Silence held the ruins in its grip. Not the calm silence of a resting city, nor the fragile hush of dawn before the market stirs to life, but a suffocating stillness that seemed carved from the bones of the earth itself. Dust hung suspended in the air, catching faint beams of starlight through fractured stone like the last sparks of dying embers. Each inhalation tasted of grit and old ash, the bitter residue of a world that had fallen long before any of them were born.
Lyra stood at the edge of the collapse, boots braced on uneven rock, one hand resting lightly on the hilt of her blade. She didn't flinch at the muffled groans echoing from the rubble below, nor did her expression shift when another tremor rolled through the cavern, sending fragments clattering into the abyss. Her eyes were cold, pale as steel beneath moonlight. Detached. Calculating.
Kaelen lay unconscious against the broken wall behind her, his once-pristine armor cracked and bloodied. Elian crouched nearby, his shoulders hunched, hands pressed into the stone as if sheer will might be enough to steady his trembling frame. The boy's breaths came shallow, ragged, his gaze fixed on the wreckage where moments ago their world had nearly been buried alive.
Lyra's thoughts, however, were elsewhere. Not on Kaelen's injuries. Not on Elian's haunted eyes. Not even on the ruin's ominous silence. No, her mind moved like a blade sliding across whetstone, sharp and deliberate, cutting away what was unnecessary until only the truth remained.
They were weak. Both of them. Kaelen with his rigid code and unyielding loyalty, a man so bound to duty he would sooner bleed out on the stones than bend. Elian with his stuttering uncertainty, his cursed gift gnawing at him like a wolf at the edges of his soul. Two broken pieces, each clinging to ideals that could not survive what was coming.
And her? Lyra had no illusions. Ideals were chains, and chains got you killed. She'd learned that the hard way, long before she'd ever crossed their paths. Survival was a game of cold pragmatism—take what you can, cut free what weighs you down, and never mistake sentiment for strength.
A faint groan pulled her from her thoughts. Kaelen shifted, unconscious still, but his body resisted the stone's chill with the stubborn vitality of a soldier who refused to yield even in sleep. Elian reached for him, hesitant, fingers trembling before making contact with the knight's shoulder.
"He's… still breathing," Elian murmured, his voice a cracked whisper. Relief flickered across his face, fleeting and fragile.
Lyra said nothing. She watched. Measured. The boy's attachment was both a weakness and, perhaps, a tether. Useful in the right hands, dangerous in the wrong. Her silence stretched until Elian finally glanced at her, searching for words he clearly feared to say.
"Don't just stare," he rasped, frustration creeping into his tone. "Help me—he's bleeding. If we don't do something—"
Lyra cut him off with a single look, flat and unyielding. Her hand left her sword hilt and she crouched near Kaelen, not out of concern but precision. She checked the knight's pulse, pressed lightly against his ribs where blood seeped through fractured steel, and drew back without comment.
"He'll live," she said at last, voice clipped, stripped of comfort. "For now. Moving him would be unwise."
"That's not enough!" Elian snapped, louder this time, his voice cracking under the weight of panic. "We need—"
"What you need," Lyra interrupted, her tone sharp as the edge of her blade, "is to stop flailing like a frightened child. Panic won't keep him breathing."
The words landed heavy. Elian recoiled, guilt and fury warring in his expression, but he didn't answer. Instead, he bowed his head, knuckles white where he clenched his knees. Lyra let the silence settle again, colder now, the distance between them widening with every heartbeat.
It suited her.
She leaned back, resting against the shattered stone, eyes scanning the shadow-thick ruin. Something had stirred within the collapse, something more than shifting debris. She could feel it—the faint vibration through her boots, the almost imperceptible hum of a structure straining against itself. This place wasn't finished with them.
Good.
The thought was bitter, but it steadied her. Adversity stripped people bare. In the press of danger, masks cracked, pretenses shattered, and the truth of a person stood naked in the open. She needed to see more of theirs—Elian's fragile courage, Kaelen's stubborn code—before she decided how best to use them. Or whether she should discard them entirely.
Her eyes drifted back to Elian. The boy was staring at the rubble again, as though he expected the stones themselves to rise and judge him. His fingers twitched against the fabric of his tunic, dark stains marking where blood had seeped through from shallow cuts. Lyra wondered if he even noticed his own injuries. Likely not. Fear made people blind to themselves.
"You think too much," she said finally, her voice as cool as the dust-laden air.
Elian blinked, startled. "What?"
"Your mind runs circles. Guilt. Doubt. Fear. It will eat you alive before the Umbra ever has the chance."
His jaw tightened. "And what do you suggest? That I stop caring? That I just—be like you?"
Lyra allowed herself the faintest hint of a smile, though it held no warmth. "If you had half my instincts, you'd last longer."
The words cut him. She saw it in the twitch of his mouth, the way his gaze fell to the ground. But beneath the sting, something hardened. A spark, faint but there. She filed it away, interested despite herself. Perhaps the boy wasn't entirely useless.
A rumble shook the ruin, stronger this time. Dust cascaded from the fractured ceiling, settling in their hair and clothing. Elian looked up in alarm, but Lyra didn't move. Not yet. She waited, eyes narrowing, listening to the shifting groans of stone. The collapse hadn't ended—it was gathering, biding, as though the ruin itself resented their trespass.
Her hand slid back to her sword. Cold pragmatism demanded readiness, and readiness demanded calm. She would not flinch when the walls caved in. She would not beg the stars for mercy like the faithful. She would cut, climb, crawl—whatever it took.
Elian finally broke the silence again, his voice low, brittle. "Sometimes I wonder if you even care. About any of this. About him. About—" His eyes flicked toward Kaelen, then back to her. "About anyone."
Lyra met his gaze evenly. "Care," she repeated, as though testing the word's weight on her tongue. "Care is a luxury. One I discarded long ago."
The boy's lips parted, as if to protest, but the ruin chose that moment to roar. A deafening crack split the air, the floor lurching beneath them. Lyra surged to her feet in a single, fluid motion, hauling Elian upright by the collar before he could stumble headlong into falling debris. The ceiling split wide, vomiting dust and shadow as stone crashed around them.
Kaelen's body shifted, groaning even in his unconsciousness. Lyra grabbed his arm with one hand, dragging his weight toward the narrow alcove that remained intact. Elian scrambled beside her, coughing, his eyes wild with panic.
The ruin came down in a thunder of stone and darkness. Dust swallowed the light, choking, blinding. The air shook with the sound of centuries collapsing in a heartbeat. Lyra's teeth clenched, her muscles burning as she dragged Kaelen's limp form those final desperate feet. She shoved him and Elian into the alcove, pressing herself against the wall as the world above screamed and broke.
And then—impact.
A wall of dust and shadow slammed into them, burying sight and breath alike. The sound of crashing stone became everything, a relentless thunder that swallowed even thought.
Lyra's last coherent sensation before the darkness claimed her was not fear, nor anger, nor even determination.
It was the cold clarity of her own resolve.
Chains of care broke in ruins like these. Only ice endured.