Zephyrion trudged down the worn cobblestone street, each step a battle against the screaming protests of his body. His shoulder burned with a dull, gnawing ache, the remnant of a blow he would rather not think about. His head pounded, a relentless throb that pulsed in time with his heartbeat, and his legs wobbled, threatening to buckle with every other step. Fatigue clawed at him, mental and physical, a weight that dragged his thoughts into a fog. He knew he needed to stop, to find somewhere—anywhere—to rest. A single misstep in this forsaken place could be his last, and exhaustion made mistakes all too easy.
*Rest… I need rest,* he thought. His boots scuffed to a halt, kicking up a faint cloud of dust that swirled. To his left, a skeletal structure loomed—a house, or what was left of it. Its roof sagged, half-collapsed, and its walls leaned inward, as if the building itself were exhausted. A splintered door hung ajar, creaking faintly in the night breeze, beckoning him with the promise of shelter, however meager.
Zephyrion's breath hitched, a sharp stab of pain shooting through his ribs as he shuffled toward the ruin. Every movement felt like dragging his body through molasses, his muscles screaming for reprieve. He couldn't afford to be careless—not here, not now.
As he reached the doorway, he paused, one hand gripping the warped frame for support. The wood was soft, spongy under his fingers, rotting from years of neglect. Inside, shadows pooled in the corners, thick and impenetrable, broken only by slivers of faint light that pierced through gaps in the roof. Shelter was shelter, and he was in no condition to be choosy.
He stepped inside, his boots crunching against debris *Just a moment,* he told himself, sinking against the nearest wall. The plaster was damp against his back, but it held his weight as he slid to the floor, his legs finally giving out. His chest heaved, each breath a labored rasp, and he tilted his head back, staring at the jagged hole where the ceiling should have been. What had once been a large living room was cut in half by the calipers celling. Separating most of the house as well. Zephyrion didn't mind though, one room was safer no one could attack from an ejacent room.
He slipped the dagger out, the slight chill of the handle almost comforting.
The events of the day replayed in his mind like a haunting. His eyelids felt heavy, and his limbs were stiff. Sleep had taken him without him even noticing.
The sound of boots scraping against the dirt jolted him awake. He glanced at the open doorway, where shadows danced in the faint light. He had positioned himself in the corner of the room, hoping to avoid detection from the road outside. He rocked onto the balls of his feet, making sure to stay in a low crouch. They might not see him through the doorway, but a window could give him away just as easily.
He stalked his way to the nearest window, the sound of boots growing louder with each passing moment. The noise suggested more than one person—probably more than two. The hum of conversation drifted to him, too far away for him to understand the words, but the volume indicated they weren't afraid of an ambush. They were coming quickly. *No chance they wouldn't spot him if he went out the door he had entered through,* he thought, scanning the room for a back door. He quickly realized there wasn't one. "One of the advantages of the room," he remembered thinking. He must have been more tired than he realized.
"Never back yourself into a corner," an old man's voice echoed in his mind, a lesson he had heard countless times. Zephyrion exhaled, realizing he had been holding his breath. He leaned further into the wall next to the window frame. *He could just stay hidden until they walked by. They didn't know he was here and had no reason to enter this building—as long as he didn't give them one.* He found his center, slowing his breaths to make them as shallow as possible. He still had the dagger in his hand, a small comfort.
He strained to hear their conversation now.
"Are you sure it's just one guy?" an old, gruff male voice asked.
"That's all I could feel," a younger voice replied.
"Well, have you ever not felt someone before?" the older voice shot back.
"No, but I just fused a couple of weeks ago. Who really knows?"
"I don't like this. I've seen Jack when he used his spark. I don't know anyone unfused who could take him down."
"Both of you shut it! If you two idiots let something slip in front of the cameras, the boss is going to kill you. Plus, we're here because the boss said the 'Stormveil' kid got sent over here," another voice interjected.
"Can you feel him yet?" a new, quiet feminine voice cut in.
"Let me see," said the younger man.
Zephyrion didn't like the sound of anything he had just heard. *They knew Jack. And they knew he killed him. What did 'feel him' mean?* He strained his ears, and a heavy silence settled over the group. Leaning into the window frame, he glanced outside.
Three men stood with weapons raised, their postures tense and alert. A woman stood in the back, a sniper rifle slung over her shoulder, her eyes scanning the surroundings. In the middle, a young boy had his hand raised, finger pointed directly at Zephyrion.