Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Come on, come on, come on…

The deafening cheers of the crowd rang throughout the streets. A flurry of punches striking the air with the intent to kill. Shouts stemmed from the edge of the ring formed by the people as the boy hit one of the onlookers. They pushed the brunette back into the ring and moved, narrowly missing the strike of his opponent.

“Saps!”, a yell echoed through the crowd. The white-haired man didn’t miss the way the dagger glinted when it caught the light of the old broken lamps that lit the streets. He moved swiftly, jumping back to create distance between him and the brunette. Saparata’s eyes narrowed, fists clenched and guarding against his face. The two men circled each other, gazed fixed and calculating.

“Leive”, the man seemed to disintegrate into the air leaving nothing but a trace of dust where he stood.

‘Ashen blood’, Saparata thought. Blood was the determinant of whether you lived or knelt in this world. Ashen blood was the weakest of the hierarchy but it wasn’t one to be undermined. If one knew how to use the skill then their opponent would be at their mercy. The Ashen could cloak themselves and nullify blood powers if ingested.

A gust of wind subtly brushed past him and he rushed to lunge to his left, missing the dagger that would have slashed his neck had he stayed in the same spot.

“Didn’t take you for a cheat Ciaran.”, Saps spoke softly. His voice was gentle and clashed with the environment he surrounded himself in. It was almost angelic the way he spoke, drawing in the people with his words.

“Shut your fucking mouth, Saparata. We both know that fairness gets us all killed.” Ciaran spat, materializing in front of him with eyes glinting with murderous intent. The white-haired man smiled before sighing. “Let’s end it here Saparata.” Ciaran dashed forward, dagger in his hand as he wildly slashed in Sap’s direction. Saparata moved backwards dodging every attempt made to swipe at him. The brunette was relentless and Saps could feel himself beginning to tire. With a cry, Ciaran drove the dagger forward.

“SHIT!” Saps hissed in pain, his hand holding onto the dagger, to stop it from piercing his heart. He pushed against the dagger, his wound closing up almost instantaneously. For a second, his blood glowed faintly, then dimmed, the crowd seemed not to notice. Except, Ciaran’s eyes widened at the sight.

He mouthed, ‘No way.’

’This can’t go on’ Saparata pulled the brunette closer to him and maneuvered into a position to disarm him. The dagger fell to the floor with a sharp thud. Ciaran struggled against the strong grip that held him down, trying to reach for the weapon that laid on the floor in front of his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Cier.” Saparata whispered only for him to hear before pulling out the small knife in his boot, driving it into the base of his skull leaving him out on the cold hard concrete of the street. He got up and dusted himself off while walking towards the makeshift payout table haphazardly found at the back. The people cleared a way, hushed whispers and cheers combining into one commotion.

Saparata walks away again.

Ah, shit! Can’t believe I bet on that fuckass.

Holy shit! I just made 30 nuggets of gold!

The air hung heavy as Saparata walked across the cracked pavement. “Sidefall.” He softly spoke, holding out his hand.

“Thanks for the show…Saps.”

Glowing green eyes met gold, Sidefall’s eyes gaunt and sharp, almost manic with glee. He placed the gold nuggets into a small brown cloth pouch, tying it off at the top before dropping it heavily onto the winner’s stretched open hand. Saparata pocketed the coins and stepped back into the street. The place was thick with smoke and sweat, the scent of rust heavy in the air. He could still feel the warmth beneath his ribs. A pulse that didn’t quite feel human.

Saparata walked back towards his home, if one could even call it that. It was just a small shack, enough to house him and his property, which mostly consisted of weapons and clothes in a small pack. He peeled off his shirt and pants, bloodied from the fight and stepped into the small area to shower. The water was ice cold, and would run out every once in a while. He turned the knob, silently thanking the gods for running water. He quickly scrubbed his pale unblemished skin and washed his hair that was damp and sweaty. He closed his eyes, recalling the events that led him at this point in his life.

~
A woman slumped to the floor, seeking what refuge the dark alleyway had to offer. She gasped for air, finding the strength to hold her voice steady. “TurnTapp will take care of you, he’ll teach you everything you need to know to survive in the underground.” Sap’s eyes filled with tears as he grasped his mother’s hands, snot and tears dripping onto the cold hard ground his mother lay on. “What will happen to me?” His mother smiled, she brought her hand up to caress his face softly with all the love and gentleness she could muster. “You’ll make it. You have to. Keep us alive Saps”

He still remembered the smell of iron and smoke. The way life slowly drained out of his mother’s previously bright golden brown eyes. A blade rooted deep into his mother’s chest. Its edges glimmered in red, bathed and imbued with the blood of the royals.

Crimson-Forged.

Blood remembers what the world forgets.
~

A loud thud snapped him out of his daze. His head snapped towards the door, quickly turning the knob of the shower shut and reaching for the towel that hung on the cracked wall of the bathroom.

“Hey Saps.” a bright singsong bubbly voice said, making her presence known. Saparata trailed his gaze upwards to the woman leaning against his wall, decked out in dirtied dark pink boots and a long black tattered shirt. Her hair tied back into a ponytail, clearly rushed.

“Madz.” Saps greeted, nodding his head in her direction.

“What are you here for?” he added. Madz never came to visit lest she had something she needed. “TurnTapp sent me, told me I had to deliver a message to his one and only son” she rolled her eyes, fingers held up and curled repeatedly to the word ‘son’, in a mocking manner. But Saps knew that Mads was only being sarcastic. They both grew up with TurnTapp in the underground after all.

TurnTapp was a father figure to him. Sap’s mother and TurnTapp were close for as long as Saparata could remember, he’d been there to change his diapers and taught him how to survive in the underground. It was mostly grit and sheer will that allowed him to do so, with him pushing Saparata to his limits every training session. He had a long way to go to surpass his mentor honestly, even with the power he currently held.

His mentor was a beast of a man. He was an Oxide, that’s what made him so unbearably terrifying, aside from being the leader of the Covenant, one of the most skilled group of fighters in the underground known to be merciless and monstrous. An Oxide had the power to turn themselves into metal. Their skin turning into a shade of silver that would be an absolute beauty if it wasn’t for its capacity to inflict suffering and pain. Accompanied by the skill to change their limbs into any weapon they so desired, it was an unmatched fight between them and the Ashen that lived in the underground.

Saparata titled his head slightly to the side, curiosity evident in his gold eyes.

“What did he say?”

Madzvie’s face turned grim. “The Blood Dominion is coming to the underground, TurnTapp’s worried that there’ll be chaos. We can’t hide this time around Saps, they’re going to flip this place upside down. It’s been 10 years since they’ve last drawn from every single soul down here.”

His blood froze. He could almost feel it turning as cold as ice

Crimson Royals.

The royal bloodline

In a small voice, he slowly spoke, “…and what of me when they find out I don’t belong?” His face contorted into one of worry. He has already built a life for himself here and he wasn’t about to have it all ripped away from him. Saparata heard TurnTapp’s voice in the back of his mind, low and harsh.

“They say only the blood of the royals could kill them, blades were forged in royal blood. Royal Crimson blood. Only their kind can craft such a thing, and only their kind can make it kill.”

He paused then, bitter. “Cruel joke, isn’t it? pure, unadulterated strength. Only Royal Crimson blood can kill what the world can’t.”

“Fitting, isn’t it? Power so absolute, it leaves nothing standing.”

Saparata could never forget that color. It was the shade of the power and victory that the Crimson blood held against them. The shade of his mother’s blood.

His fists clenched by his sides in anger, remembering the way his mother shielded him from the horrors of the world. Of the consequences of blood. They were driven to kneel in the world by the ruling fist of the Dominion.

Madz's face remained unchanged, looking at her fingers as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. But if one looked closer, you’d see that beneath the facade of indifference, you’d see the slight scrunch of her eyebrows in disdain in the face of the dilemma they were about to face.
~

Blood looked different in the crimson towers that laid on the rich soil of the Aculon Capitol. Never was it spilled onto the land, It was stitched into banners, and polished into pieces of art that spoke of the glory of Crimson Royalty. Tall glass windows caught the golden light of the sun, casting fractured warmth across the marble floors and gilded walls. From here, the world looked clean, bright. Untouched by the rot below.

Beyond the palace stretched the vast reaches of TriColor, the largest state on the continent. Its dominion spanned every kind of land:

The lush plains of the Coalition, Aurics

The war-forged plains of Westhelm, Vermillion

And the radiant blood of Aculon itself.

The Crimson Royal blood ruled TriColor with an iron fist, under the watchful eye of Archon Elaneulo. Instilled in the hearts and minds of every Crimson child were the doctrines of the Dominion. It thrived on three core principles.

Power was inherited.

Purity is law.

Mercy corroded empires.

No Crimson royalty embodied these like Fluixon. Crown Heir of Aculon and the Archon’s only son forged from pure blooded lineage. To the heir, discipline was his only religion. Flux believed in the hierarchy as one believes in the inevitability of dawn, it was absolute. It was necessary. His blood burned bright, a living testament to the strength of pure-blooded Crimson lineage.

At his side stood Cynikka, his sister. Clothed in the finest fabric of silk and silence. Her presence cold, eyes calculating. If Fluixon was the blade, Cynikka was its mind. She saw what even the Archon Elanuelo could not. Her sharp tongue commanded obedience from her subjects. They were two halves of a legacy. The heirs of the Crimson Royalty, carefully sculpted by Elanuelo. The epitome of conquest and control.

They stood before the Archon, eyes glued to the carpeted floor. The Archon had suddenly summoned them with no warning.

Elanuelo fixed his gaze upon his two children. His crimson cape flowing like blood, draped across his throne. His gaze lingered a tad bit longer on his son, Fluixon. His weapon. His Heir.

“For years,” the Archon intoned, “the Crimson has been the blade of cleansing. Mercy was never grafted into our veins. The impure will be root-pulled from this soil and buried where no light can find them.” Elanuelo slowly rose to his feet, his footsteps heavy. Almost as if the ground was shaking beneath his feet. His footsteps drew closer, echoing across the room.

“The time has come to cleanse them again.” He declared, a deep growl accompanying his words. “To remind TriColor what flows through our veins. We are born from the heart of war. Pure power, pure rage, and pure control.”

He stopped before his son, the air between them seemed to shift into something darker, ominous, and heavy. Tension hung in the air — Fluixon could feel the expectation of his father though the lack of eye contact. The burden of his lineage. The burden of power.

“Rise son,” Fluixon slowly raised his head, his amethyst eyes meeting that of his father. His dark onyx eyes that gazed upon him were piercing.

It was suffocating.

The silence seemed to stretch between them, and for a moment it seemed like Flux’s heart stopped.

Elanuelo’s next words fell to a whisper, the kind that carried sharper than any shout.

“You will lead the next purge.”

Fluixon’s eyes widened.

“Do this and you will not only be my son…but my legacy.” Elanuelo’s voice was clear, and it echoed throughout the entire chamber. The words struck heavier than any command. The chamber seemed to pulse with the weight of them. The guards lining the walls stiffened, their faces stoic yet uneasy under the Archon’s presence. Even his council, hardened men who’d seen empires burn seemed to falter in their composure. Elanuelo’s gaze lingered on his son, assessing, dissecting. “Make them remember why the Crimson are feared,” he murmured, almost reverently. “Let the soil drink their blood until it forgets their names.”

Fluixon’s breath hitched. “As you command, father.”

A flicker of pride, or perhaps something darker crossed the Archon’s expression before it vanished behind his mask of command. He turned on his heel, the long folds of his crimson cloak dragging across the marbled floor like a slow bleed.

“Cynikka,” he called, voice sharp enough to still the air.

His daughter stepped forward, her poise flawless, head bowed but eyes unwavering.

“You will watch your brother,” Elanuelo said, each word deliberate, heavy. “The fire in his veins burns too bright, and I have seen what comes of untempered light. Should he falter…” He paused, his gaze sliding toward her. It unsettled her seeing that look from her own father, not one of a loving father but that of a ruler ensuring obedience.

“…you will do what must be done.”

Cynikka’s throat tightened, though her expression did not betray her. “Yes, Archon.”

He sank back into his throne, the crimson metal groaning under his weight. One leg crossed over the other with measured ease as he rested his elbow on the armrest, fingers brushing against his temple, a picture of composed dominance and power.
“Good. The Crimson cannot afford weakness. Not from its own heir.”

“You are both dismissed.” he said, voice calm yet carrying the weight of a decree.

Neither Flux nor Cynikka dared to move until his gaze flicked toward them, a silent command sharper than any blade. They bowed in unison, before turning to exit. The heavy doors closed behind them with a thud that resonated throughout the chamber. Leaving the Archon alone with his second in command, the Hand of Archon, Ender.

“Ender.” Elanuelo calmly spoke, his voice carrying the weight of command. The Hand stepped out from the shadows, his face illuminated by the rays of sunlight. “The preparations for the Purge are underway. The information has reached the underground, and I have reason to believe they will evacuate and cause chaos.”

A low hum escaped from Elanuelo’s throat, something between amusement and approval. He leaned back into his throne, his tear-shaped pendant catching the light. “Hm, let them run. No fun in slaughtering your prey when they don’t even put up a fight.”

“My Lord,” Ender began, though hesitant. “What about the Crown Prince? He’s never led the purge before. It may prove to be a testament of his prowess.” Elanuelo’s lips curved, though no warmth reached his eyes.

“That is precisely why he will lead it. Blood untested is blood unworthy.”

He drummed his fingers lightly against the armrest, each tap echoing through the silent chamber. “Fluixon believes power lies in discipline. Let him learn it lies in dominance. And if his own power takes him…”

He paused, gaze distant. As if the thought pleased him.

“…then we will know that his blood burns too weak for my legacy.”

Ender could vividly remember the scene as if it was yesterday. Fluixon at the age of 11 sparring against the head of the Dominion’s militia — Solev.

~
The sound of blades clashed, imbued with the blood of the Crimson-borne. Sparks flew as Fluixon parried the heavy strike of the older man, Solev. He was a veteran soldier, almost three times his size. His strikes were of absolute power, his veins burned slightly of scarlet luminescence, indicating the use of his skill. Blood Surge

“You hesitate, young prince. In battle, no opponent would spare your soul!” Solev dashed forward, Fluixon barely blocking the hit before he was knocked off his feet. Sweat was dripping from every square inch of his body, yet the head of the militia seemed to not break a sweat. “Are you a Crimson Royal? Or have you turned into a regular Crimson?”

Flux’s jaw tightened, his fists clenched at his sides. This was fucking humiliating for him. He gritted his teeth and stood, shifting his feet to drive his blade forward. Solev blocked with practiced ease. “Boy, I can read you like a book the way you’ve struck, parried, and blocked from this fight alone.” Flux screamed in frustration, slashing wildly at his mentor before dropping to his knees on the sandy ground.

High above the balcony, the Archon stood. His gaze cold and calculating. Silent. Unmoving. Elanuelo did not falter as he saw his highborne lose the fight.

“Again.” He muttered, his tone commanding yet holding a strange patience, as if waiting for something inevitable.

Fluixon pushed himself up, his breathing ragged, pulse hammering too loud, too fast. The mood seemed to have shifted, taking on a dark tone. It was different now…there was bloodlust in the air Fluixon obeyed, charging forward with all the strength he could muster, strength rippling through every strike. The fight turned cold, cruel, and merciless. The clash sent Flux sprawling on the ground, Solev’s blade nicking his cheek.

“Pathetic, the blood of Crimson must not be running in his veins. A disgrace. ” Fluixon heard his father mumble under his breath.

Fluixon gritted his teeth in disdain, spitting out blood. ‘I refuse to fail my lineage. I refuse to disgrace the Crimson blood!’

Solev grinned, “You bleed like the rest—”

He didn’t finish. A violent hum tore through the air, cutting him off. One look at the crown prince and his eyes widened. Flux’s veins were bright, turning into a shade of golden blinding luminescent scarlet, the sword he held melting in his grasp until it was no longer steel, but living blood morphing into a scythe, hardened by fury.

Gasps echoed throughout the arena.

The soldier’s grin faltered, “Archon! He’s –”

“Let him burn,” Elanuelo said softly.

Flux moved faster than sight could keep up. One heartbeat the soldier stood, the next he was on the ground pinned into the sand with the scythe. It hit his arm, the pain burned and seared throughout his entire body. It was over in seconds. But Flux didn’t seem to stop, a knife materialized into the palm of his hands, moving to deal the final blow. The fire didn’t stop. It consumed reason, his eyes glowing with an otherworldly amethyst light as he slashed at shadows, the heat of his blood scorching the stone beneath him.

“Enough,” Elanuelo’s voice cut through the chaos.

Flux froze, his body trembling, smoke rising from his skin. Perhaps he listened not out of choice, but because something deeper and older had already written the moment. The Crimson bloodline doesn’t choose. It remembers.

The Archon descended the steps, boots echoing through the silence. He stopped before the boy, studying the still-burning veins that glowed like cracks in porcelain.
“Control it,” Elanuelo said. “Or it will consume you. And I will not save you from yourself.”

Flux’s voice came out hoarse, trembling. “Father, I—”

Elanuelo’s hand came down hard on his son’s shoulder. Not in comfort, but in claim. His grip burned like iron through cloth, fingers digging deep enough to bruise.

“Is that all the Crimson fire you can muster?” he hissed, voice low, sharp enough to send his nerves scrambling in fear. “Stand, boy. Show me that the blood I gave you isn’t wasted.”

Fluixon’s muscles trembled beneath the Archon’s hand. Pain seared, breath hitched, but the ember within him flared. The more his father pressed, the hotter the flame clawed to the surface. Elanuelo leaned closer, his breath cold against his ear. “Pain is proof of power. Control it, or be consumed by it.”

When Flux finally collapsed, the Archon released him, his gaze lingering not with pity, but with dark satisfaction. “Good,” he murmured, turning away.

“Let it hurt. Only then will you learn what strength truly costs.”
~

Chapter Text

The Archon of Aculon was pleased with himself. Few men could claim to have shaped power with their own hands…and fewer still could call it blood of their blood.

He had sired a child that even the chronicles of old would call myth. Fluixon was proof that the Crimson lineage had not yet dulled. He was strength incarnate, the kind of heir that could burn a kingdom or forge an empire with a single command.

Fluixon was written in the old scrolls.

It was whispered upon the old scrolls tucked away in the deepest library of the Aculon castle. A phenomenon of raw, uncontrolled power that only manifested itself in a select few. A power so rare it could burn entire battalions and civilizations all at once. For centuries, it has been dismissed as a legend, for no man had seen it in the past few. Elaneuelo knew better. He had seen with his own eyes the power his son harnessed, for it far surpassed his own. The golden scarlet that illuminated his veins, and the sheer strength of his presence was undeniably suffocating for a child of such age.

Fluixon was his masterpiece.

His power was a gift reserved only for those whose blood ran pure, it no longer recognized even the slightest sliver of restraint.
He was a sure force to be reckoned with once he harnessed his power to its full potential. Pride curled at the edge of Elanuelo’s lips as he gazed out the obsidian windows at his soldiers, seemingly preparing for the Purge that was about to happen in due time.

‘It would be a tragedy,’ Elanuelo mused, ‘if such potential were lost to the very fire that made him.’

Yet, perhaps that was the nature of true power. To consume as it is created. After all, it had been decades since a Crimson royal could push beyond mortal restraint, bearing that amount of power in his blood. This time, Elanuelo would make sure that the power would not consume his heir , not until he has carved his dominion into the bones of the world and exterminated every impurity roaming the land. It was his to use, to command, to control.

“Archon, we’re awaiting your command.” a gruff voice said from the entrance, impatience threading through the soldier’s tone.

“Calm yourself, Solev. Fluixon will do well, he knows to do so.” Elanuelo’s lips quirked up into a small smirk. It was eerie how the Archon’s voice was steadily calm.

“Set out at sunrise. Leave no impure blood in the midst of TriColor.” he commanded, the words slicing through the silence. No trace of mercy, no hint of hesitation. The Archon lived by conviction, forged in principle and ruled by the duty to cleanse.

No scum will walk in TriColor’s soil as long as I live.

In the training field, in the east wing of the palace, the air was thick with tension. The crown prince of Aculon and the princess Cynikka can be spotted. They looked regal, adorned in the finest garments and jewels Aculon had in their vaults. They were every inch of perfection their father demanded. Fluixon’s eyes burned with a heavy desire to fulfill and uphold the Dominion’s creed. The weight of responsibility for the Purge weighed on his shoulders. He would prove himself worthy of the blood that ran in his veins. To fail was not an option, to be a disgrace to his father’s reign would be heresy to the Blood Dominion.

Beside him, Cynikka adjusted the clasp of her armor, her expression unreadable. She had seen this before, the hunger in her brother’s eyes, the way he mistook obedience for purpose. “Do you seek glory,” she murmured, not looking at him, “or absolution?”

Flux gripped the hilt of his Dussack blade tightly, gritting his teeth, his bangs casting a shadow over his eyes. Behind the shadow, you’d see fury brewing quietly, trying to maintain its containment. Lethality was the essence of those amethyst eyes. He loved his sister. Truly. Her brilliance, her precision, her ability to see ten moves ahead. But gods, how he hated that she could read him like a book. Every hesitation, every crack in his armor. She saw it all, and it infuriated him.

Loud footsteps halted his train of thought, Solev walking toward them, an air of arrogance surrounding him. His armor clanked softly as he moved to bow to Fluixon. “Prince, the Dominion troops of the tenth sector await your command. The men look to words before we set out at sunrise.” His voice was steady, reverberating through the walls of the training field. Solev turned his head to face Cynikka. His head bowed, acknowledging her presence, “Princess Cynikka, the Archon has tasked you personally to lay out the assault.”

The Aculon siblings nodded, eyes shining with duty.

Fluixon’s gaze flicked towards his sister, a small smile working its way to his face in dark amusement.

‘Cynikka always did love to plan and toy with the minds of her prey.’ She didn’t just draw plans, she bled them onto parchment. Every route she charted, every soldier she stationed, she embodied cruelty — precise, elegant, and merciless.

Fluixon composed himself with a deep breath before he stepped forward, the hushed whispers of the crowd slowly dissipating into silence.

“Brothers. Sisters. Blood of the Dominion.” Fluixon began, his presence made known to the soldiers under his command. The silence stretched, the mood shifted to one of domineering pressure.

“For centuries, our veins have carried the weight of conquest, and the will to cleanse. We were not made for mercy, mercy is the language of the weak. We are the architects of order. The Dominion does not beg, it commands. Today, we purge not for vengeance, but for necessity. The impure rot beneath us, festering, daring to forget who reigns above.

But we will remind them. Through steel. Through fire. Through blood.

Our creed is loyalty. Our doctrine, purity. And our purpose…absolute control.

You will not falter. You will not question. You will become the Dominion’s will”

His next words came out like a vow, the fury in his eyes now sculpted into resolve.

“For every drop of impure blood spilled, TriColor is cleansed. Every corpse will lead us closer to purifying the nation.”

As Fluixon’s final words echoed through the courtyard, the soldiers roared in unison, their fists pounding against their chests in a rhythm that shook the ground. The air pulsed with fervor, fanatic and unyielding. Before the echo faded, Cynikka’s clear, commanding voice cut through the deafening chaos like a blade.

“Commanders. Captains. Inside.” she ordered, turning on her heel toward the grand war chamber. The great iron doors of the strategium loomed ahead, etched with the sigil of the Dominion.

One by one, the leaders filed in, Solev, Turkey, Crow. Their heads heal high, their armor clinking in grim harmony. The map of TriColor was sprawled across the massive obsidian table, marked with crimson ink where the Underground ran deepest. The princess stood at its head, her expression carved in steel.

“The Archon has given the command,” she began, her tone devoid of warmth. “We move at sunrise. The Underground will burn before the sun rises.”

The leaders nodded, they too believed that the Crimson were on top of the chain. The reign of the Aculon doctrine absolute. The leaders sat in their respective seats, turning to Cynikka for the plan of assault. She placed five chess pieces on the board, symbolizing each leader and of course, her and Flux. Her gaze swept over the officers — Crow, Turkey, Solev. Each a different breed of loyal cruelty. Then to Fluixon, sitting to her right, shoulders straight and eyes aflame with contained energy.

“We will divide the operation into four arms,” Cynikka continued. “The Dominion will descend through Sectors One through Eight. The objectives are as follows.”
She pointed to the map of the Underground, a large civilization with numerous tunnels and passages branching out.

“Crow, you lead the testing units. Every captive is to be screened. A single syringe drawn per subject. If the blood runs normal for their class, they are returned to the line. If anomalies appear…”

She paused, letting the word sink in.

“…red tag. Execute immediately. No transport, no trial.”

Crow nodded once, his lip curling in something between respect and hunger.

“Turkey, you take the flanking lines. Seal every escape route from the upper passages. Smoke them out if you must. I want the tunnels to breathe only Dominion air.”
Turkey grinned, his knuckles tightening on his gauntlet. “A pleasure.”

“Flux, you and your men will secure the lower tunnels. The Thera arteries and the old transport routes. No one escapes beneath your watch. You will coordinate with Solev for communication and extraction.”

Flux inclined his head, voice steady. “Understood.”

“Solev, your task is oversight,” Cynikka said, her tone softening only slightly. “You will keep an eye on the Prince. Should the Overburn stir, you are to contain it. By any means necessary.”

Solev’s jaw tightened, but he nodded. “As you command.”

Cynikka placed her own piece on the table, the map was complete with their planned posts, showing marked checkpoints and execution fields. “These zones will serve as testing circles. Blood will be drawn and catalogued. Each sample will be read by color code. You know the classifications.”

The leaders hummed in response, of course they knew. This wasn’t their first rodeo. Many people in the Underground either successfully evaded the dominion or were lucky enough to have survived the purge in the last few years.

There was the Crimson, the deep, dark blood of the Dominion. Only the Royals had the illuminated hue blood that gleamed faintly under flame, a living badge of power, them holding high positions in their own society. They ruled from the spires, their light burning down upon everyone else.

Westhelm, the iron district, was built on discipline and order. Its people carried the Vermillion, a diluted red still close enough to the Dominion’s blood to matter. Soldiers, enforcers, and artisans of war.

Across the divide lay the Coalition, gilded and deceptive. The Aurics ran its trade routes, their golden blood gleaming as bright as their coins. They financed the Dominion’s control, claiming autonomy while living under the same leash. It was funny how easily the coalition was corrupt, but no one could prove it to be so.

And then, beneath all of it — the Underground.
The Ashen, whose blood had lost its color generations ago.
The Oxide, rusted-red descendants of failed unions between districts.
And the Half-bloods, otherwise known as Verdants were anomalies who never belonged anywhere above.

“Verdants. Immediate red tag. Also watch for those blood that illuminate, they are a threat to the order of TriColor.” They all nodded, agreeing with her sentiment. The Crimson blood were all thirsty for blood to be spilt. It has been ten years since the last purge after all. It was an unsettling sight to behold, men smiling for the sole reason of causing death and misery to its own people.

“Kill all who flee,” Cynikka added flatly. “Flight is guilt. Their fear betrays them before their blood does.”

The officers exchanged glances, silent in approval. Even Flux did not flinch, though something stirred behind his eyes.

