temple at the edge of town was known to be dedicated to Ginma, long since deserted, driven out by looters and the crime that plagued Darkveil. It was not the first. Before that-- older, more ancient than the living memory of most of Charon itself, there existed a different temple, built into the side of the volcano. The Temple of Ginma was built on the bones of this old place, a memory descecrated with the ruin of time. It was fitting; all things return to ash. And what were the Harbingers of Smoke but heralds of the change that was coming to Darkveil? Coming to all of Charon?

It takes too long for anyone to find the bodies Cyran leaves in his wake, and indeed, the group he next encounters is caught completely unaware as Cyran approaches like the sweep of night over the land. There are two acolytes with censures of acrid incense lighting the torches in unison along the walls, while a pair of guards stand near the entrance to what looks to be another tunnel. This one has a slight slant to it, as though it descends even further. The group is filled with a nervous, excited energy, with murmured whispers of the ritual that was planned to take place; it's mainly vagueries, what it would mean, the promise of The Flame Eternal, what was foretold being satisfied at long, long last...

And then, one of the incense carriers stop abruptly, looking down the hall where Cyran is, her face inscrutable with her hood up as it is, but he can hear the edge in her voice. "...I thought I heard something," She murmurs cautiously, looking down the hallway. But all she can see is the darkness. None of the lights that had been flickering in the hallway-- pure, unadulterated shadow.

"...Should we alert the Elder Embers?" she asks nervously, turning back to the group for their opinions.

In the back of Cyran's mind, there is a flicker of awareness, a reaching out, a mental caress from her connection to his. A vague sense of chains and darkness, somewhere below him. A note of fear, the scenario painfully familiar-- one that is quelled when Delaela's mind brushes Cyran's. Then, it falls silent again, as she is pulled back into unconciousness from the administered drug.

The initiate would not get the chance to alert the Elder Embers, as she so desired.

Of the four lingering in the hallway, she was the first to fall.

The candles on the wall extinguishing from the presence of this horrible, awful overwhelming shadow was the first sign that something was wrong.^[1] Fire flickered and wavered before extinguishing entirely. The young woman opened her mouth to say something, but any other words she might have uttered were cut off as sickening tendrils of shadow emanated from the man she could not see, jutting from the earth and piercing into their legs.^[2] The acolytes and guards found they could not move, their energy completely and utterly sapped from them. All fueling the man whose invisibility melted off from him in that moment, allowing the four a look at the last thing they would ever see.

An umbral figure of death.

Their ruin.

“Hey!” One of the guards shouted, raising a halberd with a wicked, serrated point while the two acolytes raised their hands, fire licking at their palms. No intruder could be allowed to breach the sanctity of the temple, not while the ritual was so close to reaching fruition. Cyran pulled up the hood of his cloak, dissipating in black smoke.^[3] Their spells arced wildly - in the silence and the thick shadow-smog, there was no way for them to know if they’d managed to hit the Specter. But they would not be lulled into a false sense of confidence.

Black smoke filled the hallway, obscuring their vision, and the killer that lurked within. It encroached upon the corners, forcing the acolytes and guards to cough. “Enough!” One of the mages shouted, raising their palm, which lit up with sickening, unholy light in an attempt to banish the smoke. At the same time, the armored men waved their weapons around blindly in an attempt to hit their unseen foe. But with the combination of the smoke and the tendrils of darkness holding them in place, they were utterly and hopelessly trapped where they stood.

And then the first blade pierced the back of the younger female acolyte.^[4,5]

She let out a choked gurgle before dropping to the ground - perhaps she would have cast a spell in retaliation, but the Specter’s blades had sapped her of that ability. The sound, on the other hand, allowed the other mage to pinpoint Cyran’s location. Moving on faith alone, they fired a bolt of dark energy into the air. Cyran tensed, expecting the blow, but Rowan intercepted first.^[6] She took the brunt of the blow, her spectral form wavering but holding firm. She nodded at Cyran, a conniving smile on her lips.

“Come on. You can do better than that.”

Cyran ignored her ribbing in favor of diving for the second mage, ducking under stray blows from the armored guards. Spell Slicer and Cold Steel a whirlwind of cool metal that slashed the acolyte to shreds. Once, twice, three times.^[7] The cultist, dazed from the sudden attack, attempted to retaliate - but with the smoke and the induced dizziness, he’d lost track of the Specter in the fray. Cyran finished the job with a roundhouse kick with one of his hidden blades, aimed right at the throat.

“Show yourself!” One of the guards shouted. Cyran winced, worried that the noise would give away his position. But there was no indication that the activity from the corridor below had been interrupted from the sound. He didn’t have much longer before they would, though. Gritting his teeth, Cyran pulled on more energy, calling the darkness to his aid until his entire body ached from the strain. Fingers dipped in shadow formed claws once more, rotted, corrupt energy driven from chest to sternum in a diagonal motion.^[8] From behind the first, the second one raised his halberd overhead, bringing it down on Cyran’s head. Cyran rolled, sliding to the ground a couple feet away and righting himself. The shadows on his arms melded away, gathering in the palm of his hand.

He didn’t blink as he shot it into the lower half of the guard’s face, in the spot where his helmet didn’t cover.^[9]

Four dead, adding to the Specter’s already extensive body count. Cyran found he didn’t care. As he stood there, catching his breath, he felt it - that flicker. It was barely a flutter of a feeling, the sensation of something reaching out. Panic, relief, then silence once more. Despite the inherent briefness of the feeling, it was sure, strong. Cyran knew it, in his heart of hearts. Del was close.

No more distractions. Whatever this ritual was, Cyran wouldn’t let them go through with it.

Not bothering to wipe the blood off his blades, Cyran set forward again, deeper into the lion’s den.

---

1. Remove Light
2. Stinging Nettles, enhanced by Spirit Shroud
3.Smoldering Cloak
4. Back Stab
5. Magic Blocker
6. Rowan Hit Prevention (1/2)
7. Cyran's Haunting Blade
8. Death Swipe, enhanced by Spirit Shroud
9. Chaos Bolt, enhanced by Spirit Shroud

The devotion and dedication to finding Delaela that drove Cyran on was nothing short of incredible. Even in their dying moments, the presence of this dark harbinger, this shadow of doom and the instrument of their demise-- the acolytes knew that their own fealty to their god paled in comparison to that of the Specter who cut them down. Rent with shadow, obliterated, laying eviscerated and bleeding crimson all over the granite floor, the acolytes souls are given, sacrified, in service to their Idol of Ash and Cinder.

While the fine details of their deaths were not made clear to them, they were a necessary piece of the puzzle. Death by design, a masterwork of chaos and confusion. The Acolytes could not have known that there would be someone after the strange woman who had shed golden petals who would so badly try to get her back, who would be as relentless and pressing as night itself in the pursuit of dawn.

The Elder Embers, though-- the priests who arranged for the zenith of this dark ritual-- they had been counting on it.

It does not take Cyran long; the connection between he and Del is strong, a bond that is nigh unbreakable. Easier, too, as Del begins to stir, beginning to truly shake off the last of the administered poison that has kept her docile all this time. Down a hall, empty, so strangely empty, he finds her room amidst several others, the least dilapidated of them all and the only one still capable of holding a door. It is shut tight, locked, but no matter for a shadow to surpass. No mean feat, but not a harrowing task for one who could deign to call darkness home.

There is no window to her door, no way in to observe her save for the ring around his finger. Should he enter-- and he must, he is driven to find her, her, her-- Cyran finds Delaela bound by the wrists in chains, dangling from the ceiling. There are no windows or torches for light, but he can see just fine; her legs are bound from her knees to her ankles in heaby chains, weighing her down painfully where she hangs; Her head lolls to one side, groggy, trying to force herself into wakefulness once again to give him information. Cyran was coming for her, and no one could stop him. She wrestles with it, the chains rattling softly as she groans, fighting through the haze that clouded her mind and burdened her body. "C-Cy..." She rolls his name on a leaden tongue, trying to force her body in remembering how to speak.

