Meko's breath hitched. He stopped mid-stride. A heavy iron-tipped bolt was buried deep in his chest, the fletching still vibrating from the force of the shot. The impact knocked the remaining air out of his lungs, and he collapsed forward, his knees hitting the cobblestones with a dull crack.
"Meko!" Doren's voice cracked, his hands reaching out to catch his friend before his face hit the dirt.
Katarina spun around, her eyes instantly snapping to the roofline. "Sniper!" she hissed, putting her hands up, ready to redirect any bolts with her air element. But the square was filled with shifting shadows and the smoke from the ruined stalls, making it impossible to pin down the shooter.
Meko gasped, his hands clawing at the stone, his blood beginning to pool and stain the ground. The grit and strength that had sustained him through being a soldier and all the years of survival seemed to be draining out of him with every ragged breath.
Inside Doren's head, the spirits went into a frenzy. The heat of Kaelen was gone, but a new, cold panic was rising.
"Don't you die," Doren whispered, his hands hovering over the bolt, terrified to touch it. "Meko, look at me! Stay with us!"
The whistles of the City Guard were much closer now, and the eyes of the Sunless priests began to weigh down on them. They were being boxed in.
Doren's heart hammered against his ribs. The world was narrowing down to the gray, sweat-beaded skin of Meko's face and the wet rattle of his breath. As they ducked into the shadows of the alley, the cold stones of the wall felt like the edges of a tomb.
It was exactly like the dream. The approaching shadows, and the crushing weight of helplessness.
Anya knelt on Meko's other side, her hands pressing down on his shoulder, her eyes wide with fear and sorrow she was trying to mask. Katarina stood at the mouth of the alley, her blade drawn, her eyes darting between the street and her dying friend.
Meko reached out, his fingers catching Doren's sleeve with a grip that was terrifyingly weak. He coughed, a spray of red spotting his lips. "You guys... have to leave me," he rasped, his eyes fluttering. "You have to get out of here. I can't... I can't keep going."
Don't you start that," Doren snapped, though his hands were trembling as he tried to staunch the blood soaking through Meko's tunic. "Don't you dare start talking like that."
"Shut up, Meko," Katarina hissed from the alley entrance, her voice breaking. "We don't leave people behind. Not ever."
"The Order... they're coming," Meko whispered, his gaze drifting to the patch of sky above the alley. "I'm just an anchor now. Doren... You have to... you have to live. If you're so important.. to the world. Live."
Inside Doren's mind, the six spirits were no longer a choir. They were a storm. Elowen was pulsing with a soft, green light, a desperate urge to preserve life, while Malakor whispered of the darkness required to hide them. The pressure was building in Doren's chest, grief was starting to set in.
Doren shook his head, his face a mask of desperate resolve. He couldn't let the dream win. He gripped the iron shaft of the bolt, and with a sharp, guttural grunt, he yanked it from Meko's chest.
Meko let out a harrowing, broken scream, his back arching off the cold cobblestones as a fresh spray of blood hit Doren's tunic. Before the wound could drain the last of his friend's life, Doren slammed his hands over the gaping hole.
"Elowen!" he roared internally, his voice a silent scream in the void of his mind.
He didn't just ask for the power, he was demanding it. A vibrant, white light erupted from his palms, illuminating the grime-streaked walls of the alley. Doren felt a strange, cooling sensation rushing through his arms and into Meko's shattered ribcage. He saw the flesh begin to knit, the blood flow slowing under the supernatural glow.
But then, the light flickered and died.
Doren pushed harder, his teeth grinding until they felt like they would shatter. "No... no, no, no! Elowen, give it back!"
He reached for the spark, but the well was dry. The massive output of fire against Golgoth had left his power scorched and jammed. The white light faded into a dull, sickly gray. Meko's chest gave a violent, wet shudder, and the blood began to flow again, dark and unstoppable, seeping through Doren's frantic fingers.
"Doren..." Meko's voice was a ghost of a whisper. His hand, cold and trembling, reached up and gripped Doren's wrist, pulling it away from the wound. "Stop. It's... it's okay."
"It's not okay!" Doren sobbed, trying to force the light back into his hands. "I'm the only one here that has a chance to save you. I'm supposed to save you!"