“Your records will be transported to the Thera Circle,” she finished. “There, the final tallies will be consolidated and the report prepared for the Archon himself. No error. No hesitation. The Dominion must see order restored.”

Her tone turned colder, chilling the air. “Failure will not be recorded. It will be erased.”

A moment of silence followed.

Flux finally broke the quiet. “And what of the tunnels that extend past Thera?” he asked. “The old districts aren’t charted. We could lose men if we push too deep.”

Cynikka’s gaze met his. “Then we remind them that loss is the Dominion’s currency. We spend lives to buy purity.”

A smirk graced the Crown Prince's face. It was the kind of smile that had been honed on the training field and duels he’d won.

Confident.

Hungry.

Practiced.

Around the table, the captains answered with curt nods. Crow’s lip curled, Turkey’s fingers tightened on his gauntlet, and Solev’s jaw went hard. The room went still. Solev’s gaze shifted between the siblings, one a wildfire barely contained, the other ice shaped into precision. Together they were the perfect echo of their father’s intent. Destruction manifested in form and order.

Cynikka turned to the officers one last time. “Form your units and ready your weapons. By the next sunrise, the Underground will bleed clean.”

She dismissed them with a single motion of her hand.

As the generals filed out, Flux lingered, eyes still on the map, its maze-like appearance was mapped out in red ink. “You’ve planned this too perfectly,” he said quietly, a satisfied grin on his face. Cynikka glanced up at him, unreadable. “Perfection is what Father expects.”

Flux let out a short breathy laugh, his lips forming a faint, brittle smile. “Then we’ll give him nothing less.”
~
Far below, the scent of rust and the heaviness of the moist damp air clung in the air. TurnTapp ran his hands through his hair, wrinkling his nose in disgust. In the middle of the room, a small narrow wooden table was positioned, six figures standing around the table. Benji, Sitzkrieg, and Korulein.

Benji, a retired medic. He was of Auric blood, fleeing his home into the underground. He faked his death, faked his records all to escape with his half-blooded lover. Alas, the Dominion’s reach was long, and mercy had no place in their doctrine. She was caught during the second Purge, her blood illuminating under the syringe’s pull, bright enough to mark her as an anomaly. They made him watch.

He never forgot the color.

A soft vermillion-gold.

It was neither pure nor impure, a hue that shouldn’t have existed. When her body fell limp, something in him fractured. Since then, Benji had sworn that no one would bleed like that again.

Now, deep in the tunnels, he tended to the sick and the children. Those who were deemed born wrong in the Dominion’s eyes. His hands still shook when he changed bandages, but his voice remained steady. The others looked to him as the quiet pillar of the underground, the man who could save lives without ever needing to draw a weapon.

“Benji, nice to see you alive and well.” TurnTapp turned his gaze to the man in white, silently showing his gratitude for attending the meeting. Benji acknowledged his sentiment with a small smile.

“I hope to stick around TurnTapp, the people need me.” he said, his voice cracking. Tiredness was woven into his words, the emotional toll of his actions seeping in. A voice cut through the somber mood, “We need to protect our own.” All eyes locked in on the person who spoke, his feet dragging on the floor, making his way to grab a chair to sit on.

Sitzkrieg was a half-blood himself, growing up in the streets of Thera, the capital of the Underground. He was born with the curse of divided blood, Ashen and Crimson, a mixture that branded him impure before he could even speak. His mother died during childbirth from the poor conditions of the Underground. His father was a deserter from the Dominion, left him nothing but a name and a knife before slitting his throat to accompany his lover in the afterlife.

In the Underground, Sitkrieg could count more corpses he’d seen than the stars that could be found outside of Thera. He learned that survival was not granted, it was taken in these parts. Children dying because of their lineage, the Dominion calling them filth. Sitzkrieg was a man molded by his desire to cause chaos to those who ruled. If rage was incarnated in the form of a man, it would be him. Their eyes flicked to their strategist.

Leaning against the wall was a woman. Her dirty blonde hair tussled and braided. “Korulein, status update?”

She pushed herself off the wall, moving towards the table, in her hands was a scroll containing the map of Thera drawn out by hand. Each tunnel, each passage, each vein. It would all serve its purpose.
Korulein had once been a captain in Westhelm’s militia, serving under the Dominion banner with blind faith.

She had followed orders.

Burned villages.

Executed deserters.

Until the day she refused.

The Dominion branded her a traitor, sent her own men to kill her. She killed them instead. Since then, she had disappeared into the tunnels, her only choice of surviving was down in the Underground. Where loyalty was measured not by bloodline, but by survival. She knew that if she went in, she would never come back out alive, and no Dominion would step foot in such a place to find her.

“We need to act fast.” Her tone was clipped, urgency in her voice. Korulein slammed the map down, charcoal dust puffing up like smoke. “If they flip the egress nets, the city becomes a coffin. We take the people deeper now, while they have yet to breech our home.”

The egress nets was the sole reason as to how one could enter Thera, but be killed once they leave. It was a sensor designed by the militia of the Blood Dominion to detect those guilty.

To flee was guilt after all.

When the purge starts, the Dominion would flip the egress nets, allowing the mass slaughter of Thera, yet allowing the Dominion to leave unscathed. It was a sick mechanism. Once the purge was over, the sensors would lock and invert their polarity, turning every exit into a death sentence.

“Protect the half-bloods,” Korulein said next, the word like a curse. “The Dominion got the order, there’s no mercy. They’ll brand the children, the old, anyone with two bloodlines. They’ve been saving their cruelty for this.” Benji’s hand clenched, his jaw tightened in anger. “Which routes are we taking? The safest? Have they been mapped out?” Korulein pointed to the map again, to a cluster of lines that were drawn.

“Already mapped,” she said, voice low as a prayer. “This one is for the children. There are three false rooms near the cistern on the lower vent. One’s a dead trap, filled with carbon monoxide, two have air. Anyone who comes by will think they’re at a dead end” Benji nodded, a determined look on his face.

“If anything goes wrong, there is a passageway hidden beneath the rubble, to a small cavern, that’s where we’ll stash them.” Benji’s jaw set. He moved like someone carrying a promise. “I’ll take the smallest first,” he said. “The ones who shuffle in their sleep. They’re lighter to carry. I’ll have the others follow close”

Turntapp’s voice suddenly filled the room. “My units are ready,” he said “A squad can go with the children—”

“No.” Korulein’s voice cut him off sharply. “We can’t have too many people. It would draw attention. Have your men on standby to hold off at Sector 3A.”

TurnTapp nodded, though he stood firm. “I insist Madzvie goes with Benji. At least a single person armed with combat in case that there’d be a need to hold the Dominion off. She’s stealthy. She would lead them away.” Korulein sighed before agreeing with TurnTapp.

They had to keep the children safe.

“The other units dispatched here,” she points at the map, marking it with the grime under her nails. “Sector 6C, West Vein, and the Lower Vents here. Have the TripleLion on the Lower Vents, no Dominion blood should get through.”

“Sitzkrieg, you men should be stationed on the East, We’ll be evacuating the others there. Sector 5B, Sector 5A, East Vein, and the Entrance to the North Grate.”

Sitzkrieg laughed. Short, hollow, and dangerous enough to tilt the room’s air.

“You’re wasting mercy,” he spat, each word a small blade. “The Dominion deserves worse than mercy. They burn our neighborhoods, hang our names in the square, brand children like livestock—” he glared at the blonde. There was no subtlety in the hatred that poured off him. It had the cruelty of a thing that had been nursed for years. “I don’t want parades or speeches. I want blood. I want their banners torn down and their officers hung from the sluices. They call us filth! I’ll show them what filth can do.”

Korulein’s brow didn’t move, but the corner of her mouth twisted. TurnTapp’s hand tightened its grip on the armrest of his seat. Benji paled and looked away, but there was no denying it. The medic knew they needed fighters like Sitzkrieg, even if the thought of what he wanted made the children’s cries sound louder in his head.

Sitzkrieg’s nostrils flared, rage evident on his face. “You ask me to tuck my hatred into my sleeve while our children are to be slaughtered?” His tone was incredulous. “I can’t pretend to be patient. I will not bury myself under your prudence.”

“Send me the worst of their squads,” he said. “Crow. Turkey. I’ll grind them into the ground. I’ll make the underground a furnace they remember.”

TurnTapp met his gaze and, after a beat, nodded. “Hold the flank and don’t waste lives needlessly,” he warned. “We want scars that tell a story, not a graveyard that tells nothing.”

Sitzkrieg’s grin was a blade. “I don’t do nothing.”

The strategist hummed in approval.

"We have no eyes, no ears, and no mercy from above,” Korulein said, voice steady as she pushed another charcoal line across the map. “We have only each other and the bones of the city. That will have to be enough.”

They talked longer now, trading routes and contingencies in low, urgent voices. Charcoal scratches mapped false trails and choke points. Korulein pointed out dead shafts to collapse, Sitzkrieg boasted of ambushes he’d set in the rock, and TurnTapp annotated when and where he and his men would stand to take the blow. Benji listed the supplies he could carry. Madzvie rehearsed the routes over and over. Each exchange cut a little more certainty into the plan, memorizing it till it burned into their skull.

Korulein folded the map and slid it back into her sleeve. “Remember the egress nets,” she warned. “They only watch outward motion until Purge Mode. No one attempts to climb and escape, we have no advantage in the upper grounds. You bury. You hide. You do not attempt the surface.”

A hush fell, thick and purposeful. Each of them stored the instructions in the parts of themselves that could act without thinking. Korulein handed Benji a crumpled paper balled up into her fist.

“Coordinates on all the hideouts. Remember Benji, we have talked about routes and where to hide the Verdants.”

TurnTapp rose, the scrape of his boots on stone sounding like a drum. “Let’s move now. Saps, ring the alarm bell in 30 minutes. Benji, take the children first. Sitzkrieg, wait for my signal. When the smoke hits the eastern vents, you move.”

They split into the tunnels like blood through stone, each step measured, each heart a drum keeping time with the city’s unsteady breath.

Hurried light footsteps followed TurnTapp as he exited the building. He suddenly stopped in his tracks, Saparata's voice was unusually louder in anger.

"You're fighting, and I'm just supposed to ring a bell and sit on the sidelines?"

The Covenant leader turned to face his boy. "No. I'm keeping you safe, you stay with Madz and hide the children and the other Verdants."

His breath hitched, taking on a much louder and vexed tone. "So I'm just supposed to hide?"

“I’m sending you to live,” TurnTapp snapped, stepping closer. The flickering light caught the lines in his face. Scars, reminders of too many battles fought in the dark.

“Your blood… it’s different. You know that. You bleed too bright for this battle. If they see it, if they smell it, they’ll hunt you before they hunt the rest.”

He finally met TurnTapp’s gaze. There was defiance there, but also fear. “You think I’m weak?”

“I think you’re what’s left,” TurnTapp said quietly. “And what’s left must learn when to survive, not just when to fight.”

Silence hung heavy between them.

TurnTapp rested a hand on the boy’s shoulder, his grip steady but firm. “Keep your head low. Keep your blood unseen. If anything happens, you follow Madzvie’s lead. She knows the paths. And Saparata…”

The boy looked up again, the lamplight glinting in his eyes.

“…if you’re ever cornered, don’t bleed.”

Saparata swallowed hard and nodded. “Understood.”

TurnTapp gave a single nod in return, the kind that meant more than any farewell. Then he turned toward the echoing corridors of the upper tunnels, where war waited. Behind him, the boy’s whisper barely reached the air.

“Come back alive, please.”
~
“Thomas,” a soft beckoning call from inside the tent

The tent smelled of oil and iron and the faint, bitter tang of sweat. Flux rolled over on his cot and found his oldest friend propped against a crate, a chipped mug in one hand and the other worrying the frayed edge of a map.

Thomas looked up, the candlelight catching the hollows of his face. “You called?”'

Flux sat with his boots still on, fingers tracing the rim of his mug that was handed to him. Outside, the distant thud of marching of the soldiers on patrol could be heard through the canvas of the tent. “Can I speak straight?” he asked.

“Always,” Thomas said. He set the map down and gave Flux the small, steady look that had kept the prince from doing anything dumber than necessary since they were young little boys.

Flux swallowed. The words came out jagged. “I’m…worried” He hated that it sounded like a confession. “Not about the men or the plan. About me.” He clenched his fists as if he could wring the thought out of his fingers. “Every duel, every drill, every training session that knocked sense into me…I’ve walked through it. This feels different. Heavier. Like the weight of everything I was raised to be...everything built me up to get to this point but… ”

Thomas watched him, silent but unblinking.

“It’s the Overburn,” Flux admitted, the word a taste he couldn’t spit clean. “It’s been a shadow my whole life. I train to keep it tame, to keep it contained, but what if it doesn’t listen? What if it rips me open on the field and the men I lead watch their prince become an ember?” He laughed then, a short, bitter sound. “I don’t know if I can bear them seeing that. It’s weak, some prince I am not able to control myself. Father has always said it was a hindrance that kept me from his throne.”

“You won’t let it,” Thomas said, the certainty in his voice doing some small thing for Flux’s chest. Still, Flux heard no lie in it. Only fierce loyalty.

The next admission was softer. “If I fail. If I falter in front of him. What am I then? What will become left of me? He said I’d be his legacy. I can feel him watching the shape of me, testing me. I can’t be the one to disappoint him.” The words twisted like a blade, shame and desire braided together. Pride, and the fear that all he’s done, all he’s become will never be enough.

Thomas shifted, the crate creaking. “You’re not what he says you are, Flux. You’re what you choose to be when no one’s watching.” He reached out, resting the palm of his hand on the prince’s shoulder, grasping it tightly in reassurance.

“You’re not alone in it.”

Flux closed his eyes for a long moment. The tent went small and private, the noises of anxiety became distant.

“There’s another thing,” he said finally, and the voice sank so low Thomas had to lean in. “Stories. Old ones. About a lineage whose blood glowed in the dark. People who bleed strangely when cut, like the purest of silver trapped under skin.”

Thomas scrunched his eyebrows, it has always been the stories made up by their ancestors. He didn’t think that the stories were anything true, probably just stories to scare people into submission and avoid conflict.

“They said we hunted them until there was none left. The glow was corruption, a threat to order.”

He knew the story. Everyone in Aculon knew only enough to be afraid of the horrors, enough to pass the fear along.

“Old tales,” he said, but his voice held the same tremor Flux felt. “My mother told me once about a village where they allegedly burned down to reign supreme. The Dominion saved everyone. The last of them were put to the sword. No one speaks their name now.”

Flux nodded. “They said it needed killing. That’s why we test. That’s why they’ll slit an arm in the plaza without a thought. If anything like that shows up again, the Purge becomes absolute.”
Thomas’s hand tightened on his mug. “All the more reason we watch each other,” he said. “And all the more reason you don’t go alone where the fire runs hot.”

Flux let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “I don’t plan to.”

He pushed his boots off and set them neatly as he’d been taught.

“If it does happen,” he whispered, “and I lose the reins, if I burn… Do what you must.”

Thomas’s eyes snapped up, fierce and glowing with passion.

“No. I’ll drag you back home to your father if I must. You will not perish, my prince. Not while I breathe.”

Flux stared at the wavering candle of the lantern sitting on the crate. He looked at Thomas and, in the small chamber of light, let himself trust the man who had been his shadow since childhood.

“No. Promise me, Thomas.” he said, the air carrying his stern whisper through the air. “If I change. If the Overburn consumes me. Keep the others safe.”

It was a vow that drew shaky breaths between them.

Brother to brother.

Chapter Text

Clang! Clang! Clang!

The bell’s cry pierced through the air, thick and mournful, as if calling upon the living to rest their souls. Its note echoed through the underground, unyielding.

Cold.

Metallic.

It lingered through the air. No matter how Saparata’s stomach turned and twisted in anticipated horror, he couldn’t stop. Not now when the lives of the people were at stake. Not now when the lives of the people were depending on him.

The residents of the underground were split, some who didn’t have to worry because of pure lineage, whilst others scurrying through the roads and alleys in hopes of evading the Dominion’s wrath.

The tunnels groaned with movement, boots and slippers slapping against stone, the hurried drag of sacks and makeshift carts, the stifled cries of children being hushed by the trembling hands of their loved ones. The air was a damp mix of sweat, smoke, and fear, heavy enough to taste.

It was sickening.

Slowly, the pale hands that held the rope of the bell on top of the high tower in the city stopped in its movement. The snowy haired man’s hands falling to his sides. It was absolutely heartbreaking what the people of Thera had to go through all for the morbid conviction of the people above.

Crimson. Vermillion. Aurics…they were all the same.

All involved in varying degrees of heinous acts disguised as divine order. It was ridiculous, all for a fucking belief that they were better than everyone else, that no one but them had the right to decide whether people lived or died.

Saparata clenched his jaw, pushing himself to walk down the tower even faster, even as his eyes burned. He needed to get to the people below…to Madz.

The Dominion called it purification, preservation of purity, but there was nothing pure about smoke that carried the cries of children. Nothing divine about the flame that swallowed the helpless.

“Move it, people!” Madzvie’s voice boomed through the crowd. “Down in the lower vents, follow closely.”

It was a mix of people from different lineages. All hoping to live to see another day, even if it meant suffering in the lonely caverns of the underground.

Down below in the lower vents, the tunnels grew narrower, slick with wet mud, the air heavy. The deeper they went, the more frantic the pace became. Half-blooded families pressed together. Their faces streaked with dirt, eyes wide with terror, whispering prayers that had long since lost their gods. The older ones guided the young, the sick leaned on the strong, and the strong pretended not to tremble.

Benji pulled out his map and the crumpled paper Korulein had given to him, trying to make out the numbers written. This section of the cave would diverge into several small tunnels and passageways.

“Ioppenheimer, take Tunnel XIIa, there will be 3 passageways thereafter, don’t take any of them. Lead the people towards the area that slopes down, be careful. Then to the hidden passage, you know where it is”

Ioppenheimer tipped his hat up, eyes darting to the ceiling where dust rained down from above, illuminated by their lanterns. “Understood,” he said, voice rough from the air in the cave. “And you?”

Benji folded the map, sliding it into the inner pocket of his coat. “We’ll take XIIe, and make use of the cavern beneath the rubble. We hope that we’ll be able to kill off some of them in the trapped rooms” His gaze flicked toward the families huddled near him, faces pale, children clutching whatever scraps they could carry.

Ioppenheimer gave a curt nod before disappearing into the hidden location, ushering the people to follow him.

The medic sighed before reaching out for the luminara crystal inside his pocket, a crystal device that Madz had crafted using her Auric lineage, activating it with a small chant. “Madz, we’re full. We can’t harbor anymore people here…we’re nearing the depths.”

Silence was heard…until static. “Copy. Fuck, Benji. I’m gonna have to lead the others to the East Vein where SitzKrieg is.”

“But the peo—”

“I’m leaving Saps to you. And, No— TurnTapp doesn’t know, he’d flip his head upside down searching for Saparata…so not a single word of this reaches him.” Madz’s voice was firm, leaving no room for any arguments. Benji let out a sigh, not willing to squabble with Madzvie. She knows the Underground like the back of her hand after all.

Madzvie muttered a small chant under her breath, connecting her to the brute. She asked Sitzkrieg if they had more room to keep the other Verdants safe, voice urgent. A static sound reached their ears, “Section 5A and East Vein still has room. My units have vacated the half-bloods in the area, we’re hoping we have everyone.” SitzKrieg’s gruff voice announced.

“Okay. Copy.” Their connection ended, returning the connection to Benji. She informed him of the current shift in plan, before bidding him a goodbye.

“And Madz…” a hum could be heard through the luminara crystal. “Don’t you dare die…or Ioppenheimer would have my head on a stake.”

Madz just laughed in response, “He’d have to die a million lifetimes to get rid of me. Oh, and tell Korulein. I have to break the news to a swarm of panicked people.”

She turned to the people at the entrance of the cave, she had to put on a front. A brave face in front of the citizens who had fear and panic etched on their faces.

A deep breath was taken before letting out the dreaded words.

“This location is full, we need to move towards the East Vein near Section 6 now.”

As expected, panic ensued. Children were sobbing in fear, their guardians reaching out to hug and shush them gently. The people whispered in urgency, some accepting their fate to the Dominion, some in prayer…and most cursing out the evil that was the Blood Dominion.

Korulein’s voice cut through the chatter from the luminara crystal. “Madz,” she said without preamble “The East Vein has three tunnels to a cave system you can use. Tunnel 6A leads to a cave wide enough for the children, Tunnel 6C has that collapsed mineshaft so you could use to lose them, and Tunnel 6E runs behind the old maintenance pumps. And The North Grate—“

“A death sentence.” Madz cut her off. She had explored the East Vein before as a young child who’d been abandoned by her parents. She seemed to always have a thirst for adventure and it finally paid off.

Tunnel A was a fucking death trap in itself, dripstone lined every corner of the cave, the entire ceiling covered by it. One wrong move could send them raining down, finishing them for good.
The Underground’s strategist hummed in agreement, her next words taking on a dark turn. “Use that to your advantage, Madz. Farewell.”

Madz let out a string of curses. She can’t falter, not when there are people depending on her for their safety.

Saparata’s boots struck the wet stone as he rounded the corner, his breath ragged from running through the labyrinth of tunnels. The faint glow of the dim yellow lamps flickered off the damp walls, throwing shards of light across the chaos.

People were everywhere.

Mothers clutching children, men hauling sacks of necessities, the sick dragged on stretchers fashioned from wire and cloth.

He spotted Madzvie near the entrance, shouting orders, her voice fierce enough to slice through the panic. “Keep your heads and voices down! You guys there!” , she points to a group of children who were dressed in dirty rags. will continue on this path to Tunnel XIIa first. Benji’s already there!”

“Madz!” Saparata’s voice rose over the clamor. She turned sharply, her hair whipping over her shoulder. For a fleeting second, relief flashed across her face before it hardened into resolve.

“You’re late,” she said, though her tone lacked bite.

“Got caught in Section 6B,” he panted. “TurnTapp had me reroute the last of the families. What’s the status?”

She nodded toward the far end of the tunnel where the noise thinned into an eerie hum. “Benji’s in there. There’s too many of them, Saps. I have to get the others to the East Vein where Sitzkrieg is. You take the children.”

“Madz, No.” Saparata said quickly, “ You can’t. You stay here and I’ll–”

She shook her head, firm, the dim light catching on the thin metal band around her wrist. “You’ll stay here. These kids need someone they trust, someone calm. The moment I leave, they’ll start panicking if no one holds them together. You’re good with them, Saps.”

He frowned, the words catching in his chest. “You can’t go out there alone.”

A wry grin flickered at the edge of her mouth. “I won’t be alone. The East Vein knows me. Those tunnels and I grew up together.” Her voice softened, almost wistful. “Besides, you and I both know I can move faster without a trail behind me. I’ll be able to lose the Dominion if they ever chase me”

He looked at her, at the grime streaked on her cheek, the sweat glinting at her temple, the fire in her eyes that refused to die. The sound of the bell had stilled yet it still haunted the air behind, its echoes mingling with either the harsh breathing or the quiet sobs of the children.

“Madz…” His voice dropped, low and rough. “Just…don’t do anything reckless.”

Her smile faltered, replaced by something tender. “Reckless is the only language we’ve got left, isn’t it?” She took a step closer, their chests nearly touching.

“Keep them safe, Saps. You know what happens if the Dominion reaches the vents before we clear out.”

“I’ll get them to the lower caverns, I promise. No one will be left behind.”

She held his gaze for a heartbeat longer, then reached out and squeezed him tight, encasing him in a hug. It was brief, but it burned. A touch that carried every unspoken word they didn’t have time for.

“I’ll hold you to that,” she murmured, and then she turned to the crowd.

“Everyone! We’re heading to the East Vein, follow me! Keep your lights low and your mouths shut. Sound carries!”

The crowd at the entrance surged into motion again as she disappeared into the horde. The sound of their footsteps heard echoing in the underground.

Saparata lingered for a moment, staring at the spot where she’d once stood. Then he exhaled, shaking off the ache in his chest, and turned back to the task before him.

“Alright, little ones,” he called out, clapping his hands once. “Let’s keep moving. Benji’s waiting down in the tunnels. We've got a whole cavern just for us.”

The children obeyed, clutching at each other, eyes wide but trusting. The line began to move forward once more, and Saparata forced himself to focus, to bury the dread clawing at the back of his throat.

The children needed him.

~

Meanwhile, in the heart of Thera’s capital, a faint haze curled above the cracked stones of what had once been a park. The air here was stagnant. Smelling of old iron, earth, and forgotten dreams. Broken benches lined the circular clearing, their metal frames eaten away by rust. A few dim lamps flickered unevenly, their glow casting long, crooked shadows over the dirt floor.

TurnTapp stood at the center, his armor dull under the light, his face unreadable. Korulein approached from the edge, the tails of her coat brushing the ground, her expression tight.

“They’re moving,” she said. “The bells have cleared the lower sectors. Madz is leading the East Vein evacuation.”

He nodded once. “Good. And Saparata?”

“He’s arrived at the lower vents, watching over the children.”

TurnTapp exhaled, slow and steady. “Tell Madz to return to the vents. Do not leave Saps alone in any circumstance.”

Korulein hesitated, her eyes flicking to the patch of soil near his boots. A square of ground darker than the rest, carved faintly with runic lines. She sighed, shifting the topic instead. “The smoke plants have been placed. Are your men set at the choke points?”

“Yes. Some of Sitzkrieg’s people are with them. They’ll hold as long as they can.”

“The smoke,” she said quietly, “what if it draws the Dominion toward the refugees instead of away?”

“It won’t.”

Her gaze hardened. “And if they trace it?”

“They’ll assume sabotage,” he replied, crouching to run a gloved hand through the soil. “Sitzkrieg will read the signal for what it is. He’ll move the rest before the Dominion breaches the inner sections of Thera’s underground system.”

Korulein’s jaw tightened. “You’re gambling with more than smoke, TurnTapp. It’s life or death down here.”

He looked up at her then, the faint light catching in the dark obsidian of his eyes. “That’s all we’ve got left…chance and grit. Nothing else ever saved anyone down here.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The flicker of the lamps painted their faces in shades of rust and shadow. Somewhere above, the pipes groaned like the world itself was straining to breathe.

Korulein crossed her arms, her voice low and edged. “You don’t get to play the hero. Not tonight.”

A faint sound, a scoff, escaped his lips. “Neither do you. You hold your ground, Korulein. No sudden martyrdom. We’re past that kind of foolishness.”

She huffed, something sharp and almost human twisting her lips. “Don’t tell me what to do.”

“Then don’t make me bury you.”

The silence that followed wasn’t cold. It was heavy like iron pressed to fire. Both of them knew what the other meant, and neither dared say it outright.

Finally, she adjusted her gloves and turned away, her tone clipped. “When the smoke rises, that’s the last signal. After that, we cut comms.”

TurnTapp straightened, brushing dirt from his hand. “Then make sure you’re still breathing when it clears.”

Korulein didn’t look back, but her reply carried enough weight to break the air between them. “You first.”

The faint hum of inevitable destruction loomed over the space where their words had been, and for a heartbeat, the park seemed to hold still. The cracked earth, the lamps, the old iron bones of the city listening.

