[POV: Silas]
The spiral stairs ended in darkness.
Silas paused at the bottom, letting his eyes adjust. The Pit's entrance hall stretched ahead—low-ceilinged, torches sparse, the walls slick with condensation that caught the orange light like oil. The ammonia stench hit him immediately: old piss, older blood, and something underneath that might have been fear if fear had a smell.
Ten minutes. Maybe less. Get Taren. Get out.
He moved forward, keeping to the shadows along the wall. Cells lined either side of the corridor—iron bars, cramped spaces, most of them empty. A few held shapes huddled in the dark, but none of them looked up. The Pit had that effect on people.
Cell 1. Cell 2. Cell 3.
Cell 4. That's where Taren is.
Voices ahead. Footsteps. Guards?
He pressed himself into a shallow alcove, weight on his toes, breath shallow. Two guards passed—young, distracted, arguing about something he couldn't hear. Their boots scraped the wet stone, and then they were gone, headed toward the riot above.
No unnecessary fights. Just get to Cell 4.
But the corridor narrowed ahead. Kael's office was between him and the cells. And standing in the middle of that narrow stretch, blocking the path like a wall of meat and bad intentions—
A figure stepped out. Big. Scarred. A cudgel loose in one hand, keys clinking at his belt.
Damn.
Warden Kael was bigger up close than Silas remembered from his last encounter. Thick arms, thick neck, the kind of body that was built for breaking things and didn't much care what. The scars on his face pulled his mouth into something that wasn't quite a smile but wanted to be.
He squinted at Silas. Recognition flickered.
"Wait..." Kael's voice was gravel on glass. "I know you. The clerk from the form. The one who signed over that resistance rat yesterday."
Silas said nothing and kept walking toward Cell 4.
Kael didn't move. "You're here for Cell 4? The Rihl boy?"
Silas stopped and said nothing.
Kael's almost-smile widened. "He's been... cooperative. Eventually they all are."
He's baiting me. Wants me to flinch. Not happening.
"Crown clerks don't usually visit my guests." Kael raised the cudgel, rolling his shoulder like he was warming up. "You're not getting past me, paper-pusher. Varis doesn't like traitors."
He's between me and Taren. Not moving.
Silas drew the Shank. The poison sheen caught the torchlight—thin, greenish, the color of swamp water in bad light.
Kael's smile froze. His eyes dropped to the blade.
"...That's not standard issue."
"No." Silas adjusted his grip. The [Dagger Mastery] was supporting his movements, pulling his stance into something tighter, more efficient. "It isn't."
Kael swung first.
The cudgel whistled past Silas's ear—heavy, brutal, the kind of swing that could crack a skull if it connected.
It didn't.
Silas sidestepped automatically. [Dagger Mastery] kicked in before he could think about it—no hesitation, no wasted motion, just pattern burned into his reflexes from hours of dying in that mind-space dojo. His grip adjusted, weight shifted, and the courier's flinch was gone. Replaced with something colder.
The skill won't make me strong. It helps with precision. Efficiency.
Kael recovered fast for a big man. The cudgel came around again—backhand, aimed at Silas's ribs. Silas ducked under it, felt the displaced air ruffle his hair.
"Quick little rat," Kael grunted. He wasn't smiling anymore.
A third swing. Overhead, brutal. Silas sidestepped and the cudgel cracked against the stone floor hard enough to chip it. Sparks flew.
He's stronger. Much stronger. Each swing could cave in my chest.
But he was slow. Overconfident. He expected a clerk to crumble after the first swing, not dance around him like his feet belonged to someone else.
And he's getting frustrated.
Fourth swing. Wilder now. Angry. Kael's breath came hard, his scarred face twisted with annoyance.
There.
Silas feinted high—a jab toward the face that he never intended to land. Kael took the bait, his cudgel coming up to block, and his forearm went wide.
The Shank caught him across the meat of the forearm.
First blood.
The cut was shallow. Shouldn't matter. But it did.
Now the poison was already working.
Kael's arm twitched.
He looked down at the wound—a thin red line, barely seeping, nothing a man his size should notice. But his fingers loosened on the cudgel. Numbness spread.
"What—" His voice came out wrong. Slurred. Like his tongue was swelling. "What did you..."
Silas watched. He didn't answer. From the slur and the spreading numbness, it looked like a paralytic. Creeping up from the wound, locking muscles one by one.
The poison Jed meant for me. From the regent's apothecary. Likely military grade—designed to stop men like this.
Kael swung again—slower now. The cudgel dragged like it had doubled in weight. Silas ducked easily.
