The city sweltered under the summer sun, its cobblestone streets radiating heat that shimmered above the ground like a restless mirage. Gas lamps stood like sentinels along the avenues, their iron frames absorbing the day's warmth, while smoke curled lazily from the chimneys of factories that never seemed to sleep. The air was thick with the mingling scents of coal, hot iron, and sweat, underscored by the faint perfume of flowers struggling to bloom in window boxes.
Horse-drawn carriages rattled across uneven stones, their drivers shouting over the din of clattering wheels and the occasional whistle of a steam engine in the distance. Vendors hawked papers on the corners, their cries echoing against the soot-darkened facades of tall, narrow buildings that leaned close together, casting long shadows despite the brightness of the day.
The skyline was a jagged mix of spires, clocktowers, and smokestacks, their outlines blurred by the summer haze. Ornate bridges arched over sluggish canals where the water reflected the golden light in fractured, oily patterns. In the wealthier districts, polished brass railings gleamed and gentlemen in tailored coats strolled under parasols held by companions. Yet only a street away, children darted barefoot through alleys that reeked of refuse, their laughter blending uneasily with the growl of machinery.
Despite the season's warmth, the city carried a kind of solemn weight. Beneath the grandeur of carved stone and wrought iron lingered a tension—an unseen current, like a whisper threading through the gaslit streets. It was the kind of place where secrets gathered in the cracks, and every shadow might be deeper than it first appeared.
In stark contrast to the sunlit city above, the underground chamber was a world untouched by day. Its jagged walls were rough-hewn stone, damp with age, glistening faintly where droplets of water clung before slipping soundlessly to the ground. Shadows pressed in close, restless and alive, broken only by the wavering glow of candles scattered throughout the cavern. Their flames sputtered against unseen drafts, casting long, distorted shapes that danced along the walls like phantoms performing a ritual. The air was cool and heavy, tinged with the mineral scent of earth and the faint wax of burning candles.
At the center of this chamber, Sylas sat cross-legged upon a worn slab of rock, as still as a statue. Four years had passed, and he was no longer the fragile boy of grief and fury. His frame had grown lean and defined, honed by discipline and battle, carrying the quiet strength of someone who had endured hardship without breaking. Standing, he would reach 172 centimeters, his build balanced—neither imposing nor slight, but carrying the suggestion of controlled power.
His hair, black as midnight, now carried streaks of silver that glimmered faintly under the candlelight, like threads of moonlight woven into shadow. It fell just past his shoulders, unkempt yet deliberate, moving with the faintest stirrings of air. His features had sharpened with age: a strong jawline, straight nose, and lips set in a natural calmness that hinted at restraint rather than indifference.
But it was his eyes that commanded the cave itself. Slowly, he opened them, revealing pupils so dark they seemed to swallow the faint candlelight, a pitch-black abyss that promised both silence and ruin. Around the edges, a faint red hue shimmered, like embers smoldering at the edge of a dying fire—an echo of the destructive power coiled within him. His expression was serene, yet beneath that calm lay the tension of a drawn bow, quiet but ready to release devastation.
The red hue slowly abated, retreating into the depths of his eyes. Sylas rose to his feet, shoulders steady, as though the years of discipline now anchored his very stance.
"Congratulations on completing your training," a voice echoed, steady and familiar. Austin stepped out of a rift in space, the crack sealing itself in silence behind him. Sylas no longer flinched at such entrances—by now, they were as natural as the air he breathed.
He turned, offering a small smile. "Thank you, Grandpa."
Austin's lips curved faintly. He had watched the boy grow, watched him stumble, rage, endure, and finally stand firm. What stood before him now was no longer a grieving child, but a man tempered by fire.
"It's time to set out on your journey."
"Yeah," Sylas replied, his smile fading as his hand curled into a fist. Four years. Four years of patience, sweat, and aching discipline had all been for this single purpose. His heartbeat was steady, but in his mind's eye, he saw the last smile of his parents before death claimed them. The time has come.
Austin studied him for a moment, pride hidden behind calm eyes. Then he nodded. "Freshen up and meet me in the study."
Without another word, he vanished into the void, leaving the chamber in silence.
***
Books lined both sides of the study, filling tall shelves that stretched almost to the ceiling. Their spines, worn from years of use, whispered of forgotten histories and obscure knowledge. A heavy oak table sat at the center, facing a wide arched window draped in pale curtains that shifted slightly in the summer breeze. Shafts of sunlight poured through, catching the dust that drifted lazily in the still air, and painting the polished floor with soft gold. The room smelled faintly of aged paper, leather, and ink—the quiet dignity of a scholar's sanctuary.
