༺ The Fractured City XVI ༻
The air stank of scorched copper and burning dust. The crater—if it could still be called that—had swallowed the eastern block of the district whole, leaving behind a gaping wound in the flesh of the city. From above, the flames drew a perfect ring, unnatural in color and too steady to be real. They flickered in that terrible shade—bluish-violet, hotter than memory, crueler than hellfire—and they formed a barrier that neither man nor machine dared cross.
Rowan stood at the center, boots scraping against fragmented stone, ash clinging to the torn edges of his coat. The flame's heat licked the back of his neck. He could hear it hum, as if whispering secrets only the dead could understand.
Across from him, Kael Emberveil stood like a monument to old wars and newer sins. His armor bore the polish of ritual, the kind that spoke of elegance over brutality. One chakram spun loosely in his left hand, the other gripped tight in his right. The bluish-violet fire coiled around his gauntlets like living threads, not consuming, but caressing—as if the flames themselves feared him.
Rowan's breath came slow and ragged. Blood crusted the corners of his mouth, dark against his pale skin. But his fingers moved steadily across the system interface only he could see. A glow flickered in the corner of his vision as he allocated points—one after another—into speed.
Strength: +13
Speed: +15
Durability: +15
60 Points Remaining
Ten more points into speed. It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. But it was what he had.
And then Kael moved.
No warning. No sound. Just the shift of weight, the sudden blur of steel and fire. The chakram hissed through the air, aimed not to wound but to overwhelm. Rowan dropped his posture instantly, shifting into a tight defensive stance. Instinct, not courage, kept him upright.
The first strike came low, aimed at his ribs. Rowan deflected it with his keris, but the force behind it numbed his arm. The next blow arced from above—he ducked, twisting sideways in a controlled lateral slide across scorched earth. Sparks spat upward from the ground beneath him, his coat catching briefly on a shattered metal beam embedded in the dirt.
Kael pressed forward.
Rowan barely recovered before a storm of attacks followed—precise, blinding, a rhythm of chaos refined into form. Kael wasn't fighting to kill. Not yet. He was testing Rowan, measuring his reach, probing for the cracks in his movement. And Rowan knew… Kael would find them.
Rowan broke away with a short leap, trying to create distance. The air itself felt thicker around Kael, as if drawn into the heat orbiting him. The knight's next attack was silent: he released one of his chakram with a fluid twist of his arm. It spun through the air, a disc of flame and steel. Rowan's eyes locked on it—too fast to dodge.
He lifted his keris, braced—
Clang.
The impact reverberated up his arm. His bones sang with pain. The chakram bounced, hitting the dirt beside him. It hissed and rolled to a stop.
Rowan rushed toward it—toward an opening, toward anything.
But the moment his hand reached out, the fire around the chakram flared.
The heat grew not in degrees, but in intent. It bloomed like a living thing, forcing his skin to recoil instinctively before contact. Rowan staggered back, clutching his hand, the air now biting at his lungs.
Kael raised his free hand, the one without the chakram. He clenched his fingers slowly into a fist, as if crushing something unseen.
"The fire bends to my will," Kael said. His voice was low, almost serene. "Not just its shape, but its fury. I choose how hot it burns… and how far it reaches."
Rowan didn't answer.
He didn't have to.
Because in that moment, he understood the scale of his defeat.
Not in the strike he couldn't block. Not in the heat he couldn't bear.
But in the sheer calm of Kael's voice.
It wasn't rage that fueled him—it was belief.
Rowan took a step back. Then another. His foot slipped on loose ash, and he caught himself. But it didn't matter.
He was already falling.
The crater cradled him now—an open wound, a pit, a grave. He did not fall fully, not yet, but he knelt, and in that act he realized something far colder than fire: he had reached the limit of what willpower alone could defy.
His hand, still trembling from the near burn, rested against the cracked earth. It was warm—uncomfortably so, as though the land itself were remembering the agony of being torn open. The scent of melted steel and singed flesh lingered in the air, almost sweet in its horror. A mockery of life. A perfume of endings.
Above him, the sky had fractured.
Not literally, no—but there was something about it now that felt broken. The clouds had long since scattered, giving way to the full presence of the moon—yet even it was veiled by shadows. Helicarriers and choppers loomed above, their lights slicing through smoke and ash like cold razors. They circled not in defense, nor in rescue, but in observation.
