The tunnels reeked of blood and smoke.
Elian leaned against the damp wall, every breath a rasp that clawed at his ribs. His hands shook, his skin clammy, and though he had scrubbed them against stone until they burned, he could still feel the sticky warmth of the Blade's blood on his fingers.
The shadows lingered, faint wisps curling and fading as though reluctant to leave him.
Lyra crouched a few paces away, reloading her pistol with quick, sharp motions. The faint light from her lantern caught the cut on her cheekbone, a thin red line already crusting with blood. Her lips curved, not in a smile, but in the grim satisfaction of a woman who had survived another night when the odds said she shouldn't.
"You handled yourself," she said finally, voice echoing low in the cramped passage.
Elian flinched. "I killed him."
Lyra glanced up, her expression unreadable. "Better him than you."
The words echoed in his skull. Better him. Better him. But Elian couldn't shake the image of the machete-man's chest hollowed out, darkness spilling from his wound like a second death. He pressed his palms to his eyes until stars burst behind them.
That wasn't me. That was it. The star.
A whisper brushed the edge of his thoughts, cold as winter air.
Not it. Us.
Elian jerked, his back slamming into the wall. His breath came shallow, quick.
Lyra's eyes narrowed. "What's wrong?"
He shook his head too fast. "Nothing."
She didn't believe him—he could see it in the tilt of her mouth, the way she studied him as though weighing whether he was worth the trouble. But she didn't push. She snapped the pistol shut with a click, then stood, rolling her shoulders.
"We can't stay here," she said. "Those cowards will tell every gang rat in the undercity what they saw. By dawn, your face will be worth more than gold."
"And the Guard?" Elian asked, throat dry.
Lyra's grin returned, sharp and humorless. "The Guard pays better than any gang. Trust me—they'll be down here soon."
They moved deeper into the maze of tunnels. The undercity sprawled beneath Solara like a rotten second skin, forgotten sewers and half-collapsed catacombs where those without coin or honor scraped out their lives. The air smelled of mold and rust and human desperation.
Elian stumbled more than once, his vision swimming, but Lyra kept a firm grip on his arm. She guided him through the dark with the certainty of someone who had lived in shadows before.
They passed a chamber where broken statues loomed, their faces worn smooth by centuries. A shrine, perhaps, once. Now, guttering candles and piles of bones told a different story. Elian shivered, quickening his steps.
At last, Lyra pushed open a rusted gate and ushered him into a chamber lit by faint violet fungus clinging to the walls. Crates and ragged blankets lay scattered, signs that someone had once used this place but abandoned it.
"Good enough," she muttered, setting her pack down.
Elian collapsed onto one of the crates, burying his face in his hands. His pulse still hammered, each thud echoing in his wounded side.
Lyra rummaged through her pack, pulled out a flask, and tossed it to him. "Drink."
He obeyed without thinking. The liquid burned his throat, cheap liquor that made his eyes water. But it steadied the trembling in his hands, even if only slightly.
Lyra sat across from him, stretching out her legs. For a while, the only sounds were the distant drip of water and the faint hum of the fungus.
Finally, Elian found his voice. "Why are you helping me?"
Lyra arched a brow. "Would you rather I hadn't?"
"That's not what I—" He broke off, raking a hand through his hair. "You don't even know me. And now you're hunted too."
Her smirk softened, though it didn't vanish. "Hunted isn't new to me, scholar."
She leaned back, balancing her pistol across her lap. The violet glow caught her features, painting her in eerie light. "I wasn't always down here. Once, I dined on crystal plates and drank from silver goblets. Once, people bowed when I entered the room."
Elian blinked. "You… you were a noble?"
Lyra chuckled, though there was no warmth in it. "Was. Past tense." Her gaze drifted upward, as if she could see through stone to the gilded towers above. "Turns out titles don't mean much when your family decides you're worth more as a scapegoat."
Her jaw tightened. For a moment, something raw flickered across her face—anger, pain, both tangled so tightly he couldn't tell them apart. Then the mask returned, sharp and amused.
"So here I am. Pirate, smuggler, disgrace. It's a living."
Elian swallowed. He wanted to ask what crime had stripped her of her title, but the question died on his tongue. The bitterness in her voice said enough.
Instead, he murmured, "I'm sorry."
Lyra tilted her head. "Don't be. I've made peace with it. Freedom's worth more than a title."
Silence stretched again. Elian's thoughts circled like carrion birds, returning always to the same place: the scream of the Blade, the way his chest collapsed into nothing, the way the shadows had answered him so eagerly.
"I can't control it," he whispered.
Lyra's gaze sharpened. "That power of yours?"
He nodded, throat tight. "It's not… it's not like the other magics. It doesn't feel like mine. It feels like it's using me."
Lyra leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Then learn to use it first. Before it eats you alive."
The words struck him like a blow. He wanted to argue, to tell her she didn't understand. But some part of him knew she was right. If he didn't master this thing, it would master him.
And the thought terrified him more than death.
They dozed fitfully in turns. Elian's dreams were thick with darkness—stars falling like burning tears, a shadowed figure whispering promises of power in a voice that sounded like his own. He woke gasping, sweat chilling his skin.
Lyra was already awake, cleaning her pistol with careful precision. She glanced at him once but said nothing.
The silence pressed heavy.
Elian rubbed his temples, trying to steady his breath. He didn't notice the faint scuff of footsteps until Lyra's hand shot up, signaling him to stillness.
Voices echoed down the tunnel beyond the gate. Harsh, clipped. Not the slurred drawl of gang rats.
Solar Guard.
Elian's chest tightened. He could feel the shadows stir again, cold and eager.
Lyra mouthed a single word: Run.