The escape crashed into Mordecai's mind—not as a memory, but as a raw, unhealed wound. The chaos left jagged, irreparable scars, forever dividing the past from the present.
One moment: the crushing press of bodies. Panic is a tangible force, a current that sweeps away reason. He was a leaf in that torrent, his small hand clamped around Cassandra's, their fingers slick with sweat and something else he didn't want to name. Kaiphus had a vice around his neck, smothering, pulling, trying to be an anchor in the chaos. The air was heavy with the metallic scent of ozone and blood, accompanied by the overwhelming din of a civilisation crumbling to dust. A gate, wrought from living shadow and reinforced with starlight, was ahead of them, its intricate runes flickering and dying under the assault of things that looked like walking obsidian shards. It was their only way out, to the lower districts, to the 传闻中的 emergency portals. Lys was a whirlwind of motion ahead of them, her hands weaving spells that were less about elegance now and more about brutal, desperate force. Silver energy lashed out, carving a path through the mob, her face a mask of terrifying focus.
Then: laughter. Deep, resonant, empty of warmth. It vibrated in Mordecai's bones, a blade pressing into his chest, shattering hope. It was Ra'Zul—that monstrous laugh forcing the world out of shape. Cassandra's hand, warm and real a second before, was ripped away by the crashing surge. Sudden absence yawned, cold and cruel.
"Cassandra!" His own scream was a tiny, pathetic thing against the tyrant's mirth.
For one heart-stopping instant, he saw her—a small, terrified face, eyes galaxies wide with fear, staring at him through the shifting chaos. Then she was gone, devoured by the crowd.
And then, the final moment: his mother's face. She had seen it happen. The fierce, protective focus in her eyes didn't shatter; it crystallised. It turned to stone. Grief, defiance, and a love so vast it was a physical pain to witness—all of it was locked into her expression, hardening into an unbreakable monument. Her eyes, bright as the last two lanterns in a drowned city, found his. They held no farewell, no fear for herself. They held only a message, a command imprinted directly onto his soul: Live.
The device in his hand, forgotten in his terror, chose that moment to erupt. It wasn't just warm; it was a star going supernova in his palm. The pain was blinding, a pure, white-hot agony that travelled up his arm and seared his nerves. It was the Key's activation, triggered by his terror, his desperation, and his mother's final, silent command.
He knew the stories. His mother's bedtime tales spoke of World-Walkers, of Keys that could fold the fabric of reality, making vast distances into a single step. They were stories of wonder, of exploration, of a universe vast and safe and full of marvels.
This was nothing like the stories.
The world didn't step. It screamed. The sound of Umbra's death—the screams, the laughter, the shattering crystal—stretched into a single, infinitely long, distorted note. The teal-and-crimson light of the dying city smeared across his vision like paint on a wet canvas. He felt his body being pulled, not through space, but through the idea of space, through a tunnel lined with howling voids and impossible, non-Euclidean geometries. It was a nausea that invaded his very soul, a disassembly of self. He was not a boy; he was a collection of screaming atoms being forced through a cosmic sieve.
He folded. The universe folded around him. And then, he fell.
The sensation of stopping was as violent as the departure. There was a final, wrenching snap, and the howling void was replaced by a deafening, mundane silence, broken only by the sound of falling rain.
He lay on cold, wet, unforgiving hardness. Not the warm, humming crystal of Aethelas. This was rough, gritty, and smelt abominable. The air was a foul cocktail of acrid chemicals, rotting things, and a damp, chill wetness that seeped into his bones immediately. Petrol. Rain. Concrete.
The world swam into focus, blurry and dim. A harsh, orange light glowed from a high source, casting long, distorted shadows. Monstrous, boxy shapes loomed in the darkness. He pushed himself up, his body aching as if he'd been beaten. The device in his hand was cool and inert now, the light in its gem utterly dead. It felt like a piece of common rock.
A sound. Footsteps. Quick, sharp clicks on the wet ground. Human footsteps.
He looked up, rain plastering his black hair to his forehead, stinging his eyes. A figure approached under the orange light—a tall woman, bundled in a dark coat, a bag slung over her shoulder. She stopped short, her eyes widening. They were rain-streaked, these eyes, but they were not the eyes of a soldier or a monster. They were wide with shock, then confusion, and finally a dawning of profound concern.
She saw a small, shivering boy, dressed in strange, elegant robes that were now soaked and torn. She saw a dramatic, sentient-looking cloak wrapped tightly around him, its teal threads dulled by grimy water. She saw a face too pale and eyes too old, filled with a terror that no child should ever know.
"Oh, my god," she whispered, her voice cutting through the patter of rain. "Little boy? Are you alright? Where are your parents?"
She took a hesitant step closer, her hand reaching out, not in attack, but in offer. Her name was Samantha Kathi. She was twenty-five, tired from a long shift, and her life was about to irrevocably change.
Mordecai stared at her, at this stranger in this strange, dark, wet world. He opened his mouth to speak, to answer her question, to tell her about his mother turned to stone, his sister lost in a screaming crowd, and his world ending to the sound of monstrous laughter.
But no sound came out. The cut that had severed him from his world had also severed his voice. All he could do was shake, alone and small under the alien rain, the weight of the dead device heavy in his hand, and the ghost of his sister's fingers still warm in his.