The days following their return from Ithaca were a mix of forced convalescence and escalating political tension. Lyall, though physically weakened by the cost of destroying the factory, felt his mind sharpened by Garon's revelation: Vane was playing on his predictable logic. This mental burden was almost heavier than the teral's fatigue. Elara, meanwhile, had become an active shadow, navigating between diplomatic reports and infirmary visits, her solis always alert, like an eye that never slept on the capital's fluctuations.
It was in the afternoon, as a setting sun painted Thalassa's red-tiled roofs with a golden light, that the first anomaly was detected. Lyall was allowed a short stroll on a small, secluded terrace of the citadel, watching ships enter and leave the harbor. The air was salty, the city's noise a constant murmur. Elara, by his side, closed her eyes for a moment. The oracle style allowed her to feel the flows of movement, the hundreds of intentions that traversed the city like sea currents. Suddenly, her body stiffened.
"An anomaly," she whispered, her eyes still closed. "Too light. Too fast. A displacement that has no weight."
Lyall felt a shiver run down his spine. Elara's description perfectly matched what Vane had promised: an aelith master. A walzer master.
A minuscule, almost imperceptible movement caught Elara's attention on a distant rooftop. A figure, thin and agile, had landed silently, his cloak fluttering for an instant like mist. The man, clad in dark attire, resembled a shadow from the sky. He did not remain still for long, moving with supernatural lightness, leaping between chimneys, using each tile as a springboard without ever crushing it. His aerone stone must have been of formidable power.
"The walzer," Lyall said, his voice deep. He felt the anchor's instinct rise within him, a desire to immobilize that movement. But how to grasp a ghost?
The aelith agent wasted no time. He plunged. Not directly at them, but towards a nearby alley, a calculated maneuver to bypass the guards stationed on the ground. His entry was like an arrow, an almost inaudible whistle followed by the crash of alley cobblestones. The citadel's alarm siren finally blared, an instant too late.
"He wants both of us," Elara said, pulling Lyall towards the stairs leading to the lower levels. "His intention is clear: neutralize you, capture me. He doesn't strike from the rooftops; he forces us down where he can separate us."
The chase began. Lyall, still numb from the teral, found himself at a disadvantage. His movements, based on heaviness and stability, were a hindrance against the feline agility of the walzer. They hurried down the narrow stairs, Elara using her oracle style to anticipate strike points and guide Lyall through the safest passages. The walzer was a master of discretion. He left only echoes of his passage, jostled passersby, overturned stalls, sounds that faded almost immediately. He struck without heaviness; his kicks were unbalancing impulses, his aerial sweeps forced Lyall to anchor himself even deeper, slowing him down.
"He's draining your energy, Lyall!" Elara shouted as they crossed a fish market, the cries of vendors mingling with the panic. "Your anchor feeds him!"
Lyall understood. Each time he tried to anchor an area to slow the walzer, the aelith used that heaviness to rebound, amplifying his own movement. It was the perfect antithesis: lightness against mass. The anchor was a prison for him, not for the walzer.
They found themselves on Thalassa's bustling docks. The sun, now low, painted the water with golden and crimson reflections. The walzer blocked them, landing on a stack of crates with unsettling grace. His face was masked by a thin blindfold, but his eyes glowed with cold intensity. He did not speak; he was the pure embodiment of movement.
Lyall activated the teral, attempting to impose an area of heaviness around the walzer. But the aelith was never there long enough. He jumped, levitated for an instant, then plunged, his circular movements and bounding kicks impossible to counter with the anchor's deliberate slowness. Lyall was forced to react to attacks coming from all directions, without ever a real anchor point. Exhaustion began to gnaw at him. He felt the teral draining his last reserves.
A dozen maritime guards arrived, swords drawn. They only added to the chaos. The walzer evaded them with unsettling ease, using them as obstacles or springboards. His attacks were never lethal, just sweeps or palm strikes, sending the guards flying through the air like dolls.
"The dark wind!" Elara shouted, pointing to a small sailboat cutting through the water, steered by an impatient Kalas. She had managed to send a coded message before they were cornered.
Lyall lunged towards the ship, dragging Elara behind him. The walzer leaped, targeting Elara. Lyall, in a final effort, activated the anchor not on the walzer, but on the dock right in front of him. The zone of heaviness created invisible friction, slowing the aelith's rush just long enough.
They jumped aboard, the dark wind already pulling away from the dock. The walzer landed on the edge of the dock, his gaze fixed on them. He gave Lyall a small nod, a strange gesture of acknowledgment, then vanished into the chaos of the crowd.
Lyall collapsed onto the deck, the teral vibrant but empty. He had escaped, but he had also understood. The anchor, his strength, was his weakness against an enemy who knew no mass. The war against Vane would not be a simple matter of strength, but of adaptation. And Vane was already one step ahead.