Night draped the city of Dominion in a seamless shroud of haze and ash. The lanterns that crowned each tower bled faint light through the fog, their golden flames hovering like watchful eyes. Beneath that pale luminance, the world felt thinner — the air charged with the scent of metal, smoke, and unspoken things.
Lucien hadn't slept in three days.
The steady rain outside should have soothed him, yet it didn't. It wasn't ordinary rain — its rhythm was too deliberate, too perfect, as though each droplet obeyed a hidden metronome. When he closed his eyes, the cadence folded into something else entirely — a murmur, soft and formless, whispering in between the raindrops.
He turned from the window, jaw tight, eyes faintly bloodshot. The bandage wrapped around his left palm pulsed with a faint light, as though something beneath it breathed.
It had started the day he refused the daemon.
Now, it throbbed as if answering something unseen.
"Not now," Lucien muttered. His voice was low, sharp. The glow dimmed at once, obeying as if it feared him.
He pressed his back against the cold wall, exhaling through clenched teeth. The mark wasn't just a scar — it was alive, a thing that responded to the world in ways he didn't yet understand. Worse, it watched.
---
By morning, the corridors of the Fourth Division were almost deserted. The lanterns that lined the halls flickered faintly as Lucien walked by. The glass casings, inscribed with runes of containment, shimmered when he passed beneath them — as if they recognized his presence.
He stopped.
One lantern quivered violently before stabilizing. Its flame leaned toward him.
Lucien tilted his head, his expression unreadable. "So even the fire stares now," he murmured.
"Not fire," came a voice from behind.
Lucien turned. It was Vice-Captain Iliah, her ivory uniform tailored with surgical precision, the silver brooch of her rank glinting under the lantern light. Her steps were soft but deliberate, like someone accustomed to walking through graves.
"Something wrong with the lanterns?" she asked, her tone detached, almost bored.
"They blinked," Lucien said. "I thought they weren't supposed to."
"They aren't," she replied simply. Then, after a pause, "They react to interference. Or to marks."
Her eyes slid toward his bandaged hand. "Director Ealdric wishes to see you. Preparations for the second mission are underway."
Lucien frowned. "Why involve me again so soon?"
Iliah's lips curved faintly, though the smile never reached her eyes.
"Because you survived something you weren't meant to. The Fourth Division keeps its curiosities close."
Then she turned, her white coat fluttering behind her like the wing of a pale bird. Lucien watched her go, the hum of the lanterns fading in her wake.
---
The second mission briefing was held in the underhalls — an expanse of concrete corridors beneath the Syndicate's main complex. The ceilings were arched, reinforced with sigil-stamped iron. The air smelled faintly of incense and damp parchment.
Lucien stood at the back while others gathered.
The hall was filled with recruits and veterans alike, the air thick with unspoken hierarchy. Each division carried its own aura: crimson uniforms of the First Division radiated martial aggression; the silvered robes of the Second glowed faintly with daemonic sigils; the black-clad Third stood like living shadows.
And then there was the Fourth Division, quiet and austere — the watchers of balance.
Director Ealdric addressed them from the dais. His voice, low and deliberate, carried the weight of ritual.
> "Two nights past, an entire quarter in the southern district fell silent. The lantern network ceased transmission. No flames. No echoes. Not even death residue."
He paused, letting that sink in.
> "The first squad was sent. They never returned. This—" his gaze swept over them, sharp as a blade, "—will be your second mission. You will not seek combat. You will observe. Record. Report."
He turned toward the map displayed behind him — a parchment inked with circular diagrams and lines that resembled veins beneath the city. A point near the edge glowed faintly crimson.
> "Do not engage the anomalies," he continued. "If you hear voices, if you feel time shift — retreat immediately. Remember: the Balance can shatter from a single word."
Lucien's expression didn't change. But something deep within his mark stirred at those words — as if amused.
---
After the meeting, the Fourth Division gathered around a single table littered with relics and charms. Candles burned low, the flames wavering as a faint vibration ran through the room.
Marcell, the division's commander, stood at the head of the table, his steel-gray eyes fixed on the map before him. "We move at dusk. Sector Twelve. Abandoned wards. Stay silent, stay unseen. The walls there… listen."
Lucien's gaze drifted downward.
Beneath the map, faint chalk lines formed a circle — not drawn recently, but burned faintly into the wood. Its shape mirrored the mark on his hand, though incomplete.
He reached out unconsciously, tracing the edge of one arc.
The wood warmed beneath his touch. The lines began to shimmer faintly, as though recognizing him.
Then a voice — calm and hoarse — spoke near his ear.
"Careful."
Lucien turned. The speaker was Greyfold, the Division's veiled Seer. His eyes were concealed beneath strips of cloth, but his voice carried a weight that silenced the room.
"Don't touch what binds," Greyfold murmured. "You might wake something that listens only once."
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "And if it's already awake?"
Greyfold's head tilted slightly, as if studying him through the wrappings.
"Then pray it never remembers your name."
---
That night, Lucien returned to his assigned quarters. The room was dim, walls lined with old books and a single lantern hanging from a rusted chain. The flame flickered with strange rhythm — almost breathing.
He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at his hand. The mark had changed — its shape no longer circular, but spiraling inward, forming a sigil he'd never seen.
He pressed his thumb against it.
The skin was hot, alive.
Then the whisper came.
> "...Balance is an illusion."
Lucien froze. The voice was neither male nor female, but layered — like hundreds speaking through one throat.
> "Your refusal tore the seal. You are what remains between silence and sound."
He shut his eyes, forcing the words away. "Enough," he muttered. "I didn't ask to—"
> "You did. Every choice is a summoning."
The light in the lantern flared, shadows twisting across the walls. He saw shapes forming in the corner of his vision — not quite human, not quite shadow. When he looked directly, they dissolved.
Lucien opened his palm again. The mark gleamed faintly, softer this time, as though pacified.
> "Then what are you?" he whispered.
The answer came slowly, every syllable vibrating inside his bones.
> "A memory of something that refused to die."
And then — silence.
---
Lucien's breathing steadied. The air felt heavier now, but calm. The whisper had faded completely. He turned toward the window, gazing at the distant lanterns beyond the mist-draped skyline.
Somewhere deep in his chest, a thought coiled — quiet and dangerous.
If the Syndicate's purpose was to preserve the Balance… then what if the Balance itself was wrong?
He leaned back, eyes half-lidded. The mark on his palm pulsed once more, almost like a heartbeat.
It no longer hurt.
It waited.
Outside, Dominion's lanterns swayed faintly in the storm.
And far beneath the city, something vast stirred — ancient, patient, and terribly aware.
The Second Mission hadn't even begun.
But the Balance had already started to tilt.