Coming here is beyond dangerous, she knows, but Del trusts Cyran most above all. If he was coming-- and part of her knew he was-- then he would be there. Just as she would have been. She knows he can handle himself. Cyran is not a man who is easily dispatched or dissuaded. Del knows this with certainty-- He will be here, and the people who stood in his way would regret ever being brought into the world.

She has no way of knowing, however, that the room is less a prison for her, and more of a trap.

“Del!”

Cyran couldn’t stop the name from flying out of his mouth the moment he spotted her. She looked worse for wear - injured, blood spilling from random cuts and injuries, and her eyes hazy where she struggled to keep herself awake from whatever drug-induced coma they had her in. Cyran’s heart shattered at the sight. He started running closer to her, only to stop in the middle of the room. He’d expected more acolytes and guards, ready to begin whatever ritual they were planning with this sacrifice. And yet, with his keen eyes, he could see no traitors hiding within the shadow.

No, this was too easy. This wasn’t right.

He narrowed his eyes, sweeping over the room for any traps, but he saw nothing. Just Del, whose eyes were fluttering, struggling to remain conscious. Perhaps they had stepped away for a moment? He’d have to act fast, then. Caution abandoned, Cyran made his way to the chains, looking for the point she was tethered to. The chains attaching her to the ceiling were bound to a lifting and lowering mechanism, attached to the far wall. Cyran turned back to Del, determination renewed. “Hold on a moment later, my fighter.” He murmured. “I’ll get you down.”

He sprinted to the other wall, unhooking the chains from the side. They were heavy, especially with the weights attached to her legs, but Cyran held on tightly with both hands, lowering her to the ground.

As Cyran moved to free Del from her chains, beside himself with worry, he was not so far gone that he did not realize there should have been more protection for their coveted weapon, to prevent her from being rescued. He struggled with the chains, swearing under his breath in elvish as he attempted to free her, intermittently bringing his hand up to rest on her cheek. Running a gentle thumb along her clammy cheek, murmuring to her. “Just hold on, hold on a moment longer…” He soothed, “Just hold on and we can go home-“

His comfort was immediately silenced by the sound of something clicking.

All at once, the darkness in the room evaporated with a burst of bright light. Cyran winced at the sudden burst of harsh whiteness from all corners, illuminating the bare room. He called the shadows to his aid… only to meet nothing.

Horror gnawed at the pit of his stomach as Cyran looked around the room, realizing that there was no furniture to speak of in this room - nothing, nothing but him and Del. The exact kind of clever setup to stop an assassin from escaping into the dark.

Cyran only had a few seconds to act. He reached into his bag and pulled something out of the pocket, shoving it into the palm of Del’s hand. Quick thinking - only a second later the door burst open, and five acolytes strode into the agonizingly bright room. They did not look surprised in the least to see him.

Cyran stood, immediately putting himself between the acolytes and Del.

“Stay away from her.” His voice was a guttural sound in the back of his throat, Spell Slicer and Cold Steel in his hands in an instant.

“It’s not her we want.”

The answer, spoken so suddenly, forced Cyran’s grip on his daggers to go slack.

“… What?”

In lieu of an answer, one of the elder acolytes raised his hand, magic and heat crackling to light in his fingertips. In the light, Cyran couldn’t muster up the speed he usually could - Cyran sidestepped one, but in the time he moved, another acolyte leveled a spell right at his chest. Fast, too fast. Cyran’s form flickered, going incorporeal, allowing the bolt of flame to pass harmlessly through his torso before hitting the wall.^[1]

He lunged forward, his body taking corporeal shape once more - but the acolytes were prepared. These men were smarter than the younger acolytes from before… they knew his moves, and his magic. When Cyran became corporeal again, a robed man in the back blew a dart from a blowhole that struck him in the shoulder. Cyran recoiled, raising a hand to pluck it from his shoulder, when he suddenly found weak… drained.

“Did you think that we would not prepare for this contingency?” The elder in the front murmured, his voice an irritating, serene calm. “That we had not prepared for the Specter to chase after his beloved? No - we anticipated this, actually. A surprisingly shortsighted act on the part of the infamous assassin… no matter. Either way, you will serve as exquisite fuel for the rebirth, wielgtor hardri.”

Cyran raised his hand, calling upon the wellspring of magic within himself, intending to send another bolt of dark rot right to his face, though he managed nothing but a couple of sparks. Whatever they’d hit him with, it had completely blocked him from his matter.

“No matter. I’ll just do this the old fashioned way.”

One of the acolytes charged at him then, and Cyran ducked out of the way, swinging wildly with his blades. Spell Slicer mauled his chest, Cold Steel slicing a chunk from his leg. A kick from one of his blades concealed in his boot. The cultist only grinned at him, blood trickling from the corner of his lips before strong arms wrapped around his torso, holding him in a grip he couldn’t hope to escape.

Cyran writhed, kicking his legs into the air. But he was overwhelmed. There were too many men, and with Del behind him, Cyran couldn’t risk letting loose and doing anything that might compromise her health. Confused, outnumbered, and fatigued, he struggled desperately to free himself from his captor.

But it was too late.

Only fitting that in his last moments, Cyran would focus on Del’s safety before his own. Perhaps that was what made this such an effective trap. Perhaps that was exactly what the Elder Embers had anticipated. Oh, the Specter was a difficult prize to get their hands on, with how slippery he was. Delaela, sweet Delaela, on the other hand, had no such means of evasion. And days of careful observation, planning, and preparation, they noticed something curious. Serendipitous, really. A budding romance between the Specter and the Crucible. And therein they found the solution to their problem.

How did one catch smoke in a bottle?

You made it enter of its own accord.

Cyran had ventured willingly into the lion’s den. He’d braved the smoke, hellbent on rescue and revenge, and that sloppiness had proven to be his undoing. All this magic, this deep connection with the shadows, the Specter ought to have been able to slip away. But he’d spent his last moments, his last thoughts on her, her, her. Making sure she was safe where he’d failed before. Making sure that at the very least, she would run free. Finishing what he’d started.

The elder acolyte in the red robes plunged another dart into Cyran's neck, injecting him with the same cocktail of drugs they'd given Del. His body went limp nearly instantly - there was a dull thud as Cyran hit the floor, his last grip on consciousness slipping from his grasp. The acolytes moved to gather the Specter from the ground, Delaela completely forgotten. And while she was drifting in and out of this semi-lucid state, now on the ground and partially unchained, she would notice one thing if she were to check her palm. Cyran’s last ditch effort - not to save himself from the inevitable, but to free her, in his last rational moments.

A teleporting dart.

---

1. Phase Walk

She could feel him.

It was distant. Like hearing him through a veil of water. Where had that happened before? She couldn't remember, but she does remember fighting, struggling, to wake up, to open her eyes. Was she always so at home in the darkness? She can't remember. But it soothes her now. These shadows that touch her, that whisper things. Assurances. She can feel herself being moved, laid down, gently, like a precious thing. Was she precious? She couldn't remember.

But the touch to her cheek told her, yes.

At the very least, something was precious. He was here, her Cyran, he was trying to get her out, get her free. She knew he would come for her, as much as she wanted him to, as much as she didn't want him to, never once wanting to put him in danger for her sake, especially not when deep down she knew she deserved this fate, to be captured for crimes she could not remember and punished accordingly. But she knew she could not stop him from trying to find her, and he did, of course he did. He was her Rogue. When his hand touches her face a third time, her eyelids flutter, and she leans against his hand. Wonderful, incredible, Cyran.

She fights against this poison in her veins as hard as she can, but soon, the world comes crashing down again. There is noise, light, voices that were unfamiliar and alarm. Del's body jerks, but that is all she can muster at the moment. Panic courses through her-- it belongs to both of them. Though only partially aware of her surroundings, she knows withc certainty that something is terribly wrong, and worse, it is her fault.

Gods, she couldnt even speak.

They were taking him.

No. No. No, no, no, how could she have been so stupid, so foolish! She wants to thrash, fight, reach for him. All she can manage is that her arm twitches. There is a strangled noise of protest from her throat, but her jaw is locked, tense from the poison.

The impotence is infuriating. Locked in to her own body, her own mind, she watches through blurry eyes as Cyran is dragged away, head limp and touching his chest.

