It's not surprising that Cyran rejects their offer to handle things without him. The man justifiably has reason to not want to sit on the sidelines, if only to ensure that the job is done and put his own mind at ease.

I refuse to allow myself to be a liability.

Zarius scoffs a bit at that sentiment, mostly because he has shared the same sentiment up until recently. He no longer had the choice to just deny such a thing, the curse had robbed him of that agency at the same moment it robbed him of his free will. He would be lying if he said he didn't envy Cyran as the hunter makes such bold declarations. 

He nods. "Very well then. We will head out as soon as you are ready."

A quick glance is made towards Caedes before he steps towards the door, following after Cyran and leaving the office back into the chaos of the orphanage. There is no need to linger in the space or hover over the elven man's shoulders, not that he can, given Cyran is a fair bit taller than himself. The fellblood instead heads for the front door, giving another nod of acknowledgment to Andromeda as he goes before exiting the building.

Stepping back out into the ash-cloaked streets of the city, he takes a breath of stale air. His eyes are drawn down the street and up towards the shadow of Mount Darkolt looming in the distance, the ever-burning angry light from its peak not so different from a lighthouse in the fog. Thick black clouds continue to pour from the top and shroud the surrounding lands in a perpetual gloom.

Zarius pulls his attention from the dreadful landform and looks back over his shoulder at his ever-faithful shadow.

"I hope this is not a mistake."

The nagging worry of what could go wrong weighs heavily on his mind. Maybe it would have been better not to have included Cyran on this mission. Maybe it would have been wiser to risk the lives of expendable swords for hire instead. Maybe this was all a fool's errand they would regret. It's not a feeling he enjoys. Being without a meticulously plotted plan with every precaution taken and every variable accounted for makes him uneasy. This is a risky operation with countless unknowns and endless endings. They will need some serious luck to pull it off unscathed, and lately, it feels as if all their luck has run out.

Pushing those dire thoughts aside, the fellblood turns to Caedes as he leans back against the wooden frame of the orphanage's front door. "What do you think?"

He's come to rely on Caedes' opinions and advice more and more after their conversation in the safehouse where they had finally laid everything out on the table. The amount of trust and respect the Zarius has for the changeling has only grown over time. It's not just his trust and respect for the changeling that has grown, but other feelings that the fellblood still does not wish to acknowledge or understand. There is no time for such things.

None at all.

Zarius shifts his weight a bit. "I think we should be prepared to drag Cyran away kicking and screaming if things look too risky. I do not want an army of street urchins with wooden knives out for our heads."

Caedes dips his head in agreement before offering Zarius a quick glance; and ever his shadow, the changeling follows. The shift from himself back to Mei is swift; it is but the passing of a shadow as they cross beneath the doorway of Cyran’s office back into the orphanage. 

Mei offers Andromeda an innocent wave as they pass, before leaving Cyran to his farewells and following Zarius back out the door.

Shei steps through the threshold after the fellblood, lowering her lashes as she reaches up to tug her hood over her head, and takes a shallow breath of stale air before exhaling with an audible sigh; the atmosphere grows thicker each day in the ash-laden streets of the city.

Then, she turns to close the door with a muted click behind her.

I hope this is not a mistake.

As the door shuts, a few pale locks of hair fall over Mei’s shoulder. She turns towards Zarius, tucking a few of the offending strands behind an ear as she looks to him. In the dim light left in the Darkveil streets, Zarius’ words, the way he holds himself, feels just as heavy as the smoke that lingers in the air from Mount Drakolt.

She exhales slowly.

Mei knows Zarius as a calculated man.

She crosses her arms tightly above her chest, fingertips catching in the hem of her cloak as she steps forwards to join Zarius —

— He is as cold and clever as he can be cruel; reserving niceties and remnants of softness for those closest to him. He always has something up his sleeve; he is reliable, cunning, and versatile; strong, confident, and charismatic —

— and when he turns to lean against the doorframe to address her, she pauses, cloak swaying around her ankles.

What do you think?

“Honestly?” Mei’s shoulders rise and fall with a wistful chuckle. 

It is not that Zarius has ever stopped being any of these things; a harmony of a thousand traits that make the fellblood who he is; someone she admires, who has given her hope again after losing it all. “I think that Cyran is too good for Darkveil.” She grins her typical lopsided smile, a soft ‘hm’ of laughter escaping between her lips.

Zarius is still the same man he always was; but she cannot pretend that nothing is wrong, either; that an uninvited guest doesn’t lie dormant within the fellblood’s spirit. 

An errand fiend waiting.

When Zarius shifts his weight, declaring they should be prepared to drag Cyran away kicking and screaming, Mei covers her mouth with a hand and snickers. “Given the pointers I gave that one kid in there? Yeah, I’d prefer not to have her out trying to drive a stake through my heart, myself.”

That fiend is an unknown; and it’s hard not to see the small differences in his behavior, subtle as they might be. It’s harder, for her, knowing that there is nothing to be done about it; that all she can do in these moments is continue to stand by him.

And she will, but she does wish she could do something more.

She shrugs, her subtle smile fading into something softer as she meets the fellblood’s gaze. “We have planned for everything that we possibly can at this point; it is better to have us drag him back kicking and screaming than see him try to go out on his own. Someone has to look after him; talented and experienced as Cyran may be… I think he cares for everyone but himself.”

Zarius trusts Cyran; to what extent, she does not know for certain; but he trusts Cyran enough to tell him the truth, even if those truths only come in parts. Zarius and his family have enemies— she cannot imagine he would share such sensitive information with someone he could not trust.

And so, she too, implicitly trusts Cyran.

After a moment, unable to resist poking at Zarius in an attempt to lighten his damp mood, she proceeds to try and kick him in the shin with the tip of her boot; not hard enough to hurt, but enough to be noticed. Her tone lilts, playful as she adds accusingly, “Reminds me of someone else I know, now that I think of it.”

Only when Cyran was out of sight of the others - alone, truly alone - did his shoulders stoop and a weary sigh pass his lips. He could not properly say that he didn’t fear much, as the absence of fear did not make a man strong. But he was… apprehensive, perhaps. Weary. Emotions he did not want to share with Zarius and Caedes, not when everything felt so uncertain. He’d vowed to help, and he would honor this promise. It didn’t sit right with Cyran to get tangled up in a mess and leave the threads knotted for others to sit and sort out. And by gods, this business with the cultists was a damn mess. But they had come to Cyran’s home, stolen Del away in broad daylight. They’d planned to sacrifice her. The fear that had spiked through his heart in those moments was a sensation he would never be able to forget as long as he lived.

Cyran may have had his own fears, but he’d never experienced anything as raw and sharp as he had in that moment.

The assassin brushed away the memory like broken glass, forcing himself to straighten. No, if he could make a difference, he would not allow anything like this to happen again. Zarius and Caedes were right, on some level - Cyran was not entirely the same as he’d been when he’d met the fellblood and the changeling. He’d been adrift, not but a couple of blades on his belt and a coldness in his heart in the absence of any place to foster love that made things so much less complicated than they were now. His life had changed faster than he could have ever anticipated, crammed chock-full of people he could genuinely lose if he was not careful. And yet. That was, perhaps, exactly why he had to follow this through to the end.

He’d meant what he said earlier. He would not be a liability.

Cyran had spent over three centuries being far too soft to be of any use to anyone. First a naive son with no eye for business, then a weak-willed husband and a cowardly son. And if he’d done all of this, given away his morals and principles to become something truly awful for his own survival, and eventually, to protect those he loved - if he’d done all of that, and Cyran was still just as weak-willed as he’d been, then what fucking good was he for?

Yes. He would finish this, eliminate the stain that had dared encroach upon him and his own, and then maybe, there would be peace afterwards. Then, and only then.

Smothering the scowl that had grown on his face but not quite managing to smooth away the frown lines, Cyran composed himself and set off to bid farewell to his fiancé.

Del was upstairs in one of the children’s rooms when he found her - tinkering with a piece of furniture, deep in concentration. Always keeping herself busy. And always beautiful, the fire in her eyes roaring like a hearth, bound and determined to mold something new from old ashes. Careful not to startle her, Cyran rapped his knuckles against the doorframe. Despite his troubled thoughts earlier, he oft found it easier to smile when he caught sight of her. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything important.” He started, hoping his sudden appearance was not source of alarm. He doubted it. No matter how quiet he was, Del always seemed to know when he was around, anyways.

He leaned his weight against the frame, doing his damnedest to appear casual - but the cloak slung around his shoulders, clasped together with a woodflower pin with delicate petals breathed to life by Del’s careful touch, indicated that he would not be sticking around for long.

Del looked round at the quiet rapping behind her, her face lighting up in a bright smile as she spotted her beloved fiance. His presence was such a welcome one, a balm to the back of her mind that did not activate her flinch reflex or her tendency to overreact at sudden movements. Even so, his touch was light and delicate, always mindful of her cagey nature.

"Only the life and death matter of the creaky rocking chair." Del chuckles as she stands, wiping the powder-fine shavings of dust from the sanding process off her hands as she closes the distance between them, a comfortable pair of steps as she drifts into his orbit.

The cloak draped over his shoulders draws her eye. Leaving for work then. She reaches out to the pin she had given him, adjusting the clasp so it sat securely, and gives the love of her life a rueful little smile. "Any interruption from you is a welcome one, dear heart. Speaking of... will you be home for dinner tonight?" Her voice remains light and playful, but as always when he has to leave, threaded with an undertone of concern.