Meko's eyes, once so full of stubbornness, began to glaze over. He looked past Doren, toward Katarina and Anya, a small, peaceful smile touching his blood-stained lips. "Live," he wheezed, the word carrying the weight of a final command. "Don't let.. Them get you..." He struggled to look Katarina in the eyes. Finally he let out a faint smile, "Kat… You're an amazing dancer. I love you sis…"
His grip on Doren's wrist loosened. His head slumped back against the stone, and the rhythmic rattle of his breath stopped. The silence that followed was louder than the screams of the market.
In that moment, the three remaining friends sat and silently grieved. Katarina's eyes poured tears. Doren, more frustrated than saddened, slammed his fist against the ground. Anya stood in silence.
"Meko?" Doren whispered, shaking him gently. "Meko, get up. We have to go."
At the mouth of the alley, the shadows shifted. Three figures from the Order of the Sunless stepped into the light, their presence heavy with a cold, divine authority. The Order's crest embroidered on the tabard they wore. Unlike the ones that the companions faced before, who wore long cloaks.
In the center stood High Prelate Vane, his pale eyes fixed on Doren. To his left was Sister Mercy, her hands wrapped in silver wire that hummed with a low, agonizing frequency. On his right stood Brother Kray, a hulking man whose robes struggled to hide the reinforced brass gauntlets he wore.
Vane looked down at Meko's body with a look of utter disgust. "This one is expired," he intoned, his voice echoing like a funeral bell. "Sister Mercy, silence the girls. Brother Kray... fetch the King-Maker. The Architect has been compensated; the boy belongs to the Order now."
Doren didn't move. He sat in the dirt, his hands covered in the blood of his friend, his head bowed. The white light was gone. The fire was gone. In their place, a cold, hollow darkness began to seep out from his shadow, spreading across the alley floor like spilled ink.
As Malakor's essence began to bleed from Doren's fingertips, the temperature in the alley plummeted. The ink-like stain spreading across the cobblestones swallowed the light of the streetlamps, turning the three figures of the Order into silhouettes of flickering gray.
High Prelate Vane's eyes widened, the disdain on his face shifting into a predatory curiosity. "Look at that, Sister," he murmured, his voice smooth as silk despite the encroaching gloom. "The King-Maker chooses violence."
Sister Mercy didn't respond with words. Her silver-wrapped fingers danced, and the wire began to glow with a shrill, ultraviolet light. The humming frequency reached a pitch that made Anya and Katarina drop to their knees, clutching their ears in agony.
"The boy is unstable, Prelate," Mercy warned, her voice a monotonous drone. "If he releases that much raw entropy in this confined space, there will be nothing left to fetch."
"Then subdue him," Vane commanded, stepping back into the safety of the main street.
Brother Kray moved first. The brass gauntlets on his fists hissed, steam venting from the joints as he lunged forward. He didn't just use elements. He was a blunt instrument of the Order, a man built to break bones. He swung a massive, reinforced fist toward Doren's head, aiming to knock him unconscious.
Doren didn't look up. He didn't even flinch.
Just as the brass fist was inches from his temple, the shadow-ink on the floor rose up like a wall of obsidian glass. Kray's gauntlet slammed into the darkness with a sound like a hammer hitting a frozen lake. The impact shattered Kray's wrist.
The hulking man let out a grunt of pure shock, looking down at his mangled hand, but the darkness was already moving up his arm.
"Doren, stop!" Katarina's voice was a distant echo, muffled by the supernatural silence. She reached for him, but her hand stopped inches from his shoulder.
Doren finally lifted his head. His eyes were hollow pits, reflecting the absolute grief of losing someone for the first time.
"He said to live," Doren whispered. He stood up slowly, stepping over Meko's body. The shadows followed him, clinging to his boots. He looked at the three members of the Order. "I'm going to live," Doren said, his gaze fixing on High Prelate Vane. "But you aren't."
Sister Mercy's wires lashed out, a web of silver light designed to flay the skin from a man's ribs. But as the wires entered the radius of Doren's darkness, they simply turned to ash, the magic inside them consumed by a hunger older than the Order itself.
Vane's composure finally broke. He saw the ink beginning to climb the walls of the alley, sealing them in. "Kray! Mercy! Get us out of here!"
But Doren was already moving, and for the first time, he wasn't fighting the spirits. He was letting Malakor lead.
