Satisfied.
Cyril leaned back, resting one hand on the hilt of the weapon he'd stolen from the arena armory. Not much—cracked blade, bad balance. But it was his. He turned it slowly in his grip, feeling the roughness of the worn leather wrap, the subtle hum just beneath the metal. There was something inside it—quiet, waiting.
He frowned and shifted forward, pulling the blade free with a dry whisper of steel. It caught the moonlight dully. No enchantments. No marks of power. Just steel. Still, something in him stirred.
"Flow's not a toy," Miren said from across the circle, not even looking.
"I'm not playing," Cyril muttered, and lowered the blade across his lap.
He took a slow breath, reached inward—toward the pressure he'd come to recognize over time. He aligned it, just behind the heart: a major pulse, steady and familiar.
The energy surged—warm and strong, threading through his chest, down his arms—but the moment it reached the sword, it sputtered. The blade flared silver-blue for half a breath, then fizzled. He felt the pushback. Like pouring wine through a torn sieve.
Miren was beside him before he could try again.
"Wrong rhythm," she said, crouching down.
"I aligned to my core," Cyril replied, confused but not embarrassed.
"I know the major pulses. That should've held."
She shook her head.
"That's for internal Flow. For armor, amplification,body channeling. But if you want to put Flow into something else—a weapon, a tool, anything that doesn't breathe—you need to anchor it with a minor pulse. Preferably one close to the conduit point."
He raised an eyebrow.
"Which is?"
"For a sword?" She tapped his wrist, just above the joint.
"Here."
She took his hand—roughly, not gently—and guided it palm-up.
"There's a cluster here. Small, easy to miss. But stable enough for external transfer."
He tried again, this time closing his eyes and tuning out everything else. He focused not on the core rhythm in his chest, but on the slighter beat radiating just under his skin. The wrist. A flutter, like a second breath riding beneath the first.
He nudged his Flow toward it.
The sword trembled. A faint thread of silver-blue lit along its spine—not violent this time, but steady. The hum of resonance sang through the metal. Soft, but real.
He opened his eyes.
Miren watched the blade, then nodded once.
"Better."
He exhaled and allowed the energy to withdraw, the light fading from the steel. Sweat tickled his temple.
"You could've told me that before."
"You weren't ready before. You didn't even know what was yours, let alone how to share it."
Cyril gave a crooked grin.
"You ever say something that doesn't sound like a threat?"
She stood.
"Not when I'm trying to teach."
——-
The wind carried the scent of salt and something fouler—blood, maybe.
They had been walking for a day and a half since the fire. Eastward, along what Miren called the Ash Roads—trails not paved but scorched into the earth from battles long lost to memory. The Chorus didn't claim territory, and the closer they got, the stranger the world became.
The skies grew less reliable. The horizon shimmered even without heat. Flow bled from the soil in places like steam, thin wisps curling over their boots. Once, Cyril thought he saw a tree made entirely of glass. Another time, a lizard with too many eyes watched them pass.
Miren didn't react. She moved ahead—these sights were the norm to her.
"Where exactly are we going?" Cyril finally asked.
She didn't stop.
"A place called Throatglass. Old Chorus outpost turned information hub. If we're lucky we'll get some useful information."
"And if we're not?"
"Then we get to see how mad exiles preach."
Cyril gave a sharp breath through his nose.
"That supposed to be reassuring?"
Miren glanced back.
"You wanted answers. Out here, no one gives them for free. But the Chorus—if you know how to listen—has ways of knowing things other factions bury."
He frowned.
"You trust them?"
"I don't even trust you."
"…Fair."
They moved in silence for another hour, the sky shifting from dull gray to bruise-purple. Cyril stepped over a rusted wagon axle half-buried in sand. A skull was wedged inside one of the wheels like it had grown there. Not human. Something else. Its teeth were made of brass. Its eye sockets wept, dried.
He didn't ask.
Later, when night settled, they came upon the ruins of a stone circle, half-swallowed by dunes and shadow. Not a camp, exactly. But shelter.
"This'll do," Miren said, scanning the perimeter.
"We'll stay here tonight."
She made no fire. Just traps—thin wire laced with whispersteel, strung low across entry points. Cyril watched her work from a chunk of stone that might once have been part of a throne. His legs ached. His back felt like someone had beaten it with hammers. But the pain was honest. It was his.
"Do you ever stop?" he asked.
Miren didn't look up.
"When I'm dead."
"You think about it?"
She paused—just slightly.
"Everyone does."
"Not me," Cyril said, lying a little.
"I think about killing people who think I should be dead."
That earned him a glance. Maybe not approval. But acknowledgment.
"I used to think there was nothing outside those damned walls," he said.
"Nothing real, anyway. Just more dirt and different masters."
"There still might be," Miren said.
He chuckled.
"You're really good at killing people's hope, you know that?"
"No," she said.
"I'm just making sure yours has a spine."
She finished setting the last trap and sat across from him, drawing her knees up under her cloak. The silence that settled between them felt less heavy than usual. Still sharp, but not cutting.
"I had a teacher once," she said suddenly.
Cyril blinked.
"You joking?"
"No."
"Mhm. What happened to them?"
Miren didn't answer for a while.
"They died doing something stupid," she said.
"Trying to fight."
"Isn't that what we're doing?"
Her expression stayed unreadable.
"I don't know what we're doing," she admitted.
The wind picked up. Sand hissed against the broken stones. Somewhere far off, something howled. A long, low, human sound stretched too far into the throat to be natural.
Cyril looked in that direction.
"What's that zombie-looking thing?"
"That's wild Chorus."
He blinked.
"There's a difference?"
"Wild ones are feral. Burned out too many cores, aligned too many pulses without training. Eventually, their Flow stops listening to them—leaks through. They forget who they were."
"And the not-wild ones?"
"They just pretend they haven't forgotten yet."
Cyril fell silent again.
"You ever worry that'll be us?" he asked.
"No," she said.
"Because I won't let it."
Her certainty was cold. Not confidence. Iron.
Cyril looked up. The stars above were clearer now—less smudged than the night before. A strange serenity crept in around the edges of his mind. Or maybe just exhaustion.
Still, he managed a small smile.
"You think Throatglass will give us answers?"
"I think it'll give us something."
He stared up a moment longer. Then asked, quieter this time:
"Why didn't you leave me behind?"
Miren turned toward him, slowly.
"Because you survived," she said.
"That's it?"
"For now."
She pulled her cloak tighter and leaned back against the stone, eyes already half-lidded.
Cyril didn't push further. He just watched the sky a little longer.
Out here, the world was bent. Not broken. Not ruined. Just… tilted. Like it was carved by something no longer sane. But it was also vast. Untamed. And for the first time in his new life, no one knew where he was.
No brands. No chains. No one to kneel to.
Just roads of ash.
He closed his eyes, one hand resting on the cracked core in his pocket.
Let them come.
He'd be ready.