Cyran stayed still while she approached, obediently allowing her to fix and secure his cloak and pat it down with calloused hands. Though she, too, was casual, the edges of her voice were tinted with an uncertainty at the edges. She knew, of course she knew that this was a long time coming. Cyran kept no secrets from her, and she was just as tangled in this mess as he was. Every bit of him screamed to ask her to come along, to not leave her alone as he’d done all those weeks ago when she was taken. But the house was more protected than last time, safeguarded. And Del was not a fragile glass bird that needed to be locked in a cage no matter how much he fretted.

He grabbed one of her hands with his own once she was done fixing up his cloak.

“I’m not sure.” He admitted, honest. Trying to keep his demeanor even, but there was no hiding anything from the woman whom he was bound to. “Zarius found a lead.” He admitted after a moment’s silence. “I’m not sure how long it will keep us. I hope to be back before long.”

His voice seemed to have run dry of much genuine hope, though. Just an empty sentiment.

Cyran frowned, apologetic.

“I would not go if it wasn’t important. Please forgive me. With any luck, this will be the end of things. A swift and merciful one.”

Del rolls her hand over in his, watching the strain on his features that made her Cyran look so, so tired as she threads her fingers through the gaps between his. The sensation of feeling torn, tugged in too many directions. Wanting her to go, but knowing she shouldn't.

Part of her, too, wanted to go with him. Where she could keep a careful eye and ensure his safety, especially after devastation after devastation of his she had experienced through their shared bond. Even worse, there was the matter of the cultists themselves and the threat they posed not only to herself and Cyran, but the rest of Darkveil. Maybe Charon on the whole.

She worried-- but she was confident that if he was going with Zarius, that they would keep one another safe. They were both more than capable and not prone to rash action and reckless behaviour.

Seeing his grim expression, Del gives him a wry smile, their joined hands moving to the centre of her collarbone so she could press his palm there, to feel the steady thrum of her pulse. Hand to heart. "There's nothing to forgive, my rogue." She murmurs. "This is important. I will make a plate for you. If you do not make it home tonight, or the next night, or the next, I will still be here, waiting next to your place at the table. Always."

Del gives Cyran's hand a squeeze as she looks him over searchingly. They had been through a lot with this cult; the risk of things happening again were less likely, but non-zero, and she knew he felt that too. "Are you sure everything is alright?"

Such a sweet promise. One that made Cyran’s heart melt. He might have cried if he weren’t trying to keep himself together. In the safety of this moment, he found that he wanted nothing more to stay, to take a seat at the edge of the bed and watch Del finish fixing the rocking chair. He knew, distantly, that he’d made the promise to go, and that he would finish taking care of things no matter the danger. Standing in this room, though, he found his resolve momentarily crumbling.

He shook his head, as if physically dispelling those thoughts. To stave off the emotions, he let out a weak laugh, though he was certain that his worry was betrayed by its warbling quality, like the song of a nervous canary. “I’m certain I won’t be gone that long. Perhaps until tomorrow, at the most.” He joked, without much humor. “But thank you.” It truly meant more than he could express to hear that. No matter how much time passed there would still be something for him to come home to.

At the question, he worried his bottom lip with his teeth. Truth be told, it was not himself that he was worried about at the moment.

“I will be fine. Better, once we’ve handled the cultists and we can all breathe again.” He squeezed Del’s hand. He was nowhere near as strong as her, but he could only hope that his grip brought her the same modicum of comfort. And with it, a promise. She’d been hunted by these cultists, and no matter how well she stayed strong and confident, Cyran had an inkling that it bothered her, to live as she once had. To fear for her life, forced to search for those after her bounty lurking in the dark. Even though he might have been worried for his companions, of this, Cyran was certain. He would not stand to see her live in fear like that again.

“I just came to see you before we left. And to give you this.”

With those words he bent down to press a small, chaste kiss to her cheek.

His nerves were alarming, but they are something Del understands. How he wanted to stay, to remain in this sanctuary of their lives where happiness and goodness thrived. But they both knew that sometimes, the work must be done, unpleasant though it could be. It was grave and heavy, but it was necessary. Weeding the garden so your planted bounty could thrive. It took time and effort and patience, but always, these stolen moments were worth a thousand weeks of strife.

That did not mean it was easy. They would fret, and they would miss one another. But they would be reunited again, soon. And that was enough for Del to look forward to.

As he leans down to kiss her cheek, Del splutters softly, giving him a coy look of reproach as little gold petals bloom in her hair. Before he can pull fully away, Del shifts up onto the balls of her feet, chasing his lips with hers for a stolen, slower kiss. Only a breath or two longer, but long enough to, perhaps, make him feel less guilty about this goodbye.

"Something to remember me by," she teases as she pulls away, her smile one of playful mischief. Trying to lighten his mood, even if only a little. She reaches up to brush his hair off his forehead, one last touch of fondness before he has to leave. "Have a safe journey, love. Shadows keep you. Tell Zariius and Eameia I say hello."

Despite the heaviness of their brief conversation, Cyran still managed to turn a deep shade of red at the small, stolen affection. He cleared his throat while she fussed with his hair, still feeling very much a young man who has just received his first kiss. It was rather embarrassing, he thought, but Del seemed to find it endearing.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can. If there’s any trouble, any at all, send Andromeda for me. I’ll return in a heartbeat. I love you.”

Though he’d been weary, the parting words and the reminder that he did not have to worry so much about his home while he was gone renewed Cyran’s resolve. Yes, he would walk to hell and meet the devil there if it meant eliminating this scourge and being back in time for dinner. No longer carrying the same hunch in his shoulders, Cyran made his way down the stairs, kissed the children on the head that wanted the affection, and made his way back to where Zarius and Caedes - the latter having donned her feminine disguise once more. Closed and locked the door behind him.

“Alright. I’m ready whenever you are. Del gives her regards.”

"Too good for Darkveil,” he repeats the words and gives a slight scoff while nodding affirmatively. “I think you are right about that. He may have made mistakes, and have things he regrets and thinks he does not deserve forgiveness for, but he has also worked tirelessly to better this place for those with nothing. I cannot say many others have done the same."

That goes for them as well. Zarius is comfortable in saying that his motivations for what he does are driven by selfishness, not selflessness. While he appears to be altruistic, that is all part of the ruse to garner trust from allies with aversions to acts of moral bankruptcy. Needless to say, he’s gotten very good at appearing like ‘the good guy’ while still getting what he wants in the end.

A light tap on his shin with the tip of Mei’s boots results in him giving the assassin an unimpressed look. Mei's accusing tone always gets a reaction out of the fellblood. It is too tempting to not engage in the teasing especially when the changeling is so obvious about it. He has half a mind to trip her up with his tail and send her tumbling down the steps, but he shows restraint and just flashes her that all-too-familiar toothy smile.

"I cannot imagine who you are referring to," he retorts. "Certainly not me."

The sound of the door clicking and swinging open interrupts their conversation. Zarius moves away from the doorframe so Cyran can join them out on the front steps. He looks at the cloaked hunter as he locks the door behind him and gives a nod of acknowledgment to the message from Delaela.

"I am surprised she is letting you do this without her,” he says. “She is a strong fighter."

Having Delaela along with them would give them an advantage in numbers, certainly, but there is still the risk of her being a primary target for the cult. Delaela is somehow part of their rituals in a deeper way than simple sacrifice, and without more information, they couldn't really risk hand-delivering her to one of their hideouts. The same could be said about Cyran, and that fact is not lost on the fellblood. They would have to watch each other’s backs very closely and make sure not to be caught by surprise otherwise things could go wrong very quickly.

Gods. Fanatics are the worst. Common criminals at least are predictable because they haven’t thrown all caution to the wind. Zealots are something else entirely, unpredictable like wild animals, and more than willing to risk everything for their cause.

"Let us go then."

The three depart from the orphanage, quickly leaving sight of it behind in favor of the darkened alleyways of Darkveil City. Zarius leads, weaving through the labyrinth of cobblestone and ash with ease until they reach the outskirts of the city limits.

The ash has only grown thicker over the last few months, and there are times when the wind picks up and creates a blinding storm of it. Compared to the biting cold blizzards of Frost Gale and the shredding sandstorms of the Zeinav Desert, an ash storm is far less dangerous other than you run the risk of being blinded so badly that you stumble into a crevice or boiling pool of lava.

However, that is hardly a worry today as the air is stagnant and stale. The ash falls gently down from the blackened sky above and fills in their tracks as they traverse the barren landscape leading up towards Mount Drakolt’s slopes, the peak of the volcano glowing an angry red which only gets brighter the closer they get. 

They keep an eye out for trouble, as well as Oriole who was scouting ahead. It doesn't take too long to regroup with the young apprentice. Briefly catching up with Oriole lets them know that the area has been pretty quiet. Oddly so. The apprentice notes that there are next to no animals in the area and that there have been a few subtle rumblings. There aren't any recent tracks through the ash. All in all, things are relatively still. 

It’s not a good sign. Had the cultists already fled even further? It would be next to impossible to track them if they got too much of a head start on the party, even with them all being highly trained killers. It’s also possible they just have gone deep underground as the ruins are not far from here. It's a coin flip whether or not that is a more advantageous situation. On one hand, if the cultists had moved on to hide amongst the Devil's Ridge, they'd be harder to corner but have fewer defenses to leverage. If they're still amongst the ruins they could be trapped like rats…or they could have traps lying in wait for their pursuers. Either way, they would have to be cautious.

Bidding Oriole farewell and sending him back to the city to watch for their return, the group carries on moving forward toward the long-desolated Ash Ruins.

Despite the lack of any life, Mount Drakolt is hardly completely silent. The earth trembles and groans as they near the ruins that define the northwestern face of the great volcano. The structures have long been neglected and subjected to every minor eruption, fissure, and geyser of flame. Few of the piles of rubble even look remotely like the structures they once were, reduced to smoldering rocks and debris. It's a grim reminder of the dangers of settling so close to a volatile mountain, and perhaps an omen of a fate that could all too easily befall Darkveil. After all, the city's lights are visible even at this distance and through the gloom of ash, far too close to avoid disaster should the volcano finally blow its top in spectacular devastating fashion. 