Kael's leg buckled. He caught himself against the wall, one hand pressed flat to keep himself upright. The keys on his belt jingled.
"You..." His eyes widened. The scars on his face twisted as the muscles beneath them locked. "Coward's... weapon..."
"Effective one."
Kael's eyes were still open when Silas stepped in close. The pattern finished itself—second strike, throat, the angle the dojo instructor had drilled into him across three deaths and a dozen repetitions. The Shank slid in and came out red.
Kael fell. Blood pooled below him. The paralysis locked his body before he hit the ground, freezing him in a sprawl that looked almost peaceful.
The System reacted before Silas did.
[Talent: Devourer — Activated]
[You have defeated: Warden Kael (Rank 1 - Level 10).]
[Fractional Free Attribute Points acquired: 0.8]
[Total Fractional Free Attribute Points: 1.3]
[Loot Credited: 50 Void Coins.]
[Artifact Acquired: Warden's Keys (Uncommon).]
[Catalyst Acquired: Memory Shard ×3.]
A green key-shaped icon materialized just off Kael's chest. Next to it, three small crystalline shards—pale blue, translucent, each no bigger than a fingernail. They glowed faintly, like frozen starlight.
Silas grabbed the key and the shards. With a mental hook toward his sigil, they snapped into [Storage].
Memory Shards. Could this be the catalyst I need?
The Toxin Mastery seed had been sitting dormant in Storage since the ship. He'd never had anything to feed it with. Now he might have something.
He focused on the seed icon, then on the shards. Bloom.
[Skill Bloom Request: Toxin Mastery (Uncommon • Green)] [Required Catalysts: Memory Shard ×10] [Available: Memory Shard ×3] [Status: INSUFFICIENT. Collect 7 additional shards.]
Seven more. He filed the number away, then moved on.
His hands were steady. That bothered him more than the blood.
1.3 points. Enough to use one.
He focused on the Sigil on his forearm; on the Void Citadel. Allocate to Strength.
Nothing happened. A notice appeared instead.
[Attribute Enhancement requires the Attribute Enhancement Hall. Access upon mission completion.]
Silas shook his head in self-deprecation.
Of course. The Citadel doesn't plan to strengthen me mid-mission.
A green key-shaped icon hovered just off Kael's chest, visible like someone had pinned UI to the corpse. Timer rings circled it, shaving away seconds.
He grabbed the key. With a mental hook toward his sigil, it snapped into [Storage] with that familiar weight-of-nothing sensation.
Let's see what I just stole.
[Warden's Keys (Uncommon • Green)] [Origin: The Pit, Stoneveil, Thaloria] [Type: Key Artifact] [Effect: Bypasses mundane detention locks. Works across mission worlds.] [Limitation: Ineffective against magical seals, enchantments, or Rare+ security.] [Price: 120 Void Coins]
Works across mission worlds. That's interesting. Keep.
He stepped over Kael's body without looking back.
One down. Eight minutes left.
Cell 4 was exactly where he remembered it.
The door was iron-barred, the lock old but solid. Through the gaps, Silas could see the cell itself—barely wider than a closet, no window, the floor slick with something he didn't want to identify. A shape huddled in the far corner, pressed against the damp stone like it was trying to disappear.
Silas pulled the Warden's Keys from [Storage]. The lock clicked open instantly.
The smell inside hit like a wall. Blood. Sweat. Urine. Fear. The accumulated stink of days locked in the dark with nothing but your own thoughts and whatever Kael had done to you. It soaked into the stone like it would never leave.
This is what Jessa's been imagining. Every night since they took him.
Taren Rihl looked up.
He was smaller than Silas remembered. Younger. His face was a mess of bruises—old ones yellowing, new ones purple-black, fresh ones that hadn't been there yesterday. Split lip. One eye swollen half-shut. His wrists were raw from shackles that had only recently been removed, the skin rubbed bloody.
He looks worse than yesterday. Kael must have worked him over after I left.
But his eyes were still sharp. Still hopeful. He wasn't broken.
Not yet.
"...Jessa sent you?"
"She'll be waiting." Silas crouched, offering a hand. His voice came out softer than he intended. "Can you walk?"
Taren took the hand. His grip was weak, but determined—the grip of someone who'd spent days expecting to die and suddenly wasn't. He stood, swaying, one arm coming around Silas's shoulder for support.
He's in worse shape than I expected. But he's alive. That's what matters.
"The sewers," Silas said, taking the kid's weight. "There's an exit behind the warden's office. We go through, we're out in the Tannery District. Jessa will meet us there."
Taren nodded. He didn't have breath to waste on questions.