She screams, and this time, the sound is almost something like a voice from her throat, though her mind is an echoing cavern, a cacophany. He is silent in his unconsciousness, terryfingly so. The man in the robe, the priest, finally takes notice of her where she twitches and writhes pathetically on the ground. He sneers and steps closer-- but not too close. He knew his prey well.

"Do you worry for your love, Crucible? Do you blame yourself for his capture. You should. He came all this way for you."

Del tries again to thrash, but all she can manage is a click of her teeth. The Elder Ember chuckles, faintly amused.

Give him back, She thinks at the man, viciously. Bring him back to me. He isn't yours, he belongs to himself, you give him back to me GIVE HIM BACK

"Worry not, my dear. You both shall be reunited again. It is written. After all..." he turns to head for the door to the cell, not deigning to look over his shoulder at his captive. "You cannot make a weapon without a proper Crucible." And with that, he shuts the door, leaving Del to despair.

Some things never really die, no matter how much we try to bury them. Del does not know where this incandescent anger comes from but, it has always been part of her, part that she has tempered and honed with time and training and care from her master, but knows it still burns nonetheless within her, a pit of blinding rage that could consume her if she let it go.

Cyran was the only one in all the world who could quench her anger, who could halt her.momentum, and he was gone. Taken by these zealots, hauled away while she was left her to wonder what they had meant by the Crucible, what they meant by making Cyran a weapon. But Del does not want to think. She is trapped, bound, her beloved Moonlight hauled away from her, drugged and unconscious, a result of her own foolishness. They were going to hurt him!

Del grits her teeth, and manages to her turn her face toward the stone. The contact is warmer than it ought to be, so close to the floes beneath the surface of the earth. The rough stone, the adrenaline coursing through her veins, fueled by her fury and panic, invigorates her. Reminds her of what she needs to do. That she must fight, must struggle, must not fail him. Not this time.

Del strains against her bonds, against the poison.

She can fix this. She has to. She must.

The fractures along her skin start to glow gold.

In the past few months, she has gotten strong, much stronger than she could have assumed she could become. Though the poison slows her down, it is fading after so long past the initial dose. The chains ought to hold her, they dig into her flesh leaving new wounds that would become scars with time, but that is secondary. The pain is waking her up, making her angrier and angrier.

And part of her realizes-- remembers-- that she was truly, very, very good at destroying things.

Key links in the chain burst apart, releasing Del's arms from where they were bound. With her arms free, laying on teh ground as she is, her legs are freed soon after. Panting for breath, dizzy, and nauseated, Del looks down at the teleportation dart in her hand, still shaky and unsteady, and tears spring to her eyes. This had been one of her gifts to him. An assurance. A safety net. The message was clear.

Run. Save yourself.

She chokes back a sob, clutching it to her chest for a few seconds. It would be smart to leave. Part of her wants to listen, if only to abide by his wish, because she cherished him so. He was the greatest thing that ever happened to her. She would do anything for him.

Except abandon him.

Delaela Asiliari kicks down the door, the lock bending as she crushes it under foot. She lifts the ring around her neck, and presses her lips to it ins solemn promise. She would come for him. She would not leave him. He had come for her, and this was her fault and she was going to get him back, keep him safe, bring him home, and she was NOT going to let anyone hurt him.

Every single one of them would pay.

Tucking the ring safe against her chest, next to her heart, and holding the teleporting dart fast in her hand, Del follows her Cyran into hell.

---

[1] Bull's Strength

[2] Baloth Muscles x4

It is difficult, sometimes, to look at a situation and wonder where things all went wrong. Cyran was not conscious to form coherent thoughts - he drifted through the shadow, too exhausted and drained of his magic to muster consciousness like Del had when she was taken. He did not have Del’s lovely flowers, nor did he have her strength. All he had was his connection to the darkness, and that connection had been cut off. Whenever consciousness came it quickly dissipated like smoke. There was no time for laments, or rational thought. And as his eyes fluttered shut and he dreamed of falling.

But he was not alone.

Rowan Pavyre was still awake.

Perhaps if she’d felt so inclined she would have done something to stop this. But admittedly, she was more curious about what the elder embers had in store for her ex-husband. Why had they wanted him, a lowly assassin with nothing to his name? Admittedly, he was powerful, but to stage an elaborate trap for your run of the mill bladesman…

She needed to know more.

So she simply… let him get captured instead of stepping in to intervene.

And now she followed, a ghost in the dark while the elder embers spoke amongst themselves.

“Is the chamber ready?”

“All has been prepared to free his power from this vessel and fuel the rebirth.” Getting their hands on the Crucible had only been the first step of the process. The hand that would alter the fallen star into something moldable, more suited to their whims. It was a happy coincidence that the two had been bound together by fate. Or perhaps not a coincidence, but the way things were always meant to be.

The first smiled. “How delectable the Specter's will be to bring forth the ancient one and herald in a new era. A darkness so overwhelming that it will never know the touch of light again.”

And then the group continued on, dragging Cyran behind them.

Rowan hummed, delighted. A fascinating development. Where others assumed that her passions only lay in demonology, the truth was that Rowan coveted power and magic, no matter the source. She’d studied and researched so that she could harness those sources herself, but she had never quite managed. In the end, she’d been overwhelmed by the power of the being that she had contacted, and driven mad by the knowledge contained in its immortal being. But not before attempting to murder the first person in her way - Cyran - with a burst of powerful dark magic. When she’d come to in the afterlife, bound to her once-husband, Rowan was surprised to learn that Cyran had developed magic of his own. And it only kept growing. But that wasn’t right. Rowan’s piteous shadow magic shouldn’t have been able to foster something so deep within him.

No. That magic had to have existed in him all along.

Oh, she mused.

How wonderful.

Somehow these elder acolytes had identified Cyran as something powerful. Containing a darkness so potent that it would feed their long-forgotten god. And somehow, they’d found out that Del might be the key to releasing that.

Well, there was nothing for the warlock’s ghost to sit back and watch the show, was there? She couldn’t interfere, not while Cyran was unconscious. And as the acolytes brought Cyran to another light-stained room, covered in magical lights to prevent him from reaching to his shadows, the show promised to be a good one. Unlike Del, who had been bound in chains - not the subject of the ritual, but a component of it - the Specter himself was brought into a deep cavern underground, one surrounded by pools of bubbling lava. Heat filled the room, whispers of an ancient power that crescendoed with each passing second until it seemed to roar in Cyran’s barely-conscious ears.

He went weightless - someone had shifted him. He was placed on some kind of warm stone slab, his arms bound to leather straps. Weary eyes blinked open while one of the elder embers removed his mask and set it aside. That sudden weightlessness brought him back to awareness, if only for a moment. Cyran hummed, throat sore and dry and his mouth feeling like it was filled with cotton. Bleary, he barely managed to slur out a single question.

“Wwwwwwwwhhhhhhy.”

The elder acolyte paused where he had been removing dangerous items from Cyran’s person. His lips stretched into a joyless smile.

“Do you truly not remember who you used to be? Do you not look up at the sky and yearn for what once was? Your mind has forgotten what the soul remembers. But worry not, wielgtor hardri. Your love will be the key to your Becoming.”

That title again, murmured in a foreign tongue. Cyran grimaced as much as his face would allow, which wasn’t much. A bit of drool escaped from the side of his mouth as he tried to formulate another question.

“Nnnnnnnname. Wh’as it mean?”

Flames of madness danced in the elder ember’s eyes.

“Fallen Star.”

She staggers, seething but still unsteady, fighting her protesting muscles and limbs every step of the way. Reaching out to the stone walls for balance, Del pulls herself along, teeth bared. As she advances each laboured step, her strength grows, and her vision starts to clear, the paralysis replaced by a white hot fury. There is no room in her mind for a strategy, no plan. Only one word resonates there, a cadence to keep pace to, her one and only goal.

Cyran. Cyran. Cyran.

She would not fail him again.

Having heard the noise of her escape, Acolytes rush into the hall. "Blast it, she's loose! Subdue her at once! You, go and inform the Elder Embers!"

The four Acolytes that brandish their weapons start to advance, the fifth in the back who had given the orders pulling back on a crossbow and taking aim. The sixth, one who was with them in the alley, suddenly falters, remembering the fight and the argument from the two leaders of their excursion after four of their number had already died at her hands. "Wait!"

