The sky split open.
Cold rain tapped against the cobblestones, light at first, then harder, a steady patter against the rooftops, the streets, the scattered bodies left in the wake of the fight.
Rook ran.
His breath was ragged, his boots striking the ground in sharp, uneven rhythms, but he didn't stop. His mind barely registered the pain in his side, the heat of blood slicking his ribs where Harker's dagger had grazed him. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered right now but getting to the explosives.
And then—
His heart lurched.
The street he had turned onto wasn't just any street.
It was his street.
The Whispers was a place of transience, of doors that changed hands with the exchange of a single coin, of faces that came and went like shifting tides. Yet here, in the heart of the shifting labyrinth, Rook had carved out something permanent.
His residence—hidden in plain sight, disguised among the countless aging buildings of the district—stood just up ahead. A humble space, tucked away above a quiet teahouse, a place where laughter and warmth had lived, where arms had wrapped around him in the dark, where he had felt—
He clenched his jaw, shoving the thought down.
And then he saw it.
Just past the dim glow of a street lantern, half-covered by an old cassock and a haphazard stack of crates—
The cluster.
A lump of packed, volatile crystals glimmering faintly beneath the cover of rain-soaked fabric.
A single red shard peeked out from underneath. Reactives.
Rook froze for half a second.
The realization hit like a punch to the gut.
The explosives weren't just in the Whispers. They were here.
On his street.
Where they were.
His girls.
His home.
No—
He didn't waste another second.
He ran.
His boots splashed through puddles, fingers reaching for the crates, but just as he bent down to move them—
A shadow moved behind him.
He barely turned in time before a fist slammed into his side.
Rook staggered back, pain blooming in his ribs, just as a mace came swinging for his skull.
He twisted, the weapon whistling past his ear and smashing into the cobblestones where he had just been standing. Fragments of stone flew into the air.
Grendon.
Behind him—Harker.
Rook barely had time to curse before Harker lunged.
A flash of steel—
Rook dropped low, twisting his body to the side, just barely dodging the downward stab of Harker's dagger. The blade buried itself into the wooden crate behind him instead, stuck for half a second—
Long enough.
Rook grabbed Harker's wrist and drove his forehead straight into the man's nose.
A sharp crunch.
Harker reeled back, blood gushing from his nostrils, but before Rook could press the advantage, a massive force slammed into him from the side.
Grendon's mace.
Rook grunted in pain, feeling something crack—his ribs? Maybe. Didn't matter.
Grendon didn't stop.
Another swing, this time at his legs.
Rook jumped back, but not fast enough. The heavy weapon clipped his shin, sending a jolt of pain through his leg. He stumbled, catching himself against a rain-slick wall, breathing hard.
"You should've stayed out of this," Grendon said, rolling his shoulders. Rain dripped down his face, his expression a mask of grim determination. "We didn't have to do this, Rook."
Rook spat blood to the side. "Then don't."
"Too late for that," Harker sneered, his voice thick from his broken nose. He flipped his dagger in his grip, shifting into a fighting stance.
Rook exhaled slowly.
He didn't have time for this.
The explosives were right there.
And his girls—
He clenched his teeth.
End this quick.
They attacked at the same time.
Grendon's mace came down hard, and Harker lunged from the side—
Rook dodged left, twisting sharply, letting Grendon's weapon smash into the cobblestones. At the same time, he threw his knife.
The blade spun through the rain—
—and buried itself into Harker's thigh.
Harker cried out, stumbling, but Rook was already moving.
He surged forward, grabbing Harker by the collar, using the momentum to swing him around—
Straight into Grendon.
The two men collided, hard.
Grendon, caught off guard, stumbled back, struggling to right himself—
Rook didn't give him the chance.
With a sharp pivot, he drove his knee into Grendon's stomach.
The air whooshed out of Grendon's lungs. His knees buckled.
Rook stepped back, breathing hard.
Both men were down.
He had won.
But—
Pain shot through his ribs, sharp and unrelenting. His vision blurred for half a second. He could feel the heat of his own blood trailing down his side, mixing with the rain.
Didn't matter.
The explosives.
Rook turned, limping slightly, and staggered toward the cluster.
The red crystal glowed faintly.
The rain pattered against the fabric-covered pile.
The streets were silent now.
Except for the sound of his own heartbeat, pounding in his ears.
