The world burned with screams.
Elian staggered to his feet, vision swimming, the void-light still searing through his veins. The plaza was chaos incarnate—pilgrims trampled one another to flee, banners lay torn and smoldering where the shadow-flare had licked across them, and the sacred star-crystals of the spire bled black cracks like shattered glass.
The High Seer was shouting orders, but her voice was drowned in the roar of panic.
And the Solar Guard advanced.
Their golden shields locked into a wall of fire, their boots hammering the marble in perfect rhythm. At their head was Kaelen, his blade raised, sunlight rippling along its edge. His eyes fixed on Elian—not with pity, not with hesitation, but with the cold, merciless resolve of a man facing a heretic.
"Elian of the Athenaeum!" Kaelen's voice carried like a clarion call. "By order of the Solar Guard, yield and be bound for judgment!"
Yield? As if he could. His whole body shuddered, ribs aching with every breath. The void inside him churned, hungry, pressing against his skin as though it would rip free again.
"I… I didn't—" The words tore from his throat, but no one heard them.
The Guard charged.
Reflex, not thought, saved him.
The void surged, black tendrils lashing outward. One slammed into the marble at Kaelen's feet, splitting stone, sending shards flying. Another whipped across the shields of the front rank, warping their golden glow until it guttered out. A guard screamed as his arm was swallowed in shadow, flesh rotting away before Elian's horrified eyes.
"No—no, I didn't mean—" Elian staggered back, bile rising. The smell hit him—rot, blood, the sharp tang of burned ozone. His stomach clenched, but there was no time to retch.
A spear flashed toward him.
He twisted aside, the point scraping his ribs, hot blood spilling down his robe. Pain flared, sharp and real, grounding him in a way the void's unnatural energy could not. He stumbled through the crowd, shoving past panicked bodies, desperate to escape the advancing line of steel.
The bells tolled again, their sound fractured, as if the very bronze had cracked.
He ran.
Through alleys thick with incense smoke and the stink of refuse. Past stalls overturned in the panic, fruit rolling underfoot and trampled to pulp. Every shadow seemed alive, pulsing with that same wrong hunger.
"Stop him!" Voices echoed behind—guards, priests, even terrified citizens convinced the heretic must be stopped before he cursed them all.
Elian's breath tore ragged in his throat. His wound burned, hot and wet, every step smearing more blood down his side.
He stumbled into a narrow passage where laundry strung between windows slapped against his face. He shoved it aside—and nearly collided with a child. A girl, no more than ten, clutching a wooden toy starship.
Her eyes widened at the sight of him, at the blood on his robe, at the black tendrils still flickering faintly around his hands.
"Monster," she whispered.
The word cut deeper than the spear had.
Behind him, armored boots thundered closer.
Elian forced his legs to move, past the girl, deeper into the labyrinth of Caelumbria's underbelly.
The undercity swallowed him whole.
Here, the marble grandeur of the upper tiers gave way to rusted pipes and dripping stone. The air stank of sewage and aether-fumes leaking from broken conduits. Rats skittered along the walls, their eyes catching the faint glow of void around him and scattering with terrified squeals.
Elian leaned against a wall, chest heaving. His hand pressed to his wound, fingers slick with blood. He tried to summon light, the way aspirants were taught—to weave the threads of starlight through breath and will.
Nothing answered. Only the void pulsed, eager, waiting.
Use me, the voice coiled inside his mind, silk over steel. I can make them fall. I can make you safe.
"No." He clenched his jaw, forcing the word through gritted teeth. "I won't."
The voice chuckled, low and endless. You already have.
His stomach turned. Images burned in his mind—the guard's arm dissolving, flesh sloughing off bone, his own shadow coiling around screaming throats. He had done that. He had felt it.
He pressed his forehead to the damp wall, shaking. "I didn't ask for this…"
A sound pulled him back—boots again. This time closer. The Guard had followed.
Elian forced himself upright, staggered into a side passage. His vision blurred, blood loss dragging him toward darkness. He needed to hide. Needed—
A figure stepped from the shadows ahead.
She was tall, lean, clad in a patched leather coat that shimmered faintly where hidden runes caught the dim light. Her hair was dark and bound in a loose braid, her eyes sharp as broken glass. A pistol rested easily in her hand, the barrel gleaming with aetherium filigree.
"Gods above," she muttered, taking in his state. "You're the one who blew the ceremony to hell."
Elian froze, every muscle screaming with tension.
"I—"
"Save it." She cocked the pistol, a soft click echoing in the alley. "I don't care what you are. But the Guard's breathing down your neck, and you're bleeding like a gutted fish. You'll slow them down. So give me one reason not to put a bolt through your skull right now."
Her voice was calm. Almost too calm.
Elian's throat worked. He had no reason. No defense. Only the truth that burned on his tongue.
"I… I don't want this," he whispered. "Whatever's inside me—I don't want it. Please."
For a heartbeat, something flickered in her gaze. Not pity. Calculation.
She lowered the pistol a fraction. "Name's Lyra. You're coming with me. Try anything void-touched, and I'll blow your heart out. Understand?"
Elian nodded, weak with relief and fear all at once.
Behind them, the alley filled with light as the Solar Guard closed in. Kaelen's voice rang sharp and merciless:
"By the Sun, do not let him escape!"
Lyra swore under her breath. "Right, then. Guess you're useful after all."
She grabbed Elian's arm, dragging him into the labyrinth of shadows as the hunt thundered closer.