༺ The Fractured City XIV ༻
The cafeteria was almost empty. The dull hum of the overhead lights buzzed faintly against the silence, and the scent of stale bread mingled with the bitterness of lukewarm tea. Rowan sat across from Elyssa, a slice of bread in one hand, the chipped cup in the other. He didn't eat so much as chew absently, his mind somewhere else entirely.
"We can't wait," Elyssa said, her voice low.
"I know," Rowan murmured. He tore the bread, dipped it into the tea without thinking. It tasted like wet ash.
They sat in the far corner, the only table with a view of the courtyard through the smudged glass. The sky beyond was pale with the suggestion of evening. Rowan's gaze lingered on it.
"We go tonight," he said finally.
Elyssa nodded. "To the tower?"
Rowan looked down at the bread in his hand. "Yes. It's time.
Back in his room, Rowan sat on the edge of his bed. The silence felt louder now. He rested his head in his hands.
What's going to happen?
No… it's a trick.
It's hard to think.
What's my future? What will happen to me?
He lay back, staring at the cracked ceiling. His body ached, but his mind wouldn't stop turning. At last, he closed his eyes.
"I'll rest," he whispered. "Just a little."
Night had fallen. The city below looked like a skeleton—broken and ancient, steeped in shadow. Rowan moved from rooftop to rooftop, his boots silent on the slate tiles. The air was cool, carrying the scent of dust and rusted metal. The clock tower loomed in the distance, its broken spire piercing the sky.
Nothing. Not a flicker of movement. No sign of The Owl.
He dropped into an alley. Elyssa was waiting, her form tucked into the darkness.
"Nothing," she said. "You?"
He shook his head.
They both turned to face the clock tower. It stood in the heart of the old city, untouched by time, untouched by reason.
"We need to move," Rowan said. He paused, then added, "I'll go."
Elyssa stepped in front of him. "Don't be stupid. That's what he wants. It's a trap."
"We have no choice," Rowan replied. "He's watching us. Always. You've felt it too, haven't you?"
She didn't answer.
"There's two of us," Rowan continued. "One can alert the Chain if things go wrong. If he's there—we can end this."
"Or die trying," Elyssa muttered. But she nodded.
They stepped forward. As they reached the heavy wooden doors of the clock tower, the bell above began to toll, slow and deliberate. Each chime echoed across the city like a heartbeat in mourning.
Rowan pushed open the door.
Inside, the air was colder. Dust spiraled in the moonlight slanting through shattered windows. They climbed the helical staircase in silence, the creaking of old iron beneath their boots the only sound.
Then, abruptly, the stairs ended—cut cleanly in half.
Rowan crouched by the edge, offering his hand. Elyssa ran forward, stepped on his palm, and with a burst of momentum, he launched her upward.
She vanished into the dark above.
Moments later, a rope fell.
He grabbed it, hauled himself up, and the two continued their climb.
They reached the top.
There, back turned to them, stood a man in a tailored black suit. The Owl.
The full moon bathed the tower in silver. The gears of the ancient clock groaned softly, like the breath of something dying.
The Owl did not turn.
White-greyish, smooth and cold, its contours eerily resembled the face of an owl—not with feathers or detail, but with an impression, a presence. Featureless, yet hauntingly expressive. The eyes were somehow deeper than darkness itself.
He stood motionless at the edge of the tower, staring out over the ruins of the old city. The wind tugged at his coat. The full moon hung low behind him, casting him in silver.
"You came," he said.
His voice was calm. Collected. Not surprised. Not pleased. Simply… inevitable.
Neither Rowan nor Elyssa answered.
The Owl didn't turn at first. He only spoke.
"A city is not built on hope.
It is not built on kindness, or dreams, or the soft trembling of hearts wishing for better.
A city is built on decisions.
Not the kind made in moments of passion—
But the kind no one wants to take responsibility for."
(He turned. Slowly. His presence was not theatrical—it was inevitable. Every movement was effortless. Controlled.)
"There is a flaw in the design of this world.
A persistent, recurring error.
It thinks for itself.
It dreams beyond its shape.
It wants."
(He walked, quietly. Not toward them, but along the edge of the tower—pacing the outer ring of the platform like a teacher walking the perimeter of a classroom.)
"This flaw worships chaos.
It calls itself freedom.
But what is freedom, if not the permission to decay?
Give a man choice, and he will ruin what was given.
Give a city freedom, and it will forget what it was built to be."
"I have seen this city burn.
Not once.
Not twice.
Again. And again. And again.
Always because someone wanted more than their function.
More than their place.
More than was necessary."
"I do not hate them.
I do not hate you.
But a perfect city must be silent.
And you…
You are still speaking."