The sudden, artificial noon of Vane's light hit the alley like a physical blow. The darkness, which had felt so absolute only a moment before recoiled. Like a cornered animal, the void snapped back toward its source, slamming into Doren's chest with the force of a battering ram.
Doren stumbled forward, his boots skidding on the blood-slicked cobblestones. His equilibrium shattered, and he collapsed, his hands slapping into the cold, wet grit just feet from Meko's cooling body.
As his weight hit the earth, a massive, subterranean tremor rippled out from the point of Doren's palms. The narrow alley walls groaned, and cracks spider-webbed up the masonry of the surrounding tenements. Dust and mortar rained down from the eaves as the very foundation of the district shuddered under the weight of Doren's uncontrolled grief and the Earth spirit's violent resonance.
Vane stood his ground, his hand still raised, his palm glowing like a miniature sun that pushed the shadows into the very corners of the bricks. He looked down at the shivering boy with a clinical, detached interest. "A volatile vessel," he noted, his voice calm despite the ground heaving beneath his boots. "The Dark is a fickle mistress, boy. You are not yet ready to dance with her. You can't even control the ground under you. Such a naive fighting spirit, I bet your victory in the market square was nothing short of luck."
Kray shifted his weight, his brass gauntlets grinding together as he looked at the crumbling buildings. "The structural integrity is failing, Prelate," he grunted, his Earth-attuned senses feeling the deep shifts in the bedrock. "If the King-Maker levels the district, we lose the prize and the city."
Sister Mercy flicked her wrist, her silver wires humming as they caught a stray breeze funneling through the alley. Her eyes scanned the rooftops where the City Guard's whistles were growing deafeningly loud. "Vane, the Architect's distraction is waning. The Guard will be here in minutes, and I have no desire to explain the presence of three High Prelates to a panicked Governor. We have what we need."
Vane lowered his hand, though the light lingered in his eyes for a moment longer. He looked at Doren, then at the lifeless body of Meko, and finally at Katarina and Anya, who were frozen in a mixture of terror and defiance.
"Cherish these final moments of mourning," Vane said, his voice dropping to a chilling whisper. "For when we meet again, you will find that the Order is much less patient."
With a sharp motion, Vane snapped his fingers. A blinding flash of pure, white Light enveloped the three of them. A sudden, pressurized gust of air swept the alley clean of smoke and dust, and the Earth beneath their feet seemed to ripple for a split second. When the spots cleared from Doren's vision, the alley was empty.
The Prelates were gone.
The only sound left was the distant, frantic ringing of the city's alarm bells and the soft, steady drip of blood onto stone.
Doren lay in the dirt, his fingers twitching into a hard grip. His body felt heavy, like they were made of lead. The six spirits were quiet now, exhausted by the sudden surge and the equally sudden collapse.
"They're gone," Anya whispered, her voice trembling. She reached out, placing a hand on Doren's shaking shoulder. "Doren... we have to go. The Guard... they'll be here any second."
Katarina stood over Meko, her face a mask of stone-cold fury. Underneath this fury was a soul aching for Meko to open his eyes. She looked down at her brother, and for a moment, her resolve wavered. She reached down, her fingers brushing the cold skin of Meko's forehead one last time. She held his cheek as her chin quivered.
"We have to leave him," she said, her voice cracking. "We leave him, or we die with him."
Doren didn't answer. He just gripped the hilt of Meko's sword, as the first of the City Guard's torches began to flicker at the end of the alley.
Doren didn't want to move. He wanted to melt into the cobblestones, to let the earth he'd just shaken swallow him whole alongside Meko. But the orange flicker of torches was dancing against the brickwork at the alley's mouth, and the iron-shod boots of the City Guard were thundering closer, echoing off the high, soot-stained walls.
"Doren, stand up!" Katarina's voice wasn't a request. She grabbed the collar of his tunic and hauled him upward.
He stumbled, his legs feeling like leaden weights. He looked down at Meko one last time, at the peaceful, blood-stained smile and the eyes that would never see the sun again.
"We can't just leave him like this," Doren rasped, his voice thick with the iron taste of grief. "Not in the dirt. Not here."
"If we stay, there will be four bodies in this alley instead of one," Anya whispered, her hand gripping his arm with surprising strength, dragging him away from the body. "Meko told you to live, Doren. So… Live."
