Felix's breath came in sharp, ragged gasps as he tore through the darkened passageways beneath Keep Valcian, his heart hammering against his ribs like a war drum. The air down here was stale, thick with the scent of dust, damp stone, and something else—old blood.
Too late, too late, I'm too fucking late—
He gritted his teeth, forcing the thought down as he pushed forward. His boots pounded against the uneven stone, echoing through the cavernous tunnels like the distant toll of a funeral bell.
Varrel. I have to stop him. I have to make him see reason.
But even as he thought it, doubt gnawed at the edges of his mind. Would Varrel even listen?
Felix didn't know.
And he didn't have the luxury of hesitation.
A fork in the path appeared ahead, and he barely had time to choose before movement flickered in the dim torchlight to his right.
Two figures.
Syndicate members, clad in dark leather, blades at their sides. One was a lean, wiry man with a dagger spinning lazily between his fingers. The other was stockier, a scar running down the length of his jaw, his arms crossed over his chest.
Felix barely slowed his pace.
"The hell are you doing down here?" Dagger-Fingers asked, his voice suspicious, his grip tightening around the blade. "All the action's up top, not—"
Scar-Jaw narrowed his eyes. "Hold on—why do you look like you've just seen a ghost?"
Felix clenched his fists, his breath sharp. No time.
"Move," he ordered. "Now."
They didn't.
Felix wasn't surprised.
"Why don't you tell us what's going on first?" Scar-Jaw said, stepping forward. "You look like you're about to—"
Felix moved.
Fast.
Before Scar-Jaw could react, Felix lunged forward and slammed his elbow into the man's throat. A wet, choking sound burst from his lips as he staggered back, his hands flying to his crushed windpipe.
Dagger-Fingers barely had time to register the attack before Felix ripped the dagger from his grip and drove the pommel straight into his temple.
A dull, sickening crack.
The man crumpled instantly.
Scar-Jaw was still struggling to breathe when Felix grabbed him by the collar, yanked him forward, and smashed his forehead against the bridge of the man's nose.
The crunch of cartilage. The spray of blood.
Felix let go. Scar-Jaw collapsed.
His chest rose and fell in shallow, wheezing gasps, but neither man would be getting up anytime soon.
Felix wiped the blood off his forehead with the back of his sleeve and kept running.
His legs burned. His lungs felt like fire. His heartbeat thundered against his skull.
But none of that mattered.
Only one thought remained.
I have to get to Varrel before the city burns.
*
Char pushed ahead, his boots striking the uneven cobblestones with hurried, shallow steps. The world around him had dissolved into chaos—flashes of steel, distant screams, the acrid scent of smoke curling through the winter air. Every breath he took felt ragged, strained against the weight pressing down on his chest.
Behind him, Ishmael limped, his wound slowing him down, but his jaw was set in that same familiar stoic determination. Char didn't have the luxury of slowing down for him, not now. Not when Renna was waiting. Not when she was bleeding out in the safehouse, waiting for him to return with the Healing Stone.
They turned a corner—and stopped dead.
A blockade of Syndicate reinforcements stood ahead, shadowed figures slipping into place, their weapons gleaming under the glow of distant fires. Char counted at least seven, maybe eight—too many to take on without wasting more time, without losing what little energy he had left.
His heart slammed against his ribs.
Blocked.
They were blocked.
His breathing hitched.
He staggered back into the shadows of an abandoned storefront, pressing against the rough stone wall, his fingers digging into the crumbling surface as though he could somehow ground himself. But the air was too thick, too tight, constricting around him like an invisible fist.
He felt suffocated.
This couldn't be happening. Not now. Not again.
Renna needed him. He had the stone. He just had to get back.
So why couldn't he move?
His fingers trembled against the wall. His mind felt like it was folding in on itself, memories pressing in like the walls of a collapsing room.
Blood. Breathless sobs. A still body growing cold beneath his hands.
The weight of another failure loomed.
Another person he wouldn't be able to save.
His throat closed up. His vision blurred.
He was hyperventilating.
He knew it. He just couldn't stop.
Then—
A hand.
A solid, grounding hand landed firmly on his shoulder.
He flinched.
"I know."
Ishmael's voice was calm. Low and steady, like an anchor dragging him back from the storm.
Char blinked rapidly, his chest still heaving, his body locked in place. Ishmael tightened his grip—not painful, just certain.
"I know what you're thinking."
His voice cut through the storm.
Char clenched his teeth. "You don't."
"I do."
Ishmael's usually cool, unreadable expression softened. There was no judgment. No irritation. Only a quiet kind of understanding.