Vultures behind the moon, Rowan thought. Watching. Always watching.
He didn't move. Not yet. Not out of fear.
But because—for the first time—he could see it.
The distance.
Between himself and the heavens. Between those who had shaped this war and those who fought it. Between what he was and what the world seemed to demand.
He had always believed in defiance. It was the marrow of revolution, the fire in the breath of the chained. But this—this was not something he could break with resistance. This was a trial that stripped him bare and placed before him the scale of his own insignificance.
And still… he did not look away.
The moon stared back, pale and unblinking. A witness to his fall. A judge too far to speak.
"So this is what it takes," Rowan whispered, more to the crater than to the sky, "to make the sky look back."
He closed his eyes—but only briefly. Not to sleep. Not to surrender. But to remember what it felt like to be alive, even when all the world around him had turned to smoke.
When he opened them again, the violet flames danced like ghosts along the rim of the crater. They were quieter now, like they were listening.
Kael stood at the edge, staring not at Rowan but at the sky.
Unmoving. Thoughtful. Composed.
The knight's shoulders shifted ever so slightly, and then he spoke—not loudly, not to command or to taunt, but to no one in particular.
"Fire takes," he said, his voice almost lost in the wind. "But sometimes… it leaves something behind."
Rowan looked up from where he knelt.
The flames surrounding Kael's figure began to dim. Slowly. Not like a flame extinguished—but like something shedding its armor. The bluish-violet hue receded, transforming gradually into ordinary fire, and then—nothing.
No smoke. No embers. Just silence.
Kael's chakram, still embedded in the earth, twitched.
Then it rose.
It moved with a strange grace, not torn by gravity, but drawn—pulled back to Kael's outstretched hand. When it met his grip, the air cracked with sound. A snap, like something long-tense finally relaxing into place.
He turned away from Rowan without another word.
And walked.
Straight into the curtain of flame.
The fire didn't burn him. It bent. It parted. It accepted him—like a gate returning its guardian to the threshold.
And then he was gone.
Nothing but the echo of footsteps, swallowed by silence.
Rowan lay there, listening to the fading pulse of his own heartbeat.
The world did not cheer for survivors. It did not lower its flames in reverence. But still, something in him refused to give up the thread of consciousness.
Maybe it was bitterness. Maybe it was pride.
Or maybe it was the simple, stupid hope that somewhere, someone was still waiting for him.
Then, noise.
The rotor-blade sound of helicopters shifting position. One peeled away from the rest, descending slowly, cautiously. Its lights scanned the crater's edge, searching for the safest landing spot not consumed by residual heat.
It landed a good twenty meters away from Rowan.
The doors slid open, and figures stepped out.
Elyssa was first—her long coat whipping in the wind, boots crunching ash. Her eyes found him instantly, and she ran. Behind her came Noel, the silent pilot, and two medics clad in fire-resistant suits. The moment they were clear of the chopper, they dropped to their knees near Rowan, checking the temperature of the soil, the air, and scanning for any remaining hotspots.
Only when they confirmed it safe did they approach him.
His name was spoken—once, twice—but Rowan could not answer. His throat was dry, his lungs aching from the heat and the fight. His vision blurred at the edges.
Still, he managed to whisper one word: "Kael…"
But no one heard.
The medics worked quickly. They slid a stretcher beneath him with practiced hands, whispering reassurances he could barely understand. Every touch sent pain spiraling through his nerves, but he didn't resist.
Elyssa walked beside the stretcher as they carried him toward the helicopter. She said nothing. But her presence was a gravity that steadied the chaos.
As the helicopter lifted off, Rowan's eyes drifted to the crater's edge.
The destruction below was apocalyptic.
Entire buildings reduced to skeletal remains. Streets melted into slag. Choppers moved in organized rhythm, retrieving wounded and dead. But even amid the devastation, life still fought for breath.
He saw a mother—burned, collapsed against a collapsed wall, her arms wrapped around a small child. Her body blackened by fire. The child, somehow, still alive, wailing as medics lifted it from her charred embrace.
She had shielded her child from the worst. She had not survived it.
Rowan stared at them—at the cost of this war, not in numbers, but in stories that would never be told.