Then the sound came.

A tremor, subtle at first, then growing. The earth shuddered beneath their boots. Dust fell from the broken lamp posts and debris from the cave’s ceiling. From somewhere above, metal screamed against metal.

Korulein’s eyes flicked to the ceiling. “They’ve arrived. I’ll head to the tunnels where Benji is.”

~

The ground quaked as Dominion’s heavy boots marched across the plains. Steel-clad soldiers advanced in perfect synchrony, their boots crushing the charred soil that led to the caverns below.

At the center of it all rode Flux, the Crown Prince. His helm removed, the crimson of his veins pulsing faintly beneath his skin like molten veins of lava. His eyes burned with something close to fever.

Beside him, Cynikka walked, calm and cold, her black armor glinting faintly in the infernal light. Her every step was measured, the embodiment of control where her brother was chaos barely contained.

“The Archon watches upon us,” Cynikka said quietly, her gaze never leaving the dark mouth of the cavern ahead. “Do not shame him.”

Flux’s jaw tightened. “I won’t.”

The Dominion banners flapped behind them, the sigil of purity catching the early rays of the sum.

The air itself seemed to bend under the weight of expectation. Flux dismounted, boots crunching over bone-dry soil. He inhaled, the heat around him answering like a living thing. The air shimmered, the metallic scent of his blood filled it.

Cynikka’s lips curved. The faintest trace of something that might have been pride, or cruelty, or both.

Flux raised his hand, and the soldiers halted. The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the wind seemed to kneel and bend to his will.

…Then he drove his fist into the ground.

‘Tellus Ruptura’

The result was immediate. The earth split, veins of molten crimson racing outward like serpents of fire. The ground heaved, cracked, and screamed. From the fissures rose gouts of heat.

Blinding.

Violent.

Alive.

The soil burned with his lineage.

The Egress nets flipped, allowing the outsiders to enter the Underground of TriColor.

They have announced their presence to the filth below their feet.

Cynikka stood behind him, her voice low and sharp as a blade. “Control your pulse, Flux. The blood answers to will, not rage.”

“I am will.” he growled, though his voice trembled beneath the weight of it.

The fear of losing control, of burning too bright.

The fear of proving his father right.

Flux clenched his fist and forced the fire back down, the crimson in his veins slowly dissipating.

Cynikka’s eyes lingered on him, assessing. “Good,” she said softly. “Now show them why the Dominion bows to our name.”

Flux looked toward the cavern’s mouth where smoke billowed upward from the deep. His pulse steadied. His chest rose once, twice.

Then he spoke, not to Cynikka, not to his soldiers, but to the ghost of his father that haunted every command.

“I’ll make them remember me.”

He stepped forward, descending beneath the ground, allowing the depths to take him.

~

The Blood Dominion was ruthless in its pursuit to purify the land of TriColor.

Since even before, they have always preferred one method of testing. The Dominion preferred demonstrations. A line of men, women, and a few trembling adolescents were dragged before a glowing seal etched into the floor. Overseers called it the Trial of Worth.

Those who knelt were forced to have their blood drawn in a syringe. If the blood drawn was pure, they were free. If Verdant or illuminescent, they were struck down before they could scream.

Flux watched in silence as another man failed, the syringe filling with a dull shade of vermillion-gold. A Dominion soldier raised his rifle.

Bang!

One shot.

A dull thud.

The man crumpled, a small trail of steam rising from the hole in his chest. The Overseers of the blood testing, dragged the lifeless body away, dumping it on the pile of corpses beginning to take form.

Cynikka turned to Flux, her expression sharp beneath her obsidian mask. “Disgusting.” she said quietly.

Flux said nothing. His father’s gaze, cold and expectant, burned itself into his memory. To the Dominion, he was still a symbol of promise, the Heir Apparent, the blood-born weapon who would prove the old ways still had power.

Then, without warning…
BOOM.

The ground shuddered violently. Dust cascaded from the ceilings as an explosion ripped through the east. A bloom of gray smoke burst from the distant tunnel…Section 5A. The Dominion troops turned instantly, weapons up, formation shifting.

“Ambush!” a voice roared. “The rebels are in the caverns!”

More explosions followed, filling the air thick with smoke and debris. Panic and fury merged into one violent motion. Commanders barked orders through the chaos of screams and shouts.

Cynikka's mouth curled in a thin smile. “They’re desperate.”

But Flux saw the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. That explosion, it wasn’t a full detonation, more like a signal.

A warning.

She spoke loudly over the commotion, “Solev, check the state of Section 5A. Kill on Sight. They dare to rebel against the creed of the Archon!”

The head of the militia nodded, “As you wish, Princess.” He turned his back to her, beckoning those under his command to prepare for their cleansing.

Fluixon turned to his crew, each of them specialists in destruction, each with their own brand of loyalty to him, not to the Archon. They had made their own pact, one sworn upon blood.

They were of one mind.

Flux was proud of his crew, his sworn brothers and sister.

Gotoga, massive and scarred, loaded his axe and gauntlets with a low growl. The silver glowing a deep crimson.

Snow checked his rifle’s mag with mechanical precision, his light brown hair dim in the flickering light.

NK adjusted his respirator, the faint hiss of his breathing audible over the static. He was a walking explosion ready to be ignited, and Flux did not want to be near him. It was a bewildering sight, all of them six feet away from NewKids, which was amusing if it weren’t for the death that would follow.

Hvyrotation cracked his neck, his heavy armor creaking, stretching out his fingers through the brass knuckles that rested upon his hands.

Seraphim held a black cloth, moving to secure it in front of his face, covering his nose and mouth. His mesmerizing heterochromic eyes hardened, shifting into a dull and emotionless stare.

And Thomas… Thomas simply looked at Flux, holding the casing of his sword, eyes distant but alive with grim resolve.

“Be careful, brother.” Cynikka said, her eyes darting to Fluxion who was walking away. She offered the gods her silent prayer.

They moved out into the tunnels.

The air grew denser the deeper they went, carrying the tang of smoke and iron. The Dominion’s lights flickered across the tunnel walls, glinting off rusted pipes and broken rails. Somewhere in the dark, the echoes of fleeing civilians still lingered.

A child’s whimper.

A hurried prayer swallowed by stone.

“Lower Vein entrance secure,” NK muttered, “No movement yet.”

Flux crouched, touching the blackened edge of where the explosion was. The residue was fine, controlled. Not sabotage…

A smoke plant.

Someone was warning the rest.

His jaw clenched.

“It’s a message. Someone’s telling them we’re coming.”

Snow frowned. “So we make it quick, yeah?”

Flux didn’t answer. He could already hear the whispers of his lineage in his veins, the hum of the power that tied him to the Dominion’s bloodline.

“Thomas, lead left flank. NK, scout ahead. Gotoga, hold back until I signal.” He stood, eyes glinting in the half-dark. “We end this fast. If there are any survivors, kill them.”

The team split, boots crunching on gravel. The tunnel pulsed faintly with the heartbeat of machinery still alive somewhere deep in Thera’s belly.

Above them, the Dominion’s command center crackled with orders.

“Flux’s unit has entered the depths inside the lower veins.”

A soldier reported, seeing the ground enter the twisted tunnels underneath Thera.

Cynikka let out a short hum in response, acknowledging the information passed on by the man. She dismissed him with a wave of her hand, choosing to focus on the blood testing that was displayed upon her very sight. She could only hope for the others to come back alive.
~

In the East, Section 5, Solev moved like a shadow through the ash-streaked corridors. His blade rested against his shoulder, the metal blackened by old blood. The Dominion didn’t send him for reconnaissance, they sent him to end.

He paused near the broken archway of Section 5A. A shadow flickered against the wall, betrayed by the angle of light the small lightbulb provided.

The man himself stepped from the glow moments later, his armor patchworked and scorched, his expression unreadable beneath the grime.

“I thought the Dominion sent monsters,” Sitzkrieg said tauntingly. “Didn’t expect a man.”

Solev smiled, a sharp humorless grin. “You’ll learn soon enough we’re the same thing.”

Their blades met in a flash of light, sparks spraying against the walls. The impact echoed through the stone tunnels like thunder. Sitzkrieg staggered, parried, swung low. Solev twisted, countered with inhumane speed.

Dust fell from the ceiling. Somewhere deeper, the Dominion’s seismic charges hummed. The underground was coming alive with war.

Sitzkrieg spat blood, teeth bared. “You think your Dominion will survive this? You think you and your king’s son will make it out alive?”

Solev didn’t answer. His eyes burned faintly red in the dim.

And then…chaos.

The atmosphere turned violent. Bloodlust permeated what air the tunnel had. Sitzkrieg’s face contorted into one of fury, Solev’s face possessed a maniacal grin. Two beasts stood before one another, their eyes locking. Then Solev lunged.

“Fuck!” Sitzkrieg cursed as the first hit came. Solev’s blow was monstrous. Raw and heavy, like a hammer swung by rage itself. The force sent Sitzkrieg skidding backward, boots grinding against the concrete, leaving boot streaks in his wake.

He pivoted right, blade whistling through the air, aiming for Solev’s ribs. But the Dominion warrior caught the strike with his forearm, flesh splitting open yet muscles unmoving. Blood dripped, then hissed.

‘Surge’

A strong gust of wind blew them apart, Sitzkrieg having to block the hot air with his arms. The droplets of blood from his strike burned crimson as Solev entered Blood Surge.

His veins pulsed, glowing faintly like rivers of magma under skin. The heat of it shimmered, distorting the air. Solev let out a low growl as his wounds knitted instantly, the rage feeding the flesh.

“Not bad,” Sitzkrieg muttered, eyes narrowing. “But let’s see how long you can keep your fury when the shadows eat you alive.”

He pressed his palm against each other, the ashen light seeping outward, dark and misty. Suddenly, his form fractured into five, shadows coming alive from his feet. Each figure shimmered with gray smoke, dancing with the shadows of the tunnel.
“Ashen Veil.”

The echoes of his voice came from all directions. The clones circled him like phantoms, their footsteps nonexistent, each shadow mimicking his movements with deadly precision.

Solev stood still, chest heaving. His aura burned the air crimson, his blood-slicked weapon trembling in his hand. “Hide all you want,” he snarled. “I’ll rip through every shadow until I find your spine.”

The first clone struck, Solev blocked.

The second, he countered, blade slamming into the wall, sparks flying.

The third came from behind. He turned, elbowing through it with his armor, the shadow bursting into ash.

But they kept reforming, blurring between the cracks of light and darkness, striking faster, slicing at his flanks and back.

Each cut from the shadows stung. It was not deep, but it was constant.

Sitzkrieg’s laugh echoed in the dim.

“You bleed so easily, Dominion.”

Solev smiled, his own crimson blood staining his teeth. “Good. That means I’m still alive.”

He slammed his fist into the ground. The Blood Surge pulsed violently. An explosion of red aura blasted outward, dissolving three of the ashen clones instantly. The remaining ones flickered, unstable.

Sitzkrieg materialized behind him, blade drawn for a finishing strike.

But Solev was faster.

He turned in a single, brutal motion, catching the blade with both hands and twisting it free, metal shrieking. Sitzkrieg tried to pull back, but Solev’s knee came up hard, slamming into his gut. The mercenary gasped, air leaving him in a violent cough.

Solev’s eyes glowed brighter. “You talk too much.”

He rushed his hands forward, grasping hard onto Sitzkrieg’s neck and headbutted him.

Once.

Twice.

Until thick blood sprayed and seeped into the tunnel walls. Sitzkrieg roared, driving his knee into Solev’s ribs, pushing him back, swinging wildly with his blade, carving shallow cuts across Solev’s arms and shoulders.

Then, with a flick of his hand, Sitzkrieg unleashed Ashen Rift. The air split with a gray shockwave, tearing through the tunnel. Solev stumbled, bracing himself, but before he could recover, Sitzkrieg blurred again, his form melting into shadow, appearing behind him.

“Die you fucking asshole!”

The blade came down. Solev ducked too slow. The edge cut across his back, deep and clean. He let out a snarl that turned into a laugh. Blood spilled, glowing like molten silver.

Solev twisted his body, driving his fist backward into Sitzkrieg’s ribs, a loud crack echoed through the cave, quickly following with a savage kick to the jaw. Sitzkrieg reeled back, coughing blood, his shadows flickering weakly.

The Dominion soldier’s voice was mocking, a smirk gracing his face in arrogance. “Dominion blood doesn’t die easy.”

He surged forward.

‘Blood Surge…Apex’

His veins glowed scarlet, his every step shaking the ground. Sitzkrieg barely raised his blade before Solev’s punch connected with his weapon, the impact sounding like thunder. The explosion of force sent the mercenary crashing through a concrete wall, the tunnel collapsing in debris and smoke.

Solev stood amidst the falling dust, chest heaving, the glow in his eyes dimming.

Sitzkrieg’s ashen shadows faded one by one, leaving only silence.

Then…Solev exhaled, the fury draining, replaced by intermittent pain. His blood surge burned out, leaving him weak-kneed, gripping the wall for support.

He muttered under his breath, “Still alive…you bastard.”

And from beneath the rubble, a faint laugh escaped.

The sound of a man who refused to die easily.

~

In the lower passageways of the Underground, the earth trembled.

The Dominion strike team, Fluixon and his crew, moved like a machine of flesh and fire. Thomas, Gotoga, Snow, HvyRotation, Seraphim, and NK carved through the tunnels, their movements honed by years of Dominion training. Bullets hissed, plasma burned, and metal screamed.

But deep in Tunnel XI, near the old water plumbing system, the echoes of their victory died. Because waiting for them was the Covenant TripleLion stood at the head of them, flanked by what remained of the rebel cell. His fists were wrapped in crimson cloth, aged and frayed, glowing faintly as the heat of battle seeped into the walls.

“You’re the Dominion’s new toy, huh?” he growled, eyes burning like a forge.

Fluixon didn’t answer. He felt the Dominion blood stir within him, that cursed heritage thrumming to the rhythm of the reactor’s hum.

He stepped forward, raising his weapon and TripleLion charged.

The tunnels erupted.

Gotoga roared, swinging his axe through two Covenant fighters at once.

Snow’s rifle spat light into the darkness.

Seraphim and NK flanked left, blades flashing and explosives lit.

HvyRotation’s fists tore through the rock as he pinned a pair of rebels to the ground, knocking them down.

Thomas moved beside Fluixon, covering his back, quiet and controlled.

But the Covenant refused to yield. They came in waves, chanting their dying prayers, throwing themselves into the meat of the Dominion storm.

“FLUX!” Gotoga bellowed, slamming his weapon into a wall, sending shards of stone flying.

“I KNOW!” Fluixon shouted back, voice rough. “End them now!”

He didn’t see TripleLion until the man’s fist crashed into his guard. The blow shook the entire passage, throwing him back into the dirt.

“You call yourself an heir?” the rebel brawler snarled. “Show me your father’s blood!”

And then something inside Fluixon snapped.

His pupils constricted to points of crimson flame. His chest heaved. The Dominion blood within him howled.

Overburn.

The air ignited red. His veins glowed through his skin like molten veins of ore. The tunnel became a hot fiery furnace. Fluixon screamed as the surge overtook him.

Half agony, half ecstasy.

The ground itself ruptured, a large fissure disrupting the man-made tunnel, tearing through the veins.

Covenant fighters disintegrated in the shockwave.

The light burned everything it touched.

When it was over, only silence and ruin remained.

“Retreat!” TripleLion roared, his voice echoed throughout the cave, the smoke from the explosives and dirt from the loose debris blocking their vision. Most of the Covenant in that moment were gone.

Except TripleLion and a few men, who had been thrown backwards, retreating and staggering into the smoke, alive but broken.

Far away, in the lower vents, Saparata felt the pull. The aura was unmistakable.

It was violent and corrupt.

Overburn

He ran before it even registered in his mind that he was heading straight to the source. He had to contain it before it killed everyone in the tunnels.

When he reached Section XI, the air was molten. His lungs burned with the remnants of air that was left in the aftermath of the battle and surge of power.

Flux stood at the center, trembling, surrounded by his brothers. They were shaken, voices crescending till their lungs ached, shouting over one another in a panic. They didn’t know what to do.

Gotoga spotted the snowy-haired man, his hair matted and covered in ash and grime. Something in his presence stirred a buried instinct in Gotoga.
it both steadied and unsettled him, like recognizing a danger his blood couldn’t help but trust.

“Stay back!” Gotoga roared, seeing the newcomer approach.

Saparata didn’t slow.

“He’ll die if you touch him!”

Snow raised his rifle. “Halt before I place a bullet in your skull!”

“ENOUGH!” Thomas’s voice cracked through the haze, commanding, raw. His aim was steady, but his eyes darted between Flux and Saparata.

Saparata’s golden eyes glowed faintly. “If I don’t stop this…your heir burns all of you and every single soul down here alive.”

“Lies!” NK hissed.

But Flux let out a ragged groan, collapsing to one knee. His aura flared again, crimson sparks biting the ground. The tunnels trembled beneath him, the air growing hotter by the second. It licked and nipped at their skin, every inch of their body sweating.

Thomas cursed under his breath, before frantically making his decision. He would bring his brother back to the surface whatever it may take.

“...Do it. Whatever you’re gonna do…do it now.”

Saparata unsheathed his blade hidden in his cloak and dragged it across his palm. Silver blood spilled, shimmering like starlight.

You could almost hear a pin drop from the silence, or even the stifled sobs of the children in the deep dark tunnels. The Dominion strike team was in shock, frozen like statues, eyes wide and mouths agape. They couldn’t believe what they were seeing. Hell, even their ancestors wouldn’t believe what they were seeing.

Saps winced in pain, trying to keep himself together as he whispered,

“O soul beneath the ember, anchor thyself to the line of mercy.
Let the flame be still, and the blood remember its origin.”

The world went still, until it was bent. The men covered their eyes, a blinding silver light took over their field of vision. When they came to, they could see Flux’s body convulsed as the overburn ripped out of him, energy bleeding into the palm of the mysterious man. His knees hit the ground, breath hitching, until no trace of the Overburn was left to detect.

For a moment, only silence.

Then Gotoga’s voice, heavy with rage. “You—!”

He lunged, axe raised.

Saparata pivoted, sliding beneath the swing. The weapon crashed against the wall, small tiny rocks falling from where the axe hit. He darted away, cloak tearing against jagged stone.

“GOTOGA STOP!” Thomas barked.

“Stand down!” Snow shouted. “We need him. Flux’s stabilizing!”

Gotoga froze, panting. He looked down and found a single lock of silver-white hair stuck to his axe, still glowing faintly.

Flux stirred weakly, forcing his head up. His gaze locked with Saparata’s retreating form just before he vanished into the dark veins.

Eyes of golden light meeting crimson, slowly bleeding back into its amethyst hue.

For an instant, time slowed.

No words.

Only the shared recognition of something neither could name.

Then he was gone.

Cynikka’s voice crept through his mind .

“Flux. Report.”

No response.

Gotoga slammed his axe into the dirt. “He should’ve burned.”

Flux didn’t speak. He only stared at the glowing hair caught in Gotoga’s weapon. A single, silent reminder that mercy had a price.

“Did you just fucking see what I saw?” NewKids pointed at some random direction in the tunnel, waving his pointed finger around, it was almost comical. Hvyrotation slapped him upside the head, “Yeah, we’re not fucking blind bozo. That was—”

“They’re supposed to be dead.” A voice cut them off. It was Thomas, staring at Fluixon’s chest, where the stranger had put their palm. He kneeled beside the heir, his voice low in disbelief.

Fluxion couldn't think straight. He didn’t know what to do, and what would happen to him next.

For the first time, he could admit to himself that he wasn’t sure what the hell was happening.

~

Saparata didn’t stop running.

The tunnels blurred past him. Every breath burned. His blood was still singing from the spell, each pulse of his heart leaving streaks of silver light behind him. The backlash crawled up his veins like frostbite, eating into his strength.

By the time he reached the old reservoir near tunnel XIIb, his knees buckled. He hit the ground hard, palms scraping against the grit. The light in his blood was a deep shade of crimson, leaving a dull ache that sank into his bones. His vision blurred, every heartbeat slamming through his skull like thunder.

He tried to breathe. He couldn’t.

Silver blood dripped from his palm, pooling on the cracked stone and hissing faintly before losing its light as it touched the ground. The spell had done more than drain him. It had torn through his core, leaving his body trembling between light and ash.

He barely heard the footsteps at first. Then the voice.

“Saparata.”

Korulein’s tone was sharp enough to cut glass. She emerged from the shadows, her coat whipping behind her like a second heartbeat. The dim lamplight caught her face, fury and fear bound tight together.

“What did you do?”

He looked up, chest heaving. His lips moved, but no words came out. Only a strained gasp. “You used it, didn’t you?” The blonde strode forward, grabbing him by the collar before he could fall again.

“The blood-binding. Gods, Saparata. Are you insane?”

He tried to speak, voice cracking. “It was the only way.”

“The only way?” Her grip tightened. “You nearly burned yourself from the inside out! Do you have any idea what that kind of spell does to your line?”

His throat tightened. “If I hadn’t…he would’ve destroyed everything.”

Korulein’s eyes flashed. “You’re not supposed to fix them, Saps. You’re supposed to survive them.”

He managed a small, broken laugh. “Then I failed twice.”

That did it. She shoved him hard enough that he stumbled and hit the wall behind him, sliding down to sit. Her breath trembled, the anger draining from her voice, replaced with something rougher.

“You don’t die for them,” she said quietly. “Not for TurnTapp. Not for the Dominion’s heir. Not for anyone.”

Saparata’s head tilted weakly toward her, silver hair falling over his eyes. “Please,” he rasped, “don’t tell him.”

“Don’t tell who?”

“You know who.” His voice broke, barely above a whisper. “TurnTapp. He’ll… he’ll think I’m still a child.”

Korulein froze, jaw tightening. The fury flickered again, replaced by a deep, unspoken ache.

“You are a child to him,” she said softly, the words cracking under their weight. “His child. One that isn’t made of smoke and sorrow.”

He tried to smile, but it came out wrong, tired and pained.

“Then let him keep thinking that.”

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Only the distant hum of the veins filled the air, the slow drip of water echoing through the cavern.

Then Korulein knelt beside him. Her hands, still trembling, reached for the wound on his palm. The silver blood shimmered faintly as she pressed her own gloved fingers against it, channeling a slow healing pulse through the contact.

He hissed softly, feeling a sharp sting from the initial contact but didn’t pull away.

“Next time,” she murmured, voice steadier now, “you run. You don’t bleed for them, you hear me?”

He nodded weakly. “Yes, ma’am.”

She glanced down at him, a ghost of a bitter smile on her lips. “Don’t call me that.”

For the first time since the spell, he let himself close his eyes. The pain dulled, replaced by warmth, the familiar grounding hum of Korulein’s presence beside him.

And though neither of them said it, both knew what haunted the silence between them

If TurnTapp ever found out what Saparata had done tonight…it wouldn’t be pride that filled his eyes.

It would be terror.

Chapter Text

In the capital of the Underground, where they held the testing site, the ground shook and trembled. The rumbling sounds deafening the ears of the mass amount of people packed in the area. A shockwave of power fell over the disarray, halting their operations. Most recoiled in fear and submission, their heads bowing down to the power that bared itself to them.

The sound of heavy boots disrupted the chaos of cries and screams in the Capital of Thera. The soldier panted, sweat mixing with the ash and dirt on his face, clearly spent from the running.

"It's the Heir!"

Those were the first words that escaped the man's lips, now gasping for air, as if he was starved of it. “Princess! The Prince in the Lower Vent. He’s gone critical.” He said between breaths, bent forward with the palms of his hand resting on his knees.

Cynikka froze. The circle fell silent but for the sobs and cries of the people. The Overseers standing behind her exchanged wary looks. They had heard of the prince’s tendency to go into Overburn, destroying everything in his wake.

“Critical?” she asked, her voice flat.

“The Overburn level…it’s outrageous! It has completely overwhelmed the passageways and caverns. He’s gonna put us all under!” The soldier said in a panic, his voice shouting over the mayhem.

Cynikka’s hand twitched before she caught herself. For a moment, the calm facade she wore like armor faltered. She turned to the direction of the lower vents, her eyes narrowing. The energy flickered in violent crimson waves.

The strategist massaged her temples, her eyebrows scrunching in worry. She had to do something.

And she had to do it quick.

She clasped her hands, locked her arms, and whispered the ancient words of the incantation she had learned from the vaults of Aculon’s library. The spell crawled through her veins, a faint glow of red, and through the unseen channels of thought, binding her mind to the one she called.

‘Solev!’

Silence. Then the sound of labored breathing that was ragged and uneven.

‘Cynikka…’

His voice was rough and winded.

‘I’ve got Sitzkrieg pinned…he’s still breathing.’

‘Forget him,’ she snapped.

‘Extraction. Now.’

A pause. Then the dull sound of shifting rubble. Sitzkrieg’s low, broken laughter bled through the line.

‘Running already, Dominion dog?’

Cynikka ignored him.

‘Listen to me, Solev. Flux is burning through containment. If he breaks past that point, we lose him. We lose everything. You extract him, do you understand?”

“Understood.”

She killed the transmission, breath shallow. The Overseers flinched as she turned to them, her composure cracking open like glass under strain.

“Get the carriers ready,” she ordered. “All sectors full deployment. And…” her voice faltered, eyes flicking toward the rows of pale, half-conscious bodies lining the walls and the dead stacked behind her.

Her jaw tightened. “No more syringes. We don’t have the time.” The Overseers glanced at each other, unsure of what to do.

Cynikka’s glare burned through them. “Do it. Draw directly.”

They looked at one another, faces unsure. Faced with the dilemma of getting blood on their hands. The Overseers only drew blood and returned them straight away, bound by the oath of maleficence.

“DO IT NOW!” The princess commanded, “OR YOU’LL END UP LIKE THEM.” She nodded her head towards the side, eyes shifting to where the pile of dead bodies lay.

And with that, the first blade came down, ripping through flesh and leaving the blood of the Therans flowing. A scream tore through the chamber as wrists were slashed open, crimson spilling onto the rocky pavements. Another cut, another scream. Blood gushed freely now, pooling and steaming beneath their feet. The air was thick with iron and panic.

The Overseers worked like machines, keeping an expressionless face under their masks, dragging bodies forward, cutting deep, letting the blood run until the room smelled of copper and death.

Cynikka turned away. Her reflection on the metal wall looked out of place, hair disheveled from running her hands through them and the almost imperceptible red hue around her eyes. Her composure was lost in the sea of red.

She had to save the heir. She had to save her brother.

-

The tunnel trembled with the last shudder of the heir’s aura.

Solev stepped through the broken streets to the capital, half-carrying Flux’s limp form with Thomas, the light from the Dominion’s strike team followed behind close. The air on this side was colder and thinner. They could finally breathe.

Cynikka was waiting.

She stood at the edge of the capital of Thera, sleeves rolled to her elbows, hair tied back, the shadows under her eyes deep enough to notice. When she saw Flux, her mask cracked for a heartbeat.

“Put him down,” she ordered softly.