There is a hiss as the bolt is released from the crossbow, and it is too late.

Her hand flashes up, snatching the missile from the air and whipping it straight back, without so much as a blink[1]. The bolt strikes home in the back of the seventh Acolyte who had been directed to run to his superiors, to warn them of the Crucible loose in the temple. He would never get the chance, his spinal cord severed to where his lungs could not even draw breath. Before he hits the ground, she launches herself at the group, a snarl twisting her expression into one of pure, murderous intent.[2]

The one with the glaive moves to meet her, thrusting the blade out towards her middle. She turns around it's outside edge, closing the distance. She steps up and in, crushing their foot with hers as her palm comes up, connecting with their chin with a sick CLACK of mandibles colliding, and pushes up. Now unbalanced and reeling from pain, she spikes their head down to the floor where bone meets stone, and they lie very still.

Another tackles her, aiming to shove her against the wall. Over the woman's shoulder Del can see another of the Acolytes, the one who had shouted 'wait', going to their belt for a dagger and some sort of vial, hands shaking violently. Another surge of anger flares through her; they would not get so lucky a second time.

Lashing out, Del grabs a fistful of the wall, breaking off a large piece of stone, and bashes it against her attackers face. With the woman stunned and bleeding, Del finishes the job with a kick made to break down doors directly into the Acolyte's sternum. It sends her flying into the Acolyte trying to spread poison on her dagger and knocking them both into the wall across from them. The Acolyte with the dagger shrieks in alarm, while blood trickling from the corner of the mouth of the woman who's shattered torso no longer drew breath.

"What the HELL," the Acolyte with the crossbow abruptly drops it, freeing up her hands to cast a spell. Energy surges along her arms, summoning what would be a torrent of fire. Or it would have been, had Del not swiftly moved forward to sweep the legs out from under the acolyte, shattering her knees as they bent in the wrong direction and sending her to the ground.

Gritting her teeth in pure agony, the Acolyte flings her hands and her magic at Del, not caring that the Elder Embers wanted her alive. She wanted this supposed Crucible to burn, the Elders would understand, it was to save her, save them all!

Only... the fire never came.[3]

The magic left the acolyte cold and hollow, the disconnection to the arcane energy simply no longer there. As she opens her mouth to expel a furious howl at having her fire stripped from her, Del's foot snaps back around, colliding with the side of the woman's head. There's a sickenig snap as her head moves too fast for her body, and the bellow of anger abruptly halts.

Del's gaze turns towards the woman with the poisoned dagger, trying to force her dying comrade off of her so she can stand and fulfill her duty. She really didn't have time for this, but Del was not so far gone as to leave an enemy alive and behind her. Del gives the woman a withering look and strikes the pillar in the hall, as hard as she can.[4][5] Without the support of the stone, the hallway begins to collapse. The Acolyte screams in terror as she and any who might have been clinging to life are buried alive, as Del storms away.

Cyran. Cyran. Cyran.

Nothing, no one, would stand in her way.

As the gold in her scars starts glow brighter, brighter, her hands and feet ignite, leaving fire smouldering in her wake with each step. The fire does not burn her, only licks cheerfully at her forearms, a manifestation of her potent fury in physical form.[6][7] Somewhere in the back of her mind, that was alarming, new, terrifying to have this... elemental connection suddenly manifest. But in a deeper part of her mind, down in the black of her memory, this made terrrible, sobering sense.

She did not know what the Elder Ember had meant by Cruicble, or by wielgtor hardri, but their meaning was of little concern at the moment. The chanting, the noises of ritual and the stirrings of panic for the chaos she had caused thus far, resonate down, down, down the staircase, to the heated chambers below, closer to the lava.

At the top of the stairs, two guards spot her coming, and start to weave a spell. "SURRENDER, OR--"

The words die in their throat as Del rushes forward, hands lifted, seizing thier faces with her burning hands.[8] The spells cease mid-conjuring, interrupted by the muffled screams of the men who were having their faces burned off. She continues her forward momentum, dragging them behind her for a few steps before unceremoniously tossing them down the stairs ahead of her. They strike each stone step, and lie still at the bottom, unconscious or worse, with Del's handprint burned onto their skulls.

There's no time to think about that, and certainly no cause for regret. The chanting, that deep resonant whisper seemed to be growing louder. Panic carried her down the stairs into a room so brightly lit it makes her wince before she had even entered it. She pulls shadow around her like a cloak-- torture, this was torture for Cyran, she was sure--[9] and bursts into the chamber.

There. Her Cyran. Alive, but on an obsidian slab in front of one of the many magma chambers in the centre of Mount Drakholt, strapped down so he could not move, unconcious. The Elder Ember was still preparing the ritual, removing his weapons, his thing; there was still time.

But before Del could feel elation, first, she felt a tide of rage so hot it filled the room, as the Elder Ember went to remove the ring Cyran carried. Her ring.

"I will unMAKE YOU." Del roars, her voice rumbling on the cavern walls of the Ritual Chamber, pulsing forge-light suffusing through the scars and wounds she bore, setting her aglow. She twists, flinging fire at the Elder Ember standing over Cyran. He flicks his hand to banish the fireball, but when he turns to interloper, he finds her vanished.[10]

There is a soft clink behind him, as the dart hits the stone, and she reappears mid-swing as she kicks the Elder Ember so hard in the ribs that he flies one of the walls, caving it in with his blow.[11]

She kneels in front of Cyran, and pulls the shadows that surround her over him, sheilding him from the darkness. She wasn't sure if that man was dead,-- he would be soon-- but first, Cyran, Cyran. "Cyran!" Her head lowers, touching her forehead to his, as her voice cracks. "I've got you, I'm here, just hold on for me." She murmurs, holding her hands to the leather straps to burn them off him, to free him before anyone else could come in to the chamber.

---

[1] Bare hands : Deflection Enchantment
[2] Cat's Grace
[3] Bare hands : Magic Blocker Enchantment
[4] Bull's Strength Tattoo
[5] Baloth Muscles
[6] Art of the Burning Fist (2/3 posts remaining)
[7] Myriad Barrier (Fire Resistance) (2/3 Posts remaining)
[8] Iron Grip
[9] Overbearing Shadow
[10] Dart of Teleporting
[11] Backstab

Fallen Star.

Cyran’s heart pounded in his ears. He had no idea what the Elder Ember was talking about, but something deep within him seemed to understand what that single title meant for him. As if he’d already known exactly what his rational mind couldn’t seem to comprehend, and he’d already resigned himself to his fate.

Somehow he always knew he’d been destined to do nothing but fall.

In his silence - partially addled by drugs, and in part due to the disbelief in what the elder ember was implying - the cultist merely patted the side of his face and continued preparations.

“Then you truly do not remember your origins before you inhabited this mortal body. Worry not. Soon, you will be restored to your former glory, and then you will be fed to the flames for the betterment of all. And the Crucible will be the hand that reforges you. How serendipitous to find that the two of you are lovers in this life. That saved a bit of time and effort on our part.”

The Crucible. Even in his half-conscious, delirious state, Cyran knew who he was referring to.

Her.

His eyes slid shut, no longer able to stay open of their own volition. He was far too exhausted to muster up too much emotion at the revelation. Del, the weapon, used to destroy Cyran and remake him. He was distantly aware of the fact that he was supposed to be horrified at this revelation, that this wasn’t right, Del wasn’t supposed to be that person anymore, but he was perhaps too far gone. If this were to be his end, it was not the worst fate in store for him. There was nothing as sweet as to surrender yourself fully to the one you loved, for your life to rest in their hands alone. If anyone ought to be allowed to kill him, it would be Del.

He would accept damnation if she were the one to deliver the judgment.

Del, as it turned out, had something different in mind.

Wakefulness was difficult for him to grasp onto. But her scream, loud and clear and tinged with grief, rang like a bell through the empty, silent chamber. The Elder Ember whirled around, facing his golden attacker with the barely restrained glee only a madman could hold. Perhaps he thought his god would protect him, that he would lord over the Crucible. But Del was faster and stronger than his magic, and with the teleporting dart that he’d given her - no, she was supposed to use it to escape, what was she doing - she had the element of surprise over him. In a burst of gold and shadow, and so, so, ethereal, she put an end to the Elder Ember’s machinations with a single punch that carved his body into the very stone. Immortalized, though perhaps not in the way he imagined.