The ruins themselves provide little shelter but do give the group some much-needed obstacles to hide behind and break any line of sight, unlike the scar-scraped slopes of the volcano which had left them very exposed up until now. Once the group gathers behind a half-collapsed retaining wall, Zarius looks at the pair and speaks in a hushed manner.

"We should stick together and move silently and unseen. I do not want us to be separated."

Normally, he would suggest they separate to cover more ground, but given that the cultists have proven to have enough skills and tricks up their sleeves to get the jump on both Del and Cyran, he's not willing to risk anyone being caught by surprise. They need to be the ones to launch any ambush and have the upper hand, otherwise, the situation could become very grave very quickly. 

He pulls out a piece of paper that has a map scrawled across it and flattens it out against the crumbling wall.^[1] "This is roughly the layout of the ruins. According to some old text Eameia dug up, there should be an underground entrance in this area where historians believe a temple to Ginma used to be," he gestures to one of the larger structures amongst the ruins. "I think we should start there. If any catacombs or ritual chambers are still intact after all these years, they would probably be perfect places for the cult's activities."

Pausing for a minute, his eyes trace back over the features of this once-small village before he looks back at Mei and Cyran. He trusts both of them have far more experience with tracking and infiltration than even he has. Not to mention that Cyran is the most familiar with how the cult operates, so he may have useful information to add for things they need to watch for as they approach. He takes a breath, feeling the sting of the ash in the back of his throat for a moment. 

"Any questions or suggestions?"

---

[1] Wanted Poster

Zarius’ unimpressed look only encourages her shenanigans; Mei’s accompanying grin glints of ivory fangs as she laughs. “Oh yeah, certainly not the man who doesn’t know the definition of ‘a break’… How could I ever imply that I was ever talking about him?” The sarcasm in her voice is nearly palpable, emphasized with a roll of her eyes; but once the door opens, the fun of poking at Zarius ends.

The changeling twirls around on a heel to face the source, clacking her boots together as she offers Cyran a lopsided smile. “Awfully kind of her.” She chuckles, glancing to Zarius when he remarks that it’s surprising Cyran’s fiancé would allow him to go without her. Mei remains silent, subtley displacing anxiety by rocking from the heel to tips of her boots in a sort of restless, childish motion; as she waits with her hands clasped behind her back.

She has never met Cyran’s fiancé.

Past what Zarius has told her and filled her in on of the situation, the woman is otherwise a mystery to her. To have compliments extended from the fellblood, and to have caught Cyran’s eye, however… she must be something.

She doesn’t have much to add; so upon Zarius’ prompting, Mei follows without complaint.

Once Cyran catches up to them, she predictably begins to rib him about how offended she is that she’s never met the infamous ‘Miss Delaela’— and how she expects an introduction upon their return. After all, why is it fair that only Zarius gets to meet Cyran’s beloved betrothed? Eameia has even met her! 

Even the societal menace, Ebony has met her before she.

Truly unfair. The nerve of this elven man. She cannot believe his moxie for hiding his new fiancé. 

The playful mischief practically drips from her tongue all the while she speaks; she can’t help herself.

Though she has not seen Cyran in some time, the development of his fiancé is one she regrets missing from her dear friend; and she has to catch up for lost time. She makes a point to poke and prod Cyran for the little things; and is thoroughly bemused when the elvish man sheepishly responds.

Oh, he sure is lovestruck.

Moment by moment, the cobblestone of Darkveil City fades; it transitions to freshly fallen ash; and with the time that passes, Mei’s playful bantering diminishes. She keeps her eyes forwards. The barren landscapes and all it could hide within it are only one point of her focus; the other being the fellblood, himself.

But all things considered, the world is quiet; as quiet as it can be at the base of a volcano. Mei feels the earth rumble beneath her feet; smoke plumes, choked from the mouth of the volcano, its dark hues haloed by an angry red; never once allowing Darkveil’s citizens to rest easy beneath its watchful gaze.

After meeting up with Oriole, things remain quiet.

There seems little promise of running into the cultists that they’re tracking given the apprentice’s report, but, that doesn’t mean they’re not here somewhere. The lack of animals in the area is something that Mei takes particular note of; but their absence could just as easily be chalked up to the activity of Mount Drakolt; rather than the unwelcome presence of visitors at their doorstep.

After bidding Oriole farewell, they’re off again; and gradually, the ashen wastelands beneath Mount Drakolt’s watchful gaze give way to old wounds of memories past. Mei looks across the way, watching the quiet lingerings of what might have been a pillar, as a gust of wind billows soot from its broken column. She ducks behind the ruin wall with Zarius and Cyran, offering Zarius her full attention as he speaks softly.

She adjusts her position to better see the piece of paper that he flattens across the flat surface of the crumbling wall; she narrows her eyes, scanning the layout briefly as Zarius explains it. “Makes sense,” she murmurs, her voice hushed. “Why build when you could re-use? No one but misguided researchers ever come this high up, either.” Mei gazes past Zarius for a moment, flicking between the layout, and what she’s seeing.

There’s a good chance the cultists could have holed up; and there’s an equally good chance they’ve completely effed off. They’re good at covering themselves up should they still be here, but…

Zarius’ voice refocuses Mei’s gaze; for a moment, she lingers on him with an air of concern.

So far, Zarius has seemed well; she’s seen no symptoms as of yet of anything strange occurring; at least, not as was described to her. It’s difficult, though, keeping a watchful eye on the fellblood without feeling like she’s fretting over his every step and sound; he’s not a child, and he is more than capable of caring for himself.

That thing hitching a ride in his head, though?

That’s a different story.

After a breath, Mei speaks up. “Regardless of if there are or are not cultists outside, I think it’s safe to assume something is here.” She remarks, “Animals don’t tend to fuck off for no reason; they fuck off because they’re scared. Hell knows we’ve got some batshit creatures living up near Drakolt that don't care about the tremors— and if Oriole didn’t see traces of them, that’s troubling.” She shrugs. “Quickly and quietly; break line of sight as much as possible; and be prepared should we get jumped before we hit the entrance, whether that be by man or beast.”

“Truthfully, I’ll miss being by her side.” Cyran replied to Zarius’s offhand comment, tone mild. He was certain that they’d benefit from having Del at their side in battle, her expertise and her connection to the shadows would be nothing but a boon in this fight. But Cyran was none too keen to deliver her to the very people who’d snatched her so fervently, the fanatics who wanted to make use of the Crucible to revive their dead, forgotten god. He was aware Zarius knew of the bounty on her head, and perhaps even what Cyran and Eameia had discussed when Del had been taken - the fellblood knew how risky it was for her to be there. He twisted the ring on his finger, once, twice.

Though she would not be here in person, it was almost too overly sentimental of Cyran to say that he would always carry a part of her with him into any fight. Her sheer strength and technique, that piece of passion from her soul, it was with him, too. And that in itself was a dim comfort on such a dark afternoon.

The three set off, Mei not so content to allow Cyran off the hook about his intended just yet. The first half of the journey was filled with grilling questions - the how, the the where, the why she had not been informed of such a development. Cyran answered honestly, that their meeting had been as simple as an accidental glance while concealed within the shadows, that everything else had just fallen into place afterwards. He took the ribbing with little complaint; he had intended to tell Mei, though with busy schedules and no shortage of contracts during a time of political turmoil meant that they’d rarely had the opportunity to run into one another. He assured her that there would be plenty of time for everyone to get acquainted after this was all taken care of, perhaps even over a private dinner for just the four of them.

And even that small talk petered out once they found Oriole.

Cyran’s student did not look too worse for wear, a fact that Cyran was grateful for. A bit ash-stained and nervous being so close to an enemy’s encampment, but the thief was an adept scout, and had learned a trick or two over the past few months. He’d managed to disguise himself as a member of the cult and avoid suspicion from anyone that might be in the area… if he’d managed to find anyone at all,^[1] Even as Oriole debriefed them, Cyran could feel it in the air, taste it in the bitter ash on his tongue. These ruins felt dead. Not even the whisper of ghosts on the wind to keep them company. Well and truly dead.

Cyran committed Oriole’s findings to memory while the thief finished. When all was said and done, Cyran pulled Oriole in for a brief, but firm, hug. “You did well.” He praised, his hand on Oriole’s shoulder as he pulled away, a surge of pride cutting through the grim tension in his heart. Oriole had truly learned a lot since coming to be Cyran’s student. It had been just under a year, and yet, he’d improved by leaps and bounds, flourishing into more than just an anxious pickpocket - but a true rogue. “Thank you for your hard work, Oriole. We’ll take care of things from here.”

Oriole fiddled with his quarterstaff, staring at his feet. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

Cyran’s grip tightened on Oriole’s shoulder; not hard enough to hurt, but enough to let his student know that this was not a topic up for debate. “Quite sure. The three of us will have an easier time staying hidden on our own, and you’re due for a rest back home.” Truth be told, Oriole was a master of disguise, but right now, the situation called more for invisibility than illusion. Oriole did not seem particularly upset about the situation… merely worried, and as Zarius, Mei, and Cyran made their way further into the Ash Ruins, Oriole watched them worriedly for a few moments before turning back on his heel and heading in the direction of Shade’s Valley.