Solev obeyed, lowering the boy onto the stone surface, his breathing shallow and uneven. The red glow in his veins was faint now, pulsing in time with the low hum of the Dominion’s containment seal that Cynikka had taught Solev to cast.

“He went into overburn,” Solev said, his voice grave. “Uncontrolled. He killed almost everything in the radius.”

Cynikka’s jaw clenched. “And survived.”

“For now.” Solev’s gaze flicked up to her. “There was something else in the energy field..”

At that, she turned sharply, eyes narrowing. “What do you mean?”

Solev said, shaking his head. “Something…purer. The kind of energy I’ve never felt before. Whoever it was…they vanished before I arrived. But the aura still lingered. Strong. Old. The Strike Team allegedly saw him, Thomas and the others. You’d best ask them. ”

Her eyes narrowed. Her mind moved like a blade.

Someone else down there touched her brother’s blood.

“Reports said the underground were divided,” she murmured, pacing slowly. “Pure lines unharmed, the others culled. But someone protected him.”

Solev watched her carefully. “You think it’s the one from the—?”

Her gaze lifted to meet his, sharp as obsidian. “No one speaks of them anymore.”

He smirked faintly. “But you do.”

For a moment, the capital was silent save for the Therans’ cries and the slash of blades from the Crimsons. Then she straightened, smoothing the ash from her coat. “Seal the reports. I’ll handle the council briefing. Flux’s condition is classified. No one outside the Dominion Circle hears of his overburn.”

Solev frowned. “You’re protecting him from the king.”

“I’m protecting what’s left of him,” she corrected. “If word gets out, they’ll call him unstable. A liability.” Her voice lowered, hardening to steel. “He’s no liability. He’s the future.”

Cynikka coughed once before her command boomed across the expanse of the testing area. “Let’s move out! Seal the Underground. The Archon Elanuelo beckons us back to the castle.”

She moved closer to Fluixon who still showed faint traces of residual energy from the underground. A strange, silver luminescence danced in his veins. Something unlike Dominion power, neither corrupted nor pure. Something… else.

Cynikka stared at it, transfixed.

“This energy…” she whispered. “It’s not Flux’s. Whoever stopped him, he’s no ordinary rebel. Find him. Quietly.”

Solev straightened despite his wound. “If the king finds out—”

“The king won’t,” she said, turning to face him, her expression calm but her eyes blazing with conviction. “We serve his will in public. But our loyalty lies elsewhere.”

Solev felt the faint burn of the old scar on his palm. The one from their blood pact years ago. Her blood. His vow.

~

Eight Years Earlier
Solev remembered the first time he’d seen her covered in blood.

Cynikka had been fifteen. Small and sharp-eyed.

The king’s daughter but nothing like her father. That day, the training yards reeked of scorched sand. A twelve-year-old boy had been pulled out of the arena, half-conscious, the telltale glow of

Overburn still ebbing from his veins.

The medics had panicked. The king had left.

Only Cynikka stayed.

She’d crouched beside her brother, steady hands pressing against the pulse at his neck, whispering calculations under her breath, stabilizing patterns rose from the air, a power who no one had ever taught her. When she finally looked up, her eyes were glassy with fury.

“He doesn’t even look at him,” she’d said quietly. “Our father would rather see him burn than fail.”

Solev, a veteran soldier and appointed commander then, had stood at attention. “You shouldn’t speak like that.”

Her gaze turned on him, cold and certain. “You think he’s the king because of strength. He’s not. He’s the king because everyone believes he can’t be replaced.”

She then stood, blood smearing her gloves. “But power isn’t inherited. It’s taken.”

Then she held out her hand to him.

“If you ever want to be on the right side of history, Commander Solev…swear to me. Not to the Dominion. Not to him. To me.”

He froze.

For a heartbeat, he was still the loyal soldier he’d been trained to be. Bound to the throne, bound to the King who claimed mastery of flame and blood. But behind Cynikka, the palace torches warped in the heat of her aura, bending as if she were their true gravity. She was only fifteen, and yet the room felt too small to hold her.

She held out her hand, already bleeding from a sharp, decisive cut. Blood ran down her wrist with the confidence of someone who had never doubted her destiny.

Solev’s pulse pounded.

The King was power now…but Cynikka was power becoming.

He looked at Fluixon, at twelve years old, slumped on a cot, skin still ashen from overburn, breath shallow but steady only because she’d forced it to be. She had saved the heir, stabilized him when palace healers failed. She had commanded the flame without flinching. She had glared at death, and death had stepped aside.

Solev understood then.

The future wasn’t being inherited. It was being forged.

Slowly, almost unwillingly, he drew his blade. His hand trembled, not with fear, but with the realization that this choice would mark every step of the life ahead of him.

Then he cut his palm. Their blood ran together in the dusty heat, dark red on sun-baked stone.

Her voice was quiet. Almost gentle. But it struck him harder than any command ever had.

“If power is born in blood… then let mine be the one you follow.”

Solev felt the shift as it happened, something unspooling inside him, something choosing.

And when he spoke, his voice was steady.

“It already is.”

~

Saparata’s state was worsening fast.

Korulein worked in frantic silence, hands glowing with the last reserves of her stabilizing spell. Saparata lay limp beside her on the stone floor of the abandoned tunnel, breath shallow, skin pale beneath a sheen of cold sweat. The silver aura had grown faint and Korulein could feel the reckless tear in Saps’s spirit where the magic had overextended. It was like holding a cracked vessel together with bare hands.

“Saps, stay with me,” Korulein muttered, grinding her teeth as the spell flickered. The wound wasn’t physical. It was deeper. She took out her Luminara crystal, calling for TurnTapp to come to the Lower Vent.

A burn in the soul-thread.

She needed more time. She needed to get them both away from here.

But TurnTapp’s footsteps were already echoing closer through the tunnels, an iron rhythm Korulein could discern without sight. She couldn’t keep her promise for this foolish boy. TurnTapp needed to know.

The spell spasmed in her fingers. Saparata’s breathing hitched and then faltered.

“No, no, no, no…come on!” Korulein pressed her palms harder against the cool skin, forcing the magic back into stability. Sweat rolled down her temple. The air smelled of stone dust and desperation.

Then TurnTapp appeared.

He froze mid-stride.

“Saparata.”

It was barely a whisper.

Not the commanding bark of a soldier, but the trembling plea of a man afraid of the answer.

When he finally forced himself forward, his knees hit the floor with a thud beside Korulein, who was still feeding her magic into him. The sound of his knees hitting the stone floor echoed through the empty tunnels. He reached out, hands shaking, hovering just above Saps’s cheek before daring to touch. The boy’s skin was cold and TurnTapp’s breath stuttered as if the chill had shot straight into his own heart.

“You’re freezing,” he murmured, voice broken. “Why didn’t you wait for me? Why didn’t you call for me?”

Saparata didn’t answer. His lashes fluttered, but his eyes stayed closed. And that terrible and fragile silence brought TurnTapp’s panic roaring to life.

“No. No, you don’t get to leave me like this,” he said, voice quivering despite how hard he tried to steady it. He gathered Saps into his arms, pulling him close, gripping the back of his head as if to anchor him in the world. Korulein maneuvered herself beside the pair, shifting her palms to rest at Saps’ core.

“I told you…gods above, I told you! Your magic isn’t ready for this kind of strain. Why did you do this to yourself?” His voice thickened, choking on words he’d never let himself speak aloud until now.

“Why do you make me watch you get hurt?”

Saparata’s breathing hitched. A small stutter, but it was enough to rip TurnTapp open. He pressed his forehead to Saps’s temple, raw desperation leaking into every word. “If something happened to you… I wouldn’t-” His voice crumbled. “I wouldn’t survive it. Do you understand me? I don’t care what the Dominion says. I don’t care what title I’m supposed to wear. The only thing that matters…” He pulled Saps closer, almost protectively curling around him.

“is you.”

For a moment, Saparata was still. Too still. TurnTapp’s heartbeat thundered in his ears.

Then, faintly, like a dying ember catching a final breath. Saparata whispered, “I… tried to… protect everyone…”

TurnTapp let out a broken laugh, half-sob, half-scolding, tears spilling down his face before he even realized he’d begun crying. “You foolish, brave, impossible boy,” he whispered, brushing the hair from Saps’s forehead. “You think the whole world is your burden. You think you have to carry yourself all alone. You never needed those barbaric street fights to survive down here. You have me. I’ve been right here. I’m always right here.”

Korulein swallowed hard. He had seen TurnTapp angry, seen him furious, but never like this. Cracked open, undone, terrified. She withdrew her hands slowly, letting the last of the stabilizing spell settle.

“He overburned,” Korulein whispered. “The aura backlash nearly stopped his heart. I… I might have lost him.”

Saparata stirred and his fingers twitched against TurnTapp’s chest, trying to anchor himself to the warmth and presence holding him. His voice was paper-thin, cracked from strain, but the single word he uttered cut through TurnTapp with the force of a blade dipped in love.

“…dad…?”

Everything inside TurnTapp broke at once.

The breath he’d been holding collapsed into a sob so raw it echoed off the stone. His arms tightened around Saps, one hand cradling the back of his head, the other gripping his shoulder as if afraid the boy might vanish. Tears soaked his armor, his cheeks, and Saps' hair. “I’m here,” he choked out, voice trembling violently. “I’m here, son. I’ve got you. I’m not letting go. Not now. Not ever.”

For the first time in years, maybe ever, TurnTapp let himself hold Saparata not as a commander, not as a guardian, but as a father who had finally been given the name he’d been aching for in silence.

And in the dim, broken quiet of the Underground, he rocked the boy gently, whispering promises he’d never allow himself to break.

TurnTapp stayed kneeling far longer than any commander should. The stone bit into his knees, cold and uneven, but he hardly felt it. All he felt was Saparata, too light, too limp, too quiet in his arms. The boy’s head rested against his shoulder, silver streaked hair falling messily across TurnTapp’s chest. And every second Saparata remained unconscious carved another hollow into the man who held him.

“Come on,” TurnTapp whispered, voice still raw from the word dad lingering like a bruise on his heart. “That cannot be the last thing you say to me. You do not get to call me that and then check out on me. That is not how this works.”

He pressed a trembling kiss to Saparata’s temple, not out of ritual or healing, just out of something achingly human he had denied himself for years.

Then, with a breath that trembled his whole frame, he adjusted his grip beneath Saparata’s knees and back and lifted him.

The weight made his arms shake.

Not because Saparata was heavy, he was not, but because TurnTapp was afraid that if he loosened even a fraction of his strength, the boy would slip through his fingers like sand. Afraid that this was one of those moments where the body could fool itself into believing there was still life while the soul had already wandered.

“TurnTapp-” Korulein got up and followed, her hand resting on the male’s arm in comfort.

“No,” he growled softly to himself, to the darkness, to the universe. “He is still here. He is still here.”

The lower vents of the Underground tunnel loomed before them, long and winding and flickering with weak lamplight that cast shadows like reaching hands. The uneven steps and jagged rocks made the path dangerous, but TurnTapp’s eyes were sharp with something close to animal desperation. One misstep, one fall, and Saparata’s fragile state could worsen.

So TurnTapp walked slowly.

Every step was deliberate.

Every shift of his arms careful.

Every breath controlled, though it shook, and no matter how hard he bit down on the inside of his cheek, tears continued to slip silently down his face.

He thought he could wipe them away with the back of his wrist. He could not. His arms were locked around Saparata, refusing to let go.

His voice cracked into the silence.

“I should have kept a closer eye on you today. I knew something was wrong, you were too quiet this morning, too tense.” He swallowed hard, the sound loud in his own ears. “You always hide things. Always think you need to carry storms alone. But, gods above, Saps, you are just a kid.”

The word kid broke him all over again.

Because Saparata had never been allowed to be one.

TurnTapp adjusted him slightly, lifting him higher, making sure his breathing was not restricted. Saparata’s head lolled against his shoulder, and TurnTapp’s heart stuttered.

He stopped walking, panic flaring.

“Saparata.”

He nudged him gently with his cheek.

“Saparata, breathe for me. Come on.”

A slow inhale. A shaky exhale. Faint, but there.

TurnTapp’s knees nearly buckled in relief. “Good, good. That is it. Just stay with me a little longer. Korulein, would you please-”

“Mhmm, I got you. Always. I’ll head out and see the damage and help round up the people with Benji. Take Saps to rest, he needs you. I’ll update you on what happens.” Korulein cut him off, already knowing the thoughts running through his mind.

“Tell Madz to come to the base, I’ll need her concoctions whipped up for Saparata.”

The path narrowed, rocks crunching sharply underfoot. His boots left red stained smears, Saparata’s blood, his own from scraped skin, he could not tell. The lamps flickered the deeper he went, and every flicker felt like a threat, as if the darkness might swallow them whole.

TurnTapp spoke again to the lethargic boy in his arms, because silence at the moment terrified him more than anything.

“You scared me,” he admitted, the confession tasting like defeat and love and exhaustion. “You truly scared me tonight.”

He laughed once, not really a laugh, more like breath collapsing under its own weight.

“When you went down in that cave, I thought…”

He shook his head sharply, unwilling to finish the sentence.

“I am not losing you. I will not. Not to your magic, not to exhaustion, not to the Dominion, not to…” He hesitated. “Not even to yourself.”

He shifted his grip again to keep Saparata secure. The boy’s arm, limp at first, fell slightly forward with gravity. Automatically and instinctively, TurnTapp caught it and pressed it back against Saparata’s chest, folding it between them.

The gesture was small, maybe even insignificant, but to TurnTapp, it felt sacred.

He rested his forehead to meet the top of Saparata’s head again. Just for a slight moment.

And then kept walking.

The corridor opened into a wider chamber ahead, a cavern lit by torches overhead, warm light washing over their silhouettes. TurnTapp blinked, adjusting from the dimness. The warmth of the torches did not touch his bones. Only the bundle he held against his chest did.

He exhaled shakily.

“Almost out, Saps. Almost out.”

He tightened his hold and kept moving.

His eyes burned, not just with exhaustion but with the clarity of everything he had refused to acknowledge for years. He had always acted like Saparata was just responsibility, just duty, just another special child he had been assigned to protect.

But that was a lie.

A lie he had told himself because the truth, that he loved the boy like a son, was too dangerous in a world that punished softness.

And then Saparata had said,

‘Dad…?’

The word replayed again and again, echoing in him like the toll of a bell.

TurnTapp blinked rapidly as tears gathered again, hot and blurring the chamber walls. He did not want Saparata to wake up to a crying mess of a man. He tried wiping his cheek against his shoulder, but another tear fell anyway.

Korulein noticed, reaching out her hands and ripping a part of the silver-haired man’s cloak. She reached up and wiped the man’s cheeks and dabbed at his eyes. She had always known that TurnTapp loved the child as his own, it was obvious. She held back her own tears as well, blinking rapidly to prevent them from falling.

“You could not have said that when you were awake enough to see my face, huh?” he whispered with a sad chuckle. “Had to drop it on me like a bomb and then pass out.”

He paused. His throat tightened.

“I am so proud of you. You know that? Even when you scare me half to death.”

A soft noise.

Barely audible, like the faint rasp of someone trying to breathe through throbbing pain.

TurnTapp froze.

“Saparata?”

His voice cracked.

“Saps, hey, can you hear me?”

Saparata’s lashes trembled. His brow furrowed faintly. His fingers shifted against TurnTapp’s chest, curling weakly into the fabric of his uniform.

“...mmn…” A vague sound, broken and small.

TurnTapp’s heart seized.

He lowered his head, bringing his face close to Saparata’s, terrified of missing a word.

“It is okay,” he whispered. “Do not force yourself. You are safe. I have got you.”

Saparata’s breath hitched, painful, shaky, but real. His head lolled against TurnTapp’s shoulder, then pressed slightly into the warmth. He blinked once, slow and unfocused, pupils dilated from exhaustion and lingering magic.

TurnTapp adjusted his hold carefully, terrified he would jostle him too much.

“Saps? Look at me, just for a second.”

Saparata’s gaze drifted upward. Not fully focused. Not fully conscious. But aware enough to recognize the shape of the person holding him.

“Turn… Tapp…”

His voice was dust and thread.

Barely there.

TurnTapp let out a choked breath, half a sob.

“I am here. I am right here.”

Saparata blinked again, slow and heavy, eyes wet from feverish strain. His lips parted, not for a spell or an apology, but for a tiny, exhausted tremble of fear.

“Did I hurt anyone?”

The question crushed TurnTapp’s heart.

“No,” he whispered fiercely, tightening his hold until Saparata’s body relaxed slightly in reassurance. “No, you did not. You did everything right. You did more than anyone should ever be asked to do. You are safe. Everyone is safe. I promise.”

Saparata exhaled shakily against his collarbone.

And then, too tired to stay awake, he slumped fully into TurnTapp’s chest, consciousness slipping away.

“Sleep,” he murmured tenderly. “I will get you home.”

And with the weight of love and fear and fragile hope in his arms.

TurnTapp carried his son out of the darkness.

-

When the Overseers returned, Cynikka’s composure was restored.

Icy.

Exact.

Unshakable.

She gave her orders swiftly.
“Prepare a report for Elanuelo. He’ll have questions about the tunnel breach. Leave Flux out of it. As for the containment readings…bury them.”

They bowed and left.
Only when the door sealed behind them did Solev speak again.

“Cynikka,” he said quietly. “Whatever suppressed his Overburn…whatever that second signature was, you think it’s dangerous, don’t you?”

She looked at him over her shoulder, the faintest smirk ghosting her lips.

“Everything powerful is dangerous, Solev,” she said.

“That’s why I need it.”

He studied her for a moment, the faint hum of the room lights reflecting in his eyes.

And in that moment, he understood again what he had all those years ago.

It wasn’t the king he feared.

“You’re dismissed, Solev. I’ll see you in the meeting later.

Cynikka waited until he left before allowing herself to breathe. Her reflection wavered in the crimson light, eyes cold and calculating. Every move had to be deliberate now. She could not let the Dominion see cracks in her resolve.

But inside, she felt the shift. A thread had been tugged loose in the tapestry of control. Someone had interfered, saved her brother from the fire, and changed the course of everything.

She whispered into the silence, “Whoever you are… if you can temper that kind of power, you’ll be useful. For Flux. For the Dominion. For the future I will build.”

The faintest smile ghosted across her lips.

Half admiration.

Half threat.

“Even if I have to burn the world to do it.”

-

The Dominion Council chamber was a place of ceremony and silence. Red banners hung from the steel arches, their edges stiff with dried blood. A thousand candles flickered along the walls, their smoke twisting in strange patterns above the long obsidian table. Every Dominion officer who mattered sat there. The High Overseers, the Blood Priests, the Generals. And at the head of it all, the king’s sigil shimmered like a brand upon the floor.
Cynikka entered through the north gate, flanked by two guards and Solev limping quietly behind her. The moment she stepped into the room, all whispers died.

“Lady Cynikka,” rasped one of the older overseers. Councilor KaNukei, eyes sunken, voice oily. “You return from the lower sectors. We heard… complications.”

Her stride didn’t falter. “Complications are the language of war,” she replied. “The operation proceeded as planned.”

Another overseer, younger, sharper, leaned forward. “And yet reports say the Lower Vents were destroyed. Entire veins collapsed. You lost half a division.”

Cynikka’s gaze cut toward him. A look that could slice flesh from bone.

“The collapse was intentional,” she said smoothly. “We flushed out part of the Covenant’s inner core network. They’re broken and leaderless. The survivors are scattered. TripleLion fled. Their strength is finished.”

“Finished?” KaNukei sneered. “A convenient word. And the prince?”

For half a heartbeat, the silence pressed down like a weight. Solev’s jaw flexed, but he said nothing.

Cynikka let the question linger before answering, every syllable deliberate.

“Wounded. Exhausted. But victorious. His energy output overwhelmed even our projections. He eliminated six high-ranking Covenant fighters single-handedly.”

A murmur rippled through the table, awe and unease interwoven. The Blood Priests exchanged glances.

“Overwhelmed projections?” KaNukei repeated, suspicious. “Are you implying an uncontrolled surge?”

Cynikka smiled faintly.

Cold.

Practiced.

Precise.

“I’m implying power, Councilor. The kind this Dominion has not seen in generations. The kind our enemies will never recover from.”

Her words landed like a blade striking stone. The room shifted, the councilors exchanged uneasy glances, each unwilling to openly challenge her. The king’s representatives watched in silence, the crimson sigil of their sovereign flickering faintly, as if listening.

“Flux will recover,” she continued. “Once stabilized, he will be presented to the King for recognition. His success marks the beginning of the Dominion’s reclamation.”

KaNukei’s voice slithered again. “And the civilians in the lower veins? The slashing reports? The blood draws without sanction—”

Cynikka’s hand lifted, her wrists and fingers adorned with jewelry catching the light of the candles.

“The people of Thera serve through blood,” she said quietly. “That is the law of Dominion. They gave what they were born to give.”

A hush followed. The cruelty of it was too calm to question.

At last, the King’s Seer spoke, Jophiel. A frail woman with blonde hair whose eyes were sewn shut with golden thread. Her voice was like wind through glass.

“There was another presence in the veins. A light that wasn’t Dominion. Did you see it, Commander?”

Cynikka didn’t blink. Every instinct screamed at her to tread carefully.

“I saw nothing,” she lied through her teeth, a subtle clench of her jaw almost undetectable. “Only the remnants of heresy. The Covenant’s tricks.”

The Seer tilted her head, as though listening to the tremor in Cynikka’s heart. But after a long pause, she nodded slowly. “Very well.”

Cynikka exhaled quietly. A measured breath hidden behind steel control.

The council continued its formalities, but she barely heard them. Her mind was already elsewhere, back in the tunnels, where her brother’s energy had burned like a sun, and that faint silver luminescence lingered in the dark.

When the meeting adjourned, KaNukei caught her as she turned to leave. “You walk a dangerous line, Lady Cynikka,” he said softly. “You shield the boy too often. The king notices.”

She met his stare, her voice low. “Then he should thank me. The boy is the Dominion’s heir. I make sure his heart beats long enough for the crown to still mean something.”

KaNukei’s smile was thin. “Or until you decide what it should mean.”

He left before she could answer.

Solev approached silently once the chamber emptied. “They don’t trust you,” he murmured.

Cynikka’s eyes flicked to him, tired but defiant. “They don’t need to. They just need to obey.”

He looked toward the great sigil burning on the floor towards the King’s mark. “And him?”

She stared at the symbol for a long time before replying. “Even gods bleed, Solev. And when they do, I’ll be ready.”
-

The small room smelled faintly of wax, herbs, and the sharp tang of iron. Torches lined the walls, their flames flickering against the rough stone, throwing long, uneven shadows. TurnTapp did not notice the cold creeping through the cracks. He did not notice the quiet chill of the night. All he felt was the weight in his arms. Saparata, fragile and trembling, carried as if the world itself might shatter under him.

He lowered the boy carefully onto the cot, arranging pillows and blankets with meticulous care. Every movement was deliberate, every touch measured, as though one careless gesture could undo the fragile thread keeping Saparata tethered to life. His hands lingered on the boy’s hair, smoothing the silver strands away from his face, brushing away stray dust and grime.

“Stay with me,” he whispered, voice cracking from exhaustion and the weight of what had happened in the Underground. “You hear me? You don’t get to leave me like this.”

A clattering noise came from the small workbench nearby. Madzvie, kneeling on the floor, was fussing with vials and powders, muttering under her breath. “I said a pinch of mircea, not half the jar, TurnTapp! And don’t even think about touching the-” She froze mid scold as she noticed the solemn expression plastered upon TurnTapp’s face.

TurnTapp scowled lightly at her, voice tight with concern. “Focus, Madz. Watch him. Make sure he doesn’t shift wrong.”

Madzvie frowned and muttered, “I am watching. I just… I have to make this potion. You know, in case he, uh, starts crashing out magically again or whatever. I can’t just stare at him. That’s not potion-making.” She tossed a glittering powder into a flask with exaggerated care, though her eyes never left Saparata.

TurnTapp rolled his eyes but allowed it. “Fine. Just keep it ready. That’s all I’m asking.”

Madz muttered under her breath again, “I’m a professional. You’d know if you watched me actually work instead of worrying like an oversized stoic cat.”

TurnTapp ignored the jab and returned to Saparata, brushing the boy’s silver hair back again. The faint luminescence in Saparata’s veins glimmered under the torchlight, ghostlike, a subtle echo of what he had endured in the Underground. TurnTapp pressed a gentle kiss to the boy’s temple, not out of ritual, not out of obligation, but out of something achingly human he had denied himself for years.

Saparata shifted slightly under the blankets, lying flat now, pale and trembling. “I’m fine,” he whispered weakly, his voice raspy.

TurnTapp’s chest ached. “No, you’re not. Not after tonight. You scared me half to death. You’re not supposed to do this alone. I won’t let you.”

Madz gave a sharp exhale, muttering as she stirred a bright green concoction. “I swear, if he moves again I’ll throw this at him and call it a miracle cure. You’d better appreciate it, TurnTapp. And Saps…DON’T YOU EVER FUCKING DO THAT AGAIN!”

“I shouldn’t have left you…” She muttered under her breath, frustration and regret seeping into her voice. Her eyes blurring with unshed tears.

Saparata couldn’t help but let a small, strained smile escape. “I’m sorry.”

TurnTapp leaned closer to Saparata, brushing the boy’s hand back against his chest. “You’re alive. You’re here with me. That’s what matters.”

Saparata’s fingers twitched faintly. TurnTapp caught the weak motion instinctively, holding the hand between his own. It was a simple gesture, but sacred in its meaning.

Madz muttered, not very quietly, “He’s barely conscious, and you’re going to start talking like the world is ending. Honestly, just… give him a minute. Or ten. Potion first, speeches later. You’re making me panic too TurnTapp.”

TurnTapp ignored her teasing, pressing his cheek lightly against Saparata’s hair. “Sleep, Saps. I won’t leave you. You hear me? I won’t leave you.”

Madz gave a small exasperated sigh and muttered, “Stoic man, can’t even take a break from worrying for five seconds…” but her eyes softened as she glanced at the boy lying there, breathing slowly.

The room fell into a quiet rhythm. Torches flickered. Bottles clinked. TurnTapp stayed on his knees, refusing rest, while Madz stirred her potion, muttering sarcastic commentary and scolding her self-declared brother who laid still. Fragile yet stubbornly alive.

And in that quiet chaos, TurnTapp whispered, “I’ve got you, Saps. Always.”

-

Cynikka perched atop the observation platform, the metal grate cold under her boots. Her cloak fluttered faintly in the recycled ventilation air, and the scent of burned stone and oil lingered. The Lower Vent had been secured, barricades reinforced, and yet her gaze never wavered. Every breath Flux took, every tremor in the underground floor, registered in her mind as if she could feel it.

She had a hundred reports to read, a dozen officers to question, and yet she couldn’t tear her attention from the boy she had set into motion hours ago. The one who had gone into uncontrolled Overburn, who had almost destroyed the lower veins with the intensity of his fury. His body might have survived, but the aura was what fascinated and frightened her. Silver streaks threaded through crimson, pulsing faintly even now.