The stretcher jolted slightly as the helicopter rose higher. His eyelids fell.
The last thing he saw was Elyssa looking down at the same scene, her mouth a tight line of grief, her fists clenched.
And then, the world went dark.
Rowan lay still in the sterile quiet of a hospital room, his body motionless but his mind adrift in a silent, dreamless void. The room, with its cold white walls and faint scent of antiseptic, felt more like a tomb than a place of healing. The silence was oppressive, only broken by the soft beeping of the heart monitor that kept track of his pulse—a stark reminder that, for all appearances, he was still alive. His body, battered and burned, remained intact.
Elyssa sat at his side, her fingers lightly tracing the hilt of the keris. She had not moved for hours, perhaps even days. Her eyes never left Rowan, her concern palpable. She hadn't left him since they brought him back to the medical wing, her vigilance unwavering, though her heart was heavy with the uncertainty of his condition. He had been on the brink of death when they had found him, his body scorched and broken, yet here he was—alive, for now. Alive, but as distant as the world outside.
The door to the room opened quietly, and a medic entered, moving about the room with practiced efficiency. He checked the monitors, made notes on his clipboard, and observed Rowan's condition with a detached professionalism.
"He's stable," the medic said, his voice clinical. "He's responding to treatment, but we'll need to monitor him closely. There's still no guarantee."
Elyssa nodded absently, her attention still fixed on Rowan. Her mind, however, was elsewhere—trapped in a storm of thoughts she could barely process. She hadn't even allowed herself to consider the possibility that Rowan might not wake up. The thought was too unbearable, too crushing. She could only hold onto the small thread of hope that remained, even if it seemed fragile as glass.
The medic gave her a final, reassuring glance before exiting the room, leaving her alone once more with Rowan.
The silence returned, heavier this time. Elyssa sat in the same position, holding Rowan's keris. She wasn't sure how long she had been there, nor did it matter. Time had become irrelevant in this space.
Finally, she stood, stretching her stiff limbs. Her body ached from the hours of sitting in the same position, but there was something else, something deeper that ached even more. She looked down at Rowan, her heart sinking as she realized just how helpless she felt.
"I'll be back," she whispered, though she knew he couldn't hear her. She needed to step outside, to gather herself for just a moment. Her heart couldn't take much more of the waiting.
Elyssa's fingers lingered on Rowan's keris, her touch lingering in a silent promise to stay by his side, but she knew she couldn't remain here forever. There were decisions to be made, things that needed to be done, and her duty called her to them.
She took a final look at Rowan, her gaze softening with something like love, then quietly walked out of the room with his keris, the door closing behind her with a soft click.
For a long while, the room remained empty, save for the quiet hum of the machines monitoring Rowan's condition. The only sound was the steady beep of the heart monitor, echoing through the silence.
Elsewhere, beyond the sterile quiet of the medical wing, the city hummed with life. The air was thick with the scent of rain as it fell in fine sheets, soaking the streets and glistening against the towering structures. This was the part of the city ruled by The Owl—a domain that had risen from the chaos of destruction, its foundations hardened by the will of its ruler. The skyline stretched above him, towering structures of steel and glass stacked upon one another in dizzying heights, as though reaching for the heavens themselves. Great metal walkways wove between them, suspended as if by nothing at all. High above, trains glided silently through the air, supported by magnetic levitation, their sleek forms cutting through the sky like streaks of light.
Kael moved through the city streets, each step steady, the echo of his boots muted by the rain and the low hum of the metropolis around him. The Owl's city, built on the blood and fire of the past, was thriving now—a strange and fragile peace having settled over it. The people walked with their heads held high, unaware of the endless power struggles that had shaped the world they inhabited. Their eyes gleamed with the artificial hope The Owl had given them, a hope built from carefully controlled stability. And yet, Kael couldn't escape the feeling that something was still missing, a gnawing absence in the very air itself.
But Kael understood. He had seen enough to know that peace, true peace, had a cost. He had fought in wars, he had watched the flames consume everything, and he knew all too well the nature of the destruction that could follow unchecked ambition. The Owl had created this city—this peaceful city—by binding it together with the weight of control. With precision, with manipulation. It wasn't the freedom that the rebels had once dreamed of, but it was something more tangible. More lasting. The Owl had forged this peace with an iron fist, his methods harsh, his vision uncompromising.