(A pause. The wind stilled. The gears ceased. The world, just for a moment, held its breath.)
"I did not climb this tower to debate."
(He turned his head—mask facing them fully now, unreadable, yet heavy with intent.)
"Free will is the last mistake.
And I am here to correct it."
The Owl's mask reflected the moonlight—a pale white-grey, carved into the suggestion of an owl's face. No features. And yet it watched. Unblinking. A thing carved from silence. Blonde hair fell loosely behind the mask, wind tousling strands like golden threads drifting in dusk.
He did not raise his voice. He only gestured.
A hand flick, precise. Not a challenge—an invitation. One that came with inevitability.
Rowan stepped forward first, keris drawn. Elyssa moved to his side, stiletto glinting in her hand. For a breath, the three of them stood locked in a triangle of tension. And then—
The Owl moved.
Rowan lunged, blade aimed for the shoulder. But The Owl sidestepped, barehanded, one foot gliding like a dancer's, the other catching Rowan's wrist mid-strike. In a flash, he twisted—disarming Rowan, sending the keris clattering across the stone floor.
Rowan stumbled back, eyes wide.
Elyssa rushed in, quick and sharp, a jab toward his side. The Owl turned smoothly, caught her wrist—disarmed her with a sharp flick, the stiletto tumbling end over end into the shadows.
He didn't follow up. He just watched. Then turned toward Rowan again.
Rowan braced, but too late—
A spinning step. A blur of silver and shadow.
The Owl launched a tornado kick, his leg arcing through the air with surgical precision. Rowan caught the movement but not the speed—the blow landed on his ribs, sending him flying. He struck the pillar with a sickening crack, slid down, gasping.
Behind him—Elyssa.
She lunged again, this time aiming not to fight, but to tackle. A desperate act.
But The Owl rotated mid-step, redirected her motion with one hand—and shoved her aside with calm force. Her body skidded across the floor and over the edge of the tower platform.
"Elyssa!" Rowan shouted.
She caught the ledge with both hands. Her boots scraped, searching for grip.
"I'm fine," she hissed. "Don't… don't let him—!"
But Rowan was already moving. Blood trickled from his lip. His fists clenched.
He charged, wild now. Desperate. But The Owl stepped inside the arc of his swing and drove a knee into his stomach—Rowan choked. Then came an elbow to the jaw, a blow to the throat, and a sharp backhand that spun Rowan to the ground again.
The Owl stood over him. Silent.
Rowan coughed, tried to rise—only for The Owl to deliver a final blow: a heel to the chest, knocking the air from his lungs. Rowan lay there. He could barely hear Elyssa's strained breathing. His vision pulsed. He blinked.
The Owl didn't move to finish it.
He only lifted his head and… gestured.
But there was no one there.
Not a sound. Not a shape. Nothing.
And then, slowly, he turned his back.
The Owl walked to the edge of the tower. The moon framed him—tall, still, distant. Rowan tried to speak, but no voice came.
Then—he vanished.
Not in a burst of smoke. Not with sound. One blink—he was there. The next—he wasn't.
Gone.
Only the moon remained.
Rowan's chest rose and fell in jagged stutters. His hands, trembling, pressed against the cold stone floor. He turned his head slowly toward where The Owl had stood just moments ago—but there was nothing. No trace. Not even a shift in the air.
Gone.
Just… gone.
Rowan's eyes widened, disbelieving. He tried to speak but found only a broken whisper.
"He just—"
"Vanished," came Elyssa's voice, strained and breathless.
She had climbed back over the ledge, face slick with sweat, her fingers scraped raw from the stone. Knees bruised, lips pale, but alive. She staggered to his side and knelt, offering him her arm.
"We had no chance," she said.
Rowan nodded, still catching his breath. "None."
He took her hand. Their skin touched—warmth in the cold air of the tower top. For one fragile moment, they were still.
Then…
A shift.
A prickling at the back of the neck. A pressure. Like heat—no, weight—slowly pooling behind them.
They turned.
At the entrance to the top floor of the tower, a figure stood.
A knight, but unlike any they'd seen. His armor was a deep, matte grey, like iron scorched in eternal twilight. Across his neck wrapped a translucent red scarf, flickering with inner flame, moving as though it breathed on its own.
He held two chakram—twin circular blades, gleaming with an ember-like pulse, as though forged from smoldering coals.
His presence did not crash—it loomed.
He spoke, voice low, seared with finality:
"The embers dance, the veil falls… and fire does not ask for mercy."
He stepped forward, blades shifting ever so slightly in his grasp, catching the red gleam of the moonlight.
"I am Kael Emberveil.
You burn now."
Rowan and Elyssa exchanged a glance.