Sylas pushed the door open and entered. For a moment, it felt as though a figure out of myth had stepped into the old chamber. He was cloaked in a mantle unlike any ordinary fabric—dark as midnight, yet streaked with sharp, crystalline edges that shimmered faintly, as if fractured glass had been woven into shadow. The hood veiled most of his face, though strands of pale silver hair escaped, catching the light in fleeting glimmers.
His boots were scuffed from training, but sturdy; his clothes layered in practical cuts for travel and endurance. The jagged fragments that clung to his cloak seemed almost alive, faintly glinting as he moved, as though grown from him rather than worn. Nothing about him felt mundane. He carried an air of quiet power, of someone not entirely bound to this world—half born of shadow, half carved from broken light.
The room was silent, save for the creak of the floorboards beneath his boots. Sylas stepped toward the window. Beyond it stretched the clear summer sky, bright and endless, the wind pressing gently against his face. His silver hair swayed with the breeze, soft against the sharp planes of his calm expression. His black eyes, touched faintly with red near the pupils, gazed outward—not at the city in the distance, but into memory. A melancholy lingered there, a reflection of what he had lost and what he now carried.
Minutes passed before the silence was broken. The door opened, and Austin entered. He moved with his usual composed grace, his presence filling the room like the steady weight of time itself. Taking his seat behind the table, he regarded Sylas with a measured smile.
"So," Austin began, voice steady but carrying the faint warmth of pride, "are you ready to venture into the real world?"
"Yes." Sylas turned from the window to face him. A faint smile touched his lips, but his tone carried quiet determination. "Thank you for these past years, Grandpa. Thank you for your guidance."
Austin studied the young man before him. The boy who once trembled with grief had grown into someone tempered by will. His smile deepened, touched by both sorrow and pride, and he gave a small nod.
"I've said this to you many times during your training, but I'll say it again." His voice grew solemn. "Threaders must not step into the light. Normal people aren't aware of us—and they shouldn't be."
Sylas nodded firmly. "Don't worry, Grandpa. I'll be careful."
"Good." Austin rose from his chair and crossed the room until he stood before Sylas. With a soft snap of his fingers, the air shimmered, and a slender flute appeared in his hand. He offered it forward, its white surface catching the light.
"This is my Mail Flute. Blow into it, and it will tear open a rift in space. Slip a letter through, and it will reach me."
Sylas took the flute with reverence. It was simple at first glance—smooth white with delicate, intricate lines etched at its edges like veins of silver. The air around it hummed faintly, carrying a presence not entirely natural.
"Is this… an artifact?" Sylas asked.
Austin's eyes glinted as he folded his hands behind his back.
"Yes. Artifacts are born when a thread sigil fuses with an object. Some form naturally—those are dangerous, carrying the lingering will of the sigil that birthed them. Such wills can be fickle, sometimes whispering to their wielder, sometimes resisting them outright. The stronger the sigil, the more unruly the artifact becomes, and those who forcefully wield them often lose their sanity… or their lives."
He paced slowly as he spoke, the words carrying the weight of someone who had witnessed too many stories end the same way.
"Others are crafted by artisans—individuals who shape raw sigils with precision and intent. Their artifacts are far more stable, tailored for function, though never without risk. Unlike the natural ones, they lack a will of their own, but their power is bound to the skill of the craftsman who made them."
Austin's gaze lingered on the flute in Sylas's hands.
"This one is mine. It bears no rebellious will, but even so, it is not to be used carelessly. Remember, Sylas—artifacts are tools, not masters. The moment you let one dictate your actions, you've already lost."
Sylas nodded firmly, his fingers tightening around the flute. He understood the risks—both of the path he had chosen and of the tools he would carry with him.
Austin let out a long, weary sigh, the kind that seemed to carry years of battles and losses. "It's time to go, child." His voice was steady, but a faint sorrow threaded through it. "Don't burden yourself with impatience. I will continue searching for the ones who took your parents from you. The moment I uncover even a whisper of their trail, I'll let you know."
Sylas's face hardened, the weight of his vow pressing against his heart. A faint red glow flared in his eyes, flickering like embers stirred by a sudden wind—but it dimmed just as quickly, swallowed by the calm he had learned to wield.
Austin watched in silence as Sylas left the room. His footsteps faded down the hall until only the quiet remained. The old man's gaze lingered on the doorway, heavy with unspoken thoughts. The bird must leave the nest to truly grow.
Moments later, the air rippled. Two figures emerged soundlessly, as though stepping from a fold in space itself. Both were clad in white battle robes, their forms outlined with a faint glow that pulsed like restrained lightning. They moved with the discipline of soldiers, yet the aura they carried hinted at something far greater.
Without hesitation, they dropped to one knee before Austin.
"Have you uncovered what I asked of you?" Austin's tone was calm, but it cut through the stillness with quiet authority.
"Yes, Master," one of the men replied, his voice steady but grim. "It was as you suspected. The order truly came from the organization."