The delicate, intermittent trembling in the earth set Cyran’s senses on high alert while the three traipsed across the ruins. Though they’d not experienced a tremor as horrible as the one that destroyed both the Rookery and Shade’s Valley in a manner of minutes, that did not mean the earth had gone back to rest. Something seemed to have awakened within the volcano - something that was not so keen on being put back to sleep. Each incidence of shaking felt like a shuddering breath, the smog and debris the only bones of what these structures might have originally been. A testament to the volcano’s wrath.

No, Cyran did not like this one bit.

Nevertheless, the assassin crouched behind the wall with Zarius and Mei, studying the map intently. “An underground entrance seems about right.” He murmured, remembering his encounter in their hidden lair below the shack. “They seem to enjoy the act of burrowing like moles.” Not to mention a proclivity for pesky little traps and magical lights that prevented him from accessing the cave’s natural shadows. Cyran grimaced at the reminder, the unpleasant sensation of being so abruptly cut off from safety.

Zarius fell silent, still, before speaking again with a voice Cyran might almost describe as hoarse.

He tilted his head in thought, compartmentalizing his concern now that they were so deep into enemy territory. His first instinct was to ask if Zarius was well, offer water, tell him that it was okay if he needed to sit out. But they could not afford that right now, and Cyran would not patronize him by dragging out this game of worrying and rebuffing - though if Zarius appeared to be getting worse, the assassin silently vowed to remove him from the situation.

But right now, he needed to focus. Think. Assess.

He concentrated on the shadows, drawing upon the darkness to draw forth a familiar pair of spectral, ink-black wings from his back. They fluttered once, twice, before folding against his back. Closing his eyes, Cyran clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth, listening for the echo.^[2] The familiar reverb from Zarius and Mei, but true to what Oriole had said, nothing living for at least five hundred feet around them. Nothing, except…

A faint blip of... something only a few feet away, soft and weak; the Specter could not discern whether it was animal or human or what have you, but it was something. Cyran pointed in the direction of that single, living thing.

“There’s someone, or something, over there. Stationary. It could be nothing, but if the cult still is here, they’ve likely stationed a guard or watchman at the entrance to the tunnels. We take the sentinel out before they notice us, then there’s a chance we might have the element of surprise as we move forward. I might have a better idea of what lurks below once we descend.”

He paused, thoughtful.

“Though, I will warn, the last time Del and I dealt with these men, what I believed was the element of surprise turned out to be a purposeful ploy to lead me underground.” And grant them two birds with one stone. “We ought to tread with caution, lest we venture right into a spider’s web.”

---

1. Appearance Mimicry - Oriole
2. Bat Wings (1/3) - Echolocation

Zarius listens intently to Caedes and Cyran's input. Both provide good notes to keep in mind and advice on how to proceed. The fellblood considers a plan of action, glancing at Cyran's newly manifested wings. Having a pair of eyes up in the sky would give them the opportunity to see their surroundings better, especially if there is an ambush lying in wait for them. 

"Since you can take to the air, you might as well get up to a vantage point. Mei and I can circle around to flank whoever is guarding the entrance."

He pulls down the map and rolls it back up, tucking it away before pulling out a sphere on a piece of string. He hands the item to Cyran as he clears his throat.^[1]

"Just in case we do get separated, you can use that to communicate with me. Mei and I have hoods that work the same," he says as he tugs at the hood bunched around his neck. 

They had to take every precaution with this operation. Too much is at risk, and given Cyran's level of concern about being jumped, they really need to be on high alert. 

"I will take the left flank, Mei, take the right."

With that said, Zarius turns invisible and silently moves out.^[2,3] He does just as they planned and circles to the left, mindful of any pressure plates, trip wires, or concealed pits. Nothing like that seems to be in this immediate area, however, so he manages to get into position around the ruined entrance to the temple. Despite Cyran's note about there being something living out here, it sure is still. He can't manage to see anyone around even as he closes in on the crumbling walls and broken steps leading up to what would have been the main hall. 

The temple would have been magnificent back in its prime, but the cracked stones and collapsed walls have left it a shadow of its former glory. The ceiling has long since collapsed and left piles of rubble littering the floor. Even up near the altar, there is little that has managed to survive against Mount Drakolt's wrath. All that this was hardly matters, it's now just a testament to the futility of leaving a legacy. 

It's desolate and maybe those who are more sentimental about history would lament the loss of the ancient civilization that built these structures originally. None of that really matters right now, they have a job to do. 

Zarius carefully moves ahead, stepping through the rubble and keeping an eye out for anything out of the ordinary. He pauses only when he spots something moving past some of the shattered archways. It must be whatever Cyran had sensed moments earlier. He readies himself to act when the thing stalks out from hiding. 

But what Cyran had sensed was nothing more than an Ash Land jackal, sleek and smoldering with wispy dark miasma. Well, that's definitely not a cultist. He clicks his tongue in annoyance and picks up a rock, throwing it at the jackal to spook it off. It lets out an angry territorial hiss before darting past them and disappearing amongst the ruins. 

Once the critter has left, he explores the area more closely and finds a heavy that has been cleared of debris more recently. It doesn't appear to be locked, and as far as he can tell, there's no trap mechanism. He drops his invisibility, waving for Mei and Cyran to be ready from wherever they were hiding. He pulls a potion out of his pouch and downs it quickly before he steps around the hatch and then pulls it open with a great amount of effort.^[4] The potion's magic extends to the hatch and hinges, making it open silently despite the weight. 

With the hatch now open, a staircase descending down into darkness is revealed. It looks like the corridor has managed to survive despite the tremors. Only one way to go, and that's down. He glances around before taking a careful step down the staircase and down into the corridors beneath the ruined temple. 

The scent of burning torches and oil is strong, suggesting that there has been a lot of activity recently, yet the tunnels are pitch black. Well, at least that would make concealing themselves easier unless the cultists all have the same skills as Caedes and Cyran. Not impossible, but doubtful given what Cyran has described about their skills thus far. Traps are a much bigger worry, but none of the structure down in the corridors suggests there's been any ill tampering. 

The further they trek into the depths, the quieter it gets, with only the subtle rumble of the volcano making itself known. 

"No one is here…" he breathes. 

A small circular chamber opens up at the end of the corridor. There are several open doorways leading to a few other rooms and another hallway that has the faintest red glow coming from it. Notably, the floor in this immediate area is littered with fragments of debris from the ceiling, but also odd piles of ash surrounded by fresh scorch marks.

Through one of the doorways leading to a single room, there's definitely a concerning sight within it. The room's walls are adorned with chains ending in cuffs that have been left open and empty. Clearly, people were being held here at one point in time, but any survivors or escapees are long gone if there ever were any to begin with. Chances seem slim all things considered. 

In the other room across the chamber is a wooden table that is significantly charred. A scorched leather-bound book sits precariously on the edge of the table and another pile of ashes is on the floor not so far away.

While such a thing would immediately draw the fellblood's attention, his eyes are fixated on the end of the long hallway. He doesn't say anything as he quietly strides ahead toward the glow that emits from the hall's end.

As he walks down the hall, the whispers creep up from the back of his mind, drowning out the ever-present rumble from Mount Drakolt. He braces one hand against the rough-honed wall and clutches his head with his other, trying and failing to stave off their incoherent chorus.

This isn't good. Why now? Is this a warning of some threat? He glances around, but other than Mei and Cyran, there are no other detectable presences.

---

[1] Talking Heads
[2] Invisibility
[3] Silent Step
[4] Potion of Shadows

Movement catches the corner of the changeling’s eye; and Mei turns her head just slightly to catch the gloomy, spectral wings that protrude from the elven man’s shoulder blades. She doesn’t hear the click of his tongue, but her eyes remain on him for a moment— studying, contemplative— before her crimson eyes draw back towards Zarius. “Hm,” Mei acknowledges Cyran’s advice with a pitched hum; her eyes follow the line of Cyran’s fingertip; studying the landscape that hides the aforementioned something from their immediate sight. 

Nothing moves. The mountains far beyond Mount Darkest sit quiet and hazy, nestled in a horizon freckled by feather-light ash. She takes note, but offers Cyran a lazy smile when he continues.

Some dumb joke about her familiarity of spider webs and how only the dumbest of spiders would weave their threads at the edge of a volcano sits on the edge of her tongue; and for a minute, she genuinely thinks about voicing it just so the stupidity of the thought can ease some of the anxiety she feels coiling like a serpent in her core.

She decides not to in the end, finding it poor timing given the situation and how close this entire ordeal is to Cyran’s heart. She is, in fact, an asshole; but she’s not heartless most days. 

She sighs instead, offering Zarius a subtly concerned glance when he hands the map to Cyran while clearing his throat.

She blinks slowly at him, then lowers her lashes as she raises her hands to pull her hood over her head. “Yes, sir.” she agrees, her tone roguish as she adjusts the hood on her head; she turns to Cyran to offer him a half wave in temporary farewell, then proceeds to disappear into the shadow cast by the ruined walls of a time long past.

Mei brushes her fingertips across the stone, lifting her eyes to scan what lies in front of her.

Silence is quick to fall across the ashen landscape when they part; she gazes across through the shadows cast by ancient architecture worn away by time, disaster, and weather, but she sees nothing out of the ordinary amongst them. _{(1. Shadow Sight)} She glances to her right, then to her left; pausing there for just a moment, before she ultimately heads towards their planned upon destination.

Her steps are quiet and careful; just before she steps from the shadows, the gloom rises around her. The crash of the din against her form, similar to the rush of a wave, does not slow her. Instead, it swallows her into obscurity; an aura of twilight that glints in prismatic light and cloaks her against the light from the shadows. _{(2. Dark Form)} She goes with caution, keeping an eye out for evidence of the stationary guard that Cyran believed he had sensed.

… but there is none.

Mei watches the spooked jackal; it darts past from the left, leaving trails of miasma in its wake. It leaps down, bounding across deep ash as if its paws never needed to touch solid ground. She exhales slowly, letting it pass, before she continues.

