Time: Evening - The Ambush
---
Corvin stood in the center of the ruined hall, his hollow eyes fixed on Leo. Valerik hung limp in his grip—one hand wrapped around his throat, the other pressed flat against his chest. The sleepless young man didn't speak. He didn't need to.
The woman beside him—Vaela—did the talking for him. Her voice carried a note of sharp, spoiled contempt.
"You just had to open your shitty mouth, didn't you? Disrespect one of Pyre's own. Do you have any idea what you've done?"
The wiry man with dead eyes—Sable—stepped forward, his voice flat and bored. "He's not much to look at. But he's ours. And nobody disrespects what's ours."
The pale woman—Veyra—giggled, her voice dripping with mock sympathy. "Look at him. The best prodigy Jerkin Base has to offer. Tossed around like a ragdoll."
The muscular brute—Marek—laughed, a deep, rumbling sound. "More like trash if you ask me."
Vaela and Veyra laughed together—sharp, cruel, delighted.
Valerik, still held by the throat, managed a bitter glare. His jaw clenched. His internal voice was a low, frustrated growl.
Where is Brenna when we need her?
---
A figure stepped out from behind a pillar.
The geeky kid with glasses—Timo Moriah—approached Leo with a casual, almost lazy stride. His lenses caught the dim light, and within them, a faint shimmer of circuitry pulsed.
He stopped beside Leo and spoke in a low, conspiratorial whisper.
"Hey. Believe this is your moment to shine. Impress the boss."
Leo's head snapped toward him, his voice a stammering mess. "Y-you—you—"
Timo raised a hand, placating. "Relax. I'm not him. Think of me as his witness. His eyes and ears."
Leo's internal voice raced.
I knew it. Only a fox like that Elijah could be behind all of this. But why? What's his angle?
Timo extended a hand. "Tiben Moriah. But you can call me Timo."
Leo stared at the hand for a moment. Then, slowly, he shook it.
---
Vaela's voice cut through the moment, sharp and impatient. "Hey! Did you bums forget us or what?"
Veyra and Marek echoed her irritation, their expressions twisting with anger.
Timo turned toward them, a lazy smile spreading across his face. His voice carried a note of theatrical mockery.
"You know what he thinks? He thinks you're just freeloaders. Leaching onto others. Your attitudes speak for themselves—you need someone else to carry you."
Vaela's eyes blazed. "Hey, scummy dock! What did you just say?!"
The air around her shifted—a rotating shimmer at the edges of her silhouette, rising like heat over asphalt. Veyra and Marek mirrored her—their own shimmers pulsing with malice.
Timo's voice dropped to a whisper, meant only for Leo. "Just as expected. They're fodder. Fodder for the Wycliffe. But I'm impressed—amidst all this, one of them still has control."
His gaze flicked toward Corvin.
Leo followed his eyes. Corvin stood motionless—his hollow eyes fixed on Leo, his grip on Valerik unwavering. But around him, there was no shimmer. No rotating presence. Nothing.
What does that mean? Leo thought. Why is he different?
Auditory, Timo's voice carried a note of quiet certainty. "He's the one you need to worry about. The others? They're warm-ups."
He straightened, raising his voice for the room. "Leo will take on the three of you. Warm-ups before the main event."
The air around Vaela, Veyra, and Marek shifted—offense, sharp and immediate.
"You've heard enough of our crappy mouths?!" Vaela shouted. "Fine! Let's see what the prodigy can do!"
---
Vaela, Veyra, and Marek attacked as one.
Vaela moved like a lioness—sleek, predatory, her body twisting into strikes aimed at Leo's vitals. Her feet were light, her hands sharp. She fought like a program—trained into her body so deeply it had become instinct.
Veyra moved like a puppet—her limbs jerking in unpredictable rhythms, her attacks coming from angles that shouldn't have been possible. She was fast. She was erratic. She was dangerous.
Marek was the opposite—slow, heavy, brutal. Every step he took shook the floor. Every strike he threw carried the weight of a collapsing building. He didn't need speed. He had power.
Leo was overwhelmed.
Three strikes landed on his ribs. Two on his shoulders. One on his jaw. He stumbled back, his vision blurring, his breath coming short.
But he didn't panic.
The weave around him—his weave—pulsed. Confusion. Puzzlement. Confidence. They intertwined, weaving together into something greater. The constructed field around him sharpened into awareness. His body moved on instinct—not thought, not plan. Just knowing.
I don't need to fight them, he thought. I need to accept them. I need to accept the pain. The pressure. The fear. And then I need to use it.
His weave pulsed again—and this time, it pushed back.
---
Vaela's shimmer began to decline. Her strikes lost their weight. Her movements slowed. She was running dry—pouring everything into every attack, and running out.
Veyra's shimmer followed. Her erratic movements grew sluggish. Her eyes widened with confusion.
Marek's shimmer wavered. His heavy steps faltered. His breathing grew labored.
The three of them were burning through their own fuel—and they didn't know it. They didn't understand what was happening. They just knew their cores needed more. They needed more.
Leo's internal weave—the confidence, the acceptance, the knowing—pulsed stronger. His body moved with precision. His strikes landed true.
A knee to Vaela's midsection. A punch to her jaw. She staggered back, teeth flying, blood spraying.
And then Veyra's fist—aimed at Leo—missed and connected with Vaela's face instead.
Vaela collapsed.
Veyra stared at her own hand. "What—what did I—"
Marek's fist—aimed at Leo—connected with Veyra's shoulder. She crumpled.
The three of them stood there, confused, angry, their own bodies turning against them. Their auras—the rotating shimmers at their edges—rose and fell, clashing with something deeper.
---
Vaela, Veyra, and Marek didn't understand what was happening to them.
Their cores needed more. They needed fuel. They needed strength.
And so they took it.
From each other.
The air around them shifted—a rotating shimmer, a pulling sensation, visible at the edges of their silhouettes. It extended from one to another—from Vaela to Veyra, from Veyra to Marek, from Marek to Vaela. And where it touched, something was pulled out. Something was taken.
Their auras—their shimmers—grew brighter for a moment. Then darker. Then contaminated.
Vaela's eyes went wide. Her body trembled. Her voice came out as a whisper. "What... what is this?"
Veyra's voice was a giggle—broken, manic. "It's... it's so good..."
Marek's voice was a rumble—hungry, satisfied. "More... I need more..."
Their auras stabilized—contaminated, twisted, but stable. Their eyes found Leo.
And they smiled.
Vaela's voice was a purr. "How scrumptious it was. But you... you're next."
---
The hall was silent—save for the soft, satisfied breathing of the three Pyre cadets. Their auras pulsed with something dark and wrong—something that hadn't been there before.
Timo Moriah watched from beside Leo, his glasses glinting in the dim light. His voice was a low, amused murmur.
"How lovely is the scenery they grace upon us."
Behind a table, Caspian peeked out, his expression one of genuine confusion. His internal voice was a quiet, disturbed whisper.
Does that weird guy have a thing for Leo? Note to self—never approach that docky weird guy.
Valerik lay on the floor, still held by Corvin, his face battered, his expression bitter.
And Corvin—the sleepless young man with hollow eyes—still hadn't moved. Still hadn't spoken. Still stared at Leo like a wolf deciding which cut of meat to take first.
The game was far from over.