The bells of the Dawnspire tolled, their solemn chimes cutting through Solara's night.
Kaelen stood at attention in the Hall of Radiance, the vast chamber where the Solar Guard gathered for their orders. Golden banners hung from the arched ceiling, embroidered with the blazing sun emblem. The floor gleamed like molten brass beneath torchlight, polished so carefully that Kaelen could see his own reflection staring back—jaw square, posture rigid, eyes weary.
He had not slept since the massacre in the Athenaeum.
The hall was full of murmurs, a restless sea of armored men and women shifting beneath the weight of their duties. Whispers carried like sparks: the fugitive, the heretic, the one who commands shadows.
At the far end of the hall, the High Sentinel strode to the dais. Commander Veynar was a mountain of a man, bald head gleaming, his crimson cloak sweeping behind him. His voice boomed when he spoke, resonant as a war drum.
"Brothers and sisters of the Guard. Tonight, our city bleeds. The Athenaeum is defiled. Scholars slaughtered. Sacred texts destroyed. And worse—witnesses claim a starless sorcery was unleashed in our midst."
Murmurs rose louder, edged with fear.
Veynar's hand slammed against the sun-etched lectern. "The culprit is named Elian Thorne, once an archivist. Now, a heretic who consorts with the Void."
The title echoed like a curse. Heretic.
Kaelen's jaw tightened. His mind replayed the sight: Elian stumbling from the wreckage, shadows clinging to his frame, the panic in his eyes. The scholars' corpses strewn like broken dolls around him.
Yet… Elian had not looked like a man reveling in slaughter. He had looked terrified.
Kaelen shoved the thought aside. Doubt was poison.
A runner darted through the hall, breathless. He bowed before Veynar and presented a scroll. The commander broke the seal, eyes scanning the lines.
When he spoke again, his tone was iron.
"The fugitive has fled into the undercity. Already, gangs whisper his name. Already, whispers of blasphemy stir. We cannot allow this corruption to spread. He must be found. He must be silenced."
He raised his gauntleted fist. "By order of the Solar Throne, any who shelter him are guilty of heresy. Any who speak in his defense will burn."
A roar of assent thundered through the hall. Steel clattered against shields. For the Light! For the Throne!
Kaelen stood rigid, heart hammering. Around him, his brothers and sisters shouted with fervor. He forced the words past his lips, though they tasted like ash.
For the Light.
After the assembly, Kaelen strode down the torchlit corridor toward the armory. His boots rang against stone, each step echoing. The clamor of the hall faded behind him, replaced by the heavy silence of his own thoughts.
He had always believed the Guard's purpose was pure: to protect Solara, to uphold the Light. Yet the ease with which Veynar declared death sentences unsettled him.
Perhaps I am weary. Perhaps I see shadows where none exist.
Still, Elian's face haunted him.
At the armory, squires scurried about, buckling straps and polishing steel. Kaelen's squire, a boy barely sixteen, approached with his breastplate.
"Sir," the boy stammered, eyes wide with a mix of awe and nerves. "Your armor is ready."
Kaelen nodded, kneeling so the lad could fasten the straps. The weight of the sun-forged steel settled across his shoulders, familiar as a second skin. The tabard of the Guard, white and gold, draped over it like a holy mantle.
When he rose, his reflection glinted in the polished shield propped against the wall. He barely recognized himself. The armor gleamed, unblemished, while his eyes in the reflection looked… hollow.
He took the shield, strapping it to his arm, and the warhammer that was his chosen weapon—its head etched with runes that glowed faintly with solar magic.
The boy looked at him as if he were invincible. Kaelen forced himself to stand taller, to play the role expected of him.
"Ready the patrol," he ordered. "We descend within the hour."
The undercity greeted them with stench and shadow.
Kaelen led a dozen Guard down the stone steps into the depths, torches casting wavering light across damp walls. The air reeked of mildew, sewage, and the sour tang of unwashed bodies. Their boots splashed through shallow runoff as they advanced, armor clinking.