Smart kid.
The sewers were worse.
The tunnel mouth gaped behind the warden's office—a rusted grate that swung open on hinges that hadn't been oiled likely since the Regent's grandfather sat the chair. The smell hit first: rot, decay, the thick sweetness of things that had died down here and been left to dissolve. Then the dark swallowed them.
Silas adjusted his grip on Taren. The kid was heavier than he looked—or maybe that was just the dead weight of exhaustion. Every step echoed off the curved stone walls, the sound rolling ahead of them like a warning.
Almost there. Almost—
Taren stumbled. His knees buckled.
"Hey." Silas caught him before he hit the muck. "Stay with me."
"I'm—" Taren's voice was a rasp. "I'm trying."
He's fading. Lost too much blood, or they didn't feed him, or both. Doesn't matter. We stop moving, we die down here.
The tunnel curved ahead. Somewhere in the distance, water dripped in a rhythm that almost sounded deliberate. The walls were slick with something Silas didn't want to identify.
Eight minutes. Maybe seven now. Keep moving.
And then—
Three figures blocked the tunnel ahead.
Black-and-gold armor on the lead. Two guards flanking. The officer's eyes landed on Taren—recognition flickered—and his expression went cold.
"The Rihl boy." A thin smile appeared. "The Uprising thinks they can use our tunnels." He drew his sword. "The desperate always smell the same."
Hawk-crest. Regent's guard. Same as the woman from the corridor out Voss's office. Same as the one who executed Garran Holt.
These are Varis's people. The best he has.
Silas lowered Taren against the tunnel wall. "Stay down."
The guards were young. Scared. Their grips on their swords were wrong—too tight, too high. Silas could see their fear in the way they shifted their weight, looking to the officer for reassurance they weren't going to get.
Newbies. Not the main threat.
The officer was the threat. But the guards were in the way.
He moved before they could react.
The first guard saw him coming—eyes widening, mouth opening to shout—but his body was too slow for what his brain knew was happening. The Shank took him across the wrist, the hand that held the sword. Steel clattered against wet stone. The guard screamed—high and sharp, like a rabbit in a trap.
The second guard froze.
That's the mistake.
Silas was already behind him. A quick slash across the back of the knee—hamstring, tendons, the things that made a man stand. The guard dropped, clutching his leg, his sword forgotten in the muck.
Neither of them would walk again without a cane. But they'd live. Probably.
No Devourer trigger. Not dead—just crippled.
The officer watched it all with the calm of a man observing weather. He didn't flinch. Didn't glance at his fallen men.
"Interesting." He drew his sword—properly, point forward, weight balanced. The posture of someone who'd trained for this. "You're not a clerk."
"No."
The officer attacked—disciplined, precise. Each strike was a test, probing Silas's guard, looking for weaknesses, not committing to anything stupid.
This one knows what he's doing.
Silas parried the first strike. The impact jarred his wrist—the officer was strong, and the sword was heavier than it looked. Steel on steel; the clang echoed off the curved walls.
The second strike came faster. Silas deflected it wide, stepping into the officer's reach—inside the arc of the sword where the blade was useless. But the man was fast. He rotated, brought his elbow around. Silas ducked, felt the armored joint whistle past his ear.
The third strike clipped his side.
His tunic caught nothing. Blood bloomed—hot, wet, spreading under his shirt.
That's going to cost me later. If there is a later.
He's good. Higher leveled than me. Trained. Every movement is textbook perfection. But he's wearing fifty pounds of metal, and I have something he doesn't.
The officer pressed forward. Fourth strike—overhead, brutal, designed to split a skull. Silas sidestepped, let the blade clang against the stone. Fifth strike was a horizontal sweep that would have opened his belly. Silas ducked, felt his ribs scream where the earlier cut had landed.
Pain is information. Use it.
The officer was breathing hard now. The armor was heavy. The sewer air was thick. And Silas was still moving, still dodging, still refusing to die like a normal Crown clerk should.
Now.
Silas feinted high. The officer reacted—just like Kael had, just like the dojo instructor, just like everyone who thought Silas's feint was a commitment. The [Dagger Mastery] helped him focus, and his mind went blank; just following pattern.
The Shank caught the officer's thigh—the gap in the armor where the leg bent. The green poison sheen gleamed.
The countdown starts.
The officer stumbled.
Confusion hit him first. Then recognition bloomed in his eyes. His gaze dropped to the wound—shallow, barely bleeding—and then back to Silas's blade.
"You poisoned it." His voice slurred. Numbness spread. "The blade."