It’s not long before she circles around to their destination; the ruins are desolate from what she can find during her search. It’s been picked clean from years of looting; or perhaps weathering; or perhaps it’s all hidden beneath the deep swaths of ash that have gathered over the years. Mei runs her fingertips around a pillar as she watches Zarius drop his invisibility; her gaze drifts to the hatch.

She quietly pulls back the edges of her cloak, knuckling her throwing knives between her fingers as she walks towards Zarius. The prismatic shadows bleed off of her form as she approaches, but her steps remain quiet— only beginning to leave footprints in the ash as the last traces of them slough from her boots. Zarius reaches down to pull open the hatch, and Mei waits ready over his shoulder, should he be greeted by an unwelcome face.

… He’s not.

Mei straightens her shoulders, blinking into the darkness _{(3. Ebon Eyes)} ahead of them. There’s a staircase, but otherwise, it’s damn empty. She furrows her brows and ensures Cyran is nearby before she follows Zarius into the darkness.

“A quick evacuation?” Mei suggests, her voice hushed. She brushes her hand above a once-burning torch; there are no embers left on it, but she feels the tiniest breath of heat lick her palm; yet, she cannot tell if it comes from the torch itself or the warm, volcanic stone.

Had there been a quick evacuation, why would they have put out all of their torches?

She frowns, but continues on into the next corridor, where rather unwelcome sights await the trio. Mei rears back when she sees the chains ending in cuffed manacles. “Yikes…” She remarks in a breath, fangs baring in a grimace while she turns away from it. She does continue to follow Zarius for a brief time— but breaks away to examine the scorch marks surrounding some of the ashen piles.

She narrows her eyes at them, briefly glancing around the chamber to ensure they remain alone— but it does seem to be so. She lowers her eyes back to the ashes and crouches down, moving to hold a hand over them.

They give off the slightest presence of warmth. Not disimilar to the torches in the corridor; it is not smoldering, it is not cold, but it is warm enough to suggest that the burning of whatever this was took place fairly recently. She brushes her fingertips against the scorch marks around them, picking up blackened char from the rocks; but she doesn’t necessarily understand what she's looking at, here.

The pattern suggests it is, in some way, magical; there is no other way for these scorch marks to arise in this place from a natural source in this room.

She looks at her hand for a moment, side-eyes the pile ash, and then rises to her feet.

What were they burning here?

She turns, looking for Cyran— and once she has located him, she then looks for Zarius, who has left her vision. Mei feels her breath catch in her throat; realistically, she knows that Zarius is likely just out of sight; but there comes a strange unease that settles in her chest now that he’s not nearby.

She moves from where she was, searching for the fellblood in a manner that is worried and rushed — and finding him down the hall. 

The relief is short-lived when she finds him with one hand braced against the wall, and the other on his head.

Her chest tightens and her stomach sinks.

“Zarius?” Her voice rings through the hood, _{(4. Rogue Hood)} tentative but concerned; she can see the glow at the end of the hallway, and should anyone be lingering inside; she does not want to alert them. In the shadows of the underground lair, her footsteps are near-silent; and given Zarius’ condition, she offers a courtesy warning of, “I’m walking up behind you, don’t freak out,” before she actually reaches the fellblood’s location.

She gently rests a hand on his shoulder as she rounds him; he’s warm to the touch, radiating a heat that’s almost painful given her natural chill. Seeing him in this pained state when she has not before is… she swallows sympathy, speaking through the hood with a gentler, “How bad is it?” than she might have intended. She offers a quick glance over her shoulder; rolling back her cape with a shrug, she keeps her throwing knives in a readied position should she need them.

From what Zarius has told her, this thing acts up when he’s in danger; there’s a good chance the fiend inside can sense something that they don’t. She can only assume it’s coming from the room, given he’s stopped here— but then again, prior to this— his voice was hoarse outside.

Still, if they can avoid triggering the fiend, that would be best. Perhaps she and Cyran can clear this next room, as much as she knows Zarius will dislike the idea of the duo moving forwards without him; if they can dispatch the danger, then... perhaps this, too, will pass.

She’ll take his frustration over his safety any day.

She blinks and looks back at Zarius, concerned as she puts some pressure against his shoulder with her palm, “Let’s regroup in the main room.” She suggests, attempting to guide the fellblood back into the main chamber, where Cyran may or may not still be waiting.

Zarius cleared his throat again while he reached into his bag for a small artifact, deposited into Cyran’s palm. The elven assassin frowned, his old friend concern creeping up onto his shoulder once more. He was tempted to request that Zarius stay here, though he suspected the fellblood would not take too kindly to that. His fingers curled around the artifact instead, words on the top of his tongue that curled and evaporated like acrid smoke. He merely nodded, glancing skyward, as if the ashy clouds might hold the answers he was searching for. “Understood. I shall keep an eye on you from above.”

He closed his eyes, delicately prying off his eyepatch and tucking that in his pocket. What remained of his eye was… not quite right - merely an ink-black void where a pupil and an iris ought to be. It was not the prettiest sight, but it was a testament to his survival in the tomb, and it was functional. He’d not miss anything in the air this way that might creep up on them.^[1] The Specter offered a thin-lipped smile at Mei’s farewell, and a respectful nod towards Zarius as he twisted his hand, calling forth the thin shadows cast by surrounding walls and ruins. They draped over him like a cloak, a protective barrier to obscure him from sight.^[2,3] Darkness shimmered around him as he took to the air, an ever-faithful sentinel, watchful raven’s eyes guarding for any threats.

As it turned out, they’d perhaps been… overcautious in their preparations. Not without good cause, mind, but just as everything else had been thus far, the air itself could only be described as dead. Stillness, the dust of ancient life so thick in the air that no breeze even seemed capable of permeating this shield. Cyran shivered, rubbing at his arms despite the warmth.

From this vantage, he had a clear view of the once-temple and everything that lay within. With Zarius and Mei cloaked, it was difficult for him to make out their exact movements save their footprints in the dust, the faint tracks of feet disrupting centuries of rest. And he could see the ‘guard’ he’d identified before… a lone jackal that brought to mind memories of his and Zarius’s recent hunt with the Ur-Beast. He smiled fondly before shutting the door on those memories, not wanting to get distracted.

In the absence of danger, though, Cyran’s mind wandered, assessing the state of these ruins. The lack of robe-clad mages, the lack of traps and locks. And yet, the clear evidence that the area had recently been moved through, places where the rubble had been cleared out. The cultists had been here; so why hadn’t they set up clearer defenses against being attacked? The mounting dread that this might have been a trap crept in once more. They were being beckoned inside - and now in front of them laid a choice, to seek answers, an end, or to pull back and play it safe.

Cyran thought of Zarius playing cards in a Zeinavian casino, pressing for the victory against the sultan, and he knew which the fellblood would choose.

His musings were interrupted by the signs of movement below. Zarius had dropped his invisibility, and started opening the hatch to hell. Cyran held his breath, but as expected… no traps were sprung. Nothing. Not even unearthed dust as the maw of darkness opened up.

Cyran folded his wings back up, dropping his own invisibility as he landed near the two.

“Nothing from above.” He relayed. “But they were here recently.” A quick evaluation sounded feasible - and much preferable to the alternative, which was that they waited deeper within, bundled up and beckoning the three inside. “It is worth noting I saw no wagon-tracks or footprints leading out of the ruins that might indicate a hasty retreat. Though I’ve no way of knowing whether this is the only entrance or exit to these tunnels in the first place.”

Too many variables to consider. Not enough answers. But Cyran had promised he would follow Zarius, and he wasn’t going to break that now. He took up the end of the party, allowing Mei to follow after her companion. ‘Ladies first’, he mouthed, an attempt at light humor that fell flat in the silence. He took up the end of the company, plunging himself into the dark abyss.

He blinked, allowing himself to get accustomed to the dark while he trailed behind the two.^[4] Down here the heat was almost stifling, the remnants of warmth and fire practically smothering him. And yet, no light remained. Only scorch marks where a blazing inferno had burnt itself out, and the remnants of capture and torture. Chains and tables and ashes and death.

Cyran clicked his tongue again, suppressing his frustration. Nothing living here, save himself and his companions. The assassin ran a hand through his hair, a gentle sigh leaving his lips, before turning to find the others…

Only to find that Zarius had propped himself up against a wall.

Oh, no.

Cyran took a step forward, but Mei had beaten him to it - approaching the way one might a wounded animal, slowly, as if to prevent him from starting. And Cyran had a sinking suspicion that if this thing had gripped his friend, that was an entirely possible outcome. The changeling rested a gentle hand on his shoulder, a silent conversation exchanged that Cyran was not privy to. He waited, watching the two with something approaching dawning understanding at the gentleness and ease with which Mei moved, trying to bring Zarius back to the main room, rather than moving forward.

‘Are you okay?’ Cyran mouthed, spelling out the question with halting hand signals - the question directed at Zarius. And yet, his gaze was focused on Mei. There was something knowing in her eyes, a gentle recognition, a worry that melted away her sharp edges and flippant defense mechanisms, leaving behind nothing but sheer care. Cyran tilted his head, directing the next question straight into her thoughts, hoping the mental intrusion would not scare her. And he uttered two simple words, a question that he dreaded the answer to - even though Cyran was certain he already knew it.

“The fiend?”^[5]

---

1. All Eye
2. Mass Shadow Control
3. Dark Form
4. Ebon Eyes
5. Mind Parasite

Bat Wings Post 2/3

Zarius cringes as Mei’s voice invades his mind, adding to the chaos of all the voices bouncing around in his skull. Maybe that wasn’t the best idea after all.