*
The city burned.
It was as if the night had been swallowed by hellfire, the sky choked with thick, curling smoke that blotted out the stars. Flames crackled along rooftops, sending embers spiraling into the air like fireflies in a fever dream. The air was thick with the acrid stench of charred wood and flesh, an unbearable heat pressing down on the streets like a smothering hand.
Merrick's breath came ragged, his lungs raw from inhaling the ash. His boots pounded against the cobblestones, slick with blood and oil, his pulse hammering behind his ears. He could hear Mira behind him, her steps quick and precise, her sharp eyes darting over the chaos, ever watchful.
Selka stumbled, nearly tripping over a corpse sprawled across the street.
A young man. No older than them. His body lay half-crushed beneath a collapsed wooden beam, his face twisted in something like surprise.
She bit back a sob, her fingers tightening around Mira's sleeve as she forced herself forward.
They had to move.
They had nowhere to go.
And the city—Oryn-Vel, grand and ancient, the jewel of the south—was dying.
Merrick tried not to look at the bodies, but they were everywhere. Knights and Syndicate men alike, commoners who had been too slow to flee, charred remains that barely even looked human. The stench of iron and blood and burned flesh clung to the air, nauseating and thick.
Somewhere ahead, a building groaned as it collapsed inward. The impact sent a burst of fire and splintered stone cascading onto the street. Selka yelped, Mira grabbing her and pulling her into a sprint.
Merrick growled, forcing his own legs to move faster. His body burned from exhaustion, from the lingering pain of the fight, but none of that mattered.
"Where are we going?" Selka gasped.
Mira's jaw clenched. "We need shelter. Somewhere safe."
There was nowhere safe.
Merrick's mind whirled, scrambling for options—the east was a battlefield, the north was crawling with Syndicate, the southern gate was a war zone—
Then, suddenly, he thought of Elyan.
"The safehouse," he panted. "We head north. Elyan's there."
They veered down a side alley, the sound of gunfire and steel ringing out behind them. The walls around them were scorched and cracked, long shadows stretching across the ground as the fire consumed everything it touched.
They didn't stop running.
*
By the time they reached the hideout, Merrick's hands were shaking, his lungs on fire.
The door was barely latched when Elyan wrenched it open, her sharp eyes scanning them before she grabbed them by their collars and hauled them inside.
"You're alive," she breathed, her usual cool tone edged with relief. "What happened?"
Merrick just shook his head, panting. "The city's burning," he rasped. "The Syndicate—everywhere. We barely made it."
Mira pulled Selka further inside, glancing around the dimly lit room.
And then she saw Renna.
The girl was unconscious, her face pale, her breathing shallow. Bandages wrapped around her, barely holding back the blood that had seeped through.
Selka gasped. "What happened to her?"
Elyan rubbed a hand over her face, the exhaustion finally showing in her features. "Char and Ishmael went out to get a healing stone," she said. "They haven't come back yet."
Silence fell over them.
The firelight from outside flickered against the windowpanes, casting long shadows across Renna's still form.
Merrick exhaled, pressing his back against the wall. His hands were still trembling.
They had made it here.
But for how long?
And what the hell were they going to do next?
*
The rooftops of Oryn-Vel were treacherous, slanted and slick from the rain, shingles crumbling underfoot as Char and Ishmael crawled forward, their bodies low to the surface. Beneath them, the streets were a war zone. Syndicate enforcers stormed the city in packs, their boots pounding against cobblestone, their shouts mixing with the cries of civilians and the clash of steel. The fires had spread, embers swirling into the night like a thousand tiny dying stars.
Char's breath came ragged. His arms ached from supporting his weight, his fingers slipping on the damp rooftop as he hauled himself forward. Beside him, Ishmael grit his teeth, favoring his injured leg, his face twisted in frustration.
"Shit," Ishmael muttered. "I'm slowing us down."
"Just keep moving," Char whispered back, though his own limbs felt like lead.
The rain had come suddenly, a cold drizzle that barely did anything to smother the fires. Instead, it made the world slick and treacherous, the blood pooling in the gutters mixing with water into dark, crimson rivers. The stench of smoke, ash, and charred bodies was unbearable.
Then—
Gunfire.
A sharp, cracking explosion ripped through the night, and in the next heartbeat, Char felt something punch into his shoulder.