He understood now. The Owl wasn't a tyrant. He wasn't a dictator driven by greed or lust for power. No, The Owl was simply a man who understood that peace, real peace, could only be achieved by holding the reins tightly, by ensuring that no force—no matter how pure its intentions—could slip free and tear the world apart again. The Owl's methods, though harsh, were the only way to prevent the chaos that had plagued the city for so long. And now, as Kael looked around, he saw it.
A little girl dropped her brown teddy bear on the street, and Kael, without thinking, bent down to retrieve it. He brushed the dirt off its fluffy exterior and handed it back to her, his gloved hands surprisingly gentle. The girl smiled brightly, her face full of innocent joy.
"Thank you, Mister!" she exclaimed, clutching the teddy bear to her chest.
Kael gave a brief nod in acknowledgment, his face hidden behind his helmet. He didn't speak, but for a fleeting moment, something seemed to stir within him—a faint memory of a time when he, too, had been innocent, before the weight of fire and duty had consumed him. The girl skipped away, laughing, as if nothing in the world could ever hurt her.
Kael's gaze drifted upward, toward the vast skyline that seemed to grow taller with every passing year, stretched out by The Owl's iron rule. The city was a strange reflection of its ruler—beautiful, cold, and formidable, with every inch designed to remind its inhabitants of the power that held them in check. The very lights beneath the trains pulsed with an eerie, almost artificial rhythm, just as The Owl's power pulsed through the veins of the city.
For a long moment, Kael stood, his face concealed behind his helmet, feeling as if the weight of the entire city rested on his shoulders. The world was far from perfect. It never had been. The Owl's reign, though secure, had been built on manipulation, on control—on a delicate balance between fear and order. The fires of his past, the flames that had burned so brightly and left nothing but ashes, seemed to fade before the cold, mechanical peace of this place.
But peace, Kael knew, could only be built on such a foundation. In the absence of chaos, peace was a delicate thing—fragile, fleeting. If you didn't hold it together, if you didn't reinforce it with every move, with every decision, it would fall apart. The Owl had built something lasting. A city where people could sleep without fear of the next raid, a place where the cries of rebellion had been silenced, where the fires that had ravaged the streets were now a memory fading with time. The peace was hard, forged through the crucible of harsh decisions and merciless actions. But Kael had come to understand that, in the end, it was necessary.
With a soft sigh, Kael removed his helmet, revealing his scarred face to the world. The jagged mark along his left cheek, a scar from battles long past, seemed to pull at the very fabric of his identity. His dark hair, matted slightly with the rain, fell over his forehead, and for the first time in ages, Kael allowed himself a small smile. It was fleeting, a quiet acknowledgment of the city before him—a city that had somehow found peace, despite everything.
He looked out at the skyline, the towering structures that glowed faintly in the dusky rain. It was a peace that had been shaped by The Owl's will—a peace built on iron and fire, on control and subjugation. The people, ignorant of the true cost of their safety, continued to walk their streets in quiet harmony, unaware of the invisible strings that held them in place. Kael stood there, as if waiting for something to shift within him. But there was nothing, only the distant hum of the city and the whisper of wind through the metallic buildings.
Finally, he looked away from the skyline, his smile fading. He didn't have the luxury of lingering on such thoughts. He had seen too much, felt too much to allow himself to be fooled by the peaceful façade of the city. The Owl's influence stretched far and wide, but so did his own desires.
Kael's eyes, hidden behind his helmet once more, narrowed slightly as he turned to leave the city's heart, walking deeper into the streets that pulsed with the life The Owl had carefully orchestrated. His footsteps echoed in the wet streets, the sound swallowed by the city's sprawling mass.
Back in the medical wing, the door to Rowan's room creaked open once more. The sound was soft, almost imperceptible, like the world itself holding its breath. This time, it was not a medic nor a bystander who entered. It was Elias.
The old man's gait was slow, his posture weary, as if the very weight of the world had pressed down upon him. He stepped inside the room, his eyes falling upon Rowan's still form. The sight of the young man, motionless and battered, caused something in Elias's chest to tighten, a sorrow that could not be expressed in words. He had seen countless lives broken, countless bodies shattered, but this—this was different. Rowan was no mere soldier. He was the last flicker of a dying light, the only hope in a world that seemed to have forgotten what hope truly meant.
