The streets of Oryn-Vel were alive with chaos. The acrid scent of gunpowder clung to the night air, mingling with the distant cries of revelers too caught up in festival fervor to notice the storm of blood and steel brewing around them.
Char and Ishmael ran, their boots pounding against the stone streets, their breaths ragged. The Healing Stone was clutched tightly in Char's palm, slick with sweat. They had almost made it. Almost.
Then Ishmael faltered.
His leg buckled beneath him, the deep wound in his thigh finally winning against his stubborn will. He let out a strangled sound as he collapsed onto the cobblestones, clutching at his leg.
Char whirled around immediately.
"Shit—!" He doubled back, dropping to his knees beside Ishmael as the older man struggled to push himself up, his face pale, lips curled in frustration.
"Go," Ishmael gritted out, trying to shove Char away. "You can still make it to the safehouse."
Char ignored him.
"Not happening."
His hands were already gripping under Ishmael's arm, trying to hoist him up. Ishmael was heavier than he looked, solid muscle and dead weight from his injury, and Char could feel his own strength burning out, his mana nearly depleted.
Then, shouting.
The distant, chaotic whoops of Syndicate men, moving in their direction.
Char's heart slammed against his ribs. No time.
He shifted his grip, half-carrying, half-dragging Ishmael toward the closest cover he could find—a darkened overhang in front of a shuttered shop, its awning barely holding up under the age of dust and neglect.
They ducked inside the shadows, pressing themselves against the wooden wall.
Ishmael stifled a pained hiss, his head tilting back, sweat beading along his brow.
Char swallowed hard, his own chest heaving from the exertion. He peeked out, watching as a squad of Syndicate enforcers stalked past the street, their blades drawn, their pistols held low.
Their voices were loud, laughing, barking orders, but they didn't stop.
Not yet.
Char slowly exhaled through his nose. They'd have to move soon. But Ishmael—
His eyes flicked down.
Blood darkened the fabric around his thigh, soaking into his pants, forming a sticky pool on the stone beneath him. His face was pale beneath the streetlamp's glow, his breathing uneven.
Something twisted in Char's chest.
A strange, sickening feeling.
Ishmael wasn't just a person. He was someone Char had written.
A character that had once existed in the confines of his mind, nothing more than ink and concept and narrative. And yet—here he was, flesh and blood, breath and pain.
And he was hurt.
Char felt a deep, uncomfortable ache lodge itself in his chest.
Was this… guilt?
Or was it something else?
Ishmael let out a harsh exhale, shifting slightly, wincing at the pain. His hand gripped his leg tighter, knuckles white.
"I told you to leave me," he muttered.
Char snorted, running a hand through his sweat-dampened hair. "Yeah, and you actually thought I'd listen?"
Ishmael huffed a weak laugh.
Char stared at him, frowning. He'd seen Ishmael fight. He'd seen him cut through enemies with practiced ease, with skill and purpose, a sword dancing in his hand as naturally as breathing.
Now he was here, slumped against a dusty shop wall, bleeding out like a wounded animal.
It felt wrong.
It felt personal.
"…You're not allowed to die," Char muttered, voice low.
Ishmael's head tilted slightly, an amused quirk to his lips despite the exhaustion on his face. "Oh? And here I thought you weren't sentimental."
Char's jaw tightened.
It wasn't about sentimentality.
It was about responsibility.
Ishmael existed because Char had written him. Had given him life, even if it wasn't in the way Char had ever intended. And if that was true—if Ishmael had been born from his words, his world—then didn't that make Char responsible for him?
For his life? His pain?
Was this… what it meant to be a creator?
To have characters who weren't just names on a page, but people, with hearts and minds and struggles of their own?
And if so—could he really let one of them die?
A cold, clawing fear crept up his spine.
Char exhaled sharply, forcing himself back to the present. Ishmael needed him right now. That was all that mattered.
He pressed his hands over Ishmael's wound, adding more pressure. The older man hissed sharply, his fingers twitching.
"I know," Char murmured, swallowing down the thick emotion in his throat. "I know it hurts. Just hold on, alright? We're almost there."
Ishmael's expression shifted slightly, something unreadable flickering in his dark eyes.
"…You sound different."
Char hesitated, then gave a crooked grin.
"Maybe you just haven't been listening close enough."
Ishmael let out a low breath. Then, slowly, his head tilted back against the wooden wall, his chest rising and falling in labored rhythm.
Char tightened his grip on the Healing Stone in his pocket.
They had to get moving soon. The safehouse wasn't far. They could make it.
But for now, they sat in the quiet beneath the overhang, hidden away from the chaos, from the bloodshed, from the war tearing through the streets.
For now, they breathed.
*
The northern hideout was quiet, almost unnaturally so. Outside, the city trembled under the weight of the Syndicate's unfolding plan, yet within these walls, time seemed to stretch, elongated by the flickering candlelight and the cold draft creeping in through the cracks in the stone.
Sir Alden stood near the window, arms crossed over his breastplate, watching the distant glow of fires painting the Oryn-Vel skyline in violent shades of orange and red. Behind him, Lady Zefaria unfolded the wax-sealed parchment they had just received, her gloved hands steady despite the weight of its contents.
The message was short. The Royal Church has sent inquisitors from the northern capital. They will arrive within two weeks.