He closes his eyes tight as Mei’s hand falls on his shoulder. Her touch is frigid, and it only makes him realize just how much heat his body is giving off. How things changed so much so quickly, he should have taken it all more seriously and acted sooner.

Mei's presence is all that grounds him, and keeps the panic and dread from running rampant. Glancing at Mei and Cyran, the worry on their faces is clear as day. Sometimes he wishes the shadows were strong enough to hide such expressions.

“Not great,” he admits to Mei through the hood before he shakes his head in response to Cyran’s gestures.

Tempted as he is to deny something is wrong, to put on that practiced smile and pretend he has everything under control, he knows all too well that he can't get away with such an act in front of Mei and Cyran. Mei knows him too well and Cyran can detect falsehoods like no other. There is no hiding from them especially when his nails are dug into the stone wall.

He doubts Mei and Cyran will let him continue forward given the information he has entrusted them with. And while it's frustrating, he cannot deny the logical choice here is for him to go back. He's a liability to them both, to the mission. They couldn't afford to be reckless now of all times.

As Mei tries to direct him back down the hall though, all the voices erupt in incongruent screams of protest. His feet refuse to move and his body locks up, becoming rigid and resistant to any attempts at retreating.

He grits his teeth as he connects to Mei through the hood. “Whatever is ahead, it does not want to run from it."

Letting the fiend or whatever this is have its way is not something he's particularly keen on. With the voices acting up now when they have barely seen any threats and he's perfectly unharmed, he's not sure what to make of what could possibly be ahead. If there was a massive threat ahead, why wouldn't it let him retreat to safety? Why does it want him to move toward the glowing red room? This thing always seemed like its priority was to survive and protect him…if that priority has changed, who knows what could happen next.

If Mei or Cyran tried to move him by force, it's possible the fiend would retaliate and possibly take its anger and frustration out on the pair. However, if they go forward that could happen regardless. It's definitely a less-than-ideal situation. Maybe the safest thing for the assassin and hunter is to retreat, of course, there's no way they would just leave the fellblood to the mercy of an unknown fate.

He takes a slow, careful breath. There's an intense sting of smoke in the back of his throat, but it doesn't feel like the smoke is gathering in his lungs yet.

That's good, so long as he can breathe he won't panic and pass out. Staying calm and conscious meant he could still resist letting the dozens or maybe even hundreds of voices in his head take over. In theory, that is. But if he could not pull back, that meant he had to go forward eventually. He couldn't help but wonder if the answers they had failed to uncover about this thing were in that next room.

"Go ahead. I will stay put."

It's all he can think to do right now. If Cyran and Mei can at least scout ahead and determine if the room ahead is filled with enemies, they could weigh their options better. Diving headfirst into that angry red light certainly sets off every warning bell any sane person has.

Sometimes things just don’t go as planned despite all the best intentions. As the group lingers in the hall, something starts glowing from the previous chamber. Appearing out of the darkness behind them is a strange floating creature with long tendrils and smoke billowing behind it, a flaming specter born from the mysterious piles of ash Cyran and Mei had noticed during their previous investigation. And it isn’t alone. A few more drift into view, blocking their path of escape.

The hair on the back of Zarius’ neck stands on end, and he glances over his shoulder at the charred ghosts as they begin to approach. Great. Just what they needed. He turns to face the new threat before the piercing shrieks of the voices in his head bring him down on one knee. Dammit! How's he supposed to even defend himself like this?

---

SPOILER: Click to show

Charred
Power Level: Medium
Alignment: Hostile
Description: The Charred are manifestations of the pain and suffering experienced by those who lost their lives to the fires of Mount Drakolt. The Charred have no memory of their past lives beyond the pain of burning to death and seek only to share their suffering with anything that breathes. The Charred roam close to the sites of where they perished, forever seeking vengeance and only finding peace in their own destruction.
Abilities
- Fire Damage Immunity
- Fiery Aura
- Floating
- Grasping Tentacles
- Choking Smoke

Beneath her palm, Zarius is scalding; even through the fabric of his clothing, she can feel the heat pulsating in a steady, never yielding wave; the realization makes her fingers twitch, but she doesn’t remove her hand. She expects Zarius’ voice echoing back at her; and to it, her brows furrow worriedly. When Cyran’s voice invades her mind, the woman’s shoulders tense; a breath she did not know she had catches in her throat.

‘The fiend?’

She tilts her head minutely to look at Cyran, lips pursed, the furrow of her brows surely enough of a confirmation for the elven man; but she still gives a solitary nod of affirmation, lashes lowering just slightly before she turns back to the fellblood.

Her attempts to guide Zarius back down the hall are thwarted by the grimace in Zarius’ face; the tightened body posture; the way he locks up. Mei feels the tension against her palm and stops, frowning when Zarius admits that it won’t let him move. She thinks she feels a phantom sensation; her stomach flipping, or her heart fluttering; with a glimmer of dread.

Her time in their mental connection has run out, and she’s still airing on caution, given Zarius’ claim that the fiend starts to roil when danger nears, so she says nothing in return. After a moment, however Mei simply loosens the hold of her fingers on his shoulder but keeps her palm curved against the nigh unbearable heat emanating from him.

What… to do about this?

It won’t let him go back, but it is acting up. The back room is clear. The door with the glowing red light is unknown, and it won’t move away. But she cannot, in her right mind, allow Zarius to move forwards on his own accord— they would risk the fiend— but something isn’t really adding up about what they think they know about this entity.

Why does it want to move from the known, into the unknown?

Mei tries to remain a steady companion. It’s all she can do; and to some degree, she’s hyperaware of it. She blinks to refocus on Zarius when his strained voice returns through the hood; his clear agony in this state filling her chest with a helpless and dismal sort of weight.

She purses her lips and nods her agreement; but that plan lasts for only a heartbeat. Zarius’ golden gaze suddenly flickers, and Mei follows the turn of his head, eyes narrowing sharply at the end of the corridor.

The pieces fall into place.

Perhaps the previous room was not as clear as she had previously thought; did that make the room in front of them ‘safer’ by the fiend’s account?

As ominous and as unwelcome as the arrival of the Charred are, they bring with them the tiniest flicker of realization based on all that Mei knows of the fiend. It’s the only way she can make this logical in her head: it won’t let them move back, because to move back was dangerous. Should the threat be removed, maybe they can ease Zarius back towards safety so that he can regain his bearings.

A job easier said than done.

Hope feels slippery.

“Cyran,” her warning voice is barely a whisper, the clack of a rock or the gentle drip of water from above, within the confines of the tunnel. There’s an unspoken plea in the pitch of her voice. Mei’s shoulders jolt when Zarius disappears from beneath her touch; and the woman makes a quick glance at the fellblood as he falls to a knee. She loses her breath in a trembling sigh between parted lips and swoops down to quickly crouch in front of him.

“Focus on staying with us,” she murmurs; and albeit subtle, the long shadows cast by flickering flame at the entrance of the hall twist beneath their shadows. Ink latches to the base of Zarius’ boots, radiating into a prismatic shimmer the further it travels. “Fire won’t touch you.” ⁽¹⁾

There’s not really time for chatter.

Mei does not like breaking the silence, in fear that whatever or whomever could be beyond the door could open it— but she also knows that these fucking ghosts of the burning damned are going to cause a whole lot more noise than a whisper.

She pulls back from Zarius, knuckling a pair of nigh-translucent throwing knives between her fingers as she turns ^{(2, 3)}; by the time she has faced the Charred, her physical mirage has been dropped; choosing instead to focus his energy elsewhere— and not on a disguise meant primarily for the more mortal eyes of Darkveil.

For now, he remains on the defensive; a step towards the Charred, and a flick of his wrist to better hide Zarius’ collapsed silhouette with his cloak; is as much distance as he closes. Flickering flames licking off their smoke and ashen tendrils are enough to cast long shadows in the hall, even despite the softer glow of whatever the hell sits behind closed doors.

Caedes blinks, allowing the pale of his eyes to bleed into something darker. With the closest Charred in his priority, some of the long shadows cast within the hallways twitch; their motions spiderlike, as if unraveling spindling legs from slumber; before their physical manifestations snap out and grasp at long tendrils and flaming bodies; seeking to slow, or subdue the closest of them from proceeding further. ⁽⁴⁾

---

^{(1) Resist the Elements: Fire — Cast on Zarius, lasts for the next two posts.
(2) Quick Draw
(3) Throwing Knives (*Pale Ice)
(4) Shadow Binding}

It was frustrating, sometimes, to have lived for centuries and have none of the useful life experience to accompany it. He’d spent his formative years in the prison-like of his old home in Eclipse City, where the majority of his time was spent in lessons that did not stick and social gatherings that he despised. Which meant that he was left feeling utterly in the dark and helpless while Mei held to Zarius, who’d so plainly and honestly replied with a resounding ‘no’ to Cyran’s question. No attempts at deflection or reassurances that would be fine given time. Cyran hummed, turning towards Mei. The changeling did not look especially pleased at the intrusion in her mind, and less so about the circumstances in general based on the purse of her lips and the tightness in her shoulders.

He moved closer, a breezing shadow through the dim chamber, closing the distance between himself and the other two. Yes, the safest thing would be to guide Zarius back to safety - and this, too, was a testament to how little energy he had to protest. Even in this pained state the strategist in him knew it was not wise to push forward in the face of such instability. Cyran was struck with the feeling that he was watching his friend’s life drain slowly like granules through an hourglass, with only his and Mei’s hands the only safeguard to prevent it from free falling - and still, little granules slipped through the gaps in their fingers.