And then her voice, as gentle as the summer rain, pulled Cyran out of his fog. He forced his eyes open, murmuring something incoherent as Del melted off the leather straps binding him to the table.

“Y’r glwng.”

And that much was true. Like he’d seen in the past, in his dreams and when she repaired Spell Slicer, all of Del’s scars were alight with that tantalizing molten color. Fire snaked up her arms, a flame that Cyran felt the warmth of from where he lay. So bright that it was difficult to gaze upon her - but she was the only thing keeping him grounded amongst the harshness of the blinding lights. He clung to that sight like a lifeline.

Del was here. He was safe.

But the Elder Ember was not through with them just yet.

Standing was difficult, even as blood trickled from his mouth where ribs had punctured his lungs from the impact. He would not live longer than a few minutes - not long enough to see the glory of the rebirth. Not long enough to witness the majesty of the Crucible reforge the shadows of the Fallen Star and feed his immortal glory. But he would not allow his last moments to burn with the gentleness of a candle.

“My brothers! May you finish the glorious task that we have started - the merging of the Crucible and her Star in service of He Who Shall Cleanse Us! Long live the venerable father! Long live Vulcadreus!”

He started chanting in a language unfamiliar to Cyran. The words, though foreign, sent a shiver up his spine. Something wasn’t right. He was planning something, one last desperate act of a man so devoted to his god that he would burn up his life force to capture his weapons -

Cyran still couldn’t feel his magic, locked frustratingly behind some barrier he couldn’t breach. He didn’t have his weapons. But he did have his body, and he could use that at the very least. Cyran willed himself up, fighting past every single urge to remain still, and threw himself over Del’s shoulders, shielding her from the sudden onslaught of fire and magical brimstone that radiated from the elder ember as he used his last act in defiance of fate to blow himself up.

Pain, unimaginable, lanced through his body. Fire rained down upon his back, the force threatening to knock him off of his still-weak legs if it were not for the fact that he was partially braced against Del. And he might have fallen unconscious if it were not for an invisible, spectral figure with a hauntingly familiar kindly demeanor that manifested behind him to take the brunt of the blow.^[1]

And then the room went silent.

Cyran clung to Del, too incoherent to manage more than a few words. His hands trembled, his body barely able to support his own weight as he finally began to succumb to his pain and fatigue. “You were supposed to leave…”

---

1. Spirit Guardian - Maruyama (Hit Prevention 1/2)

Del exhales a bewildered huff of a laugh at Cyran's words; yes, yes she was, and she didn't entirely know why, but she also didn't have much time to think about it either. Right now, all that mattered was getting Cyran out of here, before--

The Priest she had kicked into the wall starts yelling a call to arms behind her and Del scowls. No, no not yet, she's not done, he's not free yet. She moves her hands to the ones binding Cyran's legs, panic starting to seep in. She can hear the chanting behind her begin to rise to a crescendo, but she's not done, dammit, she cannot fail him again. She can't...

She doesn't want to know a world without him in it.

Filled with a sudden resolve, Del starts to move pulling her hands away from his bindings, trying to stretch over him to shield him from whatever is coming-- she can take it, she can bear it, surely. For him, she would bear anything-- but before she could reach over him, it is Cyran that moves, lifting himself up to shield her across her neck and shoulders, braced against her back as he protects her from the last ditch effort of a mad zealot, her cry of his name drowned out by the explosion.

Her ears ring terribly from being so close to an explosion, throwing her against the slab that Cyran had been laid on. The parts of her that were exposed, her lower back and her legs, singe slightly (though not terribly, she would note later) but she cares not for that at the moment. She reaches to her shoulders to brace Cyran tighter, nearly hyperventilating as she holds him, desperate now to ensure he was okay, but knowing that if she moved him and he was alert... gods, the pain. She wants to ask, but for a while, her fear makes her unable to make any real words.

There had been something familiar. A sensation at her back-- not Cyran, something else. Something that had been there for a moment. A presence, familiar but impossible. A half-remembered glimpse of a memory, surely, a projection of her frazzled mind wishing for any aid whatsoever. She imagined it. There and then not, a wisp of something on the wind that reminded her of... of...

Del swallows, hesitating for a moment of fear before looking back over her shoulder. Nothing. No one else was there. And yet, there was a lingering memory of a scent; charcoal, linseed oil accompanied by the faintest sensation of mirth that reminded her terribly of Maruyama.

Cyran's voice makes her gasp, and she shifts, to bear his weight and keep him from sliding off of her shoulders. His pleading, bewildered words make her lips tremble, feeling a twinge of guilt of having gone against his wishes, his best efforts to keep her safe. There isn't time for tears. Up the stairs, she can hear the yelling of the brothers the Priest had called, rushing towards the chamber to meet them.

But she wasn't sorry, either. How could she be, when his life and wellbeing was to terribly precious?

Despite their urgency, she turns Cyran's face slightly towards her as she rests him across her shoulders in a fireman's carry, so she could see his face. "Not without you," she whispers, touching his face with gentle insistence, looking him in the eye as his consciousness slides. Her thumb leaves a small streak of black soot where it caressed his cheek. "Long ago, I promised you I would follow you into hell. I couldn't go. Not ever without you."

More shouting, up the stairs. They were running out of time, but she only wanted to look at him. He had come for her. He had shielded her-- no one had ever protected her that way. It made her feel fragile, if only because she was suddenly, terribly aware of how many times she had been broken. And this man wished to spare her from that, and did so at his own expense. She didn't deserve him.

But she would try to be worthy of him.

"My Rogue. My hero." Del murmurs. She turns her face, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

For so many decades, Del had run from those who had pursued her. She very rarely fought them, for many complicated reasons, chief among them being that she did not know if she deserved this fate, to be constantly hunted. But as she takes all of the weapons and effects that the Priest had pulled from Cyran, and adjusts him across her shoulders to carry him as comfortably as she can, Del looks to the staircase. They will be cornered, but she is undaunted. It had been so incredibly hard to fight for herself, not so long ago. Now, she had something, to fight for; this man, and the home that he was to her.

The flames on her hands warp, no longer fire, but a deeper saturation of her inner energy; they glow a faint gold, the energy rippling around her limbs like a mirage, as she starts towards the stairs.[1,2]

The shadows she had brought down with her serve her well, as she slips off to the side behind a pillar, out of their immediate line of sight as the cultists race in, looking for the sacrifices that were so crucial to their ritual. When they finish funneling past, she slips off to the side, backing up towards the stairs with a dark expression on her face[3]. Her priority was Cyran, but she couldn't leave these people alive. They knew where they lived, they would just come for them again. If she left through the stairs, they might be trapped yet further, or worse, tracked to safety. These cultists had to be stopped, here and now.

Her eyes travel around the room, looking at the pillar she had stood behind. It was decorative at best, not holding up the ceiling. But, the ceiling itself...

The chamber was ornate, but the cavernous ceiling was comprised heavily of stalactites that dangled precariously from above. She takes a few more steps back, onto the stairs, and then raises her hand. The glow concentrates around her hand, swelling to a sparkling, dim light.

As they look around for their missing sacrifices in their confusion, Del entertains briefly that she should call out to them, if only to rub in their mistake before leaving with Cyran. But she is in a less than charitable mood. Standing on the stairs with her love across her shoulders, her scars and wounds still burn with her fury. The energy around her hand begins to vibrate. These cultists would do anything for their god?

Then they would die with him.

Without uttering a word, she fires the beam of near-invisible energy at the ceiling. It hits with a deafening, concussive force, and by the time the Cultists turn around to see the blur of a woman leaping for a wall, clinging to it for dear life[4] before the cave collapsed around them, and dragged the cultists-- those in the chamber and those above-- into the roiling pit of magma below.

To describe it as thunderous would be insufficent. It was cataclysmic. As the world fell down around their heads, while Del clung to the wall, she held against her that which was most precious, whispering quiet assurances to Cyran as they dangled there until it was, at last, over.

