Air slams into my lungs like a wave.Cold, sharp, metallic—so different from the warmth of our kitchen.
I gasp and cough, the sound echoing off stone that isn't stone, but something darker, smoother, humming faintly under my palms. My cheek sticks to slate damp with mist. When I lift my head, I see it: a cathedral of black ribs arching overhead, cracked veins glowing faint red as if the walls themselves remember fire. Embers drift lazily in the air like fireflies, burning but never falling.
I push myself upright. My body obeys with perfect precision, smooth and sharp, as though someone has rebuilt me piece by piece. My hands… they look like mine but don't. Nails crescent-shaped, harder, faint crimson light glowing under the skin of my knuckles. A vibration hums inside me—constant, steady, alive.
Alive. Again.
The thought shatters me. I close my eyes, and memory slams in with the force of a bullet: garlic, laughter, Lena's humming, Dad's jacket, Mom's smile—then the screams, the guns, the blood. I double over, pressing my forehead to the cold stone, shaking. My heart races, but even that feels different: faster, stronger, like a drum I can't silence.
When I open my eyes again, I see it.
At the far end of the chamber, a statue towers over me: a woman carved of obsidian, crowned with horns. Her chest is split by a glowing seam, pulsing in time with the hum inside me. My breath hitches. It's not just a statue. It's linked to me.
A whisper coils through the silence. Rise.
The sound isn't heard. It's felt, sliding like cold fingers across the inside of my skull.
I stagger back—then stop. Bootsteps echo through the mist.
Three figures appear through the haze: two guards in copper-studded leather, spears angled low, and a woman in a long coat trimmed with fur. She carries a lantern, but its light isn't fire—it's a storm of glowing insects swirling in glass. Her gray eyes find me instantly, sharp and calculating.
"Name yourself," she says, voice clipped.
Elara Vale sits on the edge of my tongue, raw and broken. But that name was buried in blood. What comes instead feels natural, like armor I never wore before but was always meant to.
"Veyra," I say softly. My voice is different too—stronger, smoother, layered with something I don't recognize. "Veyra… Ambrose."
The guards flinch. The lantern's swarm rattles against the glass as the light skates across my glowing skin.
"She's a vessel," one mutters.
The woman's gaze flicks to the statue, then back to me. Her grip on the lantern tightens. "This gate was dormant. Nothing should come through here. You'll explain yourself."
Before I can answer, the statue groans. A jagged crack splinters across its chest, spilling light into the mist. The hum inside me spikes, and suddenly the air itself leans toward me.
The guards panic. Spears snap up.
And then instinct takes me.
Shadows pour from my feet like spilled ink, racing along the ground. Mist tightens around my hands, hardening into long, curved blades of night. The chamber chills; frost blooms at the lantern's rim. My breath fogs in the air.
The guards freeze mid-step, eyes wide. One spear trembles inches from my chest. I can see every scratch on the metal, the way his knuckles whiten. One flick and I could break it—no, I want to break it. The power surges through me, eager, hungry.
"Don't," I whisper, and the word pulls. Their weapons waver, as if my voice dragged at the strings inside their bodies.
The woman's eyes narrow, but instead of fear, something like respect flickers across her face. "You can control it," she says carefully. "Keep it that way."
Her lantern lowers slightly. "You're coming with us. Bastion doesn't tolerate strays, especially not ones that flare like you."
Her authority presses against mine, firm but brittle. I could refuse. I could let the shadows devour the spears, the lantern, the woman herself. But I don't. Not yet. I need answers more than corpses.
"Fine," I say. The mist blades unravel, dissolving into harmless fog. The shadows retreat back into the stone with a hiss. The guards sag with relief.
The climb out of the Under-Spire is long. Wards etched into the walls glow faintly as we pass, buzzing angrily against my skin as though rejecting me. I smile faintly at their weakness.
When we emerge, daylight sears my eyes. Bastion City spreads out in front of me: tiered stone streets, banners snapping in the wind, towers rising like spears, a massive black spire at the city's heart threaded with copper light. Merchants cry their wares, children run laughing, the smell of spice and baking bread drifts on the breeze.
And everywhere, eyes follow me. Some curious. Some afraid. Their gazes stick as though my presence bends the air around me. I pull my borrowed name tighter around me like a cloak.
The captain leads me into a building marked INTAKE. Inside, a circle of seven metals is inlaid into the floor. A tired technician lifts a copper-veined stone and waves me into the circle.
"Stand. Don't speak." His voice is flat.
I obey. The metals hum under my bare feet. He presses the stone against my chest.
The chamber falls silent. Then the threads blaze—E, D, C, B, A, S, SS, SSS. One by one, each rune ignites. The last, SSS, flickers violently—then splits. A hidden mark burns into the air: SSS+.
The stone cracks in his hands. His slate shrieks. The guards stumble back. The captain hides her shock with clenched teeth.
Inside me, something breaks open.
Rank: SSS+ — Seal ReleasedCore: Abyssal Authority ActiveNew Ability: Devour (Low)
Arcane energy rushes into me like water. I swallow reflexively. The glowing circle dims as if feeding me.
"She's… drinking the field," the technician whispers, horrified.
The doors slam open. Arcanists in copper-threaded robes flood in, staffs humming with spinning rings. Scribes clutch glass tablets. A man with white hair at their lead surveys me once and smiles faintly.
"So," he says. "The Tower was right. An SSS+."
The rings of his staff hover inches from my chest, singing against the hum of my core.
"Welcome to Bastion," he says smoothly. "Let's see what you are."
The shadows in me stir, hungry.