Cyran stole a breath; forcibly quelled anxiety and descended into calm. He would not fall apart until the final curtains fell and he was truly alone. Cyran took Zarius’s other side, hands hovering in the air, unsure if he was allowed to touch. Mei’s support was one thing, but there was no way for Cyran to know how much of Zarius’s rational mind remained in that moment and how much was the fiend protecting him. It was, perhaps, a good thing Cyran didn’t intrude - as in the seconds that Mei tried to guide Zarius back to safety, his body went stiff, and his legs locked up, becoming leaden weights to prevent him from being moved any further. The elven assassin stifled a worried gasp at the sudden change of demeanor - even Mei froze, unwilling to provoke whatever it was lest they learn what its fury tasted like.

Cyran was not privy to the silent conversation that the two were engaged in, but it was easy enough to read the minute changes in their expression and know whatever had been said was not pleasant. He angled his head back towards the room Zarius had been about to enter. He’d thought the fiend acted up because it did not want to traverse this place any further. It was with dread in his heart he realized that his assumptions could not be further from the truth. No; whatever lay ahead had merely awakened the fiend in anticipation of what was to come. And the danger lay heavy in the air, the unspoken warning that their next attempts to remove Zarius would be met by force.

So what now?

They couldn’t bring him back, and they certainly couldn’t give the fiend whatever it wanted ahead.

Mei nodded then, a compromise reached that Cyran was not privy to - but whatever it was seemed to be acceptable enough for the other assassin, so he would follow along. Cyran didn’t like this, the chamber, the threat of whatever the demon wanted ahead… none of it. But he would oblige, as only those who were stuck in the crevice between a rock and a hard place could. Their direction was decided; forward it was. Casting one last glance at Zarius, Cyran moved to slip something in the palm of his hand.^[1]

‘We won’t be long.’ He signed. ‘Use this in an emergency.’

Unfortunately, as was the want of the universe to be as difficult as possible, they would not get the chance to press forward.

Mei’s voice calling his name felt distant - like a well of still water separated them. Cyran forced himself to focus, her single warning sharpening in his mind like a fine dagger piercing his cloud of anxiety.

“I know.” Cyran whispered, holding his palm outwards.

There was no time for further conversation, no preparation to be made. The charred were drifting closer, and with an absolute certainty, Cyran knew that he could not allow them to slink closer to Zarius. The Specter plucked a dagger from the shadows, the darkness coalescing in his awaiting hand.^[2] Not his usual knives, but this situation called for something a little stronger. A heavy dagger, hilt wrapped in black leather, and a blade that seemed to resonate like a tuning fork as it was drawn. Caedes had already tugged at the strings of the shadows, holding one of the charred in place. Cyran pressed the advantage, triggering the hidden blades in his boots to glide across the ground.^[3] He sliced at one of the charred still advancing with Wraithsbane, cold iron’s kiss taking hold within its spectral form.

The charred let out a primal shudder, it’s ash-filled mind possessing no rationality except for what its ghostly form knew to bring the promise of unrest. Another charred in the distance managed to slip past the one Caedes had bound - Cyran whipped around, flicking his wrist to propel Wraithsbane through the air in a twisting arc.^[4] It sliced the damned creature along its side, forcing it to pause in its tracks as the fear took hold. The blade continued its path, curving in an arc that would bring it back around to imbed right in the charred’s back.

Cyran wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, the heat stifling.^[5] But he would endure the burn if it meant holding off the assault with Caedes’s support. As Zarius was out of commission, he was better suited to close range fighting, allowing the marksman to continue his stinging assault from the shadows.

Just a little longer, a little more. Cyran just had to keep them from reaching the others. If that meant accruing burns from the advancing spirits, so be it.

---

1. Teleporting Dart given to Zarius
2. Summon: Possession - Wraithsbane
3. Ice Skates
4. Boomerang Arc
5. Frozen Solid (staving off the worst of the burns from the fiery aura)

Mei’s words fall on deaf ears. Zarius can’t hear her at all over the chorus of cries in his head. The noise is enough to make his head ache and his vision blur. He tries to focus on Mei as she crouches in front of him, but all he sees is the flickering of shadows. Then she’s gone. His heart nearly seizes and without thinking he reaches for the edge of her cloak only to feel its edge slip between his fingers.

Panic grips him.

He can’t move. He can’t speak. He can’t help.

Fuck.

As Caedes and Cyran engage with the Charred, slicing through their forms and fending off their angry fire, the situation rapidly gets more dire. At least, for one of them. Zarius can hardly keep his wits about him as the screaming in his mind only grows in intensity.

Shut up.

SHUT UP!

He rakes his nails across the stone floor, his face contorted in pain and his teeth clenched tight enough to make his jaw sore. The acrid taste of smoke creeps up from the back of his throat and the burning irritation becomes unbearable. He tries to swallow when a plume of black smoke forces its way up and fills his mouth. Zarius wheezes and chokes.

Shit. Shit. SHIT!

This can't happen, not now!

His eyes water and he tries to blink away the blurriness to see Caedes and Cyran fending off the Charred. If he lost control now, then the two would be flanked on both sides by threats.

There is no choice, he has to move. He can’t let them be pinched between the fiery spirits and someone they consider to be their ally. He’d only hinder them, if not harm them. And at this point, he’s not sure avoiding losing control is even an option.

He closes his eyes tight. He can still feel the item that Cyran slipped into his palm in his grip.

Use this in an emergency.

This is an emergency.

Forcing himself to twist around, he throws the dart down the corridor toward the red light emitting from the chamber at the end of the hall. Not a moment later, he felt shunted from where he was crouched to where the dart ended up clattering to the stone floor. It throws off his balance and he nearly smashes his head on the ground before he catches himself.

All around him is a red haze, trapped steam illuminated by veins of glowing magma somehow held in veins that pulsate throughout what appears to be a domed chamber. The floor is different from the honed stone in the corridor, instead replaced with polished obsidian that is like a dark mirror.

Zarius stares at his own pathetic reflection for a moment, catching glimpses of blue flickering across his golden eyes before he manages to pull his gaze away and look around the chamber. He’s alone. Well, not truly. The voices are still there with only his pounding heartbeat to compete with their incessant chatter.

He shakes his head and tries to catch his breath, but more smoke streams from the corners of his mouth. Hacking and coughing, he holds his ribs and doubles over. His body radiates an incredible amount of heat as his blood boils and emits an odd roiling blue light from beneath his skin.

Crouched there in the center of the domed part of the chamber and too preoccupied with trying to keep control, he doesn’t take notice of the odd geometric patterns scrawled across the walls. They branch out from the open entrance far behind him, sprawl past rows of support pillars, and spill down a grand staircase all before they stretch across the high domed ceiling overtop him. The patterns gather at the opposite side where a stone altar is raised up for anyone within the whole structure to see. Behind the altar, where the patterns all meet, is the depiction of a massive scaled beast with glowing molten rock for eyes, glowering down at him.

Finally! The day has come!

A deep, masculine voice asserts itself in Zarius’ mind over the others. He doesn’t recognize it, and yet it’s somehow oddly familiar.

End this accursed suffering!

A high-pitched, shrill shriek pierces his mind next and he presses his forehead against the glassy floor.

Shut up.

He desperately tries to push the voices back as he coughs and clutches at his throat. A forceful feminine voice pushes to the forefront of his mind.

You will not deny us.

Suddenly, he reels back and his body shudders. His muscles tense and go rigid for a few seconds before they relax and his arms hang loose at his sides. He just sits there on his knees before the visage of something ancient and terrible.^[1]

His lips part, and words spoken in a voice not his own echo off the chamber’s walls.

“It is time. We will finally be reborn.”

---

[1] Evil Incarnate

He is grateful for Cyran’s sacrifice— for his presence as a whole. A part of him knows that had the elven man not been here— things would be significantly more complicated for both himself and Zarius.

As Cyran’s blade pierces the first charred, the same damned creature is met with another blade; nigh invisible to the eye until it pierces the flaming core. ₍₁₎ The chilled, translucent knife presses into the Charred, its flame causing a burst of mist and embers to shower forth. It screams, or squeals, or screeches from a mouth that does not exist; or maybe, its just the ice hissing against the flames.

He doesn’t really care what it is, but he hopes it hurts like hell.

Caedes is, perhaps unfortunately, accustomed to a hit-and-run method of combat; one which he cannot, or more accurately, will not use at this moment. He has no intention of moving from where he stands, doing his gods-damnedest to keep Zarius’ struggle from view of the Charred, lest they have enough smoldering braincells left to determine that the fellblood might currently be the easiest to pick off in the state he’s in.

He is quick to arm himself once more ₍₂₎, tilting his head just enough to see Zarius from his peripheral vision, ensuring that he is… okay, despite that being a generous description for the state he’s currently in. From his perspective, however, if they can get the Charred cleared, then maybe he will be… for now, at least.

He closes his eyes, knuckling his throwing knives as he pulls forwards.

Another knife whips through the humid air of the hall, colliding with the same Charred which Cyran’s blade had struck true— embedded deep within its ragged clothes left from a previous life. ₍₃₎ Molten embers sloughs off the wounds already created by both Shadowdancers, dripping beneath their floating forms; but one of them still stands untouched.

As he goes to pull another knife from his belt, he tilts his head just slightly.

His eyes widen, and the shadows begin to unravel from around the Charred he had ensnared; Caedes whirls around, heart seizing in his throat when he realizes that Zarius has vanished. It takes every ounce of willpower within him not to shout for the fellblood; but a breathless, “No,” chokes out from between his lips against his better judgement.

A sudden heat wave causes Caedes to whip back around; just in time to feel the tendrils of the charred snap around his waist; and pull taut. His feet leave the floor for a moment; but even as he reaches out to beckon the shadows to his aid, all he can think of is where Zarius ended up and if he’s okay.