Drops of cool water struck the top of her head. Looking up she could see the sky someways overhead, dark with rain and soot. Gritting her teeth, she adjusts Cyran one final time and begins their climb steadily upward. The rock is loose, and handholds are difficult to maintain, which makes the going slow. But with nothing on her mind other than their safety, of getting home, Del hauls herself and Cyran over uncounted minutes back to the surface.

Heaving herself onto the wet mud, she lies there, face down, with him on her back for a few seconds, to catch her breath. The rain as it hits her skin sizzles, as though falling against a heated skillet. Groaning, she manages to right herself once more-- they had to keep going, keep moving-- pushing herself to her feet on wobbling, weak legs, setting her jaw against the pain, and moves for cover. Safety.

She had what mattered most.

---

[1] Art of the Burning Fist Ended Early, Replaced With Art of the Soul, ended early from using the Beam ability.
[2] Myrid Barrier (Now deactivated)
[3] Pass without a trace
[4] Surface scaling

Such conviction Del spoke with. Cyran was slowly coming back to himself, even with the drugs coursing through his system - and with it, a startling clarity as to what he’d just learned. Del would follow him to hell. She had done so. The item he’d given her to save her own skin, she’d used to make sure she wasn’t going home alone. And on top of all of that, the grim realization that he posed a danger to her.

Cyran still wasn’t exactly certain what the Elder Ember had been speaking about, but he understood that there was something to do with his magic that these men had desired to feed to their ritual. They’d been convinced of it - and their surety came with the knowledge that they could use Del to unleash it. And that put even more threat of her life. She was already a wanted woman… how could he possibly hope to add more to that?

“Maybe you should have.” He mumbled to himself.

She pressed a warm kiss to his forehead. Compared to her indignant anger and her raw fury, this felt an impossibly soft privilege. Cyran forced himself to stand on unsteady feet, his heart shattering at her words. My hero…

This, too, felt a privilege he didn’t deserve.

As if, when the rest of the world wanted her to destroy him, she would only treat him with love.

“I think it should be the other way around at this point.” He replied, but they didn’t have time to argue who had saved who. Shouting was coming from upstairs - the promise of more acolytes, and Cyran doubted that they would be as easy to handle as the singular Elder Ember. They were both conscious and upright, but the two were clearly exhausted. Cyran’s connection to his magic was returning, but barely at a thin trickle when he needed a stream. And Del was a juggernaut, but she could not keep moving forever. He was certain that it was only the fire burning within her that was keeping her moving through the fatigue and the pain.

They needed to get out of here, fast.

Cyran moved to limp over to his things, but Del was not so content to allow him to stand on his own. She secured him over her shoulder and moved to grab his things - Cyran insisted on taking his own knives and his mask, at the very least. The rest could be sorted through later. Now was the time to escape.

Cyran closed his eyes, mustering up the strength call upon some inner well of his magic. It was still there… just out of his reach. The fact that he was so weak, even after all he’d given up, frustrated him to no end - but Cyran forced himself to calm. There was no point in getting mad about it. It would come to him with time, and he was in Del’s arms. All he could do was breathe, and try his best to reach out and grasp those shadows within him so he could cover Del’s escape. He breathed out through his nose, concentrating on touching that wellspring of power once more.^[1]

The darkness helped. Once they were out of that impossibly bright chamber, Cyran felt it was easier to breathe, almost as if a laden weight had been removed from his chest. Easier to think, too, almost as if the comfort of the darkness was clearing up his muddled mind. Cyran’s magic still felt weak, but he refused to be dead weight. Even if it killed him, Cyran wouldn’t allow himself to be useless. He drew upon the darkness until his very core ached, gathering the shadows in his palm. He pressed his hand to Del, sweat gathered at his brow that hadn’t come from the heat.

“Mae tel’ miir ath tel’ guenhyvar aide va.” He murmured, elvish flowing off his tongue in a silent prayer.^[2]

That was the most he could do as the darkness settled over them and aided their escape.

Bedraggled, exhausted, he managed a small, vindictive smile as a wave of force emanated from Del and rippled through the cave. The ancient foundations rumbled springing to life as the stone was dislodged. The underground was coming to life once more, though not in the way that the Embers could ever have imagined. Their end was foretold in the ancient rumbling of the cavern, the remnants of earthquakes that had stirred all across Charon. And that cave-in would be their demise.

Cyran clung to Del as the world collapsed around them.

He could hear her whispering to him - reassurances that were lost in the roar of the Collapse. But he could feel her heartbeat, strong and sure. And the relief that he was okay, blazing just as strong as his own relief that she was no longer a prisoner to these men who’d tried to use her.

There was nothing he could do to help her climb back to the surface, much to his dismay. Rain leaking from the roof of the dilapidated house into the cavern’s opening pelted the pair with fat, ash-tainted droplets. Ever so slowly, Del heaved them up the rock, until they’d reached solid ground.

Freedom.

It felt too good to be true.

Heat radiated from her as she lay in the mud, Cyran positioned precariously on top. Del didn’t even waste a moment before pulling herself to her feet, bound and determined to keep moving. Movement, like each stepped pained her, but that was the burden she was willing to bear to get them both to safety.

Cyran writhed in her grip - he wouldn’t make her carry him when his own legs would work just fine. “My fighter, salen velahrn, there’s no need to carry me, please…”

He pulled himself to unsteady legs, not wanting to let Del wear herself to the bone to help him. He was supposed to be the one helping her here… perhaps this rescue mission hadn’t gone as intended, but that was no excuse for him to act a helpless maiden. They were both competent. And if Del could force herself through the pain, so could he. Cyran leaned against her shoulder, bracing himself against her and allowing her to lean against him in turn.

An unspoken agreement.

Together.

He wouldn’t let her take this on alone.

“Chip is with my mount… somewhere around here.” His voice still felt muffled even to his own ears, but he could speak once more. Think. He had to think. Where had he left Nightmare? Allowing his feet to move on his own, he limped onwards, away from the remnants of the cult hideout and back into Darkveil proper. And there Nightmare was… with Del’s flitten still perched on her back.

But what now? They couldn’t go to Shade’s Valley, not right away. They should lay low somewhere until they were certain they were no longer being followed. But where could they go? He wracked his brain, attempting to figure out where they could go. He gripped Del’s arm, furrowing his brows. “We need to wait… somewhere safe.” He glanced down the alley - still empty. Most had been driven indoors by the rain. “Your forge?”

---

1. Meditate
2. Quicken

His sweet words in elvish as they made their escape carry her through. Remiding her what it was she fought so hard for, needed to keep safe so desperately. He was in her arms. He was on her back. She had to keep him safe. It was her fault, her damnable fault. But she could blame herself later. First, safe. Safe. Safe.

As if waking from a trance, she sets Cyran down, carefully but hurriedly. Her eyes still a little wide, the rain sizzling as it touches the parts of her skin that glow. So much of her response was... automatic, it had taken his words to snap her out of it. Safe. Safe. She needed to get them somewhere safe. But Cyran was okay, she didn't need to do everything right now. "I-I'm sorry, I'm sorry--," a string of apologies interrupted by him leaning against her, and allowing her to lean on him.

A shudder passes through her, the impact of that simple action of mutual care heavier than any blow she'd been dealt today. The part of her that could bear no more and needed to collapse, to yield to this soul who went out of his way to see her safe, was one that she had to shove back and away, for now. Just until they were safe. Just a little more. Just a little farther.

The drive to keep going was almost inexorable. It was one of her greatest strengths, but it was a hard one to shut off.

She gives Cyran a tear-filled look, and nods mutely, swallowing around the words that caught in her throat. Del lets herself lean on him, her head tilting slightly so she could press her forehead to his temple, an expression of fondness and relief that went beyond what words she could summon as they start to walk.

Together.

Soon they find Nightmare, little Chip perched on the mare's back. Chip mewls in glee to see the Big Lady and the teely Man return once more, but as he flies to them-- feels the heat roiling off Del, her strange glow, and deviates to land on Cyran's shoulder, a little alarmed. Del lifts her gaze slowly to Cyran's with a wan smile, looking drained. Exhausted. But they had to keep going; she could feel his limp, a thing she cursed herself for at every step, but at least he was alive. With her.