His body jerked violently, his arms buckling under him as he slammed against the rooftop. A delayed, burning agony seared through his flesh, white-hot and all-consuming.
For a moment, he couldn't breathe.
He couldn't think.
Everything became a sharp, ringing sound in his skull, a raw and ugly pain that drowned out the world.
He gasped, his vision swimming, his hand instinctively going to his shoulder, where he felt something wet, something hot. His fingers came away bloody.
I've been shot.
It wasn't like being cut. It wasn't like being bruised.
It was a hole—a searing, ragged wound that throbbed with every beat of his heart, every breath he took. His body screamed at him, telling him to stop moving, to curl up, to just let go.
More gunfire erupted.
"Char!" Ishmael's voice was distant, but then hands grabbed him, dragging him behind a raised section of the roof. A second later, something whistled past his head—a bullet.
"Shit, shit, shit," Ishmael hissed, his eyes darting across the rooftops. The Syndicate had spotted them. Four men were on a rooftop across the street, reloading their flintlocks. Below, more Syndicate thugs scrambled up the walls, blades flashing in the firelight.
Char tried to push himself up, but the pain nearly sent him blacking out.
Ishmael cursed again.
Then, with a snarl, he rose to his feet, sword in hand.
Darkness Cut.
The air rippled as the attack tore through the space between rooftops, the blade of black energy slashing through one of the gunmen's chests. The man collapsed, his rifle tumbling from his grip, smashing to pieces on the street below.
Another Syndicate fighter scrambled up onto the rooftop. Ishmael turned, his blade flashing as he cut the man down with a clean, precise strike.
But there were more. Too many.
Char groaned, his vision flickering. He couldn't pass out. Not now. Not when they were this close.
Renna was still waiting.
The safehouse was waiting.
He had spent so much of his life watching from the sidelines, writing stories of men and women who changed the world. But now?
He was in it.
And if he let himself falter—if he let himself go now—he'd never get to finish this story. He would never get to go home and see his mom or his dad or Finn or anyone ever again...
With a trembling breath, he pulled himself up. The pain was still there, a deep, sickening wound in his shoulder, but he forced it to the back of his mind.
Ishmael cut another man down, his breath coming heavy. "Char, stay down—"
"No."
Ishmael's head snapped toward him.
Char's eyes burned.
His body felt like it was breaking apart, but he clenched his fists and reached for the skill that had always been there for him.
Author's Note.
The world shifted.
The ache, the pain, the exhaustion—everything became distant. A book of fluttering and open pages, of azure and blazing flames, erupted and was summoned right before him, suspended in the air as he moved.
Power surged into him, filling his limbs with renewed strength. His vision sharpened, his senses expanding as if he could see every thread of the battle, every movement, every possibility.
And then, he reached for his skill.
Crimson Armor.
A familiar, boiling heat burst through his body, his skin hardening, his veins pulsing with surging energy. His breath came steady, his body alive with crimson light, his shoulder wound no longer dragging him down.
Ishmael's eyes widened. "You—"
But Char was already moving.
He launched himself forward just as more Syndicate men reached the rooftop. One lunged with a dagger, but Char ducked low, twisting his body before driving his elbow into the man's ribs.
Another swung a sword—Char caught the blade against his now-reinforced forearm, the metal sparking against his hardened skin. With a snarl, he drove his knee into the fighter's gut, then grabbed him and hurled him off the roof.
Gunfire barked again. Char jerked aside, the bullet grazing past his arm—but this time, the wound didn't slow him.The Crimson Armor kept him moving.
He didn't stop. He couldn't stop.
He grabbed a loose shingle and flung it at one of the gunmen, knocking the rifle from his hands. Ishmael leapt in, his sword flashing as he finished the job.
For a moment, there was silence.
Char stood there, breathing hard, his armor fading, the warmth of Author's Note slipping away.
He glanced at Ishmael. "Are we clear?"
Ishmael sheathed his sword. "For now." He gave Char a once-over. "You okay?"
Char let out a shaky breath. His shoulder was still bleeding, but the pain had dulled.
"Yeah," he muttered. "Still alive."
Ishmael grunted. "Then let's move. We still have a safehouse to get to."
Char nodded, gripping his arm. He stared at the bodies littering the rooftop, at the fires still raging in the distance.