Zefaria's golden eyes narrowed as she reread the words, as though searching for some hidden meaning between the lines. "It seems," she said, voice clipped, "that the Church has decided to tighten its grip. Even with the Syndicate's chaos, their gaze remains fixed on Oryn-Vel."
Alden exhaled sharply through his nose, his jaw tight. "The city will be ash by then."
His words were bitter, but there was no need to soften them. They both knew the truth. The Syndicate had never been meant for this—not this scorched-earth insanity that Varrel had planned. It had once been a vessel, a tool for those who had been cast aside by the world to carve a place for themselves. But now? Now it was a dagger aimed at the heart of Oryn-Vel, and they were the ones holding the hilt.
He turned to Zefaria. "When we joined, we thought we were making the righteous choice."
Zefaria let out a dry, humorless chuckle. "Righteous? Hardly. Practical, yes. Necessary, perhaps. But never righteous." She set the letter down on the heavy wooden table, her gauntleted fingers pressing against the words as if trying to smother them. "The Holy Church would have seen us executed. After everything we've done in its name, after every battle we've fought to uphold their law, we would have been thrown to the pyre the moment we outlived our use."
Alden said nothing, but the memory hung between them like a phantom.
The Holy Church had never tolerated deviation—not even among its most loyal. They had once been among the Church's finest warriors, blessed with knighthood, clad in silver and faith. But then they had seen too much, learned too much.Alden had uncovered the hidden corruption within the clergy, the secret deals made in candlelit chambers, the quiet executions of those who whispered the wrong truths. Zefaria had questioned their methods aloud one too many times, and for that, she had been marked.
Their choice had not been one of morality, nor ambition. It had been a choice between survival and death.
And so they had turned to the Syndicate.
"What will be left of the city when the inquisitors arrive?" Alden murmured, his voice low.
Zefaria's gaze was hard as steel. "A ruin, most likely."
"Then did we choose wrong?"
The question lingered in the air, unanswered.
Outside, the streets of Oryn-Vel howled with the distant echoes of battle, of Syndicate blades meeting city guards, of innocent civilians caught in the wake of something far larger than them.
Zefaria finally turned away from the table, stepping beside Alden as she, too, looked out into the burning skyline. "We chose to survive," she said at last. "What comes after… that is a question for the living."
Alden clenched his fists. Then we had better make sure we remain among them.
*
The streets of Oryn-Vel were slick with blood, paved with shattered glass and the wails of the wounded. Somewhere in the distance, fireworks cracked against the sky in bursts of color, a grotesque contrast to the carnage unfolding below.
Jorem moved through the chaos like a shadow, his steps purposeful, his grip steady on the curved dagger in his hand. The scent of iron filled his lungs, mingling with the acrid stench of burning wood and gunpowder. Around him, his Syndicate brethren—his so-called family—cut through the city's defenders with ruthless efficiency.
A city guard stumbled in front of him, his uniform torn, his face streaked with grime and desperation. He was young—too young, maybe. No older than twenty, clutching his sword with both hands like a lifeline.
Jorem didn't hesitate. He drove his dagger into the man's throat.
A sharp inhale—wet, choked. Then the boy crumpled, his body twitching for a moment before stilling completely. Jorem watched as crimson spread across the cobblestones, pooling beneath his boots.
He exhaled slowly.
He wished it had felt like something.
But there was nothing. Just the cold press of memory, the ghosts of a life that had never been his to begin with.
I was born a slave. I will die a monster.
The thoughts came unbidden, creeping in like frost beneath his skin. He wiped his blade on the dead man's tunic and moved forward, stepping over the body without looking back.
Somewhere in the fray, he saw his fellow Syndicate members driving their weapons into the city's defenders, heard the sharp retorts of gunfire as Syndicate sharpshooters perched atop the rooftops picked off any guards foolish enough to think they could reclaim the city center. Those brand new flintlock guns we're imperative to their victory, and luckily they had been supplied due to connections the two Holy Knights had.
Jorem's lips curled into something bitter. We weren't supposed to be conquerors.
The Syndicate had been an escape—a means to an end. It was never about power, never about ruling through fear. Not at first.
He thought back to the chains that had once bound him, the searing pain of a whip across his back, the laughter of the nobleman who had owned him as though he were nothing more than an ornament, a breathing piece of property. Jorem had fought his way free of that life, carving his escape with blood and stolen steel. He had thought the Syndicate was the answer.
But in the end, all I did was trade one master for another.
Varrel.
Jorem had believed in him once. Had believed in the promise that they would rise together, that the Syndicate would be a lifeline for those the world had discarded. And maybe, in some twisted way, it had been—for a while.
But now?
Now they were nothing more than executioners.
He tightened his grip on his dagger, jaw clenched.
A figure darted past him—a woman, no older than thirty, clutching a child to her chest as she fled toward an alleyway. Her eyes locked with Jorem's for a fraction of a second, wide with terror.
He did nothing.
He just watched as she disappeared into the smoke, her footsteps lost in the carnage.
There had been a time when he would have helped. When he might have told her to run, to hide somewhere safe. But that time had passed. He was too far gone for redemption.
The bridge loomed ahead, its stone arch casting a long shadow over the river below. The crates of explosive reactive crystals were stacked along its length, hidden beneath tarps and guarded by at least a dozen Syndicate members. Two hours.
Two hours until the bridge—and a good portion of the city—was nothing more than rubble.
Jorem exhaled slowly and took his place among his brethren, just another soldier in Varrel's war.
Just another ant marching toward oblivion.