The undercity breathed danger.
The air pressed heavy against Elian's chest as he followed Lyra through a maze of damp tunnels. The ceiling dripped with condensation, each drop echoing like a ticking clock. The torch in Lyra's hand cast a fragile circle of gold, swallowed at the edges by shadows that seemed to lean in, eager to devour it.
Elian's thoughts raced with every step. He still smelled the blood from the streets above—the Guard's slaughter during the Ceremony—and the screams wouldn't leave him. Worse, his skin prickled with an unnatural awareness. The void inside him had not retreated since it first tore free; it shifted like a restless beast, pressing against the cage of his ribs, waiting.
Lyra moved like she belonged here, every stride confident, every gesture efficient. She wore her cutlass loose in her grip, blade glinting with each flicker of light. Even her breathing was measured, unlike his, which came too quick, too shallow.
"They'll come for us here too, won't they?" Elian asked, voice low, the sound of it muffled by the tunnel walls.
Lyra didn't slow. "Not the Guard. Not yet. They're too rigid, too proud to crawl this deep." Her tone was sharp, confident—until she added, "But gangs? They're another story."
A sound ahead proved her right: laughter, harsh and jagged, cutting through the drip of water. Then came the scrape of boots against stone. Lyra halted, raised her hand for silence.
From the darkness emerged figures—six men, their faces smeared with grime, their eyes sharp with hunger. Black and crimson cloth wrapped their arms, jagged tattoos curling up their necks. Knives glinted in the dim light.
The one in front grinned, revealing teeth filed into points. "Well, well. Lyra Veylan, disgraced noble turned gutter pirate. Never thought we'd find you walking these halls. And who's your pet?" His gaze slid to Elian. "Scholar boy looks tasty. The Guard's offering coin for him. Hand him over, and maybe we don't carve you open."
Lyra's stance shifted—weight on her back foot, blade angled low, eyes cold as iron. "Try."
The gang surged forward.
The first man barely had time to blink before Lyra's cutlass kissed his throat. A red spray painted the wall, and he fell without a sound. She spun, boot cracking into another's knee; the snap echoed like breaking firewood. He collapsed, howling.
Elian staggered back. He wanted to scream, to run—but then a knife arced toward him. Instinct failed. Fear clenched his chest. Steel kissed his arm, burning as it opened a shallow gash.
And the void woke.
It burst out of him in a wave, extinguishing the torchlight. Shadows licked across the tunnel walls, coiling like snakes. Cold seeped into the stones, into the marrow of his bones. The men froze. One stumbled back, whispering prayers to the stars.
Elian's breath caught as black tendrils lashed outward, wrapping around a gang member's chest. Bones cracked. The man screamed until the shadows forced themselves down his throat, silencing him forever.
Another charged, slashing wildly. Elian's hand rose without thought, and darkness obeyed. The blade clattered harmlessly against the stone as the attacker's own shadow writhed, twisting his limbs backward until the wet tear of muscle and tendon filled the air.
"Elian!"
Lyra's voice cut through the madness. She fought with brutal grace, blood dripping from her cutlass, but her gaze was locked on him.
"Elian, stop! Control it!"
He tried. Gods, he tried. But the void pulsed with hunger, whispering of ease—kill them all, silence them all. It wanted his surrender.
Lyra's hand slammed onto his shoulder. She shook him hard, her voice a blade sharper than her weapon. "If you let it win, you're dead already!"
The tendrils wavered. Elian sucked in a ragged breath. With effort that tore at his soul, he dragged the void back into himself. The shadows receded, but not cleanly. They clung, reluctant, leaving behind twisted corpses that smelled of burnt flesh and rot.
Silence fell.
Four gang members lay mangled, eyes wide in terror even in death. One still crawled weakly, dragging himself by ruined arms. Lyra strode over, cutlass rising and falling in a clean arc. His head rolled across the stone floor.
She wiped her blade on his shirt, then turned to Elian. Her face was shadowed, but her voice was steady. "That thing in you? It's no blessing. It's a blade pressed to your throat. You learn to master it, or you'll carve yourself open."
Elian's chest heaved. His stomach twisted. "I… I didn't want this."
Lyra's eyes softened for the briefest moment, then hardened again. "Neither did I. Life doesn't care what we want. Survive, or don't."
She turned, striding deeper into the tunnels without looking back.
Elian followed, trembling, blood dripping from his wound. The corpses behind them whispered louder in his memory than the void itself.
The tunnels narrowed into an ancient aqueduct. Fungi clung to the walls, glowing faintly blue. The air was damp, carrying the stink of rot and old sewage.
Lyra crouched beside a stagnant pool, scooped water into her hands, and drank. She offered him the rest. "Don't waste it."
Elian knelt, swallowing the bitter taste, but his gaze never left her. "Why help me?" His voice was hoarse. "Why not leave me to the Guard?"
Lyra wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. Her smirk was sharp and humorless. "Because I hate the Guard more than I hate you. Because the stars decided to drop you into my lap. And because you're useful—for now."
Elian lowered his eyes. "So you'll kill me when I'm not?"
"If you lose control again, I won't wait," she said simply.
Her words cut deeper than the knife wound.
Hours later, they reached a cavern. Ancient pillars loomed, cracked and eroded, remnants of some civilization long buried. Rusted chains dangled from above, swaying faintly with unseen drafts. The echoes of their footsteps returned in strange, dissonant rhythms, like a chorus of whispers.
Lyra crouched, studying carved symbols on a wall. "Black Fangs territory, but not only. Red Teeth, Void Hand… this is a war zone."
Elian stared at the marks, trying to decipher them like a book, but his scholar's mind found only chaos. His chest tightened with guilt. "I left a trail for them, didn't I? With the bodies."
Lyra didn't look at him. "They'd have hunted us anyway. You just made them hungrier."
A clang rang through the cavern. Steel on stone.
Lyra's blade was out in an instant. "They've found us."
Figures moved at the edges of the cavern—more Fangs, their eyes wild with vengeance.
Lyra charged first. Her cutlass cut through one man's chest. She spun, ducked under a swing, and rammed her dagger into a throat. Blood sprayed hot across her face, but she never faltered.
Another came for Elian. He raised his hand instinctively. The void surged. Shadows writhed, consuming the man's legs, bones snapping as he collapsed, shrieking.
"Elian!" Lyra's voice snapped like a whip. "Enough!"
The void resisted, clawing at him, begging for one more kill. But he forced it back. Slowly. Painfully. Until only silence remained.
The cavern floor was slick with blood. The smell was thick, choking.
Lyra stared at him, blade dripping red. "You're learning. Barely." She wiped her cutlass on a corpse and sheathed it. "Don't think that makes you safe."
Elian met her gaze, and for the first time, he saw something flicker there. Not trust. Not yet. But recognition.
The void whispered from deep inside him, its voice soft and cruel: You cannot hold me forever.
Elian clenched his jaw. "Then I'll hold you long enough."
Lyra smirked faintly, turning away. "Keep up, scholar. We've got farther to go before dawn."
The shadows swallowed their retreat, leaving only death behind.