The Shadow Cloak wasn't a cool effect; it was the sheer effort of will, like running a high-intensity graphics program on a decade-old machine. It ate at my focus and only offered a low-grade blur, enough to confuse the eye in the deep gloom of the slums.
I moved away from the prison wall, plunging into the winding paths of this urban rot.
The air here was a physical thing, thick with the smell of rotting fish, damp cloth, and ancient human waste. The cobblestones under my stolen boots were perpetually slick with grime. It was a perfect environment for stealth. A nightmare of a life, but a hacker's dream for evasion.
[Objective: Survive Slums. Hide. Learn. Survive.]
The Codex flickered, the sterile text confirming my new priority without a single useless emotion.
I mapped my route in my head instantly. The slums weren't random; they followed the logic of desperation. The narrow alleys and ramshackle huts were built around the most effective escape routes—or the most defensible choke points. I needed to move horizontally, away from the main thoroughfares the Black Swords would sweep, and toward the center of the chaos.
This feels less like a prison break and more like trying to run Crysis on a dial-up connection. I had to be patient, meticulous, and agonizingly slow.
A sudden, sharp beam of light cut through the dense fog ahead.
Patrol.
I pressed myself against the nearest wall, the Shadow Cloak deepening my outline into the stone. The light swept past, but I heard the tell-tale thump-thump-thump of heavy leather boots and the rhythmic clank of specialized gear.
"Nothing here, Sergeant," a gruff voice echoed, slightly tinny, as if speaking through a comms unit. "Just fog and no sign of Veilmarked scum."
"He came this way," the Sergeant replied, the voice colder, sharper. "The Inquisitor saw him. He's marked. We find him, or we get tossed into the Ebonscar to become void bait."
They were predictable. They relied on their gear, not their wits. I waited for the rhythm to reestablish itself—three heavy footsteps, a pause, a sweep of the light—and then I moved, sliding into the deeper, choking darkness between two leaning, wooden shacks.
The wood was black with mold, and when I touched it, it felt soft, like rotting flesh. The shacks groaned under their own weight, a constant, low-grade noise that acted as perfect cover for my steps. I missed the simple, clean sound of a city bus passing by, the scent of a coffee machine whirring to life. This world offered only rot and dread.
My immediate goal was simple: find a nest. A place to rest, get my bearings, and, crucially, learn the identity of Zayn Vyrn—the body I was wearing.
After another hour of relentless movement, following my nose and the path of least resistance, I stumbled into an open area. It wasn't a street; it was a muddy clearing ringed by towering piles of broken crates and rusting metal. In the center, a small fire burned, pathetic but alive, surrounded by a group of people. Outcasts.
I stopped, the Shadow Cloak keeping me invisible against the stacks of junk. They were slum dwellers, clad in tattered rags, their faces lined with permanent exhaustion. They had the hard-eyed, practical look of people who survived by knowing exactly where they stood in this world's brutal ecosystem.
As I watched, a young man, little older than Zayn's body, threw a piece of driftwood onto the fire. He was immediately slapped across the back of the head by an older woman.
"Wasting wood, Vex? Think we're rich? It's better for trading than burning."
"The chill's bad, Mama," Vex muttered, rubbing his neck. "Makes the whispers louder."
Whispers. The low-level mental static caused by the proximity to the Void—or by being Veilmarked. This was gold. Data direct from the source.
I decided to risk it. I couldn't learn Zayn's past or the local rules from the shadows forever. I needed information fast. I stepped out of the blackness, letting the firelight catch the tattered, prison-issue tunic. The Shadow Cloak retreated, leaving me completely exposed.
The group around the fire froze. Five pairs of eyes, hard and cold as shattered glass, instantly locked onto me.
"Who are you?" the older woman demanded, her voice flat, devoid of hospitality.
I opened my mouth, swallowing the sarcasm that threatened to escape. I had to sell the story of the lost, terrified prisoner. I let my eyes dart, letting the fear show naturally.
"I didn't come for trouble. Just shelter. I'll be gone by morning," I said, my voice hoarse.
The reaction wasn't fear of a patrol. It was immediate, violent contempt.
"He's Veilmarked," Vex spat, pointing a trembling finger at the brand on my arm. "Look at the burn. Scum. How'd you even get out? The Veilmarked are supposed to stay locked."
"Yeah," the older woman snarled, rising slowly, a sharpened piece of scrap metal appearing in her hand. "Your kind brings the attention of the Fracture. You're the reason the void bleeds into our streets."
Data point: Veilmarked are despised scapegoats. Hostility level: Critical. This is a bigger target on my back than a government watchlist.
I raised my hands, my movements careful and non-threatening. "I'll trade silence for knowledge. What do you know about Ebonscar?"
The name made them flinch, their collective gaze flicking nervously toward the eerie green glow in the distance.
"Nothing good," Vex muttered, dropping his head.
"It's not just a ruin," the woman said, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, the scrap metal still aimed at my throat. "It's where the God-King's curse is strongest. They say if you look deep into the glow, you can see the Veil itself—broken. And the void pours out through the cracks."
She jabbed the scrap metal toward a nearby stack of crates. It was covered in faded, hurried graffiti. It was a rough sketch of a massive, cracked eye bleeding a sickly green fluid—the eye of Ebonscar. Next to it was a scrawled message:
THE EYE SEES THE PAST.
The eye sees the past. My heart hammered, a frantic drum against my ribs. That wasn't just a superstition. That was a direct hint at the nature of the Fracture and, possibly, the reason Kael had landed in Zayn Vyrn's body.
Suddenly, the cold, creeping dread returned, the familiar feeling of being psychically profiled. The energy wasn't coming from the woman; it was coming from the air, from the Void itself.
"...Kael."
The whisper was faint, intimate, and right behind me.
I spun around, my Shadow Cloak flaring uselessly in the firelight. There was nothing there but the stacks of wet, rotting wood and the dense, swallowing fog.
Unscheduled server intrusion. I need to disconnect now.
"What was that?" the woman demanded, her eyes wide, shifting between me and the darkness. She heard it too—the Void was closing in.
I didn't answer. I backed away slowly, never turning my back, the threat from the outcasts suddenly secondary to the terror of the unseen predator.
"You bring the void with you!" Vex shouted, his fear turning to rage.
I threw a handful of wet mud into the fire. It hissed violently, momentarily thickening the smoke and fog into a black wall.
"Enjoy the dark," I muttered, then vanished, melting into the shadows of the nearest alleyway.
I didn't stop running until the screams and curses of the outcasts faded behind me. I was alone again, hunted, but I had the data. Zayn Vyrn was a target. The Veilmarked were hated. And the Ebonscar held the key to my past—and the Void's future.
-----------------
Poll: Kael has escaped the outcasts and confirmed the connection between Ebonscar and his past. He knows the Void and the Inquisitor are closing in.
Should Kael risk the danger of Ebonscar to uncover the truth about Zayn Vyrn and his own past, or prioritize immediate survival by seeking a safe hiding place?
A) Prioritize Survival (Find a secure hiding spot deep within the slums, relying on Shadow Cloak and gathering more local intelligence.)
B) Approach Ebonscar (Risk immediate danger to learn the secrets of the cracked Veil and his history.)