Days passed since Kieran followed Varneth into the chamber of echoes, yet the weight of that moment stayed with him. The world had tilted—what once seemed a mere curse was part of something forged by the hands of a godlike ancestor.
And Varneth? He had disappeared as quietly as he came, like a shadow satisfied with its message.
Now, the city watched.
The alleys of Varneth seemed to narrow behind him. The masked stares from windows lasted a second too long. The whispers, once indifferent, now carried tones of caution.
"The Voidborne," they murmured.
"He walked with Varneth."
"Touched a fragment…"
Some voices were curious. Others were not.
Kieran sat in a quiet tavern carved into the bones of an old watchtower, his hood drawn low. The walls were thick with smoke, and the drinks came stronger than trust. He had no allies here. No comrades. Only rumors.
Until a voice cut through the haze.
"You should've stayed buried in Eldoria, red-eyes."
A man sat across from him. He hadn't seen him arrive. Lean frame. No visible weapon—but there was a hum beneath his words. Like a wire drawn taut, ready to snap.
Kieran met his gaze calmly.
"I wasn't aware I was on a leash."
The man smirked, his teeth too sharp.
"You are now. This city doesn't belong to you. You're walking in a place where debts are older than names. Where power doesn't care for bloodlines or forgotten gods. And someone like you, dragging shadows behind you?" He leaned in, voice dropping. "You're a problem that certain people would rather solve early."
Kieran didn't flinch. He remembered the Guardian. The fragment. The cold precision of Silence Slash. And he remembered the lesson Varneth had given him.
Trust is rarer than gold.
"If I'm a problem," Kieran said, slowly, "then make your move."
The man didn't. He chuckled instead.
"Not me. But when they come, it won't be a warning. You'll think it's just another shadow." He stood. "Don't bleed on the floor. It offends the regulars."
Then he was gone.
Reflections in Shadow
Kieran sat there a long while after.
He could feel the threads tightening. He wasn't just hunted because he was Voidborne anymore. He was now a player in something older, deeper. The nobles who killed his family. The city that devoured secrets. The dagger Sylas forged. All of it was converging on him.
He rose, cloak whispering behind him.
Let them come.
Let them try.
He would not shatter under pressure.
He would forge something sharper.