Nyxia woke to the sound of water dripping softly into the basin.
The dim artificial dawn of Serath'Kai pulsed low along the runic seams in the ceiling, and the faint hum of the city's breath echoed through the walls like a heartbeat trying not to be heard.
She hadn't meant to fall asleep.
Her head was still tilted against Perseus's shoulder, her legs curled beneath her. The ache in her muscles had gone from a burn to a dull throb, manageable now, though it clung to the edges of her movement like old memory.
Perseus hadn't moved.
He sat like a statue—half-aware, half-sentry—eyes still open, jaw slack with the weight of partial sleep. His hand was still over hers, loose now, warm in a way that made her feel less like a weapon and more like something that could be touched.
For a moment, she didn't move. Just let herself exist there, quiet, wrapped in soft light and the faint scent of metal, sweat, and stone. A rare moment of stillness.
But it never lasted.
She rose carefully, easing his hand away. He stirred, blinked once, and then gave a small grunt of acknowledgment—already shaking off the haze.
"Time?" he asked, voice gravel.
Nyxia reached for her bow. "Time."
He stood with a soft creak of armor plates and gathered the pouch containing the artifact shard Boo had taken from them the night before. Even sealed in six layers of void-silk, it pulsed faintly—like a heart still beating inside a coffin.
Loque was already alert, pacing the door like he knew what was coming.
Perseus rolled his shoulders. "You ready?"
Nyxia fastened her vambraces, let the armor mold to her frame again. The pulse of strength beneath it was subtle—but constant. Like the armor was breathing with her now.
"No," she said. "But I'm going anyway."
Perseus gave a faint smile. "That's the right answer."
They didn't need Boo's attendants to show them the way out. The halls seemed quieter now, emptier. The ambient lighting had shifted to a warier hue, as though even the walls of Boo's sanctuary knew the stakes had changed.
By the time they stepped out into the arterial corridors of Serath'Kai's lower veins, the city was already starting to twist around them.
The scent of rust and ghost-smoke thickened with each level they descended.
The glowstones dimmed.
And somewhere ahead, the scent of Hollow things began to bloom.
This wasn't a walk to a fight.
This was a walk to an answer.
And whether it burned or bled—they were ready to take it.
The air in the Drainpipe District stank of rust and old promises.
Steam hissed from fractured pipes above them, casting drifting clouds through the alleys like ghosts too tired to haunt. Shadows moved in unnatural patterns here. The overhead fans were slower, groaning on their hinges. Even the neon signs flickered more than usual—nervous, jittery.
Perseus led the way, the shard Boo had given him projecting a crimson trail along the fractured cobblestone. The route twisted through the slums, cutting across forgotten canals and rust-choked bridges, leading toward the Warrens' eastern edge.
"Stay low," he murmured. "They're fast, but they're not subtle."
Nyxia moved beside him like shadow through fog. Her new armor whispered against itself, seamless and eerie, adjusting to her steps like it was breathing. She didn't like how it felt.
She loved how it moved.
"I'm picking up heat trails," Perseus said, squinting at the map overlay. "Two riders. One cart. Small escort."
"Standard smuggler formation," she muttered. "Means they're carrying something sensitive."
Loque sniffed the air ahead. His ears twitched once.
Then he vanished.
They didn't speak again as they descended a slick stairwell that coiled into one of the city's arterial runways—a wide lane of collapsed tram tracks now overgrown with fungal rot and half-digested machines.
Faint laughter echoed ahead.
A fire burned low in a barrel. Around it, five figures. Two humans. One ogre. A void-touched elf with a scabbed blindfold. And a fifth—mechanized legs, smoke trailing from his neck port, and what looked like a makeshift crown of bones welded to his forehead.
Nyxia signaled silently.
Perseus nodded.
They split—her moving to the left along the rusted scaffolding, him keeping low among the debris. They were thirty paces out when one of the smugglers looked up sharply.
"Someone's watching," the blindfolded elf rasped. His voice was hollow. Wrong.
Too late.
A shadow dropped from above—Loque—and took the elf down with a snarl, spectral claws tearing clean through enchanted leather.
The camp exploded into chaos.
Perseus emerged hammer-first, a shockwave of Light slamming into the ogre and sending him reeling into the fire.
Nyxia hit the ground rolling, drew her bow in one smooth motion, and sent an arrow into the skull of the mechanic-legged thug before he could even reach for his gun.
The human twins drew knives laced with something smoky—one swung wide, the other fast. Perseus caught both in the arc of his shield and knocked them into the crumbling wall with bone-jarring force.
Loque was already circling.
The fight was over in seconds.
Panting, Nyxia moved toward the cart.
Its rear was covered in scrap-tarp stitched with glyphs to conceal heat. She yanked it back.
The inside wasn't full of artifacts.
It was full of people.
Six of them. Eyes glazed. Veins pulsing with faint violet light. Strapped to the floor by threadbare belts. Whispering.
Not in Common.
Not even in Elvish.
"Perseus," she called.
He stepped to her side.
Then stared.
One of the prisoners—a boy, maybe fourteen—was blinking slowly. His mouth worked, but only a trickle of black ichor spilled out.
"…they fed them something," Perseus murmured.
Nyxia's knuckles went white. "Or someone."
One of the women lashed out without warning—arms snapping free of her bonds as if they'd never been tied at all. Her fingers were barbed. Her eyes empty.
She launched herself at Nyxia.
The armor responded.
She didn't know how—but the shoulder plates twisted, flexed, and discharged a pulse of violet force that sent the woman flying back with a screech.
Nyxia stood stunned.
So did Perseus.
"…What was that?"
Nyxia didn't answer.
She didn't know.
From behind them, a voice slurred weakly:
"I warned you not to put that thing on."
They turned. One of the twins—the man—wasn't dead.
He was bleeding heavily from the mouth, but his eyes were wide. Frantic.
"She marked it," he said, voice bubbling. "Skivv's prize. Her sigil's buried in the threads. You don't even know what you're wearing."
Nyxia grabbed him by the collar. "Whose sigil?"
He laughed. A wet, sick sound.
Then seized up. Twitched.
And stopped breathing.
Perseus cursed under his breath.
Loque prowled back to their side, his fur slicked with ichor, his tail low.
They looked again at the cart.
The prisoners had stopped whispering.
They were staring at Nyxia.
All of them.
"She sees us," one whispered. "She sees us wearing her gift."
Nyxia's stomach turned.
Perseus whispered, "We bring this back to Boo."
"No," Nyxia said. "We burn it. All of it."
Perseus hesitated.
Then nodded.
Together, they set the cart ablaze. Loque howled once. The shadows writhed in the firelight.
And somewhere deep in the city… a rune that matched the one sewn into Nyxia's armor began to glow.