The alley smelled of damp stone and iron, the fog thick enough to blur shapes and soften sounds. Elvis crouched behind a pile of crates, his breathing steady, controlled. The two mercenaries he had confronted hours ago lay groaning on the cobblestones, clutching at their sides, dazed by a force they could not see.
He exhaled slowly, feeling the currents of air shift around him like obedient water. His Shard of Breath hummed faintly, a subtle pulse that aligned with his own heartbeat. Strategy dictated patience; elimination would come only if necessary. For now, observation was paramount.
The men were not random. Their employer had sent them to retrieve an object an artifact of some minor shard user. A trap, cleverly disguised in the alleys of Gravenmoor. Elvis' intelligence and foresight had allowed him to intercept them. His goal was not the mercenaries themselves, but what they guarded: a shard fragment rumored to be linked to the Obsidian Circle, a clandestine faction whose influence spread through the city like black veins.
He studied the street. Light from distant lamps flickered through the fog, creating shifting patterns that could conceal or betray movement. The mercenaries had underestimated him the Shard of Breath gave him control over even the most subtle currents of air. He could feel each exhale, each minute adjustment of their balance, as though the alley itself spoke its secrets.
The mercenaries scrambled to their feet, weapons raised. Elvis did not flinch. He inhaled slowly, drawing in the fog, the air, the very breath of the alley. A small, almost imperceptible wave passed through the street, and one of the men stumbled, unsteady, gasping as if the air had betrayed him.
"Move," he said softly, more a command than a threat. The air obeyed. A crate shifted slightly, forcing the second man off balance. They staggered, muttered curses, and in that brief distraction, Elvis slipped past them, silent and unhurried.
He had not come here merely to fight. A shard fragment was rumored to have been moved into the hands of a low-ranking agent of the Obsidian Circle. Elvis needed it information he could not yet possess, power he could not yet control and the mercenaries were obstacles, nothing more.
He moved down the alley, observing the thread of shadows that seemed to cling to certain individuals. In Gravenmoor, not all were aware of shards, but those who were left marks on the world subtle distortions in air, shadow, and movement. Tracking them required patience, discipline, and calculation. He had trained for this. Every breath, every flicker of movement, every exhalation of those around him was a signal.
Ahead, a figure crouched beside a vent, working quietly, deliberately. A shard fragment, yes, and clearly aware of surveillance. He paused, assessing the patterns of the street, the alignment of light, the likely paths of reinforcements. Elvis exhaled, adjusting the currents of air to his advantage.
The figure did not notice him. Not yet. And that, as always, was the difference between predator and prey.
Beyond the alley, the city hummed with factions moving like unseen currents. Each bore a name, a weight, a reputation:
• The Luminous Covenant: A secretive faction devoted to protecting innocents and investigating shards. Their agents worked from shadows, often unseen, and were known to intervene quietly in conflicts that could harm the city.
• The Obsidian Circle: Masters of shadow and subterfuge, they trafficked in forbidden shards and corrupted the streets with black-market dealings. Their influence was subtle but far-reaching, often leaving entire alleys and districts under their sway.
• The Ecliptic Order: Ostensibly the government enforcers, tasked with law and order, though rife with corruption. Some factions within it sought shards to consolidate personal power, while others maintained the pretense of justice.
Elvis did not serve any of them. He served himself, his intelligence, his strategy. Yet he knew that each move he made could draw attention from all three factions, and he accounted for that in every decision. The world was a board, and each shard user a piece, some hidden, some visible. To survive to win one had to anticipate the currents before they were even visible.
And among the currents, three figures operated together, bound by alliance, cunning, and ambition. They were whispered about in shadowed corners, their names carried weight among shard users and factions alike:
• Kael Veyrin – The ringleader, unmatched in intellect, a master of strategy and manipulation. His shard, Memoria, could alter and rewrite memory, subtly bending perception to his will. Kael always saw several moves ahead, predicting the outcomes of conflicts and bending others like pieces on a chessboard.
• Selene Drax – The enforcer, controlling fire and smoke with devastating precision. Her shard, Pyroclast, allowed her to create walls of fire, eruptions, and illusions of smoke that could engulf entire streets. Ruthless, fearless, and loyal to Kael, she was the hammer to his strategy.
• Lucien Crowe – The shadow, master of darkness and illusion. His shard, Noctis, allowed him to meld with shadows, vanish, or manifest illusions that could terrify or mislead. His cunning complemented Kael's intelligence, providing unpredictability and subtlety to the trio.
Together, they operated in secrecy, carefully expanding their influence. Kael's mind orchestrated plans that even factions feared to anticipate. Selene's ferocity ensured none could oppose them directly. Lucien's shadows ensured that few knew when the plan had even begun.
Elvis exhaled softly, eyes scanning the alley for signs of pursuit. None appeared immediately. A small smile touched his lips efficiency, patience, and foresight had served him well.
As he melted into the fog, he noted the patterns of the city, the whispers of movement, and the unseen threads connecting those who wielded shards. Factions were moving, yes but the currents always favored those who understood strategy, those who could read the unseen and act before others even realized the game had begun.
Tonight, he had taken another step. Another piece of knowledge, another fragment of power. And somewhere, in the shifting currents of Gravenmoor, other pieces were waiting.
Elvis disappeared into the fog, but the city remembered.