The Black Span loomed like a festering scar across Netharial’s underbelly—a sprawl of shattered buildings and sunless alleys where even the wind seemed reluctant to pass. Lysera dropped from a crumbling ledge, boots touching fractured stone without a sound. Her cloak settled behind her in a slow, black ripple, crow-dark against the ruin.

  Three days of relentless travel pressed against her bones, but she pushed the fatigue aside. This was the place.

  The air was foul—thick with rot and the iron bite of old blood. Every surface bore the mark of decay: cracked tiles slick with grime, rusted nails jutting from collapsed beams, dark smears where something had once bled and been left to sink into stone.

  Ahead, half-swallowed by the remains of an old tannery, stood the target.

  A prison.

  Tall and narrow, four stories of reinforced stone and steel driven deep into the earth like a malignant growth. Barbed shutters sealed the upper levels, but Lysera could tell at a glance that the real structure descended far below ground, hidden beneath the pretense of ruin. Even from here, the stench reached her—sweat, waste, death—clinging to the walls like mold.

  Her gaze swept the perimeter. Six guards at the front gate. Armed. Alert. Their pacing was disciplined, measured, almost ritualistic.

  Too many for a frontal approach. She crouched behind a collapsed wall, the stone cold against her back. I’ll wait for separation. Clean shots. Quiet.

  Triastra came to rest on a jagged edge of masonry. With a practiced flick of her wrist, the weapon shifted, plates sliding and locking as it unfolded into Snipe Mode. Metal whispered. Gears purred. Lysera leaned in, eye to the scope, breath slowing as the world narrowed to crosshairs and measured distance.

  Time stretched.

  Two guards lingered near the outer post, leaning close as they spoke. Another voice carried across the yard, sharp with irritation.

  One of them complained about hunger—about the miserable rations—then peeled away toward the building. A second followed, muttering agreement. Moments later, two more turned and went inside.

  Only two remained at the gate.

  Lysera’s lips curved faintly. Perfect.

  She adjusted for the breeze, waited for the subtle sway of her target to still, then squeezed the trigger.

  The crack of the rifle shattered the silence. The first guard collapsed in a spray of red, his body striking the ground before the sound had fully faded. The second spun, eyes wide, panic blooming across his face as he searched the ruins for an enemy he would never find.

  Too late.

  A second shot rang out. He dropped beside the first, breath stolen before it could become a scream. Smoke curled lazily from Triastra’s barrel.

  Lysera was already moving.

  The rifle collapsed back into its compact form as she sprinted low across broken stone, boots barely kissing the ground. She reached the gate, pressed herself to the wall, and listened.

  Nothing.

  No shouts. No rushing boots. Just the distant drip of water and the faint hum of lanterns within.

  She slipped through the iron gate, body coiled and low, a phantom threading through the ruin. Each breath was controlled. Each step deliberate. Years of training flowed through her movements without conscious thought.

  Inside, the corridors were dim, lantern light flickering across cracked stone. The air was warmer here, heavy with the scent of unwashed bodies and old oil. Passageways branched in opposite directions, disappearing into shadow.

  She edged forward and peered around a corner.

  Four guards sat clustered in a small break room, backs turned, voices low. A scarred table held half-eaten food, crumbs scattered among dented mugs of cheap ale. They laughed at something—soft, careless.

  She could end them now. The thought flickered, tempting in its simplicity.

  But she pushed it aside.

  Not yet. Find the prisoners first. Proof matters.

  She slipped past the doorway, unseen, and descended a narrow stairwell spiraling into the lower levels.

  On the second floor, a lone guard patrolled, boots tapping softly against stone. Lysera followed at a distance, matching his rhythm, letting the darkness swallow her outline.

  When he turned a corner, she struck.

  Her hand clamped over his mouth, cutting off the startled breath. The dagger slid up beneath his jaw, precise and merciless. His body jerked once before going slack, warmth spilling over her fingers.

  She eased him to the floor and moved on without a glance back.

  The third level was colder. The torches burned low here, their flames sluggish, casting warped shadows along the walls. As she passed a heavy metal door left slightly ajar, she slowed.

  Records.

  Inside, shelves sagged under the weight of ledgers and parchment. Dust lay thick across most of them, undisturbed for weeks—maybe longer. But the desk at the center told a different story. Papers lay stacked neatly, ink still dark and wet in places.

  Lysera stepped inside.

  One folder stood out, its title stamped in red:

  SEP-10021 – TEST LOG

  Her jaw tightened as she opened it.

  Subject injected with modified Stoneheart branded blood. Purpose: artificial hardening. Ritual bypassed.

  Her eyes skimmed faster.

  Result: partial failure. Subject did not accept branded energy. However—

  She stopped.

  —Subject developed regenerative capability. Wounds closed in seconds. Limbs regrew. One hand removed to prevent escape. Planned dissection of neural tissue to isolate mutation…

  Her fingers curled against the page, the faint tremor betraying her composure.

  “What the hell were they doing…?” The words barely stirred the air.

  She read on.