The deeper they went, the more the city above felt like a dream. Solara's spires and radiant towers belonged to another world. Down here, broken pillars jutted like rotten teeth, graffiti scrawled across walls in defiance of the Light.
Kaelen kept his hammer ready. Every shadow looked like it might conceal their quarry.
They passed a cluster of undercity dwellers huddled around a fire made of scrap wood. A woman clutched her child tighter as the Guard marched past. A man spat on the ground, his eyes glinting with hate.
"Search them," one of Kaelen's men barked.
Kaelen raised a hand. "No. They're no threat."
The soldier hesitated, then fell silent. But Kaelen could feel their eyes on his back, questioning. Doubtful.
He ignored it.
A scout returned, breath ragged. "Captain! Signs ahead—blood, fresh. A fight."
Kaelen strode forward, torchlight spilling over the tunnel floor. Dark smears stained the stone, leading deeper. He crouched, fingers brushing the sticky crimson.
Warm. Recent.
A torn scrap of fabric lay nearby, blackened at the edges as though scorched. Kaelen lifted it, heart pounding. He recognized the material—standard issue for pistols favored by smugglers and pirates.
Not Elian's. His companion's.
The whispers among the Guard grew sharper. "So the heretic has allies." "He consorts with criminals." "Proof enough of his corruption."
Kaelen closed his fist around the cloth. He should agree. He should condemn. Yet something within him balked. Allies meant Elian wasn't alone. Someone had chosen to stand beside him. That didn't fit the image of a ravenous heretic.
"Form ranks," Kaelen ordered. His voice was steady, though his thoughts churned. "We press on."
As they advanced, the shadows deepened. Faint graffiti glowed faintly on the walls—symbols Kaelen didn't recognize. Circles within circles, jagged lines that twisted like broken constellations.
One of the younger Guards muttered, voice quivering. "Captain… what does it mean?"
Kaelen studied the markings, unease crawling down his spine. They pulsed faintly, as if inked in phosphorescence.
"Nothing good," he said.
The scout shivered. "The gangs whisper about a cult. Worshippers of the dark between stars."
Kaelen's grip tightened on his hammer. If such a cult thrived down here, then Elian had stumbled into a nest of wolves—or worse, been claimed by them.
Hours passed in tense pursuit. Every tunnel felt the same, a labyrinth of damp stone and echoing footsteps. The men grew restless, muttering prayers beneath their breath.
Finally, they reached a chamber lit by strange violet fungus. The air was heavy with the stench of blood.
Corpses lay sprawled across the floor—gang thugs, their weapons scattered, their bodies mutilated. One man's chest was caved in as though hollowed. Another's arm was nothing but shriveled husk.
The Guard recoiled, curses and prayers tumbling from their lips.
Kaelen's stomach lurched, but he forced himself closer. He knelt by a corpse, studying the wound. It wasn't blade nor fire that had done this. The flesh bore the same blackened, starless marks he had seen in the Athenaeum.
Elian had been here.
And he had killed again.
One of the Guards gagged. "Light preserve us. What kind of monster leaves this?"
Kaelen stared at the hollowed chest, the darkness still clinging faintly to the wound. He remembered Elian's eyes—wide, terrified. Not the gaze of a man who reveled in slaughter.
But how could terror create such ruin?
He rose, turning to his men. "We press on. He is close."
Their fear twisted into anger, a safer emotion. They roared their assent, slamming shields together, eager to destroy what they didn't understand.
Kaelen gave the order, but his chest felt hollow.
As they marched deeper, his thoughts gnawed at him.
What if we're wrong? What if this isn't corruption but something else? Something we don't yet understand?
He shoved the doubts down, but they clawed back up. The Guard's oaths weighed heavy on his shoulders, heavier than his armor.
He had sworn to the Light, to protect Solara from darkness. But what if the darkness wasn't the true enemy?
What if the real danger was blindness?