Thomas approached, his hands twitching “Commander Cynikka, Flux…he’s resting. No further incidents. His aura has… stabilized, mostly. There was a spike earlier, but–”

“Mostly?” Cynikka cut him off sharply, voice smooth and cold. Her eyes narrowed. “Mostly is not enough. Describe it precisely.”

He swallowed, glancing toward the corridor that led to the secured chambers. “It… it fluctuated. A mix of crimson fire and silver light. Not pure Dominion, not corrupted. Something else. He tried to move toward the silver flame. We were able to restrain him.”

Cynikka’s lips pressed into a thin line. She closed her eyes, extending her senses outward, letting her magic weave outward like fine tendrils. The aura pulsed under her control, and she felt it. The chaotic weave, the overburn residue, the strange luminescence threading around Flux’s essence.

She opened her eyes slowly. “Good,” she said softly, almost to herself. “Keep him sedated, but carefully. Any more exposure to this… untamed link and we risk discovery. Or worse.”

Cynikka walked to the prince’s room in Rose Hall. Her steps echoing in the dark, shadows of the light cast across her face. She knocked once. paused. and twice consecutively. The strategist opened the door, here eyes resting on her brother’s form.

Her gaze sharpened. There it was. The subtle tether, a faint pull in the weave, something foreign but familiar. She leaned forward, arms crossed, watching Flux stir slightly, his brow furrowed in dreams he wasn’t awake enough to explain. There was a quiet rhythm, a heartbeat of the Underground and a heartbeat within him that seemed to be resonating with… something else.

She tilted her head. “Interesting,” she muttered. Her fingers brushed the edge of the bed and a faint projection of the aura shimmered against the his body, tracing the currents that bound Flux to the energy lingering in the Lower Vent. The pattern was intricate, chaotic, and alive. A thought formed in her mind. She squinted, eyebrows scrunching in her pondering. It was strong and unmistakable, and it wasn’t just Flux’s energy.

Someone else was influencing it.

Cynikka’s heart skipped, but she didn’t allow it to show. Her thoughts raced. She hadn’t seen him directly, but reports, aura traces, faint remnants in the Lower Vent…they all pointed to him.

The boy who had stopped Flux. The boy who had anchored his Overburn, neutralized the surge. Whoever he was, he left an imprint, a trace of silver like a beacon buried within the chaos.

Her jaw tightened. A smile never reached her eyes. “Interesting,” she repeated, this time with a quiet, dangerous certainty. “He is stronger than he appears. And he thinks he is hidden.”

She exhaled slowly. “No. He is not hidden from me.” Her fingers brushed her own palm, tracing the faint scar from the pact she had made so long ago, the same old lesson in loyalty and cunning. This boy, this strange, silver-lit boy.

Could be a tool. A weapon. Or a threat.

Cynikka leaned closer, now sitting on the edge of the bed, studying Flux as he slept, muscles tensed even in unconsciousness, aura thrumming softly in red and silver. “We will see how far this link goes. And when it wakes, we will see what he truly is… and what he can do for us.”

Her lips curved slightly. Dangerous, calculating, faintly amused. “And you… will meet him soon enough, little silver thread. Soon enough, you and he will collide. I just hope you are ready.”

A low hum vibrated through the Lower Vent as she pulled back, sensing the first stirrings of connection. A shared energy, a bond neither had chosen but both would be drawn toward.

Cynikka’s fingers twitched. The silver-red thread pulsed faintly in the air like a living thing. She allowed herself a brief, cold shiver. “Yes,” she whispered. “This will be very interesting indeed.”

-

Flux awoke.

Not on any cot or floor, but in a strange weightless space that hummed with energy. The air, or whatever this was, buzzed along his skin, a faint heat lingering from Overburn mingling with something entirely new, alive, and powerful.

Ahead floated a massive orb. Silver and red swirled within it like molten metal caught in starlight, pulsing rhythmically. It radiated strength, challenge, and authority, and Flux felt it pull at him, not gently, not tenderly, but like a command, daring him to meet it.

Inside the orb, movement shifted, and he saw him.

Saparata. The boy stood tall, shoulders squared, eyes blazing with alertness and curiosity. He radiated a power different from Flux’s Dominion blood, but no less potent. There was no fear in his posture, only caution and a taut readiness, as if he knew the world might crumble at any moment and he’d have to face it alone.

Flux’s pulse quickened. He didn’t know this boy, had never seen him before, but the energy radiating from him demanded attention. It was bold, raw, precise. He mirrored it instinctively, muscles tensing, hands raised slightly as if ready for combat, but the orb’s light coiled around him instead, forcing him to pause, to see.

“You,” Saparata said, voice steady, echoing in the strange space. “Who are you?” His gaze cut through the haze, sharp, calculating, and not a trace of awe softened his tone.

Flux hesitated. Not because he didn’t know how to answer, but because this boy was not fragile. Not a child in need of guidance. He was challenge incarnate. “Flux,” he finally said, voice low. “And you?”

“Saparata,” came the reply, equally low and deliberate. No question of fear, no faltering. “Why are we here?”

Flux’s hand hovered, torn between curiosity and caution. “I don’t know. This… thing,” he gestured toward the orb of swirling silver and red, “it’s connecting us. But I don’t know why.”

The orb pulsed violently, threads of energy stretching toward them both. Flux reached out, and Saparata’s eyes narrowed, wary yet unafraid. The space between them crackled with raw power, an unspoken test of strength.

“Don’t come closer,” Saparata warned, his tone firm. “I won’t hold back if you try anything.”

“I’m not trying anything,” Flux countered, seeping frustration and rage in his voice, feeling the heat of his own blood and the rhythm of the orb’s pull. “I want to understand all this. Understand you.”

Silver and red tendrils swirled faster, the red tearing through the space between them more forcefully, weaving between them like a living bridge, forcing recognition of each other’s strength. Questions erupted without words.

How strong are you?

What is this energy?

Flux moved slightly closer, hand extended, not as a threat, but as a gesture. Saparata’s gaze followed. It was calculating, wary, assessing. Neither flinched. Neither yielded. Both radiated command, presence, and power, each unwilling to appear weaker in this surreal arena.

Then the orb shivered when they touched it. Threads of energy snapped around them, leaving them in silence, suspended, still staring at each other. The connection dissolved, leaving an echo of tension and challenge behind.

Flux’s eyes flicked to Saparata’s. He let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “…your eyes… they shine like your magic,” he muttered, a grin curling the corner of his lips. It wasn’t tender. It wasn’t weak. It was acknowledgment. Respect. Admiration. He didn’t know why it left a heat in his chest, but it did.

Saparata’s cheeks burned slightly, his eyes flickered with a mixture of confusion and slight irritation at the comment, but also something else.

Curiosity.

And for the first time, Flux felt that even without knowing each other, he had met someone who could stand shoulder to shoulder with him and match every ounce of fire he carried.

Flux reached for him. Saparata froze, the orb between them glowing brighter, red and silver swirling violently, a heartbeat shared between the two of them.

And then the dream shattered.

The orb flickered, spinning out of control. Energy surged, a violent pulse knocking them back. The world fractured, pieces of silver and red flaring across the void as if the universe itself were holding its breath.

Saparata’s eyes widened in panic. Flux’s hand stretched out, almost touching him. “Wait!” he shouted.

And then… nothing.

The orb collapsed, the colors splintering into darkness, leaving only a whisper of warmth and a memory that burned brighter than any magic either had ever known.

Flux fell back into unconsciousness, or sleep, or something between. But even in the dark, even in the emptiness, one thought lingered, stubborn and alive.

’Those eyes… they shine like your magic.’

Chapter Text

The war room smelled of scorched iron and ink. The torches along the walls flickered like nervous witnesses, casting shadows that twisted across the polished obsidian table. Maps of the Underground, the veins, and patrol routes lay sprawled beneath the weight of reports and bloodstains. The Archon’s chair sat at the head of the table, carved from blackened steel and scorched oak, a throne more suited to a tyrant than a father.

Elanuelo sat behind it, broad shoulders tense, eyes narrowing as he scanned the latest patrol summaries. His fingers traced the reports with deliberate care, the faint heat of his crimson blood faintly radiating from his veins, warping the paper beneath. Every report was meticulous and precise. Almost too precise.

Ender, his right hand and most trusted advisor, approached cautiously, the clink of his boots sounding too loud in the oppressive silence. He cleared his throat.

“Archon,” Ender began, voice even, though a fine tremor betrayed him. “There is a discrepancy in the reports from the Lower Vent’s reports. Minor, but it is notable.”

Elanuelo’s head tilted slowly, the shadows from the flames making his expression seem almost inhuman. “Discrepancy?” His voice was soft, almost a murmur, but the air itself seemed to recoil. “Explain.”

Ender swallowed hard, he knew that his liege would be greatly displeased. “The reports from Cynikka and Thomas are…too similar. Their account of Flux’s surge, his uncontrolled energy. It reads like a single document split between two pens. And the reports from Hvyrotation, Seraphim, NK, Snowbird, and Gotoga are lacking detail. Critical moments seem to be omitted.”

Elanuelo’s fingers drummed against the table, the sound slow and deliberate, like a countdown. “Cynikka doesn’t make mistakes.” His voice rose, a low and dangerous rumble that vibrated through the room. “She does not fabricate. She does not misrepresent. She does not falter.”

A suffocating silence stretched between them. Ender’s eyes flicked down, refusing the Archon’s gaze. He had seen Elanuelo in anger before, had seen the flames of his wrath erupt, but this…

This was different.

This was the fire of a father betrayed, of a perfectionist who demanded absolute control, tempered only by the cold steel of his will.

Elanuelo’s gaze burned. “A similarity too exact, a uniformity of thought…it is not possible. And the missing details? Convenient. Calculated. This is not negligence, Ender. This is deception.”

The room felt smaller. The torches seemed to bend away, flickering shadows stretching toward the ceiling as if to escape. Ender’s stomach knotted. “I-”

Elanuelo silenced him with a single glance. He pushed back from the table, his boots scraping across the floor with enough force to make the torches shiver. Fire threaded along his veins, the heat emanating which the room warmed in response. “Traitors do not hide in plain sight without cost,” he said, each word slow and deliberate slicing through the air. “And traitors in my own home…are the most dangerous.”

His eyes, molten and alive, swept across the room. “Flux is my son. Cynikka is my daughter. Yet I am presented with reports that read like scripts of convenience. Perfectly aligned, yet incomplete. They believe me blind? That I would not notice the subtle omissions? They believe I do not feel the echoes of uncontrolled power, the signature of chaos in my son’s blood?”

Ender felt a shiver crawl down his spine. “They…they could not have anticipated-”

Elanuelo’s fist shot out, searing with energy, and slammed it into the table. The wood beneath began to blacken, the papers singed and steaming. “I do not tolerate excuses. I do not tolerate mistakes. And I do not tolerate defiance.” His eyes bore into Ender’s. “If these reports are truthful, then I will uncover the gaps myself. And if there are any lies…I will burn them to ash before they can breathe another false word.”

The air seemed to tremble around them. Ender forced himself to meet the Archon’s gaze, though it was like staring into a forge. “Archon, what will you do?”

Elanuelo’s lips curved into a faint, cruel smile. “I will visit Fluixon myself.” His words struck like a hammer. “I will see with my own eyes the truth of his surge, the stability of his control. I will decide whether my son is the heir I intended or a liability that must be corrected.”

He stepped closer to the map, hands brushing over the veins of the Underground, feeling the pulse of power that ran through its depths. “And I will not forget the accomplices. Cynikka, Thomas, Hvyrotation, Seraphim, NK, Snowbird, Gotoga. If any of you have conspired to cover weakness or to conceal chaos. If you’ve bent your loyalty to anything but the future of this bloodline…”

The flames along his veins flared brighter. “There will be death. And it will be precise and deliberate.”

Ender’s throat went dry. He had known Elanuelo to speak of death with such calm cruelty before. Usually it was strategic, controlled, deliberate. But this was different.

This was intimate.

Personal.

His children were at stake.

Elanuelo turned, the fire in his eyes now fully alight. “Ender, we’ll head to Flux’s quarters. I will see him myself. Do not alert them, I’ll visit under the guise of a welfare check.”

Ender bowed deeply, swallowing hard. “As your will, Archon.”

Elanuelo’s gaze swept the room one last time.

“Remember this Ender, perfection for a Crimson is not optional. Power is non negotiable and loyalty is not granted, it is extracted and forged. Those who fail to understand this will die.”

He paused, letting the words sink into the room like molten steel pouring over stone. “Flux is my son. Cynikka is my daughter. And yet…” His voice dropped, nearly a whisper, but heavy with insatiable fire. “…the one thing that will always strike terror is what they might do if I do not watch closely. If they believe they can hide weakness, if they believe they can protect one another, if they believe they can outsmart me.”

A low rumble of heat passed through the room as Elanuelo’s presence expanded, as if the very air itself had been set aflame by his will. Ender dared not speak. The room was heavy with anticipation, suffocating, yet somehow electric.

“Let’s go,” Elanuelo said finally, voice now calm, ice beneath the fire. “I will determine whether my heir is capable of carrying the weight of this dynasty or whether his failure will be written in spilled blood.”

Ender nodded, swallowing hard. He had never felt the air so thick, the threat so personal, the heat so close to consuming. Not even before the Crimson Blood ruled.

Elanuelo stepped back from the table, moving just enough to reveal the cold steel of his perfectionist resolve. “And Ender,” he said softly, almost intimate, “Remember this. I do not tolerate mistakes, I do not tolerate lies, and I do not tolerate weakness. If my children fail, I will bend them to my will or destroy them. There is no third path.”

The silence that followed was suffocating. The torches flickered once, twice, then steadied, as if afraid to move too quickly in the presence of a father whose wrath was fire itself.

Ender left carefully, choosing to wait outside. His mind raced with the words exchanged between him and the Archon. Outside, the hallways seemed darker than ever. The shadows seemed to lean closer, drawn to the flame of Elanuelo’s presence, whispering of the storm yet to come.

-

The corridors of the fortress were unnervingly silent. Every step of Elanuelo’s boots against the stone floors echoed like a heartbeat.

Slow and melodical.

A drumbeat of warning.

The torches along the walls flared briefly as if sensing the presence of their master’s blood, then dimmed, powerless against the aura of fire and dominance that clung to him like a cloak. Outside in the Rose Hall, he saw his son’s men, guarding the front door. They bowed their heads in respect, acknowledging the Archon. He moved past them, heading straight to the door’s handle.

The door opened before any knock, the hinges almost giving away from the force used. Elanuelo entered, and the air shifted immediately. Heat radiated from him, twisting fear and discomfort into the people.

Flux’s quarters were stripped of unnecessary objects, lined with reinforced sigils upon the walls to contain him. The boy sat on the edge of his cot, obsidian black hair slick with sweat and sticking to his forehead, his crimson magic simmering just beneath the skin. His chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, the remnants of his uncontrolled overburn still glowing faintly in his veins. Cynikka had remained close, standing at the far side of the room, arms crossed.

Every inch her usual calm, but her eyes remained sharp.

Calculating.

Protective.

“Flux.” His voice was low, smooth, yet carried the weight of a thousand blades to his neck. The syllable lingered in the room like a blade, sharp and precise. “Do you know why I am here?”

Flux swallowed, heat crawling up his neck. “Father…” His voice was tentative, almost uncertain. The word felt strange on his tongue now, colored by fear and meagerness of his actions.

Elanuelo’s gaze swept the room slowly. His eyes flared a hue of crimson as they lingered on Cynikka.

“Cynikka, stand aside. Let your brother speak for himself. I do not tolerate interference, even from you.”

Cynikka’s lips pressed into a thin line, but she did not move. She only tilted her head slightly, letting her brother take the focus. Her presence was enough to contain him, to remind Flux of the anchor he still had.

Elanuelo stepped closer to Flux, each movement measured, almost predatory. The boy could feel the heat crawling up his spine, could feel the weight of expectation and danger pressed against him like an iron vise.

“Your uncontrolled surge in the Underground. Explain it.”

Flux’s fingers clenched at his sides, crimson veins faintly pulsating. “I…I lost control. It was too much…too fast…I–”

“You do not complete sentences with excuses,” Elanuelo interrupted sharply. His hands flexed, a flicker of fire sparking along the air between them, the walls seeming to absorb the light.

“I want the truth. And if you cannot give it to me, I will extract it with methods you cannot imagine.”

Flux swallowed hard. His jaw tensed. “I– I protected them. I protected everyone. I couldn’t let the Verdants–”

Elanuelo’s lips curved into a slow, cruel smile. “Protect them? Who? Your men?” His laugh was low, almost musical, but it carried no warmth.

“No man deserves to be put on a pedestal above one’s self. Do you think the world bends to your sense of justice? Do you think your strength excuses your failure?”

Flux’s chest tightened, every muscle rigid. “I- I did everything I could father!”

“You could have done more.” The words struck like hot iron, branding itself into his skin. “And that is why you are here. That is why I came myself. To see whether my son is the heir I envisioned or a spineless meager boy who would ruin everything I built.”

Cynikka stepped forward, voice calm but sharp. “Father. Don’t–.”

Elanuelo’s eyes flicked to her, a small flame of amusement dancing across his sharp features. “Don’t what? Cynikka, do not presume to lecture me. Your loyalty is measured by results, not sentiment. Your brother’s failures are your failures as well. And yet…”

He paused, gaze narrowing, fire rippling along the edges of his mind. “I sense something more. You have protected him. Interfered. Shielded him from consequences. Tell me, daughter. Are you loyal to me, or to him?”

Cynikka did not flinch. “I am loyal to the future. And to power.”

Elanuelo’s laugh was low and dangerous, filling the room with heat that seemed to press against the skin. “Bold. Perhaps too bold. I see now why my daughter is feared and respected. But boldness is not enough.”

He leaned forward, the heat of his presence nearly physical, and whispered in a tone meant only for Flux.

“Do you understand your failure, boy? Do you understand how close you came to death, to destruction?”

“To becoming nothing?”

Flux met the fire in his father’s eyes, defiance and fear warring in equal measure. “Yes.”

“Yes?” Elanuelo’s lips curled. “‘Yes’ is a dangerous word. It carries weight you cannot yet bear. You think it suffices to acknowledge danger, but that is merely recognition. You must master it. Control it. Harness it. Or it will consume you. And if it consumes you. I will not hesitate. I am not a father who will weep over weakness.”

Fluixon recalled the same words in the area at his young age, he couldn’t be a failure to Aculon.

To his father.

To his bloodline.

The fire in Elanuelo’s eyes flared as he moved behind Flux, heat and presence pressing into his senses, mind probing, testing, twisting. He reached toward the boy’s aura, feeling the raw instability of crimson and…something else.

It was pure.

Every pulse of magic whispered its secrets to the Archon, and every hidden tremor was a testament to Flux’s struggle.

Cynikka’s hand twitched toward the edge of the door frame, a silent warning. Elanuelo noticed, and his smile deepened. “I see your sister is protective. Admirable. Yet misplaced. You will not have her interference to shelter you from your destiny, boy. Your bloodline demands perfection.”

Flux’s vision narrowed. The heat, the pressure, and the words they threatened to overwhelm him. His hands clenched, crimson energy flickering faintly. “I…I will control it,” he said, voice firm, though shaky.

Elanuelo’s lips curved, sharp and predatory. “We shall see. Know that there will be no mercy. No compromise. No hesitation.”

The room seemed to pulse with fire and inevitability. Even Cynikka’s calm stance could not hide the tension, the weight pressing on her chest as her brother trembled under the scrutiny of their father, the man who had shaped them with both cruelty and expectation.

Elanuelo circled Flux slowly, like a predator savoring the hunt. “Every thought, every impulse, every surge…I will know it. You cannot hide from me. And if you attempt to protect others with uncontrolled power again, I will not merely punish you. I will destroy you, and those you seek to protect.”

Flux clenched his fists. “I understand, Father.”

The Archon’s gaze met Cynikka’s again, fire and calculation entwined. “And you will continue to protect him. For now. But know this, Cynikka. Your loyalty is to my throne. Your cunning, your interference…It is a test. Fail, and you will burn alongside your brother.”

Cynikka’s expression did not falter. “Understood.”

Elanuelo’s eyes lingered on Flux one last time, absorbing the boy’s aura, reading every tremor and heartbeat. Then he turned sharply, the heat of his body slowly withdrawing from the room. “I will return. And then we will see…if the heir of crimson blood is worthy. If my son is truly prepared for what he was born to inherit.”

The door closed behind him with finality, leaving the room stifling, heavy, almost suffocating. The torches flickered weakly, the echoes of the Archon’s footsteps fading, yet the presence of fire and dominance lingered, a constant reminder that the father they feared, and revered, would return. And with him, judgment and reckoning.

Flux slumped onto the bed, trembling slightly. Cynikka exhaled sharply, letting her mask of calm falter for the briefest moment, placing a hand on her brother’s shoulder. “You’re stronger than he thinks. And I’ll make sure you survive this…even if he doesn’t believe it.”

But the shadow of their father’s gaze remained in the room, lingering like fire in the walls, like a promise of trials yet to come, and both siblings knew that nothing would be the same after tonight.

Outside, Elanuelo paused in the shadowed hallway away from Flux’s quarters, hand resting lightly against the carved obsidian wall. The residual energy from the boy’s surge had not faded entirely. It thrummed faintly beneath the stone, a pulse that cut through the defenses he had meticulously trained to sense.

His eyes narrowed, pupils shrinking as a cold fire coiled in his chest. That energy…it was not just crimson blood, not the familiar Dominion signature of strength and control.

No– it was pure, untainted, luminous, and older than anything he had expected to see again. He could feel it, separate yet intertwined with the boy’s chaotic magic, whispering of something forbidden, something thought lost.

A bitter taste filled his mouth. He had hunted this power once, extinguished it when it dared to rise, believed it erased, gone forever. And yet here it was, vibrating like a heartbeat beneath the walls, dancing faintly in the boy’s veins.

Elanuelo’s jaw tightened, a low growl escaping him. The air around him shimmered with heat, his mind racing through implications and possibilities. Whoever had returned this force, whoever had nurtured it had altered the future.

He swiftly walked to the direction of Marigold Hall, to where he could find his second hand, Ender. The Archon’s eyes were dark, eyebrows squeezed against each other in anger and disappointment.

Flux’s blood.

His blood

had been corrupted. Tainted. Altered into something no longer loyal to the Dominion, no longer entirely bound to him.

He would not allow that.

Power that refused control, that did not bow, that chose its own direction…was a threat. And threats were meant to be removed.

He stepped back, expression smoothing into an unreadable calm, the kind that always made his officers flinch. His footsteps were silent as he retreated to his chambers, mind already moving through strategies, contingencies, and necessary sacrifices. There was no hesitation. No grief. No fatherly conflict gnawing at his resolve.

Flux was an asset first. A bloodline investment. And assets could be terminated when they became liabilities.

He would need the right blade for this. Someone who would not question the order, someone whose loyalty outweighed their fear. A quiet death. Before Cynikka could act, before Thomas could interfere, before the others realized what the surge meant.

He would erase the corruption before it had the chance to bloom.

Elanuelo’s expression darkened into something cold and triumphant.

His decision had already carved itself sharply into his mind.

Eliminate the boy.

Flux had always struggled to control his power, and now Elanuelo would control the end of it.

-

Cynikka shut the door behind her, releasing the breath she’d been holding since her father left. Though she put out the facade of the unshakable, she’d always been terrified of her father. The same way Fluixon feared him, yet revered him. Looking for his father’s approval.

“That was close,” Flux muttered, dragging both hands through his sweat-damp hair as he slumped onto the edge of his bed. “Way too close.”

“Close?” Cynikka scoffed, pacing the room like a blade drawn too soon. “Flux, Father nearly read your mind. One wrong word and he would’ve burned this entire wing looking for the source.”

Flux grimaced. “Yeah. I felt it too. He’s sharper than usual.”

“He suspects something.” Cynikka’s voice dropped. “And he should. You almost died tonight.”

Flux closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. “About that…”

She froze mid-pace. Her eyes darted towards her brother, narrowing in curiosity, “Flux.”

He opened his eyes and looked at her, something between confusion and awe flickering there.

“I had a dream,” Flux said. “Or maybe not a dream. More like a connection. With him.”

“‘Him’?” Cynikka repeated carefully.

“The boy. The one in the cave. Silver hair, golden eyes, with silver illuminating his veins through under his skin…The one who stopped my Overburn.”

Her brows knitted. “Flux, you nearly melted the cavern. You shouldn’t remember anyone.”

“But I do,” he insisted. “It’s the weirdest part. I remember him like he was standing right in front of me. The aura…his light. It touched mine. Like it reached inside and shoved everything back into place. It felt…clean.” He scrunched his face, searching for the word. “Pure.”

Cynikka’s pulse kicked.

Pure Blood. Pure Magic.

The one thing her father feared more than revolt.

Flux didn’t notice the change in her posture, he was too wrapped in the memory.

“And when I overburned,” Flux continued, “He didn’t run. He didn’t crumble. He absorbed it. Like it was nothing to him.”

“That shouldn’t be possible,” Cynikka breathed.

“I know.” Flux rubbed his temples. “That’s why I called Thomas and the others. They were down there when it happened. I want everything straight.”

He raised his chin and shouted, “Get in here!”

The door immediately cracked open, and six of them tried to enter at once.

They jammed in the doorway like idiots.

NK’s voice carried first, “BRO, HVYROTATION IS TOO WIDE. I TOLD YOU TO WALK SIDEWAYS.”

Hvyrotation shoved back. “My shoulders are NATURAL. Your head is just abnormally huge.”

“My head is BEAUTIFUL, thank you very much-”

Snowbird snapped, “Can you idiots stop blocking the door?!”

Gotoga grumbled from the back, “Move or I’m cutting someone.”

Seraphim was silent, though her eyes glinted with the intent to kill if she remained squished between all these idiots.

Thomas, trapped behind all of them, sighed like a single father of six. “Please. For the love of the Dominion. Just go inside one at a time.”

Cynikka pinched the bridge of her nose. “Spirits preserve me.”

Eventually, after too much shoving and NK swearing he was “structurally delicate,” they all managed to stand in a jagged line. Flux glared at them.

“You all look like you lost a bar fight.”

“It was technically a cave fight,” NK corrected.

Hvyrotation smacked the back of his head. “Shut up.”

Flux gestured impatiently. “Start explaining. Everything.”

Thomas stepped forward first, because someone had to sound like an adult.

“Lady Cynikka, Commander,” he began, “the situation began during the boy’s attempted escape into the lower caverns. We engaged him under Gotoga’s lead.”

“Under Gotoga’s lead, which he struck without informing us. Tch!” NK grumbled.

Gotoga ignored their youngest mate and lifted his chin, still annoyed. “He shouldn’t have survived the attempt of my axe.”

“He didn’t just survive,” Snowbird said sharply. “He reacted.”

“Reacted?” Cynikka asked.

Thomas nodded. “When Flux began slipping into overburn, we expected the cavern to collapse. But instead…he interfered. The boy harbored magic that was pure. Almost a match to Flux’s Overburn.”

Flux’s jaw tensed. “I remember his hand. Touching the backlash. Like he pulled my power into himself.”

Gotoga scoffed. “It shouldn’t be possible.”