"You think if you fail this," he continued, his voice a low murmur, "it'll mean you've failed everything. That it'll be proof you weren't enough."
Char swallowed.
Ishmael held his gaze. "But you're wrong."
Char shook his head. "Renna—"
"—is alive." Ishmael cut through his panic. "And she's still waiting for you."
The words hit deep.
Char sucked in a breath, shaky and uneven.
"I get it," Ishmael said, his grip still steady. "I've been there. You want to run straight through them. Force your way back, even if it kills you. Because you'd rather die trying than fail."
Char looked away.
Ishmael sighed, shifting his weight against the wall. His leg was still bleeding, but he didn't seem to care.
"But Renna doesn't need you dead," he said. "She needs you to get back."
Char forced his breathing to slow. It wasn't easy. The weight in his chest still sat heavy. The fear still coiled, waiting, threatening to strike the moment he let his guard down.
But Ishmael's hand was still there. Steady. Real.
He swallowed hard. "...We're blocked off."
Ishmael nodded. "Then we find another way."
Char hesitated. "But—"
"We don't have time for 'but,' Char." Ishmael gave him a look. "You're smart. You're fast. We figure this out, and we do it together."
The words settled something deep inside him.
He could still feel the panic, the fear crawling beneath his skin. But Ishmael was right.
Renna was still alive.
She was still waiting.
And that meant he didn't have time to waste drowning in his own failures.
He exhaled slowly, forcing himself to think.
Blocked-off from the safehouse. Syndicate members swarming the main roads. They needed another route.
He glanced up.
The rooftops.
Not all of them were connected, but if they could climb up and move across the back alleys from above, they might be able to slip past without engaging in another fight.
His gaze snapped back to Ishmael. "We go up."
Ishmael followed his line of sight, then nodded. "I can climb."
"Can you climb with your leg like that?" Char narrowed his eyes.
A ghost of a smirk flickered over Ishmael's lips. "Guess we'll find out."
Char huffed, shaking his head, but the moment of shared resolve grounded him. He could breathe again.
He could move again.
Renna was waiting.
And he wasn't about to let her down.
"Alright," he murmured, steeling himself. "Let's go."
*
The door shattered inward with a deafening crack, splinters flying across the dimly lit room. The moment stretched thin—three Syndicate members storming inside, weapons drawn, their breath ragged from the night's chaos.
Merrick was the first to move.
Ignition.
Flames roared to life along his knuckles, heat washing over his skin as he launched himself at the first attacker. His fist connected with the man's jaw, and the sheer force sent him staggering backward, his face a mask of pain and shock.
The second thug lunged at Mira.
But she was faster.
Hare Speed.
In the blink of an eye, she was gone, slipping past his reach. A blur of motion, a streak of white and steel. Before he could even react, she was behind him, her dagger flashing toward his exposed side—
A clang as his armor deflected the blow.
Mira clicked her tongue. Too slow.
Selka stood frozen, heart hammering in her chest, her hood slipping back to reveal her sharp Valkar features. She had trained, practiced, but never in real combat. Never when her life truly depended on it.
The third Syndicate member noticed.
He lunged at her.
Her instincts screamed at her to move, to dodge, but her limbs felt sluggish. The blade gleamed in the dim candlelight, coming straight for her throat—
Crystalline Manipulation.
Her power reacted before she could think.
The air shimmered, crystal shards bursting from her palm in a desperate attempt to defend herself. They shot forward, jagged and uneven, slamming into the attacker's chest like a sudden hailstorm.
He reeled back, cursing in pain, his tunic torn where the crystals had pierced through.
Merrick took the opening.
With a growl, he swung both flaming fists, the heat distorting the air around them. One punch to the ribs, one to the side of the head—his opponent hit the ground, unconscious before he even landed.
Mira, still dancing between her opponent's sluggish attacks, swept her leg under him and sent him crashing onto his back. Before he could scramble up, she drove her dagger into his shoulder, pinning him down.
Selka's attacker, now bleeding from his wounds, snarled and lunged again.
But this time, she was ready.
More crystals formed in her palm. More refined, sharper, as her confidence surged.
She didn't flinch as she hurled them forward—straight into his leg.
He collapsed with a scream.
The fight was over.
Breathless, Merrick wiped the sweat from his brow, his flames flickering before extinguishing entirely. Mira adjusted her grip on her dagger, her gaze flicking to Selka.
The Valkar girl stood frozen, staring at her trembling hands.
"...I did that?" she whispered.
Merrick clapped her on the shoulder, grinning. "Damn right you did."
Outside, the city burned. The war continued.
And this fight was only the beginning.