Doren turned. The feeling of helplessness washing over him.
"The main gates will be locked down by now," Katarina said, her eyes scanning the rooftops and the narrow gaps between the industrial warehouses. "We head for the canals. If we can reach the transport barges, we can take the back trails out of the city." She remembered the makeshift map Meko had drawn in the dirt. "Now, Move!"
They didn't use the main streets. They became shadows among shadows, slipping through narrow crawlspaces and over iron fences slick with coal soot. Behind them, the city of Limka was a hive of frantic activity, with bells ringing from the cathedral spires, guards shouting orders, and the distant sounds of panic beginning to fill the air like a rising tide.
Doren ran until his lungs burned, the sword of his mentor clutched tight in his hands. Every step away from the alley felt like a betrayal, the heavy thud of his boots on the cobblestones sounding like the closing of a tomb.
As they neared the edge of the industrial sector, the smell of coal smoke began to give way to the stagnant, damp scent of the river. They reached the high stone embankments of the canal, the dark water churning below, fed by the runoff of the Limkan factories.
Katarina paused at the edge of a bridge, looking back at the glowing heart of the city they were leaving in ruins. The earth tremor Doren had triggered had left a visible scar across the district, a jagged crack in the skyline where a tenement had partially buckled.
"He's gone, Doren," she said softly, the first hint of her own grief breaking through her voice. It sounded more of a reminder to herself than to Doren. "But we aren't. Not yet."
Doren didn't answer. He looked at his hands, still stained with Meko's blood and the ash from the fire he was just welding, and then toward the dark, winding path of the river that led away from the smoke and toward the southern wilderness.
The storm of the Firsts was quiet now, a cold, heavy weight in the pit of his stomach. He wasn't just running for his life anymore. He was running for the man who had died to give it back to him.
The three companions reached the end of the stone embankment, their boots thundering across a narrow wooden bridge that spanned the secondary canal. On the far side, huddled against the city's outer wall, sat a dilapidated transit stable. The scent of wet straw and musk offered a brief, grounded reprieve from the acrid smoke of the city center.
Katarina didn't hesitate. She kicked the stable door open, her eyes scanning the stalls. Most were empty, conscripted by the Guard for the night's chaos, but three mounts remained, shifting restlessly in the shadows.
"Over here," she called out, her voice a low, urgent rasp.
They moved with practiced desperation, pulling the creatures from their stalls. Doren recognized two of the beasts instantly. They were the same hardy species as Varen's beloved Macy back in Havenport. But one was unfamiliar to him.
The two Fenhoofs snorted, kicking up dust with their front hooves. Their dark fur rising out of alert. Katarina put a hand to one's mouth, the creature's tusks brushing against her palms. It clicked its clawed hooves back into the ground and the other Fenhoof calmed.
Then there was a single Steernia. The regal mount shook its head, its silky mane flowing in its movements. It had six legs in total. There were also three horns that protruded from the back of its nose, the middle of the bridge of the mount's nose, and the forehead. They were strong horns that helped protect it from predators, but it gave it a majestic look, mimicking a crown. The creature was a beast of status,taking on grace while also focusing on gracefulness.
"Doren, take the Steernia… it's the fastest, and you're in no state to wrestle a Fenhoof tonight," Katarina ordered, throwing a heavy leather saddle onto the lead Fenhoof. The beast hissed, snapping its tusks near her shoulder, but she ignored it, tightening the cinch with a forceful yank.
Anya vaulted onto the second Fenhoof, her smaller frame looking fragile against the creature's spiked, powerful back. Doren climbed onto the Steernia, his movements robotic and numb. He felt the extra set of legs beneath him shifting to balance his weight, the creature letting out a low, resonant hum of protest.
"Keep your hoods up," Katarina said, leading them out of the stalls. She looked back at the city. The orange glow of Limka was fading behind the inner walls, replaced by the vast, dark unknown of the southern plains. "Once we pass the outer gates, we don't stop. Not for anything. We get through the rest of the forest quickly and we hit the southern plains."
With a sharp kick, they spurred the mounts forward. The Fenhoofs let out guttural, terrifying roars as their claws bit into the soft earth beyond the stable, and the Steernia surged forward with a rhythmic, six-beat gallop that carried them away from the smoke, the blood, and the memory of Limka.