Silas didn't answer. He stepped back, giving the poison room to work. His side throbbed. Blood dripped, slow and steady, into the muck.
Hurts. I'll deal with it later.
The officer swung again—slower now. The sword wobbled in his grip. Silas's sidestep was almost lazy.
"Fight... fair..." The words came out broken. The officer's leg buckled. He caught himself against the sewer wall, one hand pressed flat to keep himself upright. His sword dropped, clattering into the muck.
"Coward's... weapon..."
"Works better than honor."
The officer's eyes were still full of contempt when Silas finished him. The ingrained dagger pattern completed itself with a clean strike to the throat.
[Talent: Devourer — Activated]
[You have defeated: Hawk-Crest Officer (Rank 1 - Level 8).]
[Fractional Free Attribute Points acquired: 0.7]
[Total Fractional Free Attribute Points: 2.0]
[Loot Credited: 30 Void Coins.]
[Item Acquired: Essence Crystal (Small).]
[Catalyst Acquired: Memory Shard ×2.]
A pale crystal icon hovered just off the officer's chest, next to two more of those translucent blue shards. Timer rings circled them.
Silas grabbed them and stored them with a mental hook toward his sigil.
Five Memory Shards total. Still not enough for the Toxin Mastery seed. But getting closer.
2.0 FAP. Two full points. The Citadel said something about an Attribute Enhancement Hall. Guess I'll find it when this mission ends. An Essence Crystal's a first. I'll figure out what it does later.
The two guards were still alive—whimpering in the sewer filth, clutching their wounds. Neither would be chasing anyone tonight.
Not worth the time.
He turned back to Taren. "Can you move?"
Taren nodded. Pale. Shaking. But alive.
Right now—run.
The streets were chaos.
Smoke billowed from something burning near the main gate—a guardhouse, maybe, or a merchant's wagon left too close to the wrong kind of crowd. People ran in all directions, their faces twisted with fear or rage or both. Guards shouted orders that no one followed. Steel rang against steel somewhere Silas couldn't see.
The riot was still raging. And it was beautiful.
Perfect cover.
Silas half-carried Taren through the confusion, keeping to the edges of the crowd, staying out of the worst of it. His side burned where the officer's sword had clipped him. Blood soaked through his shirt, warm and sticky, but he didn't have time to check the damage.
Move first. Stop bleeding later.
A woman screamed. A man shoved past them, eyes wild, clutching a stolen bolt of cloth like it was worth his life. Somewhere behind them, a building groaned; wood splintered, stone cracked.
The Tannery District wasn't far. Half a block. Maybe less.
Taren was fading. Each step dragged more than the last. His breathing had gone shallow, his skin gray-pale.
"Almost there." Silas adjusted his grip, taking more of the kid's weight. "Jessa's waiting."
Taren's head lolled. He was barely conscious.
Don't die on me now. We're too close.
They reached a side alley near the tannery—narrow, reeking of chemicals, lined with barrels of curing solution. And standing at the far end, knife in hand, watching them approach—
Jessa.
The knife handle was wrapped in a strip of faded blue cloth. The color caught the light.
She saw Taren. Her face cracked.
Relief. Fear. Love.
All of it, cracking across her face at once.
She ran to him. Grabbed him. Held him so hard Silas heard the kid grunt—and not from pain. From relief.
"Taren—" Her voice broke before she could finish the name.
"I'm okay." Taren's arms came up, trembling, wrapping around his sister. "I'm okay. I'm okay."
He kept saying it. Like if he said it enough, it would become true. Like the bruises would fade and the memories would wash away and everything would go back to the way it was before the Hawk-guards dragged him out of the Tannery.
It wouldn't. Silas knew that. Taren probably knew it too.
But right now, in this moment, it didn't matter.
Taren's hand went to his pocket. Shaking. He pulled out a crumpled strip of blue cloth—faded, frayed, the same color as the sky they never saw through Stoneveil's smog.
The same color as the cloth wrapped around Jessa's knife handle.
She saw it. Her breath caught, and her hand went to her own knife, touching the matching fabric there.
They match.
A small smile appeared on Silas's face without his permission.
Family. The only thing worth keeping in a place like this.
Silas stepped back. Gave them the moment. His side ached. His hands were still bloody. The riot roared somewhere in the distance, fire and screaming and the sound of a city tearing itself apart.
None of it mattered.
Kept my promise.
Jessa finally pulled back, one hand still gripping Taren's shoulder like she was afraid he'd disappear. She looked at Silas.
"Inside," she said. "Before someone sees."
She led them into the tannery. The door closed behind them. The riot roared on.