The Sound of Something Breaking
The sirens did not stop.
They multiplied.
Noctyrrh had always known bells—measured, ritualistic sounds meant to guide behavior. Sirens were different. They clawed through the air, sharp and directionless, carrying urgency without instruction.
At twenty-five, Blake had led men into battle beneath screams like this.
This was worse.
"Lower district," he said, already moving. "They're sealing it."
Lumi followed without hesitation.
The streets buckled under panic. Shutters slammed. People scattered, clutching children, dragging carts, abandoning whatever could not be carried. Relief patrols advanced in disciplined lines, pale bands replaced with dark insignia now—no softness left to pretend with.
"They're not dispersing," Lumi said, truth roaring in her blood. "They're collecting."
Blake drew the Dreadsword.
Shadows obeyed instantly, spilling across rooftops and walls, bending light and sound. He did not strike. He divided—cutting paths through chaos so people could flee.
"Go," he shouted. "Now!"
They ran.
Someone threw a stone.
It shattered against a patrol helm with a sound too small to matter.
That was when everything broke.
The patrols surged.
Batons swung. Sigils flared. People fell—not screaming, not fighting—confused, memory stripped mid-motion.
Lumi felt it like glass shattering inside her head.
"No," she gasped.
She reached—not to reveal—but to anchor.
Truth wrapped itself around the crowd in threads instead of fire. She caught fragments as they fell: names, images, sensations. She pressed them back where they belonged.
A woman collapsed at Lumi's feet, sobbing—not empty, but whole.
"It hurts," the woman said.
"I know," Lumi whispered. "But it's yours."
A patrol turned toward her.
Blake intercepted, shadows snapping like teeth. "She is not your target."
"She is all of our targets now," the officer replied.
From the tower above, a broadcast sigil ignited.
Serath's voice poured into the streets—calm, steady, amplified.
"Citizens of Noctyrrh," he said. "Remain where you are. Disorder will be addressed."
Lumi looked up.
The truth screamed.
He is using you.
"Prince Crowe," Serath continued, "stand down. You are escalating harm."
Blake laughed once, harsh and broken. "You broke it first."
The Dreadsword pulsed—no longer whispering, but listening.
Then it happened.
A child screamed.
Not in fear.
In loss.
"They took my father!"
The sound tore through the square.
People stopped running.
They turned.
And they remembered.
Names burst from mouths like blood from a wound. Stories followed. Grief spilled unchecked, unstoppable.
The truth detonated—not from Lumi, but from the people themselves.
Serath's broadcast faltered.
"Enough," he snapped.
The relief tower fired.
Light arced into the crowd.
Blake moved without thought.
He stepped in front of Lumi and raised the Dreadsword.
For the first time, he did not restrain it.
Shadows exploded outward, swallowing the light, bending it into nothing.
The backlash ripped through him.
Blake screamed.
Lumi felt it—the bond between blade and bearer cracking under the strain.
She caught him as he fell to one knee.
"Blake," she cried.
His breath came ragged. "Worth it," he gasped. "They're still… themselves."
The sirens cut off abruptly.
Silence slammed down.
From the tower, Serath stared at the square—at the uncontained crowd, the unbroken memories, the prince kneeling in shadow and pain.
Something cold settled into his expression.
"This is insurrection," his voice echoed. "And it will be answered."
The sound that followed was not another siren.
It was the sound of something deeper breaking.
The illusion of control.
The belief in mercy without cost.
And far above, beyond cloud and curse, a fracture of light split the eternal night—brief, fragile, undeniable.
Dawn did not arrive.
But the darkness learned it could crack.