The safehouse stank of damp stone and old oil. Elian lay awake on the thin mat, staring at the low ceiling where mildew bloomed like bruises. The ragged blanket scratched against his skin, but it wasn't discomfort that kept him from sleep.
It was the silence.
Not true silence—drips echoed through the tunnels, voices murmured distantly, and rats scrabbled in unseen corners. But beneath it, he felt something else. A deeper hush. A waiting.
The black star pulsed in the back of his mind, steady as a heartbeat.
Mine, it seemed to whisper.
Elian squeezed his eyes shut. He curled his fingers into fists, half-expecting the shadows to writhe again. But they didn't. Not yet.
A hand clamped on his shoulder. He jolted, gasping, but it was only Lyra crouched beside him, her pistol already strapped to her thigh.
"Up," she hissed. "We've got company."
Elian's heart lurched. "The Guard?"
"Not yet. Worse."
She jerked her chin toward the door. The gaunt safehouse keeper stood there, wringing his hands. His burned skin looked waxy in the lamplight, and sweat gleamed on his brow.
"They know," he whispered. "Word spreads fast when blood's spilled. You can't stay here. The Blades will come for you."
Lyra cursed under her breath. She grabbed Elian's arm, hauling him upright despite his hiss of pain. "Told you," she muttered.
"Blades?" Elian rasped, clutching his side.
"Undercity gang," Lyra said, already slinging her pack over one shoulder. "They hear about a wounded fugitive with a bounty on his head, they'll want a piece. Or your head on a pike."
The keeper wrung his hands harder. "Go, before I'm dragged down with you."
Lyra didn't argue. She shoved the door open, dragging Elian into the passage beyond.
The undercity was alive with sound now. The echoes of booted feet, harsh laughter, the metallic clatter of blades being drawn. Shadows flitted across the upper platforms.
"They're already here," Lyra muttered.
Elian's pulse hammered. "What do we do?"
She gave him a sharp grin, pistol gleaming faint in the lanternlight. "We don't roll over and die, that's for sure."
The first Blade appeared at the far end of the tunnel. A hulking man with scars webbing his throat, a curved machete gleaming in one hand. His grin was all rotted teeth.
"Well, well," he drawled. "The little rat and his keeper."
More figures emerged from the shadows behind him—half a dozen, maybe more. Knives, chains, even a rusted spear. Their eyes glittered with greed.
Lyra raised her pistol without hesitation. "Back off."
The man laughed, spreading his arms wide. "You think we scare easy? There's a price on the boy. Enough to buy us out of this pit. Hand him over, and maybe we let you crawl away."
Elian felt the weight of their gazes—hungry, predatory. His stomach churned.
Lyra's finger tightened on the trigger. "Come take him, then."
The tunnel exploded into chaos.
The machete-man roared and charged, his boots slamming against stone. Lyra's pistol cracked, the shot echoing like thunder. The bullet struck his shoulder, spinning him sideways with a spray of blood.
Two more Blades surged forward. Elian stumbled back as a chain lashed out, clattering off the wall inches from his head.
"Move, scholar!" Lyra barked. She fired again, dropping another thug.
Elian's body moved before his mind did. He ducked under a swinging knife, his stitches burning, his heart slamming against his ribs. The shadows stirred at his fingertips—cold, eager.
"No," he whispered.
But they answered anyway.
A Blade lunged at him, blade raised. The shadows leapt from Elian's hand like a serpent, wrapping the man's wrist. Flesh shriveled where the darkness touched. The man screamed, his knife clattering to the floor as the void devoured his hand up to the elbow.
Elian staggered back in horror.
The gang faltered, eyes wide with sudden fear. But then rage surged louder.
"Monster!" one spat. "He's the one! The heretic!"
They came harder.
Lyra swore, dragging Elian behind her as she shot again and again, her pistol spitting fire and smoke. A Blade collapsed with his jaw shattered. Another stumbled as a bullet punched through his thigh.
Still they pressed forward.
Elian clutched his side, terror and guilt twisting inside him. He hadn't wanted to use it, hadn't meant to. But the shadows still lingered on his hand, curling like smoke, whispering promises of strength.
More, they urged. Feed us.
His breath came ragged. He could taste the void on his tongue—cold, metallic, endless.
The machete-man lurched upright again, blood soaking his shirt, eyes blazing with fury. He swung his blade in a wide arc, the steel screeching against the wall as it missed Lyra by inches.
She cursed, pistol empty, and ducked low. "Elian!" she shouted. "Do something!"
Elian froze. His body screamed to run, to hide, to vanish. But Lyra's eyes—wild, desperate—held his.
The shadows surged.
He thrust out his hand. Darkness burst forth, tendrils slamming into the machete-man's chest. They punched through flesh as though it were parchment, curling out the other side in a spray of gore. The man's scream turned into a wet gurgle before he collapsed, eyes glassy, chest hollow.
Silence crashed down.
The remaining Blades stumbled back, faces pale. None dared step closer. One dropped his knife and bolted into the tunnels. The others followed, their curses and shouts fading into the undercity's maze.
Elian stared at his hands. They trembled, slick with blood that wasn't his own. The shadows still writhed, reluctant to release their prey, savoring the last drops.
He gagged, bile rising, but no vomit came. Just the cold weight of what he had done. Again.
Lyra stood, smoke still curling from her pistol barrel. She looked at him, at the gore on the walls, at the shadows that slowly faded into nothing.
Then she grinned, sharp and bright. "Now that's more like it."
Elian's stomach twisted. "I killed him."
"You saved us," she countered.
"I—" His voice cracked. He looked at the blood, at the hollowed corpse, and words failed.
Lyra stepped closer, her hand gripping his shoulder. Her eyes gleamed with something fierce, almost hungry. "Listen, scholar. You can mourn later. Right now, you learn. Power's ugly. It always costs. But it's the only reason we're still breathing."
Elian met her gaze, the shadows whispering at the edge of his mind.
And for the first time, he wondered if Lyra was right.