Snowbird folded his arms. “But it happened. I saw it. His eyes glowed. Light magic. Pure light. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Mn. It was interesting. He seemed to be moving on instinct. He probably wanted to protect his people rather than us.” Seraphim expressed, her voice low.

Cynikka’s pulse spiked again.

NK jumped in next, practically vibrating. “LISTEN. I know I clown a lot but HOLY HELL this white boy was unreal. When Flux exploded– sorry,”

Fluixon’s eye twitched in irritation. This brat was making him out to be an uncontrollable shit show, which he was at that moment. NewKids continued, not seeming to notice his prince’s expression, flailing his arms around in dramatics.

“He just– WHOOSH– caught it. Like grabbing a fireball with bare hands! Not a scream or a yelp.” You could almost see stars in his eyes.

Hvyrotation added, “Even Gotoga couldn’t cut him cleanly. His blow landed wrong. Like the air was fighting back.”

Gotoga hissed. “Do not make it sound like I was losing.”

“Bro, you were losing,” NK said. “He avoided that big ol’ axe of yours that ‘never misses’.” The next line was almost sung in a sing-song voice, annoying Gotoga even further.

“It was a lucky dodge!” Gotoga growled.

Thomas redirected before they devolved into chaos again. “Cynikka. The magic the boy used, none of us could identify it. It wasn’t crimson, or vermillion or auric. It was like raw light. Untainted.”

Flux rubbed the back of his neck, distant. “It didn’t burn. It felt quite calm.”

“And that’s not all,” Thomas said, lowering his voice. “When he stabilized Flux, the boy looked like he was burning out. He collapsed right after Gotoga attacked. He’s strong, but he’s not invincible.”

Cynikka frowned. “Where is he now?”

Thomas looked uneasy. “We don’t know. He disappeared into the tunnels just as Solev arrived.”

Gotoga muttered, “I would have had him had some bastard not stopped me.”

“Because you almost killed the only one who could save Flux,” Snowbird snapped.

Gotoga’s nostrils flared. “He was dangerous. We didn’t know what he would have done!”

Cynikka raised a hand. They all fell silent.

Her gaze swept across them. Sharp and calculating, burning with a purpose none of them understood.

“This boy,” she said slowly, “stopped Flux’s overburn. Stabilized him. And used magic none of you recognized.”

Everyone nodded.

Flux looked at her curiously. “Cyn…what are you thinking?”

She didn’t answer immediately.

Because her mind was racing faster than her heartbeat.

A boy with that kind of magic. Uncorrupted. Able to neutralize overburn. Strong enough to stand against trained elites. And the connection…Flux’s dream.

It wasn’t coincidence.

Cynikka turned to the men. “No one. Speaks. Of this. Outside this room.”

They stiffened.

“Yes, my lady.” Thomas said immediately.

“Of course.” Snowbird echoed.

NK saluted with too much enthusiasm. “Mouth zipped. Sealed and duct-taped.”

Hvyrotation elbowed him. “She means it, idiot.”

Gotoga and Seraphim simply nodded.

Flux exhaled, tension easing just a little.

But Cynikka wasn’t done.

Her voice dropped to a razor edge.

“From now on…We find this boy. Quietly. Discreetly. And before Father does. I’ve instructed Solev, but father might have his head. I’ll inform him myself that we’ll do it alone. No one should know of this.”

Flux blinked. “Before he does? Cynikka, why?”

She met his eyes.

“The cave incident wasn’t an accident. Something…or someone put him in your path.”

Flux swallowed. “You think he saved me for a reason.”

“I think,” she said, stepping closer, lowering her voice to a whisper, “he might be the only reason you’re still alive.”

Flux’s heart thudded hard in his chest.

“And if Father finds him first,” Cynikka murmured, “he’ll kill him.”

Flux froze.

All six soldiers froze.

Because for the first time, the danger was real. Close. Personal.

And the boy with silver hair had become something far more than a stranger.

He had become a threat.

And a possibility.

Cynikka straightened, cold and commanding once more.

“We move at dawn.”

Flux whispered, almost unconsciously, “the boy with the light in his hands.”

Cynikka didn’t turn.

But she smiled.

Just a little.

-

Cynikka had barely shut the door to Flux’s chambers when a soft voice rose from the shadows.

“You’re trembling.”

Her hand shot to her blade, half drawn, until the lamplight caught white-gold hair and eyes sewn shut. Jophiel stood by the window, her presence as calm and quiet as moonlight on water.

“Relax, child.” Her tone was gentle, but it carried the weight of someone who had never once been wrong about the future. “If I intended to harm you, you wouldn’t have heard me enter.”

Cynikka exhaled, sheathing the blade. “You could announce yourself.”

“I did,” Jophiel murmured. “You simply didn’t hear it. Those boys were quite the ruckus.”

Whether that was truth or a vision-borne riddle, Cynikka didn’t know. She crossed her arms, trying to steady her pulse. Elanuelo’s interrogation still hung in the air like smoke, burning at her nerves.

“What do you need?”

Jophiel stepped closer, the soft rustle of her robes nearly soundless. “Answers.”

Cynikka stiffened immediately.

Jophiel’s eyes, though sewn shut, seemed to study her with that strange mixture of warmth and piercing insight that made Cynikka feel both seen and dissected.

“Where were you,” Jophiel began softly, “during the incident at the Lower Vent?”

Cynikka’s mouth went dry. “Why does that matter?”

“It matters because your reports were wrong,” Jophiel said. “ Just wrong. Misaligned. Something in your path shifted.”

Cynikka said nothing.

Jophiel’s gaze did not waver.

“Did anyone else see the boy?”

The breath left Cynikka’s lungs. She swallowed hard. “Boy?” she echoed, casual.

Too casual.

Jophiel tilted her head, an almost maternal disappointment in her voice. “You know deception doesn’t work on me.”

Cynikka clenched her jaw.

“Why do you tremble when I say his name?” Jophiel asked gently. “You’re not afraid of many things.”

“I’m not–”

“You are.” Jophiel stepped closer, lowering her voice. “Because something impossible happened. Something you weren’t prepared to understand.”

A flicker of silver light crossed Cynikka’s memory.

Cynikka closed her eyes, the image burning behind her lids.

Jophiel whispered, “Tell me.”

Cynikka’s resistance cracked.

“He glowed silver they said,” she said quietly. “I’ve never heard or seen anything like it.”

For a moment, the entire room stilled. Jophiel’s expression shifted. But Cynikka saw it.

A slow exhale, a deep understanding, and something like sorrow.

“Silver,” Jophiel repeated, almost reverently. “So it has returned.”

“What has?”

Instead of answering, Jophiel touched Cynikka’s hand lightly. Her grip was soft, but unyielding.

“Come.”

“Where?”

“To the one place in this castle your father has never managed to corrupt.”

That caught Cynikka’s attention. “There’s no such place.”

“There is,” Jophiel said. “Few know it exists, and fewer deserve to walk inside. But you…” Her voice sharpened. “You will need what lies below.”

Before Cynikka could protest, Jophiel guided her to the far corner of the chamber, toward what looked like a carved, ornamental panel of phoenix wings.

“Stand back,” Jophiel murmured.

Cynikka did.

The seer placed her palm flat against the wood. A thin glow spiraled from her fingertips. Soft, ancient, the color of golden mist over water. The carving shuddered, shifted, and then split apart, revealing a steep hidden staircase spiraling downward into darkness.

Cold air rose from below, carrying the scent of dust, stone, and forgotten things.

Cynikka stared. “How long has this been here?”

“Longer than your father’s reign.” Jophiel motioned her forward. “Walk.”

Cynikka descended.

The stone steps were narrow and slick, lit only by faint bioluminescent threads winding like veins down the walls. Each step seemed to sink her deeper into a burial the world had tried to erase.

Jophiel followed close behind, her voice a whisper echoing in the dark.

“Your father is a man of fire. He burns what he cannot control. Destroys what frightens him. Entire bloodlines, entire histories and ash lay upon his hands.”

Cynikka felt her stomach lurch. “What bloodlines?”

“You already know,” Jophiel said softly.

Cynikka’s hand tightened on the railing. “You mean the boy.”

“I mean what the boy represents,” Jophiel corrected. “Power that is not born from crimson. Power that is not tainted by Dominion or by your father’s rituals. Power that existed before the throne was built.”

They reached the bottom.

The chamber opened into a vast archive. Towers of stone shelves and scrolls wrapped in ancient cloth, bound tomes sealed in wax, relics resting beneath crystal cases. The air smelled of old magic, the kind that hummed beneath the skin.

Cynikka turned slowly, awe breaking through her fear.

“What is this place?”

“The truth,” Jophiel said simply. “Or what remains of it.”

She moved toward a long stone table, brushing dust from a large, iron-bound book. When she opened it, the pages crackled with age.

Images filled the parchment. Sketches of people with silver fire in their veins, eyes like starlight, symbols marking their chests.

Cynikka froze. Her pulse hammered. She recognized that light. She’d seen that on her brother’s body, his aura.

“What happened to them?” Cynikka whispered.

Jophiel turned another page, this one stained darker, its edges warped. The illustrations changed.

Rows of soldiers, their blades glowing red with infused blood.

Strange carvings of a ritual weapon forged to pierce light-born magic.

And beneath the image, an inscription.

Purge the pure before they devour the world.

Cynikka staggered backward. “This…this was sanctioned?”

“No,” Jophiel said. “It was hidden. Buried. Denied. But the first Archon, the man your father idolized, had believed their power would one day topple the Dominion. So he wiped them out in secrecy.”

Cynikka gripped the edge of the table to steady herself. “All of them?”

Jophiel looked at her with unbearable gentleness. “Or so he believed.”

Cynikka felt cold seep into her bones.

Silver hair.

Silver light.

A boy who reportedly stood in front of Flux’s explosion like he was meant to.

“He's harnessed pure magic? So he's-” Cynikka questioned, having a slight inkling as to what he really was. But she didn't know. She couldn't be certain.

“Something your father will kill without hesitation,” Jophiel finished. “Because he fears what he does not understand.”

Cynikka swallowed hard. “Why help me? Why risk this?”

Jophiel closed the book, dust whispering through the air.

“Because the future,” she said quietly, “is not written by the throne. It is written by those brave enough to break from it.”

Her eyes glowed faintly, seeping through her eyelids.

“And you, little spark, are standing at the edge of history.”

Jophiel did not speak immediately after Cynikka’s confession.

She only inclined her head as though listening to a voice only she could hear.

Then she said, softly, “Come.”

A tremor of cold air swept through the room. The torches guttered. Cynikka opened her mouth to protest. The patrol would notice her absence, Elanuelo might summon her at any moment, but Jophiel had already taken her by the wrist.

“Now,” she said. “Before doubt roots itself.”

The world shifted.

One blink and Cynikka found herself standing before a stone spiral staircase that choked the warmth out of the air. The passageway yawned open like the throat of some long-dead beast. Torches burned low along the walls, their flames dim as if protesting their own existence. The stones beneath her boots were slick with age.

“No one comes here,” Cynikka whispered.

“No one alive.” Jophiel answered.

They descended.

Down and down.

Far deeper than the palace’s prison levels, deeper even than the vaults where relics from the First Lineage slept under chains. Each step creaked under their weight as though remembering every foot that had walked this path. Dust swirled in slow, ghostly spirals. At times Cynikka thought she heard voices.

Thin and stretched, as if woven into the stone itself. Old screams worn soft by the centuries.

“You’re taking me below the royal archives,” Cynikka said. “This is forbidden ground.”

“Yes.”

Jophiel’s tone was serene. “Which is why you must see it.”

The corridor widened. An iron gate loomed at the end, taller than a warship’s hull and carved with jagged runes that flickered faintly like dying embers.

Jophiel approached it without hesitation. With two fingers, she touched the center sigil.

A pulse.

A metallic groan.

The runes shattered like frost and drifted away as sparkling dust.

The gate peeled open.

Inside lay a vast chamber of stone shelves, broken tablets, and scrolls bound in cracked leather. Candle stumps littered the floor. Everything smelled of old ink and older blood. A single lantern burned in the center on a marble pedestal, its flame pale and almost silver.

“This is where the kingdom’s history lives,” Jophiel said. “The true one.”

Cynikka swallowed. “Why are you showing me this?”

“Because your future is already tangled in it.”

Jophiel walked between the shelves, her robes brushing the dust into restless clouds. She stopped at a carved pedestal and withdrew a folded, brittle manuscript the color of dried bone.

“Read.”

Cynikka hesitated. Half from fear, half from reverence. She unfolded the manuscript.

Her breath snagged in her throat.

The page bore a painted scene.

Warriors in crimson armor and figures of light kneeling, their arms and feet shackled, their bodies bound with heavy chains of iron, and a sky darkened with smoke. Beneath the illustration, elegant script flowed like a river sedimented with grief.

“The Purification,” Cynikka murmured. “Our founding victory.”

“That is what the king teaches,” Jophiel said. “What he allows the world to remember.”

Cynikka looked again.

The script beneath the illustration had been scratched violently. Written shakily, by a soul who's desperate hand had laid itself upon its page.

And it told a different story.

“Elanuelo was not yet the Archon when he discovered it,” Jophiel said quietly.

“He was simply ambitious. Brilliant. And afraid.”

“Afraid of what?” Cynikka whispered.

Jophiel’s gaze flicked to the lantern flame.

“Of those who were born touched by pure magic. The Evangelicals, as scholars once called them.”

Cynikka felt the room tilt.

That word.

One she’d seen only in forbidden, half-burned scriptures. One the higher bloods dismissed as superstition, a morality tale used to frighten children. Pure magic wielders whose existence was “symbolic”. After all, they had conspired against the other races. To rid the world of those whose blood wasn't of power.

But here, in this cold chamber buried beneath the palace, it suddenly felt heavier than iron.

“He was…right,” Cynikka breathed. “Wasn’t he?”

Jophiel did not answer with words.

She lifted her hand, and the lantern flame bent toward her palm like a beast bowing to its keeper. Not burned. Not harmed. Simply obeying.

Her voice lowered.

“Long ago, a few survivors of that lineage scattered, fleeing the slaughter. But their numbers dwindled. One by one, their lights went out. History assumed the last of them died centuries ago.”

She lifted her gaze, the lantern flame trembling as if afraid of her next words.

“Yet here he stands…a remnant no one believed existed. And he carries an aura the Crimson Guards could not name. Silver. Pure. Uncontaminated.”

Cynikka’s heart stuttered.

Silver.

Silver.

Her brother’s recounting of the cave.

Flux burning out of control.

And a stranger touching him, steadying him with nothing but light.

“That boy…” Cynikka whispered, eyes widening, her voice filled with utmost certainty. “He's Evangelic!”

Jophiel exhaled like someone releasing a secret they had held for too many years.

Cynikka stepped back, breath cracking at the edges.

“No,” she managed, her hands flew towards her hair, fisting it in her palms. “That’s impossible. If an Evangelic lived in the Underground…we would have sensed him. Someone would have reported it.”

Jophiel glanced towards the floor, shifting away from the princess, but her words struck like a blade.

“He was never meant to be found. His magic was cloaked. Protected. Hidden so deeply that even the earth forgot him.”

“But he revealed himself to save your brother.”

Cynikka’s pulse slammed against her ribs.

“Elanuelo believed they would rise beyond mortal limits,” Jophiel continued. “That their magic would eclipse all structure, all order. That their very existence threatened the world’s balance.”

“So he… suppressed them?” Cynikka asked, though the answer already curdled in her gut.

“No,” Jophiel said, voice soft but merciless. “He studied them. Dissected their magic. And when he discovered how vulnerable purity was to corruption, he forged a weapon.”

The lantern’s flame flickered, as though in pain.

“A crimson-blooded weapon,” Jophiel said. “One that eats magic from the inside out. That. Was the power the Dominion held over their heads. It made blood burn bright…then collapses into ash.”

Cynikka’s stomach lurched.

“Elanuelo wielded it on the first Evangelical colony.”

Jophiel’s hands tightened behind her back. “He called his act preemptive salvation. The kingdom called it Purification. But in truth…It was extermination.”

The word hit Cynikka like a blade.

“No…that can’t be. Our histories say the Evangelicals attacked first. That’s why no one speaks of them. They–!”

“They didn’t.” Jophiel nodded toward the shelves. “Those who survived fled beneath the earth, sealing their songs behind stone. Their descendants became myths.”

Cynikka stared down at the manuscript, her heartbeat slamming against her ribs.

“And the halfbloods?” she whispered. “The ones born from intermarriage?”

“Elanuelo feared them most.” Jophiel’s voice was barely above a breath.

“Because they could pass unnoticed. Because they carried diluted but potent magic. Because they could shape the future in ways he could not control.”

Cynikka’s pulse stuttered.

The boy who illuminated silver blood was now intertwined with her brother.

Jophiel watched her closely. “Now understand the weight of your trembling when you say his name.”

Cynikka felt the world close in around her, her lungs tightening.

“They said he glowed silver,” Cynikka said, the memory now a blade. “No spell made him do it. No artifact. It came from him.”

“Yes,” Jophiel said. “A sign of what he is.”

Cynikka pressed a shaking hand to the table. Her vision blurred.

“Elanuelo kills them,” she whispered. “Anyone like him.”

“He has killed them for twenty years,” Jophiel answered. “He will not hesitate now.”

A single tear slipped down Cynikka’s cheek.

Not from sorrow, but from terror.

“All this time,” she said.

“All this time I thought the Purification was righteous. A necessary act. But it was a hunt.”

Jophiel stepped forward, resting a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“You asked earlier why I helped you,” she said. “It is not loyalty to you… nor disloyalty to the king.”

Cynikka looked up.

“It is because I see the future,” Jophiel said, her declaration stricken by a mixture of grief and awe. “And the boy you have discovered is its axis.”

Cynikka staggered back.

Fluixon.

Flux.

Flux!

Her brother’s blood was different now. His blood harbored the silver remnants of pure magic. He was what their father feared.

He was now part of what the king had erased entire lineages to prevent.

Which meant–

“He’s in danger,” Cynikka whispered. “He’s going to die if I do nothing. I need to find that man.”

“No,” Jophiel said firmly.

“He will die if you hesitate.”

The lantern flame guttered into darkness.

“And if he dies,” Jophiel added, voice like prophecy,

“The future dies with him.”

-

Cynikka and Fluixon had done something. They had conspired against him.

Elanuelo rose, every movement a hurricane of intent and danger. Flames erupted along the edges of his palms, curling and licking upward, heat radiating in the room like a living presence. His eyes, molten and unforgiving, scanned the gathered aides and scribes. He did not shout. He did not need to. The air itself trembled.

“Traitors,” he whispered, voice sharp as splintering steel. “Do any of you think I do not see? That I cannot feel when blood has been tainted? Do you believe the throne weak because it allows mistakes? No.” His hands slammed the table, and the torches flickered violently, casting dancing infernos across the room. “I will burn every impurity from this kingdom. I will leave no shadow unturned.”

Ender swallowed. “Archon, your son–”

Elanuelo turned, eyes narrowing, fire and fury pooling in the gaze of a father whose love had always been tempered with ice. “…my son?” The words were venom-laced, questioning. “If he carries that…aura, then he is no longer mine. Not for the throne. Not for the bloodline. Not for anything. He will not surpass me. He will not rise against me. If he has–” He stopped abruptly, the fire in his voice softening only slightly to steel. “If he has touched that corruption, he will die.”

A chill settled over the war room. Ender’s jaw tightened. Every report he had forwarded to Elanuelo painted a dark picture. The boy’s blood had been manipulated. Stabilized, but still touched. There had been a pulse of silver in the veins, fleeting but unmistakable.

Elanuelo’s fingers flexed over the obsidian table, tracing the map of the kingdom with the precision of a predator. “Fetch my assassins. Seek the boy in the Underground. His blood will be tested. The one with that aura, if confirmed, will be brought to me, head in hand. No mercy. None. If anyone stands in their way, they too will pay. And as for Cynikka…” His eyes burned, flames licking higher as rage coiled around him.

“Bring her alive. She will answer for every deception. She will witness the fall of the line she chose to protect.”

The room went silent. No one dared breathe. The flames along the Archon’s hands pulsed like a living heartbeat, redder, hotter, hungrier.

“The throne is mine,” he continued, voice low but lethal, “and the line will remain pure. Any shadow in my bloodline, any taint, will be extinguished. I will not fail. I will not allow weakness. And if my own blood defies me…I will make sure it understands that I am fire incarnate. That I am absolute.”

The assassins assembled, masks hiding their faces, blades kissed with crimson, and their presence alone made the walls quake with anticipation. Their instructions were precise. Detect the aura, verify the blood, and execute without hesitation. Elanuelo would do no failure, and no one. Not even his own children, was immune.

Outside, the city continued unaware, but in the heart of the palace, a storm had been unleashed. Flame, fury, paranoia, and a dark precision of mind games converged. Elanuelo’s gaze lingered on the map, on the lower sectors of the Underground, and his mind saw the shimmered silver, whose blood could challenge destiny itself. His son.

He did not feel sorrow. He felt the cold calculation of survival, the brutal logic of rule. And as he stood, the heat in his palms intensified, as if the fire itself had recognized the threat. “Go,” he hissed. “Bring me the proof, or bring me their corpses. And make no mistake…” He paused, voice dropping to a whisper sharp as a dagger. “I will know who deceived me first. And I will burn them last. All else is expendable.”

With that, the war room became a crucible of deadly intent. Orders had been given. The hunt had begun. The boy with silver-infused blood and all who protected him would now move in a world where the shadows themselves were armed, and the throne above them blazed with fire and fury.

-

Cynikka moved through the lower corridors of the palace with a cold efficiency, the tension in her chest tight. Her boots echoed against stone, a rhythm that matched her heartbeat. She had called together her most trusted allies, Magic, Legacy, and Ymi…and her brother, Flux, along with his crew, who were both wary and restless.

Flux walked beside her, his crimson blood thrumming, lingering traces of silver energy flickering faintly under his skin from his recent encounter. He still shivered, the memory of the boy who had saved him lingering in his mind, whose aura had stabilized the overburn. He could not explain the pull he felt, but he knew he owed his life to that encounter, though it had left him unsettled.

Cynikka stopped suddenly in a wide chamber, the dim light catching the sharp angles of her face. “Listen,” she said, voice low but firm, “Elanuelo knows there is something different down in Thera. He will search. He will test. And he will kill anyone he senses carries that power.”

Ymi, ever the observer, raised an eyebrow. “So what’s the plan?”

Cynikka let the words hang, then turned to the others. “We leave tonight. All of you. No delays. Flux and his crew will come with us. Magic, Legacy, Ymi. You cover our rear. Make sure no trace leads back to the where we shall convene. Everyone understands?”

Magic, arms crossed, nodded. “Crystal clear. But the patrols…”

Cynikka’s gaze sharpened. “Patrols will find ghosts. Smoke, mirrors, misdirection. We move fast and we move together. Any mistake, one and it’s over. No one can afford hesitation.”

Flux’s crew assembled nearby. Hvyrotation, the towering brute, grinned at NK, who had already started grumbling about carrying too much gear. “Careful, NK,” Hvyrotation teased. “You’ll trip over your own ego.”

NK shot back with a wide grin, “If you trip, I’ll make sure you roll into the lava pit. Just saying.”

Snowbird and Gotoga, more curious than amused, glared at the two bantering. “Can we focus?” Snowbird barked. “Or are we waiting for the fire show?”

Flux shook his head, half-exasperated, half-amused. “Enough. Cynikka, explain. We need to know what happened. What’s with Saparata?”

All heads snapped to Flux, their eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Saparata?” came the chorus of their voices, kind of like parrots, repeating the same word over and over again.

“What?” Fluixon said, his voice layered with confusion. Cynikka let out an exasperated sigh, pinching the bridge of her nose in disbelief. “So, you managed not to tell a single soul in here that you knew his name?!”

The heir blushed in embarrassment, “Well, I didn't think it was that important! Just– just tell me what’s going on with him!” He shot back.

Cynikka’s eyes softened briefly, acknowledging her brother’s need to understand. “He saved you. He stabilized your magic before you could be killed. That’s all you need to know for now. Everything else will be discussed later.” She said with finality.

Thomas stepped forward, voice steady. “Flux, your power. It’s not just crimson anymore. There was someone else there, someone whose aura could contain you. It was brief, but potent.”

Hvyrotation leaned against a wall, arms folded. “Yeah, and if you hadn’t been saved? Poof. Dead. Like snow in a furnace.”

NK snorted. “And I swear, that guy didn’t even flinch from the burn. Not one. It’s almost annoying.”

Gotoga growled, frustrated. “Annoying? He just saved your worthless hides, that’s all.”

“Aww! Seems to me you’ve changed your mind over Saparata~” NK relished in making fun of Gotoga, his fuse was always so short, even shorter than Flux’s.

A smile grew behind Seraphim’s mask covering the lower half of her face in amusement. NK and Gotoga squabbling never gets old.

Gotoga let out a small huff, crossing his arms and looking away from the source of annoyance.

Snowbird’s eyes narrowed. “Well, I want facts right now. What the hell did we just fucking see down there?”

Flux took a deep breath, watching his crew. “That’s what I need you all to tell Cynikka. Exactly what happened. No embellishments. If she’s going to protect me, and protect us, we need transparency. And Cyn, please do explain, don’t leave us to figure it out ourselves.”

“Which I will give in due time. We have to move now. No delays. Flux, your crew, you follow me. Magic, Legacy, Ymi, cover our approach and our exit. No trace of us returns to the king. We meet at Sereyna Falls on the outer border. You know the place.”

Flux swallowed, his pulse racing. “Understood. But what about…” He gestured vaguely, haunted. “Saparata?”

Cynikka’s eyes hardened, but there was something almost tender beneath the steel. “I trust he will remain hidden. And he will stay that way until the time is right.”

The group began to move. Packs were checked, weapons secured, wards and protective talismans and spells positioned along the exit. The tension was a living thing, coiling in every shadow, every flicker of torchlight, every step that echoed down the stone corridors.

Hvyrotation clapped NK on the shoulder. “Try not to get us all killed, yeah?”

NK smirked. “Don’t worry. If anyone dies, I’m leaving a ghost to haunt you. Fair?”

Flux shook his head, letting a faint laugh escape despite the dread. Cynikka caught the movement and allowed herself a small nod. Even now, amid the chaos, her chosen family was hers to protect.

Tonight, they would run.

Tonight, they would hide.

But the future…and the weight of power was beginning to shift.

Chapter Text

Saparata awoke gasping for breath.

Not from a dream this time but from absence.

His body jerked upright as if yanked by a hook, lungs snapping open too late, breath scraping painfully into his chest. His hands flew instinctively to the center of his abdomen.

There.

That pulse.

That hum.

That warmth that had followed him his entire life

It flickered weakly. A thin, trembling thread of silver sparked and immediately recoiled, like a match struck in a storm.

“No,” he whispered.

He closed his eyes and reached.

The way he always did. The way he had in alley brawls when his knuckles split and the world went red. The way he had when he was cornered and bleeding. When that sudden surge would rip through him just long enough to stand back up.

His light answered faintly, flaring just enough to steady his heartbeat.

Then it dimmed again.

“Oh gods,” he gasped, clawing at his torso. “No no no! What? Wha– I– Where– ?!”

