The city awoke the next morning to a strange, almost oppressive silence. People bustled through the streets as they always did, but their movements were slower, cautious, as though some unspoken fear had taken root overnight. Noor walked among them, his hood drawn low, his mind replaying every detail of what he had witnessed at the warehouse.
Those cloaked figures weren't just men—they were disciples of something older, darker. Their sigils weren't mere decorations; they were seals, remnants of forgotten power. The realization gnawed at him: these people weren't working to overthrow the city's rulers—they were trying to replace destiny itself.
At the crowded market square, Noor paused. His eyes caught the faint shimmer of silver. A man in plain clothing brushed past, his finger bearing the same sigil-ring. Noor's pulse spiked. They weren't hidden in shadows anymore—they had already begun moving freely among the people.
The man slipped into an alley. Noor followed.
The narrow passage smelled of damp stone and smoke. When the man stopped abruptly, Noor knew he had been expected. The stranger didn't turn around; instead, he spoke in a calm, measured tone.
"You shouldn't have looked into our circle."
The words were simple, but they carried weight, like a quiet death sentence. Noor stepped forward, his hand brushing against the concealed blade at his side.
"I don't look into things," he replied coldly. "I tear them apart."
The man chuckled, finally facing him. His eyes gleamed unnaturally in the dim light—silver, like molten metal. Noor tightened his grip, the air around him suddenly heavier, thicker, as though the alley itself resisted his presence.
Then, without warning, the man raised his hand. The sigil on his ring flared, and the shadows along the wall twisted, stretching like living tendrils. They lashed out, striking at Noor with blinding speed.
But Noor was faster. He rolled to the side, the tendrils smashing into stone where he had just stood. Dust rained down, and the ground shook faintly. His blade flashed in the dim light, slicing through one of the shadow-limbs, which recoiled with an unnatural hiss.
The man didn't flinch. Instead, he smiled. "Good. You're exactly what we need."
The words sent a chill through Noor. Need? He lunged forward, his blade aimed at the man's throat, but before the strike could land, the shadows wrapped around his wrist, halting him mid-motion. The strength was inhuman.
"Your struggle is useless," the man whispered. "The eclipse is coming. And when it does, the city will kneel—not to kings, not to gods, but to us."
The shadows surged, throwing Noor against the wall with brutal force. Pain rippled through his body, but his will burned hotter than the ache. With a defiant roar, he twisted free, slashing at the shadows until they dissolved into smoke.
When the haze cleared, the man was gone—vanished as though he had never existed. Only the faint echo of his voice lingered in the air:
"The eclipse is coming…"
Noor stood alone in the alley, chest heaving, his blade trembling in his hand. He understood now: what he had seen at the warehouse was only the beginning. The real war hadn't started yet.
And the next time they came for him, they wouldn't just send a messenger.