He couldn’t have gone through the hallway; he’s had his eyes on the hall this entire time. Surely he couldn’t be in the previous room, but… behind the door? Behind the door that’s not even open? Fuck, they don’t even know what’s behind the door; but presumably, if it’s not the Charred, what’s in that room could be triggering the…

Shit.

Gods damn it.

The heat starts to burn through his cloak before she takes form ₍₄₎, springing from the shadows like a tarantula lying in ambush. He closes his eyes, feeling the rush of wind from the massive conglomeration overtaking him, shadowed fangs snapping at the smoke wisping from the Charred's head. Caedes can’t tell if she makes contact with it, but it’s enough for the Charred to decide that holding onto him isn’t a priority, and that’s what he wanted in the end.

He collapses forward, hitting his knees and gritting his teeth as the aftermath of a burn rears its heat. He instinctively pushes pressure through his palm into the wound; only to be quickly sobered by the sharp sting of pain that follows. “Cyran,” he manages to get out over the sound of the shadows gathering within the aspect's mandibles.

It flickers like lightning, its large form nearly taking up the height of the hallway.

Furious chattering, maybe hissing, comes from the charred as it sways back and forth,

“Cyran, Zarius is gone. Can you hold them? Just— just, for a moment, I swear to the gods I’ll be right back— she’ll help you cover in the meantime.” She’s definitely not pleased about being summoned this way; Caedes can feel it in the energy she gives off; a sort of bitter, resentful feeling that licks off of the spider-like entity. As she opens her jaws, a blast of dark miasma crashes through the air, pushing the Charred back towards the entrance of the hall. _(5.) Its body twists and flips, knocking into one of the other Charred as it’s pushed back.

He’s not sure what it is about this place that she hates; he doesn’t know what it is about Zarius that she hates. She had never been so vocal about him, until—

What sort of misfortune has befallen you?

— there’s no time for idle thoughts.

He shouldn’t take advantage of her power like this, but he’s going to; he’ll regret it later should it test her patience; but for now, he rushes to the end of the hall and grasps the edges of the door. The gods-forsaken thing is heavy, shrieking and groaning, as he pulls it open enough for him to slide through, leaving her and Cyran in the hall with the remaining Charred.

It’s empty inside; empty save for a single fellblood, that is.

Ominous dread pierces him from different angles all at once; and the footsteps of the changeling stop abruptly when he registers the desecrated reverance of the room. He’d be a liar to say he’s been in a place like this, but he’s certainly heard of them; seen their sketches in his father’s journals; of gnarled webs, jeweled eyes, and silvered spindles.

It steals his breath away for a moment; seizes his throat, thieving Zarius’ name from between parted lips, and leaving him in an unsettled silence with an eerily silent fellblood, and eerie depictions of a terrible beast that Caedes is unsure has a name. When he finally gets his voice back— can finally tear his eyes away from molten eyes to scan the rest of the room for danger— he settles on Zarius.

“Zarius?”

His voice is quieter than he imagined it; strained and hushed, as if its sound is taboo.

---

(1.) Throwing Knives - Pale Ice.
(2.) Quick Draw - Sharpshooter.

(3.) Shooter’s Sense - Sharpshooter.

(4.) Summon: Dark Elemental (Aspect of the Shadowweaver)

(5.) Dark Elemental Summon: Chaos Bolt

Support came from behind in the form of shimmering blades like shards of ice piercing the air. Cyran didn’t have to glance behind to know who was supporting him. He’d rarely fought by Caedes’s side, didn’t know the assassin’s modus operandi like he did Zarius. With the fellblood out of commission and only the two nightstalkers left to hold this ground, he’d have to learn quick; for both of their sakes.

It was a rapid-paced sort of dance they’d engaged in - a careful waltz in which Cyran was holding down the frontline, a role he was not accustomed to, and Caedes watching his back. The pale knife pierced one of the Charred, eliciting a screech of pain that Cyran felt rather than heard with his ears. He pressed the advantage as best he could, though with Wraithsbane still completing its arc in the air there was nothing he could do except raise his boot in the air, bringing it down in an axe-kick that would have left thin crimson ribbons on the skin of an alive target. All it did against a spirit of flame and agony was trail smoke and disrupt ash.

And it was only getting hotter.

Steel whizzed through the air, a combination of Caedes’s knives and his own. Cyran rolled back, ripping Wraithsbane from its back where the blade had completed its path with deadly precision, the substance coated with something black and unknowable. He would have spared a moment to clean it if he thought he could get away with it. But they didn’t have the time, not with the remainder of the spirits still hovering ever closer, spindly fingers scratching the air as if clawing at reality, demanding to be made whole once more. These creatures were not especially strong, Cyran knew; he’d read reports from the W.E.F. and dealt with a few himself that lingered too close to the edges of the city, especially after the tremors had nearly destroyed Darkveil entirely.

Yet, they were persistent. And though Cyran and Caedes were capable enough, they needed something more permanent.

His own name was the harsh warning that pulled him out of his focus. Cyran whirled around, Wraithsbane poised at his fingertips and ready to strike like a viper’s fangs at Caedes’s distress - the changeling was on his knees, hands pressed to his side, a foreign presence in the darkness almost curled around him the way a bird of prey might protect its roadkill from other predators. A pang of worry caught itself in his throat; thin tendrils of the darkest shadow wrapping around the Charred that had managed to slip past him, and Cyran realized two things.

One - that Caedes had been injured, and two - that he’d only been so distracted as to let himself get hurt in the first place because Zarius was gone.

No. Cyran’s unease came in a sharp inhale, ice-cold in his throat. No, no, no, no, no, no…

The Specter reached his awareness out to the darkness, but he could not feel that Zarius had retreated back to the entrance.^[1] Cyran had given him the dart to make a quick escape if necessary, only because the Fiend would not let him retreat any further. It seemed a decent enough solution, not perfect because nothing was in a situation this shitty, but enough to protect his life even if not his sanity, and they could deal with the repercussions of it later so long as Zarius was alive and well enough to be present for said consequences. But he’d not taken into account that Zarius might move further into the temple instead.

“Yes, of course -” Cyran grits out, already understanding what Caedes was asking. The thing in the dark clicked and chattered, a language Cyran could not understand, her movements vibrating within the shadows like plucked strings on a violin. Mandibles opened and let out a blast that knocked the Charred backwards, giving Caedes just enough space to press forward after Zarius. Cyran closed the distance between them, a hand on the changeling’s shoulder, as much support as he could manage. “Shadows be with you! Go!”^[2]

It was all he could give.

One of the Charred tried to lunge after Caedes, halting his retreat - Cyran was quick to intervene, a blur of silver and black, Wraithsbane at its throat. Cold iron burbled and hissed, the Charred almost melting around it like it had been dipped in molten lava. Cyran’s chest burned and his muscles screamed in protest, begging for rest. Two Charred slain, two spirits remained, both heavily wounded already.

Behind him, the air stirred - a spectral figure manifesting from the nothingness, though perhaps it was more accurate to say that she’d always been there, though only now deigned to make her presence known. Haughty laughter echoed in the empty chamber, only Cyran, the Spider, and the Charred to bear witness to the translucent elven woman who now occupied the space behind him, hair and gown flowing as if suspended in water, eyes alight with glee.^[3]

He barely registered the chill that so often danced down his spine at her arrival anymore.

“Cultists, again?” Her voice was barely a purr, though it lacked any emotion to accompany it. “Don’t you ever get tired of this? Why haven’t you wiped them out already?”

“Not the time, Rowan.” Cyran grit his teeth at the unwelcome intrusion, twisting Wraithsbane in the palm of his hands, eyes on the two remaining charred that made their slow approach to the last remaining target.

“It never is, is it?” Rowan mused. She spared a thoughtful glance for the Shadowweaver dancing in the darkened corners of the chamber before turning her attention to the direction that Zarius and Caedes had run off to. “Do us both a favor and don’t pretend you don’t need my help.” Ghostly nails tapped his shoulder, deep in thought. “Funny, isn’t it, how this cycle always seems to repeat itself? One might even accuse you of being the problem.”

“This isn’t - Zarius isn’t the same as you.” Cyran bit out, slicing at one of the Charred that scrabbled at his arm, leaving faint burns along the skin and the smell of burnt fabric where his coat frayed.

Rowan hummed, sparing another glance for the tunnel. “Are you absolutely certain about that? It might behoove you to stop wasting time here and chase after them.”

Cyran suppressed the oncoming headache that often accompanied her vagaries and reached into his pocket, securing a handful of coal-dark ash rose petals, crushing the delicate flower remnants in his fist; inhaled, then blew out, scattering the petals in the air.^[4] The shadows stirred around him, a maelstrom of slicing darkness that cut at the remaining Charred, leaving deep gashes in their not-skin, tearing them asunder - and Cyran in the eye of the storm, breathing heavily from the toll the battle and the magic took on his body.

Not out of the thick of it yet.

“Be still.” Cyran commanded, the authority in his voice bringing their crawl to an abrupt halt - both remaining Charred battered and injured and unable to do anything but avert their gaze from the Specter, the last figure they would ever see.^[5] And Cyran finished the ash roses started with neat blade strokes, both Charred collapsing until they returned to Ash once more.

He closed his eyes, breathed. It was the only moment of peace he would allow himself.

Not bothering to sheathe Wraithsbane but finally wiping the grime and ash and ink-shadow from the charred on the side of his cloak, Cyran turned and jogged after Caedes, Rowan hovering behind him.

"Let us see if you can do what needs to be done, this time."

---

1. Shadow Sight
2. Quicken
3. Guardian Spirit - Rowan (Spirit Guardian I)
4. Petal Storm
5. Looming Fear (Warlord III)