His pulse thundered. Panic flooded through his veins, pulsing hot and vicious. His breathing turned sharp and erratic. The silver flickered again in his veins, visible beneath his skin for a split second.

Thin, strained, and defensive.

Almost like a reflex.

Like a shield slammed up at the last possible moment. “TurnTapp!” His voice cracked violently. “Something’s wrong–! I–!”

The man’s hands caught him before he could tip forward. Strong. Familiar.

“Easy,” TurnTapp said, his voice coming out strained. “Saparata. Easy.”

Saparata shoved at him, half-delirious. “I can’t– it won’t– it’s supposed to be there–?!”

Another surge burst through him, stronger this time. It forced air into his lungs, snapping his vision back into focus.

Then it disappeared again.

His entire body shook.

“It’s only coming out when I’m about to pass out,” he choked. “It’s acting like– like–”

“A failsafe,” a female voice said calmly from the far end of the room.

New.

Grounded.

Absolutely unafraid.

Saparata’s head snapped toward her.

She stood in the doorway. Tall and composed, her eyes reflecting torchlight like polished metal. Auric patterns faintly traced her forearms, darker oxide veins threaded beneath like scars that breathed.

Alltiera.

She took one look at him and nodded, as if confirming a theory.

“There it is,” she said softly. “The survival flare.”

Korulein stiffened. She hadn't told anyoune about what Saparata did. What he'd done. How he had bound his blood to another.

Alltiera approached slowly, deliberately, like one might approach a wild animal. “Your silver doesn’t disappear, Saps. It retreats, you’ve highly likely overused it.”

Saparata laughed in short bursts, sharp and hysterical. “Then why does it feel like it’s punishing me?”

Alltiera knelt in front of him, eyes level with his. “Because you tried to command something that exists to prevent you from dying. You've caused an imbalance.”

Her words hit like a blade.

“You think your light is a weapon,” she continued. “It isn’t.”

She lifted his trembling hand and pressed her blade against his wrist, drawing blood. The others watched in curiosity. The silver revealed itself right as his pulse spiked.

The silver surged in a flash. Just enough to heal the wound right away.

“There,” she said. “See? It only moves when your body is hurt and crossing the threshold.”

Saparata stared at his hands, horrified. “Like in the streets. Every time I was cornered. Beaten. About to lose…”

“It saved you,” Alltiera finished. “Not because you asked. Because you needed it.”

Madzvie gasped, her hands cupped infront of her mouth as she whispered, “Gods…”

TurnTapp’s jaw tightened. “So when he forced it in the cave–”

“He overdrew an extinction response,” Alltiera said flatly. “And extinction responses don’t obey ego. They obey survival.”

Saparata shook violently. “Then what am I supposed to do. Just wait until I’m dying every time?”

Alltiera’s voice softened.

“No. You learn to live without leaning on it.”

“That’s not living,” he snapped, tears streaking hot down his face. “That’s waiting to be hurt!”

The light flared again, reacting to the spike in his distress.

His chest burned.

“Stop,” Alltiera commanded, suddenly sharp.

He froze.

“You feel that?” she asked. “Your own fear is activating it now. Keep pushing and it might burn itself out permanently.”

Silence slammed down upon them heavily.

Saparata’s breathing slowed against his will.

The silver dimmed but stayed.

A faint glow. Barely visible.

Alive.

“You are not empty,” Alltiera said firmly. “You are restrained. Because if you had access to that power freely, you would burn yourself into oblivion within a year.”

Her eyes flicked to TurnTapp.

“And the king would also sniff you out.”

That was when the weight truly dropped.

The hunt wasn’t coming, it had already begun.

Before Saparata could respond, a strong and familiar presence rolled into the chamber like a thunderhead.

“Wow,” Sitzkrieg’s voice boomed. “I take one nap and you all turn this into a bitch hole?”

The tension cracked.

Madz spun. “You’re alive?”

“Barely,” Sitzkrieg grinned, then looked at Saparata. “You look like shit.”

“I could say the same Sitzkrieg. Quite bold coming from the man who lost to a mere soldier of the Dominion.” Korulein said sweetly.

Sitzkrieg snarled. A pulse of ashen aura flared around him, shadows stretching violently for a heartbeat before he reined it in with a growl.

“I want a rematch,” he said, eyes burning. “And if the king’s hunting the underground, I’m in. Solev’s still breathing somewhere and that offends me.”

TurnTapp sighed through his nose. “We are not making this a vendetta.”

Sitzkrieg grinned wider. “Too late.”

Alltiera straightened fully now, gaze turning thoughtful, “The king might already be moving.” she said.

Saparata closed his eyes, feeling the faint ember inside him pulse weakly.

Then faintly he felt something answer.

Silver tugged toward crimson.

The bond stirred.

The silver in Saparata’s veins pulsed once.

Not in panic or fear, but in warning.

Alltiera didn’t move when the silver dimmed again.

She watched it closely. Too closely.

“…Interesting,” she murmured.

Saparata caught it instantly. His head snapped up. “What.”

That single word came out sharp and haunted.

Alltiera straightened slowly, her brow furrowing in calculation. She reached out again, palm hovering a finger’s breadth from his chest. The silver responded, a thin filament stretching toward her before snapping back.

She inhaled.

“So, you say you stabilized the heir?” she said.

TurnTapp’s head lifted. “He saved him. We know that.”

“No,” Alltiera corrected. “I think what he failed to mention, is that Saparata anchored him.”

Saparata’s stomach dropped. He stayed silent, guilty eyes burning a hole through the floor.

“If you had simply vented the excess,” she continued, eyes never leaving the faint glow beneath his skin, “your light would be recovering already. Slow and pain-filled but it would come back.”

Hope flared.

Then she killed it.

“But you didn’t.”

Saparata swallowed. “I didn’t have time. They’d have killed me if I stayed any longer.”

“Your power isn’t gone. It’s throttled.” Her gaze sharpened. “You performed a blood-bind.”

The room went still.

TurnTapp’s head snapped up. “HE WHAT?!”

“Magic-assisted,” Alltiera continued, eyes never leaving Saparata’s. “Direct stabilization through shared essence. Rare…though effective.” A pause. “Also incredibly moronic.”

Saparata winced. “He was dying.” Now she'd outed the secret he'd told Korulein to keep between them.

“I know,” she said simply. “That’s why you’re lying here instead of dead.”

Her expression softened just a fraction.

“When you bound him, your light didn’t just neutralize his surge. It anchored to him.” She gestured in a slow circle. “Your power rerouted priority. It’s sustaining the link before it sustains you.”

Korulein’s breath caught. “So his recovery-”

“Depends on the bond,” Alltiera finished. “Distance. Resonance. Stability.” She straightened. “The more balanced that heir is, the more your light can return to you. Which is good news on your magic returning, but bad news on your life.”

Saparata stared up at the ceiling, chest tight. “So if he loses control again…”

“You burn with him,” Alltiera said flatly. “Or worse.”

Madz swore under her breath. “That’s possible?” she asked faintly.

Alltiera’s mouth twitched, twisting into a humorless smile. “You’re catching on. It is possible but forbidden. Catastrophic endings in most cases.”

Saparata felt a cold chill crawl up his spine. “So undo it.”

Her gaze finally met his.

“You can’t.”

The words landed heavier than any blade.

TurnTapp’s voice went cold. “Then the king can’t be allowed near him.”

“Your light isn’t healing on its own anymore,” she continued. “It’s syncing. The stabilization you performed didn’t end when he regained consciousness. It’s ongoing.”

Saparata’s breath came shallow. “So my power is what–? Stuck within him.”

“No,” Alltiera said slowly. “Your power is shared.”

Okay. That landed fucking worse.

“You tethered a light to an heir core saturated in volatile crimson,” she continued. “Your magic redirected itself into maintenance mode. It will not regenerate independently until the bond resolves.”

“How does it resolve,” TurnTapp demanded.

Alltiera’s gaze flicked away.

“When one of you stabilizes fully,” she said. “Or—”

“Or what,” Saparata snapped.

“…when one of you dies.”

The silver flared violently.

Saparata doubled over, gasping as the light surged just enough to keep him conscious.

TurnTapp caught him. “Enough.”

Alltiera raised her hand. “He needs to understand.”

Saparata laughed weakly, hysteria edging back in. “So that’s it. I gutted my own core essence to save a crown prince who’ll never even know my name.”

Something in Alltiera’s face softened.

“He already feels you,” she said. “Even if he doesn’t know why.”

Saparata looked up sharply.

“The bond isn’t just power,” she went on. “It’s resonance. Emotion. Instinct. If your light hadn’t recognized something compatible in him, something survivable, it would have rejected the bind and killed you both.”

Korulein whispered, “…so it worked because–”

“Because they both lived,” Alltiera said.

Korulein stood, stunned at the degree of the effect of the blood-bind. She'd thought it wouldn't be that bad, that Saps could may be recover. A blood-bind drew no life-threat, but to anchor an unstable surge of power...it was now clearly different.

Alltiera crouched again in front of Saparata.

“You didn’t ruin yourself,” she said firmly. “You almost did though.”

His breathing slowed, just a fraction. “So it can come back.”

“Yes,” she nodded. “But not alone.”

He stared at his hands. The faint glow trembled, uncertain.

“Then what am I now,” he asked quietly.

Alltiera’s eyes gleamed faintly. Auric and oxide light threading together like old scars.

“A living conduit,” she said. “A failsafe for a kingdom that doesn’t deserve either of you.”

The last torch flickered.

Far above them, the heir stirred in his chambers.

And somewhere deep in the bond between crimson and silver, something answered back.

-

Flux woke like he was being dragged up from deep water.

His chest seized first.

Not pain, something sharper.

A pull.

A pressure behind the sternum, as if a hook had been lodged there and yanked without warning. He sucked in a breath and sat up hard, hand flying to his ribcage, fingers digging into fabric like he might find the source of it beneath his skin.

The tent was dark. Too quiet.

“Fuck–” he hissed under his breath, teeth set as another pulse rolled through him.

It wasn’t crimson.

That was what struck him most.

He knew crimson pain. He knew its heat, rage, and the wildfire surge that set his blood roaring and his vision burning at the edges. This was different. It felt more so bright and steady. Like moonlight slammed straight into his heart.

Flux swung his legs off the bed, boots hitting stone. The sensation spiked the moment his feet touched the floor. A silver pressure bloomed behind his eyes and for half a breath, the world flashed wrong.

Not white.

Silver.

Veins of it flickered over his hands, faint but unmistakable, threading through crimson like a foreign language written over his own skin.

“What the hell is this,” he muttered.

The pull came again. It was stronger this time, and with it something else slid across his awareness.

A location, though neither a specific or a conscious thought. Not a direct map. Just…depth and a shit ton of stone. Weight above and below. It was the underground and layered over it was fear.

But not his.

Flux froze.

The fear wasn’t panic. It wasn’t screaming or wild. It was tight and controlled and furious at itself for existing at all. The kind of fear that stays quiet because it knows it has to survive.

Flux’s jaw clenched.

“Hey,” he breathed, not sure who he was talking to. “What did you do?”

The bond answered by tugging again, harder, and his vision blurred.

Suddenly he wasn’t fully in his body anymore.

Not gone. Not dreaming. Just…offset. Like standing half a step to the left of reality. The room around him dimmed, shadows stretching, while something else sharpened into focus.

Silver hair.

Not a face at first, just motion. Disheveled, ash-streaked, catching a pale glow that wasn’t coming from any torch. The glow pulsed weakly, in time with Flux’s own heartbeat.

No.

With him.

Flux sucked in a sharp breath.

His hand curled into a fist as the realization slammed into place.

“You’re alive,” he whispered.

The figure shifted. He couldn’t hear words. He only felt intention.

Exhaustion so deep it bordered on hollow. And beneath it all, anger. Not outward. Turned inward like a blade pressing against its sheath.

The silver flared suddenly, sharp and defensive.

Flux staggered back a step as something resisted him.

Whoever this was, he wasn’t slipping away.

Good.

Flux straightened slowly, breathing hard, grounding himself through the pull instead of fighting it. Crimson steadied. Silver responded but not any brighter, but more stable.

The underground sensation sharpened.

Stone arches. Old air. Herbs. Blood dried dark on skin.

Other presences nearby, protective and tense…but none of them were the source of the pull.

Him.

Flux closed his eyes, letting the connection stretch, not push nor grab.

Reaching slowly.

“I don’t know what you did to me,” he said quietly. “But you didn’t do it by accident.”

The resistance flickered. Concern flared back quick and sharp, like a blade checking its edge.

Flux exhaled despite himself. “Yeah. Thought so.”

For a moment, the silver stabilized further, threads knitting tightly around his core. The sensation was…quite strange. It was intimate without being invasive and powerful without being overwhelming.

This didn’t feel like control over anyone. Rather, it seemed to be a coexistence.

Flux’s lips parted slightly as awe edged in, unwilling.

“You’re running on fumes,” he murmured. “And you’re still holding the line.”

The reply wasn’t words. It was the posture of magic. Pride, bruised but intact. Resolve etched deep enough to survive loss.

Flux felt something twist in his chest.

“You’re not like anyone down there,” he said, voice low. “That light isn’t…corrupt. It’s pure.”

The silver flared in response, just enough to acknowledge the recognition.

Then suddenly the bond pulled hard enough to hurt.

Flux gasped as crimson surged instinctively to compensate, heat flooding in as silver spiked too much

“Hey, wait–!” he started.

Then the connection snapped.

The underground vanished. The silver dimmed. Flux dropped back into himself fully, breath coming fast, sweat breaking along his spine.

He staggered, catching himself against the wall.

The last echo of the bond lingered like a ghost.

A presence withdrawing but not gone.

Flux laughed once under his breath, wild and disbelieving.

“…You’re trouble,” he muttered.

Then, softer.

“But damn.”

His eyes lifted to the darkness, heart still pounding, blood humming with something that wasn’t entirely his.

And somewhere far below, silver dimmed but did not break.

The bond held for now.

Flux bent down and reached towards his boots in the corner of his cot, lacing them up securely on his feet. He wiggled his feet left and right, testing the secureness of his ties, letting out a small hum of approval when it was done. The light from the fire outside their camp seeped in through the entrance as he moved the curtain outward.

He moved slowly towards Gotoga, his boots could be heard crunching against the dried leaves regardless of the noise his crew made.

Cynikka sat closest to the fire, her forearms braced on her knees, eyes reflecting red-gold light that didn’t quite match the coals. She hadn’t slept. None of them really had. The night pressed in thick and watchful, the Outer Border breathing cold against their backs.

Around her, the others moved in the uneasy rhythms of people expecting violence.

NK was poking at the ground with a stick, whisper-complaining under his breath.

“This is a terrible campsite. Terrible. No cover, bad wind direction, smells like dry leaves and regret.”

HvyRotation snorted from where he leaned against a fractured stone pillar. “You just say words until fear shuts up.”

“It’s a strategy,” NK shot back. “If I keep talking, fear doesn’t get a turn.”

Gotoga sat sharpening his axe with slow, irritated strokes, sparks skipping each time metal kissed stone. “If fear wants a turn, it can line up like everything else.”

Snowbird stood slightly apart, arms folded, gaze angled toward the treeline. His jaw was tight. He hadn’t spoken in a while. When he was like that, it usually meant he was listening harder than anyone else.

Thomas crouched near Cynikka, methodically checking his sidearm and blade in practiced silence. He glanced at her once, then twice, like he wanted to say something and didn’t know how to start.

Seraphim paced the edge of the firelight, fingers flexing, aura barely contained. She looked calm, but Cynikka knew better. Seraphim only paced when she was calculating things she didn’t like.

Beyond the fire, spaced out in a loose perimeter, stood the Cynnika’s trusted.

Ymi perched on a fallen log with her bow across her knees, eyes sharp and unblinking. Magic stood near her, palms faintly glowing as she kept a passive ward humming through the air. Legacy stood between them, quietly. His stance deadly focused, hand resting near the hilt of a blade almost too big for him.

Cynikka broke the silence.

“We move before dawn.”

Every head turned.

“No,” NK said immediately. “Hard no. Dawn is when assassins like to get dramatic silhouettes.”

“We can’t wait,” Cynikka replied. Her voice was steady, but there was steel beneath it now. “I don’t know what stabilized Flux. I don’t know what it specifically did. I don’t know if that person can survive what comes next.” She lifted her gaze, firelight catching the edge of her eyes. “But I do know my father. And once he senses something he doesn’t understand, he doesn’t share it. He burns it.”

That settled deeper.

Snowbird shifted his weight. “You’re saying the Underground’s already compromised.”

“I’m saying it’s about to be,” Cynikka answered. “We get to Saparata before the father does or we lose him. Or worse. I do not know how any of this thing works. We need answers that only the people of the Underground can offer.”

Thomas’s jaw set. “Then we move tight. No signals. No trails.”

Gotoga grunted. “And if we’re intercepted.”

“Then we break through,” Seraphim said flatly.

Magic glanced toward the dark. “I don’t like how quiet it is.”

Ymi’s fingers tightened on her bow.

So did Cynikka’s.

She opened her mouth to issue the next command but a whiz shooting through the cold air of the night halted her next words.

The arrow came out of nowhere.

It screamed through the space where her head had been an instant earlier, splitting the air with a sharp whine before burying itself in the stone behind her.

“CONTACT!" Ymi shouted.

The night erupted.

A second arrow slammed into the embers, exploding sparks outward in a violent spray. NK yelped and threw himself flat as Magic’s ward flared instinctively, catching a third projectile midair and shattering it in a burst of blue light.

“Ambush!” Thomas snapped, already moving.

The treeline came alive.

Dark shapes surged from concealment, cloaks blurring as steel and sigils flashed. Crimson-light flared in brief, cruel pulses.

The Crimson Shadow had arrived. As Elanuelo loved to call them. They were assassins, disciplined, fast, and already converging.

“Formation,” Cynikka barked.

Gotoga surged forward with a roar, axe cleaving into the first attacker with bone-cracking force. Snowbird vanished sideways, rifle snapping up as he lodged bullets in skulls in the time it took one assassin to blink.

HvyRotation slammed his fist into the ground, kinetic force rippling outward and sending three figures tumbling into each other in a brutal tangle of bodies and screams.

NK rolled, coming up behind cover to throw a lit fire bomb he had sparked with the fire in his palm, seeing it already about to blow and promptly shouted through the chaos, “I FUCKING HATE BEING RIGHT!”

Seraphim’s aura flared red-hot as she dashed through the chaos, blade slicing through a flicker-shadow as if it weren’t there at all.

Legacy moved with sharp, efficient strikes beside Magic, whose hands were glowing brighter now as she reinforced the ward, teeth clenched.

Ymi’s voice cut clean through the noise. “They’re not here to kill us.”

That landed like a blow.

“They’re herders,” Cynikka realized. “They’re pushing us.”

Another arrow skimmed her shoulder, slicing cloth but not flesh.

“Toward what,” Thomas demanded.

The answer came in the form of a deep, resonant pulse from the ground itself.

Crimson runes flared faintly in the soil at the edge of the camp.

A trap.

“Move,” Cynikka shouted. “NOW!”

They moved as one, instincts sharper than thought. HvyRotation grabbed NK by the collar and yanked him aside just as the first rune exploded, fire bursting upward in a roaring column, illuminating the forest in jagged, unnatural light. Trees groaned as heat brushed the leaves, embers raining down, turning night into a hellish blaze.

The smell of scorched pine mixed with dust and iron. Shadows twisted, danced, and disappeared as the crew sprinted across the clearing, leaping over roots and fallen logs. Thomas kept pace at Cynikka’s side, sharp blade drawn, eyes scanning for movement. Snowbird and Gotoga covered their flanks, axes and hammers ready to crush anything that moved.

A voice carried across the chaos, sharp and precise.

“Do not let them escape!”

Assassins poured from the treeline, cloaked in dark leather, blades catching the torchlight, spells igniting like fireflies in the darkness.

Cynikka’s pulse raced. Her hand glowed crimson as she summoned a whip of coiled energy, lashing it across a pair of attackers, sparks flying as they hit bone and armor. “We get through, or everything dies!”

A volley of arrows hissed from above. Ymi and Magic had already readied shields of force, deflecting most, but one glanced HvyRotation’s shoulder, sending him stumbling. “Watch the sky, idiots!” Seraphim yelled, ducking under a swipe from a blade that would have cleaved her otherwise.

NK muttered under his breath, ducking a fire rune that ignited a fallen log, “Seriously? This forest just hates us tonight!” HvyRotation shot him a glare, smirking despite the chaos. “You always say that, and then nearly die every time!”

Gotoga swung his axe side of his weapon with brutal precision, clearing a path toward a denser patch of trees. “Move or get crushed!” he barked, forcing a couple of assassins into retreat. Snowbird followed, his dual blades, which were usually sheathed, slicing arcs through the smoke and shadows.

Cynikka’s crimson aura coiled tighter, almost sentient, deflecting incoming strikes and pushing back the front line of attackers. She could feel the forest trembling beneath them, roots and soil reacting to the surge of magic. Every step forward was a battle, every breath stolen.

Above, the moon fought to shine through the canopy. Every flicker of silver light highlighted another assassin closing in. Cynikka’s eyes swept the field, calculating, commanding. “Thomas! Right flank! Seraphim, cover the rear!”

The team moved like a single organism, muscles and magic synchronized. Arrows clanged off force barriers, axes shattered shields, and fire licked the edge of the camp as the forest itself seemed to scream around them.

Cynikka’s voice cut through the chaos again, sharp as a blade, “Push! We can’t hold it here. Get to the ridge!”

The crew responded instantly. Even NK, despite his constant quips, charged with deadly intent. HvyRotation grinned wildly, laughter cutting through the fear, a battle-hardened sound that reminded everyone this wasn’t just survival, it was defiance.

Branches snapped, leaves caught fire, and a low growl from unseen predators, some natural and some unnaturally summoned by the assassins’ magic was added to the cacophony.

Cynikka’s crimson whip lashed again, sending sparks into the night. She drew her blade on one hand, the whip on the other, turning to face her allies.

“We move or we die!”

And as the crew surged toward the ridge, the firelight revealing their path, the realization struck. This ambush wasn’t random. It was calculated and precise, designed to corner them before they could reach their target.

“Where’s Flux?!” Cynikka shouted frantically, spinning around in the chaos, crimson light flaring as her eyes darted around, searching the fire-lit clearing. The team faltered for a fraction of a second, but then instinct kicked in.

“He– he was behind me!” Thomas yelled, firing an arrow at an assassin lunging from the shadows. “I swear I saw him!”

Cynikka’s heart slammed against her ribs. Flux wasn’t just any ally, he was the heir, the boy with crimson blood surging too strong for his own control. If he was out here alone

“Stay sharp!” she barked, her whip of coiled crimson energy cutting through the air, deflecting two incoming strikes. “We find him or we don’t leave this forest alive!”

HvyRotation cursed, ducking under an arc of dark steel. “Great! Now this guy’s MIA too! This just keeps getting better!”

“Keep it together,” Seraphim snapped, shoving an attacker back with the flat of her blade. “Flux can handle himself…but only for so long.”

NK peeked around a smoldering tree stump, wide-eyed. “Handle himself? He’s still healing from the shit-show at the Lower Vents!...and we’re all about twenty feet from the nearest fire rune, with these guys trying to gut us! This is a bad day, I’m fucking calling it.”

“Focus, you idiots!” Cynikka growled. She surged forward, weaving through the fray, every step a calculated strike, every swing of her energy whip precise and brutal. “Flux!” Her voice cracked over the roar of fire and steel.

Suddenly, a figure stumbled into view. Flux, crouched behind a fallen log, crimson aura flickering in strong intermittent pulses around him. His breaths came ragged, and his hands sparked intermittently as if his power refused to stay contained, though he was still in recovery. A small surge flared to life, enough to push back two approaching assassins and then died almost immediately, leaving him trembling from the use of power.

“About time you showed up!” HvyRotation shouted, yanking a lit fire cracker NewKids had thrown at him from the ground and tossing it at a charging attacker. “Try not to get yourself killed while we’re running our asses off!”

Flux’s lips twisted in a grimace, eyes briefly meeting Cynikka’s. “I…I can barely hold it,” he admitted, voice strained. Sparks of uncontrolled crimson flickered along his veins.

“My power, it’s being restrained. It's just enough to keep my Overburn at bay.”

Cynikka’s jaw tightened. She moved to him, her whip snapping defensively, deflecting a strike that would have cut him. “You’re not surviving on scraps, Flux. Not tonight. Not while I’m breathing.” Her voice softened for the briefest second, just enough for him to feel a tether of strength.

All around them, the forest burned with chaos. Assassins poured from the treeline, their movements coordinated, their magic precise. The team fell into formation almost instinctively, Seraphim covering the rear, Snowbird and Gotoga flanking, Thomas guarding the front line, HvyRotation and NK providing rapid-fire offense and questionable jabs at each other. Ymi and Magic working to keep their barriers and their allies safe, and Legacy standing guard beside Cynnika.

“Where’s your sense of timing, Flux?” NK quipped, ducking under the fiery blaze of the assassins’ dagger.

HvyRotation felt his eyebrow twitch, he loved this brother of his to death but, DAMN WAS HE ANNOYING. “Focus, clown. Or your skull’s gonna be our next problem.”

Flux’s hands flared briefly, crimson energy turning into a fiery blazing sword arcing out in jagged sparks. One assassin froze mid-stride, flesh searing where the energy hit. But the effect faded almost instantly, leaving Flux gasping. His magic was too unstable to wield properly, yet alive enough to warn and repel. It made him feel hollow and vulnerable. He drew his sword, whispering a chant to infuse the weapon with his blood, transforming it into a crimson-forged weapon.

Cynikka’s eyes never left him. “You’re stabilizing on scraps,” she said, voice low but fierce. “You need guidance. Focus. You can’t do this alone.”

“I…I tried,” Flux said, shoulders sagging. “The one who– who absorbed my Overburn, he stabilized me.” He trailed off, hands shaking, crimson veins dimming as the energy burned itself out.

Cynikka’s hand brushed his arm. “Then we protect him. But right now, you survive. That’s priority one.”

From the treeline, an arrow hissed, narrowly missing Thomas. “Incoming!” Snowbird yelled, slashing through the underbrush to intercept the attacker. Gotoga swung his hammer in a wide arc, flattening two more assailants before they could advance.

Cynikka’s crimson whip lashed out again, searing through the air. Sparks flew as she disarmed a group of attackers, then pivoted back toward the assassin rushing towards her, drawing up her blade to eliminate the shadowed men.

“You’re not just surviving, you’re moving. Every step counts!”

HvyRotation grinned despite the chaos. “Look at them, Flux! You’ve got half a circus keeping your ass alive, and you’re whining about being tired!”

NK shook his head, mock despair in his tone. “I swear, you’re a drama king, but at least he’s glowing just enough to not get us all killed.”

Flux let out a short laugh, weak but genuine, and then grimaced as his aura flickered again. Every pulse of crimson was a reminder of the uncontrolled power surging within him, barely tamed by the silver running through his veins.

Cynikka’s gaze hardened. “We’re not just escaping tonight. We’re regrouping. No one dies. Not you. Not the boy who saved you. Not any of us.”

