Dawn's first light was a blood-red smear against Dystyx's bruised skyline. Syrith, Averith, and Roukhal emerged from a hidden side tunnel into the winding alleys of the Old Quarter. The city was waking—vendors lifting shutters, Watchers patrolling in pairs, and the distant clang of the Spire's bells marking the hour. Every footstep raced against the Covenant's approaching huntsmen.
Syrith gripped the splintered ruby shard in his fist. It pulsed like a heartbeat, its fractured magic humming in resonance with his own storm-essence. He led the way toward the ruined chapel where Roukhal said they could find old friends of the Bloodbinders—rogue healers, exiled scholars, those willing to stand against Velkyrion's cult.
They slipped through narrow passages until they reached a hidden courtyard draped in ivy and moonlit moss. In its center, a broken fountain spilled water that gleamed like quicksilver. Roukhal tapped twice on the fountain's stone basin; an iron door beside the azalea hedge swung open.
Inside, torchlight danced across vaulted ceilings crisscrossed with copper pipes and shelves laden with dusty tomes. A circle of five figures rose to their feet—each marked with the Bloodbinder's spiral, but all wearing clothes too fine for slum-born healers. Their leader, an elder named Threvana Morae, stepped forward. Her silver hair braided with obsidian beads, her eyes calm as midnight waters.
"Syrith Kaen Drexil," she greeted, voice echoing softly. "Or should I say… Zyren Vaelthorn reborn." Her gaze locked on the shard. "You carry a fragment of your former power."
He bowed his head. "You know why I come. Velkyrion strikes at the heart of every realm. If he succeeds, the Seven Bloods will engulf all worlds in violence."
Threvana nodded. "We have heard rumors. The Mask shattered, but only one ruby fell free—your victory was significant, but incomplete. We have mapped the Covenants' network: hidden cells in seven districts. Each holds a Bloodgem and an Echo of Betrayal—artifacts that bind the Vox of the Fallen, voices of those Velkyrion murdered."
Averith's eyes widened. "If we gather them—"
"We can amplify your storm-essence," Threvana finished. "Forge a Crown of Storms to confront Velkyrion one last time."
Roukhal's golden eye glinted. "But the Covenants will swarm all districts at once. We need allies—and a distraction."
Syrith clenched his jaw. Every moment wasted allowed Velkyrion's influence to deepen. Yet rushing alone would court disaster. He inhaled the copper-scented air. "We will strike two cells," he decided. "One in the Ember District—and one in the Mist District. I will lead Ember; Roukhal and Averith will take Mist. We draw their forces apart."
Threvana produced two small obsidian talismans etched with spiral runes. "These cloaks will hide your storm from the Covenants' scrying. They hold for a day—after that, the gem's echo will betray you."
Averith accepted hers, pressing it over her heart. "Thank you."
Threvana laid a hand on Syrith's shoulder. "Be warned: the Echo of Betrayal is a fragment of your own death. It will whisper doubt and anguish. Only unity of purpose—and trust in one another—will drown its lies."
Syrith bowed. "Then we move at sunset." He turned to Roukhal and Averith. "Rest now. Tonight, we begin the war for all realms."
They left the sanctuary of the rogue healers, the ruby shard tucked safely in Syrith's cloak. Averith slipped her hand into his, and for a moment, all Syrith sensed was the warmth of her trust. Roukhal fell into step beside them, silent as a shadow.
As the city's gates opened to the sun, Syrith looked back once at the overgrown courtyard and the five silent guardians within. In their stoic faces, he saw hope. And in his own reflected eyes—a king reborn, determined to reclaim his crown in blood and thunder.
The betrayal had begun. And now, the echo would be answered.