Not that it had kept him safe when she had been taken. There's another little shudder as she shakes that thought off.

Her gaze refocuses once more at his touch, her gaze shifting down the road at the suggestion. Safe, safe. They would be safe there. Del nods, "Yes, I think that would be best." her voice is whisper soft, hoarse. She clears her throat, and looks up at Nightmare. "Do we walk her or ride?" Riding would save them some energy, but Del wasn't sure, if she stopped moving now, that she would be able to start again. They needed to be safe first.

A drop of rain sizzes on her arm and Del draws back, grimacing. Chip's reaction had been understandable. She was too hot to touch. "I should probably walk," she offers, looking down the street to where they needed to go. Her old forge was a ways away, but if they cut through some side streets, they could get there faster.

“No, no, no…” Cyran insisted, his gentle assurances undercut by the dryness and the cotton still lingering in his throat from the drugs. “There’s no need to apologize. Not to me. I think… we are far beyond needing apologies and thanks.” Not when he could feel her desperation melting away into something more like acceptance. There was still the fear, but between the both of them, leaning against one another as equals, there was finally a glimpse of something else underneath it all. Safety, nearly in their grasp. It was too good to be true. But somehow, for two tired elves who were so tired of running… perhaps they could soon find a moment to stop.

But not quite yet.

Nightmare was where he left her - and Chip, who looked delighted until he realized that Del was still unseasonably hot. Cyran was so used to her warmth that he hadn’t noticed, but it almost seemed to burn brighter today. She offered him a small smile that didn’t quite seem to reach her eyes as Chip perched on his shoulder. Cyran attempted to return it, though the relief at having her back was beginning to melt away to fatigue. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep going. Cyran went through the slow motions of saddling Nightmare, ensuring that the two of them could ride her back to the abandoned husk of the old Ironwood Ore and Timber, when Del suddenly drew back.

“What’s the matter?” He asked as Del glanced down the alley, eyes narrowed as if assessing their options. He could see her thought process reflected in her gaze, calculating the best route for them to take while they were slowed. The rain had cleared out most of the locals, but that didn’t necessarily mean they were safe. Rain sizzled where it struck her skin, like oil hitting a pan. And therein, Cyran realized, was the problem.

He shook his head, abandoning his work in favor of sending Nightmare off on her own. The creature was smart - she would know where to go and where to hide. But if they took her with them, she would stand out like a sore thumb. Cyran hadn’t cared so much about stealth when he was following the cultists. But they were in a precarious position now - injured and tired, and ignorant to the fate of any cultists that might remain. Stealth was the name of the game.

Cyran closed his eyes, pulling on the darkness in his core, shoving his consciousness into the place that was blocked from him. Drugs be damned, he couldn’t allow himself to be this weak. Cyran pushed as hard as he could, wresting the shadows under his control once more with a searing hatred that burned in his soul until there was nothing left but the rot. He needed more.

A perfect mirror image of Cyran manifested from the dark of his yawning shadow, bearing his scars and accrued injuries from the fight.^[1] It nodded at him, understanding its orders before Cyran even had to utter them. And then the double jumped onto Nightmare’s back, taking off through the streets. The double wasn’t especially stealthy in his movements, but that was what Cyran wanted. With any luck it would serve as a suitable diversion while the two took to the back alley streets.

He turned back to Del, wrapping her arm around his without an ounce of hesitation. “I told you, we’re going together. We’ll both walk.”

Well, limp might be the more accurate descriptor for Cyran’s movements. It was slow going, but the two were cautious - in tune with one another’s thoughts and movements. And by now they had ideal escape routes mapped out, the best places to duck and hide and walk without being seen. And Cyran knew the way to Del’s old forge by heart - its business had been short lived before disaster struck, but he’d visited enough times to have its location to heart. Right now, that would come in handy.

“Is now a good time to mention that I’ve been setting money aside to rebuild it?” Cyran huffed under his breath as he allowed Del to lead him around through the alleys around the back. Given the day’s events it felt an unimportant development to announce, but the combination of drugs and fatigue had loosened his ability to keep his thoughts in check. The rain was increasing in intensity around him, burning up as it pelted Del, but still, Cyran held tightly to her. Bracing her as much as he was supporting himself.

Not much longer now until they could rest.

---

1. Shadow Clone

As Cyran finishes saddling Nightmare and does not immediately get on her back, Del blinks. She was prepared to walk, it would be alright, he could ride. He should, he was injured as much as she was, but there was nothing she could do about her situation at the moment. So, she watches in silence as Cyran prepares for their departure.

The sensation, the rush of emotions that she caught a glimpse of as he accessed his magic by force, powering through the block of magic caused by whatever drugs those damned cultists gave him, was... new. A surge of hate and anger that seemed to come from somewhere deep inside him. It should have been alarming, and yet, Del could not bring herself to be afraid. Worry, perhaps-- but she understood that sometimes, there were parts of yourself you had to access in order to survive. Parts of you that were perhaps, less than what you wanted for yourself, to let others see.

Today was an excellent example of that.

She watches as the shadow that Cyran summoned mounts Nightmare, and gallops off, down the streets and into the pitch of night. As she starts to turn to him with a bewildered look, his arm loops through hers, securing her to his side. Del feels her throat tighten with the threatening onslaught of tears. Sacrificing his own comfort to remain at her side, and in the process, creating a diversion for the both of them, should they need it.

Even though she was glowing still with whatever infernal heat seemed to take root from her body, he touched her before she could even bring herself to protest. Her jaw works, trying to find the right words, but there is nothing she could say that would remotely capture the relief, the gratitude, the way such a simple act left its indelible mark on her heart. Del was bound to come undone if she tried, but she had to wait. Just a little further.

Rather than paltry words, she hugs his arm to her chest and leans her head to his shoulder, careful to mind the parts of herself that glowed. Together, together, and not without you. She wanted to amend his words, thinking about offering an 'are you sure', because she was the one at fault, she was the reason he was captured and hurt and, and, and--

But as her head comes to rest on his shoulder in quiet gratitude, and they begin their trek to Ironwood Ore and Timber, she finds those immediate worries soothed. He was here. His arm was secured to her chest like a lifeline. He was safe and... she was safe, with him.

His voice near her ear draws her out of the companionable, careful silence that had lapsed between them. "You-- really?" Del lifts her head to look at him, a little stunned, warmed by his continual generosity and care. Prickles threaten the corners of her eyes. How could there be such thoughtfulness, such compassion and understanding all in one good man's body? Her voice is tight when she can find the voice to speak again instead of just staring at him dumbly. "You didn't have to, that's... you're so sweet, I'm--" she stumbles over her words a little and breathes out a quiet laugh. Oh, the irony. "I've been doing the same for Shades Valley. Helping people around town with their rebuilding to earn enough to get the Valley some of the things it needs."

Odd that should feel like a confession of some kind, but it does. She holds his arm a little closer as they move through alleys, helping one another over crates and broken fences and debris, until they stand at the back entrance to what had once been her Forge.

There wasn't a right word for a nostalgia of this sort; revisiting lost places, a poignant reminder of things that held meaning or value, and to be the one still standing, instead of the place. In her mind's-eye, there is a flash of coming back to Maruyama's cabin in the mountains of the Crescent Isles, to find it in ruins and her mentor missing. The husk of her forge reminded her of that, too.

Only this time, she didn't stand alone.

"Here, there's still some cover from the rain inside," she whispers, allowing herself to be helped and helping Cyran in through the door.

Being a foundry before she had purchased the property, the building was built sturdy. The earthquake which had totaled and brought low many other buildings had a tougher time with the forge; it still crumpled and folded and caved in, but the pillars still stood, albeit in rough shape, and there was still some parts of the roof that had not fully collapsed inward. Over the past weeks, Del had done her best to make part of the workspace still useable, so she could work on the bigger projects that her temporary set-up behinds Shade's valley was not equipped for.

Such as the cold-iron dagger at Cyran's side.

