Cipher's breath came ragged, the echoes of his defiance still trembling across the ruined plaza. The silence swallowed them greedily, leaving only the whisper of scraping glass and the shuffle of too many feet. The faceless things pressed inward again, heedless of how many had already been reduced to ash.
The ground beneath him seemed alive now. Every tile of mirrored glass shuddered faintly as more hands pressed from below, thin and desperate, pulling at the barrier between their realm and his.
Cipher lifted the scythe, its silver runes guttering like a lantern running out of oil. His muscles ached, his chest screamed for air, but he forced his stance steady. "Auto," he rasped, "mark the flow."
The Automaton's lenses spun, quick as clock hands. "They emerge at intervals. Each mirror a gate. Unpredictable—but spreading toward encirclement."
Cipher's eyes tracked them. Yes. The creatures were not random. They were trying to surround him, force him into the center of their net. He ground his teeth. "Not happening."
The nearest faceless figure lurched at him, arms stretching unnaturally long. Its fingers were too many, a tangle of writhing tips. Cipher pivoted sharply, the scythe cutting through it in a wide sweep. The creature split into smoke, its remains collapsing into a rain of ash that coated his shoulders and burned faintly on his skin.
Another came from the left. Cipher shifted his grip, bringing the scythe's butt across its skull. The thing's head folded inward with a wet crack before vanishing. He turned again, three more staggering at him in near unison.
He moved fast, his form precise, efficient—a teacher's discipline turned to survival. Each swing carved arcs of light, splitting the faceless in droves. But even as they fell, the ash clung to him, coating his boots, thickening the air. The plaza was becoming a storm of gray flakes, as if every swing of his weapon only buried him deeper.
"Cipher," Auto hissed, voice clipped, "your endurance—"
"Save it," Cipher growled, slamming his weapon into the ground. The runes flared, sending a shockwave across the glass. The hands below recoiled, dozens snapping back into darkness. For a heartbeat, the tide slowed.
But only for a heartbeat.
The mirrors nearest the edges of the plaza cracked, spiderwebbing outward. From beneath them, shapes larger than before began to press. Not childlike this time. Limbs like tree trunks. Bodies too wide for their own bones. Their faces stretched, hollow sockets yawning wide.
Cipher exhaled, a humorless sound between a laugh and a sigh. "Of course."
He spun the scythe, the blade leaving arcs of starlight behind. "Auto. Find me a seam. Any path that's thinner than the rest."
The Automaton's lenses whirred. "Three paces left. Twelve forward. They herd you. But the seam weakens there."
Cipher surged into motion, his boots smashing over glass and ash. The faceless swarmed, lunging with jerking movements, their hands scraping at his arms and cloak. He cut them down with ruthless efficiency, never stopping, each step punctuated by the fall of another ash-born horror.
He reached the seam as the first of the larger creatures broke free. Its body rose with a wet crack, shoulders tearing wide to let its bulk squeeze through the fractured mirror. It loomed over the plaza, taller than the ruins, arms dragging the ground. Its eyeless face turned toward Cipher.
The scythe flared. Cipher's voice came raw, stripped to iron. "You don't get me. Not here. Not yet."
He slashed the seam. The mirrors shattered outward, glass exploding into silver dust. Light roared through the gap, a thin but desperate opening beyond the plaza.
Cipher lunged, dragging Auto with him. Behind, the faceless screamed without sound, their forms flickering madly in static as they tried to follow. The giant thing roared in silence, a sound that cracked the air without noise, rushing after him with steps that shook the ruins.
Cipher didn't look back. He ran until the plaza was gone, until the glass tiles gave way to black stone, until the silence of the Graveyard closed over him again.
Only then did he stop, chest heaving, sweat burning his brow. He leaned on his scythe, the ash still clinging to his skin.
Auto's gears whirred softly. "Cipher. You survived."
He gave a bitter chuckle, voice hoarse. "Survived the first step, maybe. But this place isn't done. It hasn't even shown me its teeth."
The dark stretched endlessly ahead. Behind, the faceless were still coming. Somewhere farther still, he felt the weight of that taller shadow, the one that never moved, never joined—only watched.
Cipher straightened, lifting his scythe again. His voice was low, steady. "Fine. If the Graveyard wants me—it'll have to choke on me."
And he walked into the silence once more, every step defiance, every step echoing against the endless dark.