Elias's gaze softened as he observed Rowan, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. There was a strange stillness to the boy, a quiet surrender that seemed to echo the emptiness in Elias's heart. The fire had done its damage, not just to Rowan's body but to his spirit. The scars that marred his flesh would fade, but the ones that ran deeper—those that had been carved into his soul by the choices he had made—would never truly heal.
A heavy sigh escaped Elias's lips, thick with something that could not be named. He took a step closer, his footsteps soundless on the sterile floor, and reached out his hand. His fingers hovered for a moment over Rowan's head, as though uncertain whether to touch or to let the boy lie in his stillness. Then, with a quiet determination, Elias's hand settled lightly above Rowan's brow.
A faint green light pulsed from his palm, gentle and unassuming, casting a soft glow over the room. The light seemed to fill the space with an eerie calm, as if time itself had paused to observe the moment. Slowly, as though reluctant to disturb the fragile peace, the injuries that had ravaged Rowan's body began to heal. His skin, cracked and burned by the fierce bluish-violet flames, smoothed out. The deep gashes and abrasions faded into nothingness, the marks of battle retreating like the tide pulling away from the shore. For all that was physical, the healing was almost miraculous—a gift from Elias's hands, but one that did little to address the battle Rowan had fought within himself.
Yet, for all the healing that was occurring beneath his touch, Elias knew the truth. The emotional scars—the weight of the choices Rowan had made, the battles he had fought and lost, the way his soul had been torn apart in ways no healing light could touch—those would not fade so easily. Rowan was not simply a vessel for wounds to be mended; he was a man at the crossroads of something far greater than himself. He carried the burdens of a world on his shoulders, a burden so heavy that even Elias, in his wisdom, could scarcely fathom the full weight of it.
Elias stood there, his hand lingering above Rowan's head, lost in the quiet rhythm of the healing light. Time seemed to stretch, each passing second laden with the unbearable gravity of the moment. The old man's face was a mask of sorrow, the furrow in his brow deepening with each passing thought. He had known Rowan for so long, watched him struggle, watched him fall, and now watched him rise again—always torn between the forces of duty and the need to protect something fragile, something pure.
A flicker of something passed through Elias's gaze, something fleeting—something that almost looked like hope. But it was not for Rowan, not for the boy in the bed whose future was shrouded in uncertainty. It was for something else, something far more distant. A hope for a world that had forgotten its humanity, a hope that perhaps, just perhaps, there was still time for redemption.
Elias closed his eyes for a moment, allowing the weight of his thoughts to wash over him. He knew what was at stake. The world had changed irrevocably, and there was no going back. The rebellion had been crushed, the ashes of freedom scattered to the winds. The Owl's reign had grown stronger, tighter, more oppressive. And yet, there was Rowan—standing, or rather lying, as the last remnant of something they had all fought for.
"You are our only hope," Elias murmured softly, the words barely audible, as if speaking them aloud made them more real, more urgent.
His voice cracked slightly, though he quickly masked it, swallowing the lump that had formed in his throat. Rowan was the last ember in a world that had forgotten how to burn. And though Elias had seen many die before him, this—this felt different. There was something about Rowan, something about his spirit, that refused to be extinguished. It wasn't hope in the conventional sense; it was something far more fragile, far more precious.
With a quiet finality, Elias stepped back, pulling his hand away from Rowan's head. The faint green light receded as he turned to leave, his footsteps slow but resolute. The door clicked softly behind him, sealing Rowan in the quiet of his unconsciousness, the world outside continuing on in its brutal, indifferent march.
Elias paused at the threshold, his hand resting on the doorframe. His eyes flickered to Rowan one last time, the boy whose future seemed as uncertain as the flicker of a flame in a storm.
"Why did you do this, Kael?" Elias whispered, the words slipping from his lips before he even realized they had been spoken. He had never fully understood the choices Kael had made, the path he had walked, the fire that had burned him. But now, watching Rowan, he understood the pain behind those choices. He understood the cost of peace, the sacrifices that had been made—and yet, in his heart, Elias knew that peace, no matter how hard-earned, could never come without its own price.
He exhaled slowly, as if releasing some unspoken burden, and with one final glance toward Rowan, he closed the door behind him.