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The mansion's walls loomed behind him, fading into darkness the further Kaelvir walked. His heart raced—not from fear, but from exhilaration. For the first time since his arrival on Soneth, he had stepped beyond the guarded gates of the Veydrak estate without permission.
The night was cool and brisk, carrying scents foreign to him—spices, roasted meat, the sharp tang of unfamiliar herbs. His boots pressed against slick cobblestones gleaming with lantern light, each step sinking him deeper into a city that lived more vibrantly in darkness than it ever did beneath the sun.
Dream Tide at night was a tapestry of voices, colors, and smells. Rows of stalls stretched endlessly, merchants calling out bargains, trinkets shimmering as though caught between dream and reality. Street performers juggled fire that never burned, while others painted illusions in the air for children to chase. Laughter rose and scattered like sparks, and for a moment Kaelvir wanted to stop, to buy something strange and gleaming. But he had no coin—he had left the estate with nothing but the clothes on his back. So instead, he let his hunger rest and simply drank in the city's brightness.
A grin tugged at his lips. So this is what Dream Tide feels like at night. For the briefest heartbeat, he allowed himself to forget cultivation realms, his fragmented past, and the suffocating silence of his courtyard. Here, he wasn't heir or stranger. He was just a boy discovering life.
But wonder turned quickly to unease. Curiosity carried him from stall to stall, until he realized he had lost his way among the swarming crowds. Great. How do I get back now? Panic itched in his chest. He tried asking for directions, but people skirted around him, eyes darting elsewhere as though unwilling to be near. His frown deepened. Is it because of the cloak? He looked down at the dark folds. Against the lantern glow, he did look like a dubious character.
Seeking quieter air, he turned into a side alley. The noise of the market dulled—then shattered. A clamor split the night. Kaelvir froze, senses sharpening, eyes narrowing toward the sound.
Up ahead, a girl stumbled into view, her hands skimming the wall as if it were her only anchor. She fled blindly—because she couldn't see. A strip of dark cloth bound her eyes, yet she moved with urgency, each step measured and precise. Behind her, cloaked men emerged, their boots pounding, laughter sharp and cruel as they spread to surround her.
"And here I thought you could run far. Better come quietly," one jeered. "Young Master Dorian doesn't like waiting."
The name struck Kaelvir cold. Dorian? The Zaryth heir. The one who schemed against me. Everyone in the city knew his reputation.
Kaelvir's fists clenched. He could have turned away. Pretended it wasn't his fight. But the sight of her—blindfolded, cornered, defenseless—lit something inside him. He could not stand aside.
Before hesitation could root him, Kaelvir strode forward, as he thought of a trick, his voice cutting through the alley.
"Hey! What are you lazing around for? Do you want to keep the young master waiting? … I'll bring her myself."
The men faltered. They had no memory of him, no proof he belonged to them—but his tone, his cloak, his presence seeded doubt.
"Sir," one asked uncertainly, "did the young master also send you to assist us?"
Kaelvir gave no answer. He only walked toward the girl.
She stilled, head tilting toward the sound. She had been preparing to spring her own trap, to strike once the last of them closed in. But the stranger's words unsettled her. His approach made her tense, and just as she was about to lash out—his whisper brushed her ear.
"Run."
A hand seized hers, steady and firm. Kaelvir shoved aside the man blocking the path and pulled her with him. She stiffened at the touch, startled—perhaps offended—yet she let him drag her forward. Behind them came curses, then the thunder of pursuit.
They raced through twisting streets, lanterns smearing into streaks of gold as shouts chased them into the city's underbelly. Kaelvir's lungs burned, but he refused to release her hand. She stumbled often, yet never cried out. Even blindfolded, she carried a strange, silent strength that unsettled him.
"Why are they after you?" he gasped between breaths.
Her reply was calm. Too calm. "Because I refused to see their master."
He had guessed as much from the men's jeers, but her tone—resolute, unshaken—told him more than her words. Whoever she was, she had defied Dorian enough to earn his wrath.
They turned a corner—and froze.
Dorian himself stood waiting, tall and smug, his fine robe brushing dirt as though the ground itself bowed to him. His smile was poison. "Well, well. The blind mouse and her knight. How touching. I was right—no one came out with you."
The men regrouped behind Kaelvir and the girl, boxing them in. Kaelvir's chest tightened. He could fight—maybe delay—but against a cultivator like Dorian, the odds were grim. His eyes darted, seeking escape, finding none.
The girl beside him was still, almost serene. "I told you," she said softly, "I refused you. And I will keep refusing."
Dorian's smirk sharpened. "That's not for you to decide. And I promise—you'll beg soon enough."
Kaelvir stepped forward, trembling, yet his voice came steady. "Why is a young master like you bullying a defenseless girl? If you think you can hurt her… you'll have to go through me first."
What's wrong with me? Why am I even provoking him? Kaelvir panicked inwardly.
Dorian chuckled. "Bold. Even a mortal dares stand before me. Pointless, but bold." His hand rose. "Kill him."
We're done for, Kaelvir cried inside.
The men surged forward—
And then, a sound slithered into the chaos. A growl. Low. Echoing. Majestic.
Shadows quivered. From Kaelvir's silhouette, darkness thickened, pooling like tar. The cobblestones rippled as though liquid, and from that shifting void a shape rose—small at first, then lengthening into a feline form.
A great cat. Sleek. Black. But not solid. It was absence given shape, its body woven of void, its eyes glowing with faint golden hollows.
The air turned cold. The men faltered as the shadow cat arched its back.
Then it struck.
Silent. Swift. Merciless.
It lunged from shadow to shadow, claws slicing through courage rather than flesh. Cries died on lips as bodies collapsed, dragged down into the darkness beneath their own feet. One by one, they vanished. The street was left empty, too clean, as if nothing had ever happened.
Dorian stumbled back, horror splitting his mask. "What… what is this?"
I thought she brought no guards—but he clearly feels like a mortal… His composure cracked.
Even Kaelvir stood rigid, breath shallow. He had dreamed of this creature before—the regal black cat that stalked his nights, its eyes burning through dream and death. But to see it here, in waking life, born from his own shadow—his skin chilled with awe and fear.
The girl's hand gripped his arm, tight. Not fear—but recognition. "Was that… a familiar?"
The cat sank back into his shadow, leaving only its golden gaze lingering before dissolving into void. Silence fell, heavy and suffocating.
The girl's thoughts raced. Only Dreamforge cultivators could summon familiars into the real world. But none so strong as this. Who is this man?
Dorian cursed, spitting at their feet. His eyes flicked between Kaelvir and the girl unwilling to linger on the shadow. "This isn't over." He fled into the night.
Kaelvir remained frozen, staring at the stones. His heart hammered—not just from battle, but from the truth gnawing at him. The cat… it had always been with him. Since Earth. Since childhood nightmares. He had thought it a figment, a haunting. But no. It had followed him here. Or worse—it had brought him.
She turned her blindfolded face toward him. Her voice was quiet, heavy with meaning. "Who are you, really?"
Kaelvir had no answer. His chest ached, tangled with fear and wonder. Above them, lanterns flickered as if stirred by unseen winds.
In the restless shadows, a figure appeared, watching Kaelvir and the blind girl below. Behind it, multiple black-cloaked figures approached.
They raised their hand, as water flowed around them condensing into ice shards that gleamed under the moon light. With a sharp motion, she sent them streaking forward, cutting through the advancing figures in an instant.
As silence reclaimed the street, the shadow figure's darkness rippled once more. From it, a voice whispered—cold, final, and absolute:
"Don't even think about it."
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