A sharp whistle cut through the night. More shadows moved at the forest edge.

Reinforcements.

Cynikka’s muscles tensed, crimson aura snapping like a living chain around her.

“Positions! We move as one!”

Flux clenched his fists, drawing on the flickering reserves of his power. Sparks flew, small but bright, illuminating his determined eyes. For a moment, the panic, the weakness, the hollowness faded. He wasn’t just a boy fighting for survival

He was part of a force.

Cynikka moved beside him, energy whip coiling, eyes blazing. “Together,” she said, her voice steady. “We fight. We survive, and we’ll all fucking reach the ridge.”

And with that, the crew surged into the forest, flames and steel and magic colliding around them, the night erupting into chaos as the ambush tightened and their fight for survival began in earnest.

The forest erupted with chaos. Fire from the rune traps lit the night like an infernal sky. Smoke twisted through the trees, carrying screams and the clang of steel. Cynikka’s crimson whip sliced arcs of light, deflecting flamed daggers midair, while Flux staggered behind her, barely keeping his footing.

“Come now, brother. Stay with me!” Cynikka shouted, twisting to fend off an attacker lunging at his flank.

He gritted his teeth, blade in his hand trembling, crimson light mixed with silver flickered sporadically along his veins. Each pulse was a struggle, his aura barely holding together. The hollowness inside him pressed at his mind, threatening to drown his control. But the chaos around him forced him to focus. He inhaled sharply, grounding himself. Tiny streams of crimson flared, enough to push back a pair of advancing assassins.

HvyRotation vaulted over a fallen log, swinging his greatsword with a roar. “C’mon! Show me some of that magic,Flux!”

“Easy for you to say!” NK shouted from the right, the air crackling with sparks. “You’re not the one whose powers are doing the ‘flicker, boom, and pray’ routine!” He rolled under a slash, popping up with a grin.

“Seriously, it’s like watching a candle in a hurricane!”

HvyRotation’s cackle echoed in the forest, shoving Fluixon aside just as an assassin’s rune erupted, sending fire spiraling into the canopy. The heat seared their faces, the forest cracking around them.
Flux forced himself to feel the pulse of his own energy, not fight it. Crimson flame arcs and fire blades flickered with newfound strength, responding to his intent rather than his fear. He reached out with his magic, letting the flow of power tether him to Cynikka, to the ground beneath him, to the rhythm of the fight. Slowly, agonizingly, the sparks steadied, no longer wild and jerky but controlled enough to fend off attacks.

“Good,” Cynikka said, slashing through another pair of attackers. “Feel the pulse, don’t resist it! Try to move with it, not against it!”

Snowbird and Gotoga flanked the rear, expressions tight with curiosity and barely contained irritation. “He’s actually managing it,” Snowbird muttered, eyes narrowing. “Flux’s keeping it together.”

“Finally,” Gotoga grunted, hammer swinging to crush another attacker. “I thought I was going to have to drag him out myself.”

Flux exhaled, letting the rhythm of his magic match his heartbeat. Crimson arcs flared brighter, flowing in deliberate, controlled sweeps. The fire inside him receded slightly, replaced with a spark of strength he could finally recognize as his own.

HvyRotation vaulted forward again, grinning. “That’s it! That’s what I’m talking about!”

NK danced around an attack, jumping off in the air and summoning a rocket launcher to blast the attackers in the face. “Right in the bastard’s face! BOOYAH!”

Flux managed by himself, though clearly worn out from the expedition in the underground. He was keeping the hollow at bay, his magic responding to him instead of the other way around. Each pulse kept the team alive, each controlled surge a tether to the battlefield.

Cynikka’s eyes locked on him. “Almost there,” she said, voice fierce. “When we get to the ridge, we regroup. Keep your focus!”

The forest narrowed, flames licking the edges of the path. Assassins poured in from all directions, but Flux’s crimson light now flowed in arcs precise enough to repel them without destroying the trees around him. He was no longer a flickering candle. He was slowly becoming a controlled flare, enough to protect and fight.

“Finally,” NK laughed, rolling under a swing. “You’re cooking with fire, literally!”

HvyRotation snorted. “And still keeping that stupidly smug face of yours. I’ll never understand it.”

Even Snowbird’s scowl softened, if only slightly. “Keep it steady. This is your magic, your fight. Don’t lose it now.” Seraphim stood behind him, eyes beaming with satisfaction that Fluixon had some semblance of control.

Flux focused again, letting the crimson energy surge calmly, synchronized with his breathing. Each pulse of light grounded him, tethered him to the team, to Cynikka, to the fight for survival. The emptiness that had threatened to overwhelm him was now pushed back, replaced by a sense of clarity and perhaps even a spark of pride.

Cynikka’s crimson whip cut arcs in front of him. “We move together. Always together. Don’t let anyone fall!”

The team surged forward as one, flames roaring and magic flaring, Flux’s crimson aura stabilizing enough to keep him alive. And for the first time in what felt like forever, he felt grounded and strong.

The firelight dwindled behind them as the team scrambled up the steep incline of the ridge. Flux’s crimson aura flared intermittently, sparks of energy pulsing along his veins like a heartbeat, each surge forcing him to remind himself to control and not panic.

Cynikka led the way, eyes scanning every shadow, every flicker of movement between the trees below. “Keep moving! No stopping, don’t look back!” she shouted, voice cutting through the smoke and chaos.

HvyRotation grunted, hauling NK over a fallen branch. “You okay back there?” he called.

“Peachy,” NK quipped, panting, fists swinging wildly as he shoved an approaching assassin aside. “I’m just loving this full-contact cardio!”

“NK!” HvyRotation snapped, though a reluctant smirk tugged at his lips.

Seraphim and Gotoga brought up the rear, with dusted and singed clothing from the narrow runes that had erupted behind them. “We’re almost clear,” Snowbird muttered, eyes narrowing as he scanned the ridge for remaining threats.

Flux’s steps were heavy, but steady. Each stride was a negotiation with his magic, his inner emptiness clawing at the edges of his mind. The silver-haired boy from his dream, the one who had saved him in the Underground, hovered at the edges of his thoughts. A memory of protection and stabilization. That fleeting connection, whatever it had been, gave him focus to his own power. He channeled it carefully, letting his aura flare to push back minor threats while avoiding exhaustion.

“Almost there,” Cynikka called, raising a crimson hand to signal. Her eyes were sharp, burning with the same fierce determination she’d shown throughout the chaos. “Ridge is just ahead!”

Thomas swept past him, keeping an eye on Flux. “Keep your pace, Flux. We’ve got your back. Don’t let the Overburn slip. Don’t do what you did underground again. Not yet.”

Flux nodded, jaw tight, palms clenching as the crimson arcs of his magic twined along his arms, controlled enough now to be a shield and a weapon simultaneously. Every flicker reminded him of the boy who had stabilized him, the strange silver luminescence still lingering faintly in his mind.

I can’t falter now.

As they crested the ridge, the forest dropped away behind them, the infernal glow of the runes shrinking into the distance. The air here was clearer, cooler, the night sky stretching above them with stars piercing the smoke and ash. Cynikka’s crimson aura pulsed faintly, reflecting off the ridgeline stones, guiding them to a safer zone.

Legacy, Ymi, and Magic, stationed at vantage points, kept vigilant, alert for any sign of pursuing assassins. “No movement,” Magic whispered, fingers tracing the glyphs on her staff, ready to ignite if danger appeared.

Flux sank to one knee, panting, his aura dimming as he let the control settle fully. He flexed his fingers, feeling the power steady in his arms. The emptiness that had haunted him moments ago now felt pushed back. It was contained but still present, a reminder that he could still fall.

I could still fail, just like father always said.

“Are you going to be okay?” Cynikka asked, snapping her brother out of his thoughts, her voice low as she approached. Her crimson aura flickered faintly, wrapping around him like a protective tether.

“I think so,” he admitted, though his voice was hoarse. “It’s different than before. But I can hold it.” He glanced down at his hands, still faintly glowing. “Saparata, he is…he stabilized me. Kept my power from spiraling. It’s like he's keeping me in control.”

NK leaned against a nearby tree, smirking despite exhaustion. “Well, that’s…poetic. Connecting your magic with some mysterious savior guy while dodging assassins. Typical Tuesday for you, huh?”

Gotoga grunted. “Shut it, NK. We’re alive. That’s the important part.”

Snowbird frowned, still scanning the perimeter. “We can’t linger. They’ll know we survived.”

Cynikka nodded sharply. “He’s right. Flux, you rest, but not too long. We have to move before more assassins arrive.”

Flux exhaled, letting his aura dim fully now, crimson sparks fading into faint ember trails along his arms. “I will be ready.”

The team moved quickly, establishing a perimeter on the ridge. Gotoga and Seraphim set up rudimentary defenses, while Magic and Ymi enchanted arrows and traps. Legacy coordinated lookout rotations. Cynikka remained near Flux, her crimson aura dimly pulsing as a shield and tether.

The forest they left below was quiet, smoke curling lazily upward. The ridge, still high and jagged, offered temporary safety but not permanence. Cynikka’s eyes swept over her team, lingering on Flux.

Her jaw tightened as she realized just how vulnerable they were, and yet how much power Flux had begun to wield even when anchored by the mysterious silver luminescence.

“We move when first light hits ground,” Cynikka whispered, mostly to herself, but loud enough for Flux to hear.

Flux nodded, his crimson aura now a faint glow. “I’m with you.”

NK rolled his eyes dramatically. “Wow, so wholesome. You guys talk like this every morning before sunrise?”

HvyRotation snorted. “Just ignore him. He’s survived worse.”

Snowbird glanced toward the forest, still tense. “Let’s hope ‘worse’ doesn’t show up today.”

The team settled briefly, tending to minor injuries, checking equipment, and setting watch rotations. Flux let his magic rest, the faint pulsing in his veins a reminder of the boy who had stabilized him, and of the dangerous journey ahead. Cynikka remained vigilant, hands never far from her crimson power, mind calculating and planning.

The ridge offered a temporary reprieve, a moment to catch their breath, but all knew the forest below still hid enemies. And somewhere beneath them, silver light pulsed faintly in the mind of Flux, a tether of a reminder. There, dawn arrived thin and uncertain, a veil rather than a promise.

Cynikka stood on the ridge just enough to breathe. The air was quieter now, not the silence of safety, but the disciplined stillness of people who knew any sound might travel too far. Blood still clung to armor seams. The rest of her companions still behind her, catching their breaths.

'I should tell them.' Cynikka thought. It was time they knew. She'd need it for the plan she had set in her mind.

“Jophiel knows about Saparata.”

They all lost the breath they caught. For a heartbeat, the words didn’t register, and then chaos erupted.

“What did you just say?”

“Say that again.”

“Cyn, that’s not funny.”

The logs they sat on scraped back hard enough to topple. NK was already half-drawn, eyes wild, scanning shadows like the Seer herself might be standing just beyond the firelight. Gotoga stepped forward instinctively, broad body angling in front of Cynikka without even thinking about it. HvyRotation swore under his breath, sharp and vicious, while Snowbird’s expression went flat in that way it only did when something was deeply wrong. Ymi and Magic huddled together, Legacy observing Cynikka with hard eyes.

Thomas didn’t move. But his hand clenched slowly at his side.

Seraphim crossed the space in three quick steps, gripping Cynikka’s arm. “You told her,” she said, voice shaking. “You told the King’s Seer.”

Cynikka didn’t pull away.

Instead, she lifted her other hand.

“Stop.”

The fire crackled suddenly, flames tugging sideways as if answering her blood. Heat rolled outward, subtle but unmistakable. The argument died mid-breath.

“I did not tell her,” Cynikka said calmly. “She already knew. She confronted me outside of Flux’s chambers, that same night Elanuelo paid us a visit.”

That landed worse.

NK let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “That’s impossible.”

Snowbird’s voice was low, edged with ice. “No one just knows something like that.”

“She does,” Cynikka replied. “That is her curse.”

Gotoga stiffened. “She spoke to you alone.”

“Yes.” Silence pressed in. Beyond the ring of firelight, the air felt thicker.

“And you didn’t think to say anything,” HvyRotation snapped. “Not then. Not now until–”

“Because panicking helps nothing,” Cynikka cut in. “And because I needed certainty.”

“Certainty of what?” NK demanded.

“That she wouldn’t tell my father.”

That word did it.

Father.

Not Archon. Not King.

The fire popped and crackled loudly. Seraphim’s hand tightening on Cynikka’s arm.

“You’re sure,” Seraphim whispered. “You’re absolutely sure.”

Cynikka hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, but everyone saw it.

Magic exhaled slowly. “She made you tell her?”

“She probed,” Cynikka corrected. “Quietly. Carefully. Like someone trying not to spook a wounded animal.”

NK scoffed. “That’s her, the fucking Seer, knower of all or something.”

“No,” Cynikka said flatly. “At that moment, that’s someone afraid of what happens if the wrong man learns the truth of the Underground.”

HvyRotation frowned. “Then why question you at all.”

Cynikka looked down at her hands. At the faint discoloration still present beneath her skin from too much crimson drawn too fast.

“Because she wanted to know who I would choose,” she said.

The weight of that settled over them.

“Me?” she continued. “Or him.”

Thomas’s jaw tightened. “And you answered.”

“Yes.”

“How.”

“I told her what happened in the Underground, the real report. Not the ones we had fabricated.” Cynikka said. “I let her know everything.”

A chill worked its way through the group.

NK muttered, “That’s worse.”

“It was necessary.”

Seraphim stepped closer, voice soft but tremoring. “Cyn…what did she say to you?”

Cynikka’s eyes lifted, shining with something dangerously close to grief.

“She asked me why my hands shook when she spoke about the boy, how I froze and how blood seemed to seep out of my own flesh.”

Silence snapped tight.

“She asked if anyone else had seen the boy,” Cynikka went on. “And how his light felt, how his power seemed to be...”

Snowbird swore under his breath.

“And when you didn’t answer,” Thomas said quietly. “She answered for you.”

“Yes.”

NK’s bravado cracked. “So she knows. Fully.”

“She sees paths,” Cynikka said. “Not outcomes.”

“That’s splitting hairs.”

“It’s the difference between a warning and a death sentence.”

Gotoga grumbled, “Why help us at all.”

Cynikka’s gaze hardened. “Because she believes the throne is no longer where the future sits.”

That hit like a hammer.

Seraphim inhaled sharply. “She said that?”

“She didn’t have to.”

The fire dipped lower, casting shadows up Cynikka’s face, making her seem sharper, older.

“She told me something else,” Cynikka said quietly. “Something none of you know.”

Everyone leaned in.

“She said the reason my father hunts anomalies isn’t fear. It’s recognition.”

Snowbird’s eyes narrowed. “Of what.”

Cynikka closed her eyes briefly.

“That some myths don’t stay buried.”

The air shifted, wind hissed through tall grass. Far away, something howled.

NK rubbed a hand over his face. “I can’t really deal with all this cryptic kinda stuff, so…” Gotoga smacked his shoulder, reprimanding him silently with his eyes.

Cynikka looked around at them, at their faces painted with tension and confusion. Their loyalty that she now carried like a loaded gun.

“Now,” she said, steady and deadly calm, “you too shall hear the truth I learned from her.”

Seraphim squeezed her hand. “Whatever it is,” she murmured, “you don’t carry it alone.”

Cynikka nodded once and leaned forward towards the fire.

“That myth,” she said, voice lowering, “was never a myth.”

The fire cracked sharply, a sound too loud in the sudden stillness. Its sparks leapt upward like fleeing souls.

Cynikka stared into the flames as if she might see the past written there.

“You were taught the stories the same as I was,” she said. “Impure blood should never exist, especially those whose glowed silver as they innately crave power.”

No one interrupted her now.

“They said they were fairy tales, some kind of bedtime myths meant to scare children into obedience. That no one could wield that magic as its power demanded corruption.”

Her hands curled slowly into fists.

“They lied.”

The word landed like a blade.

NK swallowed hard. HvyRotation’s jaw flexed. Snowbird looked away, eyes bright with restrained fury. Gotoga’s knuckles cracked once. Thomas did not blink. Legacy swore under his breath. Seraphim dropped her hand, moving it to cover her mouth. Ymi and Magic huddled closer to each other. Fluixon kept his eyes on the ground, not daring to look up at his sister.

“Long before the Dominion,” Cynikka continued, “before crimson banners and crowned Archons, there were those born to balance power.”

She raised her eyes then, locking onto each of them in turn.

“Not fueled by rage. Not devoured by excess. Balance.”

Seraphim’s breath caught. “The myths.”

“The Evangelicals,” Cynikka corrected. “They were never gods. Never conquerors. Just…whole.”

The fire seemed to dim, as if leaning closer to hear.

“They could touch the magic of the Crimson to balance its rage, to quell its fury. Without losing themselves. Their power didn’t corrupt. It didn’t burn wild. It listened.”

Her voice trembled now. Not weak. Controlled fury on the brink of collapse.

“And that terrified the first Archon.”

Thomas finally spoke, quiet but deadly. “Because it meant Crimson didn’t reign supreme.”

“Yes.” Cynikka nodded sharply. “Crimson fire was rage refined. It was dominance, destruction, conquest. But it was unbalanced.”

She inhaled slowly.

“The first Archon believed absolute power required absolute control. If balance existed, then control could never be singular.”

Ymi whispered, “They weren’t threats.” Her hand coming up to hold Magic's.

“No,” Cynikka said softly. “They were mirrors.”

Gotoga snarled, pacing. “So he slaughtered them.”

“Not immediately.”

Cynikka’s expression hardened.

“First, he studied them. Obsessed over them. Learned their limits. And then he learned something else.”

She hesitated.

The pause stretched tight enough to snap.

“That purity could be burned.”

Snowbird’s eyes widened. “How.”

“By us,” Cynikka said.

“The blood of crimson is poison to balance,” she said. “Not by nature. By excess. Infused into weapons. Forced into flesh. It corrupts everything it touches.”

NK shook his head slowly. “You’re saying—”

“I’m saying crimson blood was turned into a weapon,” Cynikka said, voice rising. “A way to kill what could never be subdued.”

Seraphim’s hand flew to her mouth. Tears spilled freely now.

“They hunted them,” Cynikka went on, the words tearing out of her. “Burned villages. Executed families. Anyone with even a trace of that balance was wiped out.”

Snowbird whispered, “Halfbloods.”

“Yes.”

The word echoed like a funeral bell.

“They called it order. They called it protection. They called it purification.”

Her lip curled. “But it was extermination.”

The fire roared higher.

“And when the survivors fled underground,” Cynikka continued, “the lie evolved. Any anomaly. Any deviation. Any blood that did not conform was labeled dangerous.”

HvyRotation slammed a fist into a log. “That’s why the raids never stopped.”

“That’s why your father,” NK choked on the word, “…keeps searching.”

Cynikka’s voice dropped to a whisper.

“He idolized the first Archon.”

The weight of that crushed the air from the circle.

“He believed power was survival. That anything capable of rivaling crimson must be erased before it could rise.”

Seraphim sobbed openly now, burying her face into Cynikka’s shoulder. Cynikka let her, one hand shaking as it wrapped around her back.

Thomas looked sick.

“So what Jophiel saw…”

“She saw him,” Cynikka said. “Not a monster. Not a weapon.”

Her eyes burned.

“She saw proof the lie failed.”

Gotoga’s voice was nearly a growl. “The boy.”

“Yes.”

Silence shattered inward.

“He shouldn’t exist,” Cynikka finished. “And yet he does.”

Snowbird’s voice trembled with restrained rage. “They tried to erase them. And still…”

“Still one survived,” Cynikka said.

NK laughed weakly, broken. “Of course he did.”

Thomas spoke like the ground was giving way. “And he saved Flux.”

Every head snapped to him.

Cynikka nodded.

“That’s why Jophiel went cold when I confirmed it,” she said. “Because if my father realizes what touched Flux…”

Seraphim sucked in a sharp breath. “He’ll kill them both.”

“He’ll try,” Cynikka said.

Silence stretched again, heavy and mourning.

Gotoga wiped his face roughly. “So this whole kingdom…”

“Was built on genocide,” Cynikka finished.

No one argued.

No one could.

The fire hissed as a log collapsed inward.

Seraphim lifted her head, eyes red. “None of this is your fault.”

“I know,” Cynikka whispered.

And then quieter still,

“But it’s my responsibility now.”

Thomas straightened. “Jophiel won’t tell him.”

She shook her head. “No. She believes the future corrects the past.”

Snowbird met Cynikka’s gaze. “And you’re the future she sees.”

“Yes.”

“Flux too,” Cynikka added. “Whether my father accepts it or not.”

NK exhaled slowly. “So what happens when he finds the boy?”

Cynikka’s voice hardened into steel.

“Then history tries to repeat itself.”

Her eyes flared crimson, fire answering her call.

“And this time,” she said, standing, “it shall burn instead.”

The flames surged, wild and defiant, as if agreeing.

Somewhere far beneath them, deep underground,

Balance waited.

Cynikka cleared her throat, garnering everyone’s attention. The fire snapped loudly, sparks spiraling upward like fleeing stars. Faces turned toward her, soot-streaked, blood-flecked, but still sharp with adrenaline. No one spoke. Even the wind seemed to lean in, whistling softly as if listening.

Her hands trembled. She clasped them together before anyone could see.

“Westhelm watches Aculon the way a blade watches a throat,” she began. “Not with loyalty. With patience.”

A few heads lifted. Others stiffened.

“Rumors say Schpood despises my father,” she continued. “But hatred does not equal welcome. Westhelm does not take sides. It waits until the victor is obvious.”

NK snorted quietly. “So they’ll shut the gates in our faces.”

“They might,” Cynikka said calmly. “Which is why we don’t go there begging for shelter.”

She turned, eyes sharp.

“We go there offering consequence.”

Flux watched her from where he stood beside Thomas and NK. Her tone had shifted, neither commanding nor pleading. Declarative. This was the voice she used when she already knew the cost and had chosen to pay it anyway.

“History,” Cynikka said, “is the only weapon Father never relinquishes.”

“He didn’t just rule with fire and armies,” she pressed on. “He ruled with record. With purged archives. With rewritten names. With erased bloodlines. People don’t fear Elanuelo because of what he is.”

She paused.

“They fear him because of what he convinced the world he always was.”

Seraphim’s jaw tightened.

“So we take that away from him,” Cynikka said.

Now she faced Legacy, standing straight despite exhaustion, eyes far older than his years.

“You. HvyRotation. Gotoga. Seraphim.”

They leaned in instinctively.

“You go to the Coalition.”

A murmur rippled.

“The Coalition doesn’t move fast,” Gotoga rumbled. “And they don’t move without proof.”

“Good,” Cynikka said. “Then they’ll listen.”

She stepped closer, lowering her voice as if the clouds itself was a witness.

“Cass is still fairly new, as she was recently crowned princess. She’d wanna be fair…and might possibly give us a chance. Which also highly likely means she hasn’t chosen a side yet. She values
continuity, balance, record. And she will not tolerate a tyrant rewriting the past to secure the future.”

Legacy swallowed. “You’re asking us to challenge the history we have all known, we've built.”

“I’m asking you to break it open, that was a history based on lies and deceit.” Cynikka said, eyes burning. “Tell them what happened beneath this empire. Tell them who vanished. Tell them about purges that never made it into ink. About families erased so thoroughly the world forgot to mourn.”

Seraphim spoke quietly. “You want to rewrite history while it’s still bleeding.”

“Yes,” Cynikka answered immediately. “Because if we don’t. Father will.”

Her gaze hardened.

“He will declare us traitors. Then monsters. Then myths. And finally…until we're nothing at all.”

The clearing felt suddenly smaller.

“You bring your own testimony,” Cynikka said. “Eyewitnesses, which of course is yourselves. Restricted knowledge. Names that were scrubbed. You make Cass understand that neutrality now means complicity later.”

Legacy’s hands trembled but he nodded. “If we succeed…”

“You change how the coming war is remembered,” Cynikka finished. “Before it even fully begins.”

She turned away and faced her brother, eyes firm with finality.

“Flux.”

His name carried weight even before it reached him.

“You don’t go to the surface,” she said. “You go down. Thomas, NK, you'll go with.”

Flux’s eyes sharpened. Thomas stilled. NK muttered, “Yeah, figured.”

“The Underground has always been Father’s blind spot,” Cynikka continued. “Too chaotic. Too untraceable. Too many truths spoken without permission.”

She held Flux’s gaze.

“And somewhere beneath the stone, is the reason you’re still alive” Flux’s chest tightened.

“Saparata,” he said.

Cynikka nodded. “If Father believes your blood was tampered with, if he believes an Evangelical survived, he will hunt the Underground to extinction.”

NK grimaced. “Which means it’s already burning.”

“You find Saparata,” Cynikka said. “You stay with him. You learn what he knows, about the connection, about power suppression, about what Father buried.”

Flux exhaled slowly. “And if the Underground turns on us?”

“Then you convince them,” Cynikka replied. “Or you outrun them.”

She stepped back, dividing the space with intent.

“The path splits here.”

One by one, she assigned them, not like pieces on a board, but like threads being pulled into different tensions of the same tapestry.

Legacy. Seraphim. Gotoga. HvyRotation.

To the Coalition. To Cass. To the dangerous act of telling the truth before the lie calcified.

Flux. Thomas. NK. Snowbird.

Into the Underground. Into whispers, shadow, and blood that remembered what history tried to forget.

And Cynikka, she would carry Westhelm alone with Ymi and Magic. Not seeking asylum. Seeking fracture.

The groups stood facing each other now.

No speeches followed. This wasn’t that kind of moment.

Seraphim was the first to step forward, placing a hand over her heart. “If history is rewritten,” she said softly, “we will make sure your names remain.”

Cynikka inclined her head once.

Legacy hesitated, then stepped forward and embraced her quickly, fiercely, before pulling away like he was afraid the world would punish vulnerability.

“Don’t die,” he said.

Cynikka smirked faintly. “Bad timing for that.”

The group stood closer to one another, reaching for hugs and pats. Whispered words of affirmations and silent prayers for everyone's safety. The Aculon siblings stood side-by-side, watching the others.

"Cyn," The raven started, "...take care, Westhelm doesn't take kindly to visitors." The strategist nodded, acknowledging the silent plea to stay alive. She turned towards her brother, pulling him into a tight hug.

"I'll see you soon. We'll communicate through the Domini Crystals."

Flux watched them leave first. He forced himself not to follow with his eyes for too long.

When only the four of them remained, the area felt different. Less crowded, more dangerous and eerie.

Thomas adjusted his gear. “Underground routes?”

NK cracked his neck. “I know a few. Also know which ones to go through from the meeting.”

Flux nodded. “We go quiet. No names. No fire.”

He paused, then glanced back toward where Cynikka had stood.

“…She’s right,” he said.

Thomas raised a brow.

“If Father controls the story,” Flux continued, voice low, “then none of this matters. Not the blood. Not the throne. Not even survival.”

NK chuckled darkly. “No pressure, then.”

Flux didn’t smile.

They disappeared into the trees, heading towards the clearing of the underground hidden in a valley of stone and shadow, and the man whose pulse still echoed faintly in Flux’s own veins.