There's hardly a dry patch in sight, but there is at least cover. She walks them both to a broken portion of wall that they can sit and huddle under, the slab of stone braced against another wall to prevent it from falling. As they reach that safe place, she turns to look at Cyran, eyes wide and wet. Her mouth moves, trying to force words out. 'Let me look at your injuries', 'are you alright?', 'do you know what they meant when they said the Crucible and her Star?'.

Instead, a rough shiver passes over her, and the forgelight beneath her scars flare. She slides closer, lifting a hand again to his face, before a drop of water strikes a glowing mark, hissing as it bubbles and evaporates. Del winces, and pulls back her hand. Too hot to touch, still. "You came for me." Del whispers. It is not a question.

Cyran had to suppress the startled laugh that bubbled up in the back of his throat at Del’s admission that she’d been doing the exact same thing as him. It was not a particularly humorous revelation - and yet, the fatigue that wore on him made it feel like one all the same. “What a pair we make, huh?” He smiled, the corners of his eyes crinkling in amusement. “You don’t need to do that. The kids were a priority because they needed a roof over their head, but the place has mostly been rebuilt. You… you have your own dreams and your own life, and you lost those roots that you built in the earthquake. I don’t want you to set those aside to help-“

He swallowed the last handful of words like a bitter pill before they could leave his mouth, for he was certain that Del would refute them, But if he’d finished that sentence, it would have perhaps ended something along the lines of someone like me.

They stood outside of the forge’s back entrance for a few moments, neither saying anything. There were no more words he could offer that were not shallow - and he would not waste his breath on such a thing. He could feel Del’s loss like his own, the bittersweet feeling of seeing something so irrevocably changed. The physical reminder that what remained after the fallout was not always the same. But what you once built with your own hands could still provide love and support, even if it was not in the same capacity. Even now this ruined building could still provide them safety and shelter.

Even now it was still saving their life.

Cyran nodded when Del finally spoke, grateful to be out of the rain. Even with Del by his side, the cold had drenched him to the bone. Perhaps it was because he’d overexerted himself, allowed himself to draw upon too much of his magic. Or perhaps it was because of the near-loss he’d suffered, how close he’d been to losing Del to the Crucible entirely. He was not cold, and yet Cyran found himself shivering nonetheless.

The bones of the forge, at the very least, were stable enough that it provided some modicum of warmth for the both of them. Though the shop was inoperable, Cyran knew that Del was still using the forge within to build things when necessary. It was a thin hope, but there perhaps may be enough to start some sort of fire if they both needed. Then again, Del was still hot enough for the both of them. Her fire had died out, but the warmth that radiated at her seared with all the heat of a drop of sunlight and the all-encompassing warmth of the earth. Perhaps it would have been enough to burn anyone else, but Cyran was only drawn ever-closer. Fitting, given what the Elder Ember had alluded about himself.

Something he didn’t dare name.

The star, who loved the world so much that it crashed to the ground to be with her.

That nebulous thing didn’t have a name, but it resonated with him all the same as they made their way under the broken off portion of wall that offered some protection from the rain. Cyran settled down next to her, feeling the solid wall behind his back and the ground beneath his feet. The sky, pouring down its grief overhead. It was difficult to believe that they’d both made it out okay, unharmed, alive. Safe? Not quite yet, but they would be once more. He would make sure of it, once his energy had returned and he was well enough to use his magic once more, to bring Del back to Shade’s Valley where she belonged.

By his side, he didn’t want to say. But Cyran was too exhausted to filter out those thoughts.

Del had almost died today. The Elder Embers almost made her - what had they called her? - the Crucible, forced her to be something she didn’t want to be. No matter what they said, what they painted her to be, she would always be his Del. The woman sitting by his side. Cyran tilted his head to look at her as she raised her hand, holding his breath as she reached out to brush his face…

Rain pelting one of her golden scars forced her to pull away with a grimace. Apparently, it hadn’t occurred to her that she was still unseasonably warm. Even if they didn’t possess this bond between them, it wasn’t difficult for Cyran to tell how it made her felt. The fear of touching, fear of hurting. Fists that had been made to be weapons so long ago, the art of destruction so ingrained in her very soul that even when she defied her nature, when she learned to build and love and create instead of tear down, she still feared becoming once more what she’d never wanted to be again.

And she’d taken this on, to save him.

Cyran’s hand darted out to grab hers - to prove to her that he didn’t care. He never had. He simply pressed his own cold hand do hers, the other resting on the nape of her neck where skin boiled. Holding her in a half-embrace, just holding her in close proximity. I’m here, I’m here, I’m here.

“It doesn’t burn.” He insisted. “Even if it did I would still want to hold you. I almost lost you.”

He blinked away the tears budding in the corners of his eyes. Cyran had already cried many times throughout the day - surprising that he had tears. But when it came to joy, relief, he found that he still had the capacity to do so.

“And you came for me.” He repeated her on words back to her.

“I promised you that I would. But when I realized what had happened to you… promises were the last thing on my mind. I just knew I had to act. I couldn’t-“ He shook his head. “I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to live in a future without you now that you’re in my life.” Cyran finished, his voice a low whisper. “Is that crazy? I didn’t care if I got hurt. But you… you were supposed to get out of there, to find safety.”

People had been after her for so long, and now that one of her worst fears had been realized - taken by people for reasons she didn’t know - and when she’d been given an opportunity to get as far away as possible, to protect herself, she just hadn’t.

“You didn’t.” There was wonder, adoration in his voice as he repeated the only words on his mind. “What a pair we make.”

Del draws breath in a sharp intake as Cyran reaches out to take the hand she withdrew, a protest on her lips-- she was going to hurt him, she didn't want to hurt him-- but he pulls her closer, one gentle hand on the back of her neck. She shivers again, biting her lip to hold back the waves of emotions she was feeling. It forces her to still, to sit with the coolness of his touch against the back of her overheated neck, not... flinching from her. He looked so banged up, so tired, so worn.

And yet, he wanted to hold her. Even if it hurt him. A shiver runs over her body as the forgelight starts to fade, her tension beginning to abate under his touch, soothed by him. The part of her that only knew how to be strong starts to cave a little as she yields, leaning towards him as though drawn further to his embrace. She's at a loss for words for a while, Cyran's voice reeling through her mind, grounding and dizzying all at once. He... didn't want to imagine a future without her?

She swallows the heart that leaps into her throat. And she had known that. Known unequivocally that he would come for her. That was why the clues, the trail, to make it easier for him, to ease his worry. What a pair, indeed.

The way he looks at her, as though she could move mountains, makes her chest ache.

"I care that you were hurt." she whispers back. "I care very much. I can't-- can't just leave, I can't stay put, you're hurt, and the kids are probably worried and I have to make sure those... whatever they are don't come back, can't find us ever again. They--" the words form on her tongue; Del tries to bite them back, but just the mere thought sends the tears that had been prickling her eyes to break their dam. There were so many ways she could continue that sentence, but only one was a deeper truth, a certainty that made her soul quake. She shudders again, feeling nauseated. She opens her eyes to look at him, pleading. "Th-they were going to make me hurt you."

It truly had been her worst nightmare. Taken by her pursuers, and worse, someone she cared about taken as part of some plot that seemed to involve them both. She had been convenient bait. Her fault. She wasn't careful enough, fast enough, strong enough. Another shudder, and the forgelight flickers. Her last little bit of resistance fades as she leans in, resting her forehead against his, a hand lifting to cup his face, as errant raindrops that slip through the cracks in the broken ceiling fall on them. His precious face.

"I don't know what... any of what they said meant, I don't know how they found me, or why they wanted you, or even what I am," she sniffs, "I almost lost you, too. Getting to know you, being bound to you, you, you're the best thing to ever happen to me, Cyran. I don't want to know a world that doesn't have you in it." she swallows hard. "It's not crazy. I tried... so hard to make sure you were safe, and they got you anyway. They were counting on it." She looks furious with herself for a moment, resisting the urge to get up and pace, move around, do something with restless limbs that needed to work, to fix.

Stronger than that urge, though, was the desire to stay right here. Looking into his eyes. Knowing he was safe.

Another shudder of a breath leaves her, and her eyes close slightly. "I was... so scared I'd never see you again."