  Subject mutated. Skeletal growth ruptured dermal layers. Hostile transformation. Containment failure. Multiple casualties. Facility compromised.

  Her breath hitched.

  Subject lost. Final designation: SEP-10021.

  The final page was smeared, stained by something darker than ink. A hurried note had been scrawled across it:

  Still searching. Must retrieve the subject. Ideal for soldier template.

  Lysera closed the file slowly.

  “Someone like that is still out there…” she whispered, unease coiling in her chest. Her eyes lingered on the twisted notes. “I wonder where you ended up.”

  She slipped the folder back onto the desk and stepped into the corridor, jaw set, resolve hardening.

  Enough watching. Enough reading.

  It was time to end this place.

  Midday light spilled through the stained-glass windows of the Dawnbreaker training hall, breaking into fractured bands of gold and crimson as it struck the stone floor. Dust motes drifted lazily through the beams, catching and vanishing with every passing movement. The air was thick with sweat, leather, and the clean bite of polished steel.

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  Grunts and shouts echoed between the high walls as recruits clashed across the mats. Wooden staves cracked together, boots scraped stone, and laughter threaded through it all—discipline and camaraderie bound into a familiar rhythm.

  At the far end of the hall, Kaelen faced Varen.

  They moved fast enough to blur. Kaelen dropped low, leg sweeping out toward Varen’s ankles. Varen read it instantly, lifting his foot just enough to clear the strike before pivoting into a sharp side kick. Kaelen caught the leg mid-spin, arms locking tight, and flowed with the momentum—slipping behind him and scything Varen’s other foot out from under him.

  Varen hit the mat with a solid thud.

  Kaelen stepped back, breath steady, muscles coiled for the follow-up—then his gaze flicked sideways.

  Not to Varen.

  To the messaging scroll resting near the edge of the mat. Its black ribbon stirred faintly in a breeze drifting through the open hall.

  Is she okay…?

  The thought barely formed before it cost him.

  Varen exploded upward, closing the distance in a blink. He caught Kaelen around the waist and, with a brutal twist of strength, drove him headfirst into a piledriver. The impact rattled through the floor. A few nearby recruits sucked in sharp breaths.

  Kaelen lay there for a heartbeat before groaning loudly. “Owwwww—! Damn it, Varen! Who drops a piledriver on someone mid-existential crisis?”

  Varen straightened, brushing dust from his trousers with infuriating calm. “That’s on you,” he said evenly. “Eyes off the fight.”

  Kaelen rolled onto his side and pushed himself upright, rubbing the back of his head. “My friend Lysera’s on a solo mission,” he muttered. “Not an easy one, either.”

  Varen’s brow lifted, the edge in his expression easing. “Lysera? She’s solid. Been running solo ops before you even showed up. She’ll manage.”

  Kaelen shook his head. “That’s not the point. Doesn’t matter how good you are. Missions turn on you fast. One slip and—”

  He didn’t finish. His eyes drifted back to the scroll.

  Varen followed the look, then nodded slowly. “Fair concern,” he said. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth. “For you, anyway.”

  Kaelen shot him a glare. “I am smart.”

  Varen grinned. “Sure. A smart guy just doesn’t get flattened because he spaced out mid-spar.”

  “That was one time.”

  “And yet,” Varen replied, “it’s burned into my memory.”

  Kaelen huffed a laugh, shaking his head. The tension eased, if only a little. Varen’s grin softened into something steadier.

  “Look,” he said, lowering his voice. “If that scroll lights up, I’ve got you. We go get her.”

  Kaelen blinked. “You’d really do that?”

  “Of course,” Varen said without hesitation. “Can’t have my sparring partner dying on me. No one else keeps up with my tempo.”

  He held out a hand.

  Kaelen stared at it for a moment, then clasped it and pulled himself to his feet. “You better mean that,” he said, a faint grin breaking through. “I’ll hold you to it.”

  Varen met his eyes. “I don’t make promises I won’t keep.”

  They reset, slipping back into their stances. Around them, the training hall swelled again with noise and motion, the world returning to its steady rhythm.

  But between them lingered something unspoken—respect, trust… and for one of them, a past that could never be voiced.

  As they moved, Kaelen glanced once more at the scroll. His guard was up now, tighter, sharper—but part of his mind remained half a world away.

  The spar resumed.

  And beneath every strike and feint, a quiet tension pulsed, waiting.

  The corridor narrowed with every step, stone walls sweating moisture that ran in thin rivulets along the floor. The air was suffocating—mildew thick in the lungs, undercut by something fouler. Metallic. Stale.

  Old blood.

  Lysera pressed herself to the wall and moved forward, steps feather-light, cloak brushing damp stone. Torchlight clung weakly to cracked sconces, its flicker just enough for her eyes to work with. She catalogued everything without slowing—angles, shadows, blind spots.

  The deeper she went, the heavier the space became. Not hotter. Not colder.

  Weighted.

  As if this level remembered suffering. As if the walls themselves had absorbed too many screams and never let them go.

  She reached the final stairwell. It corkscrewed sharply downward, the stone worn smooth by time—and chains. No voices. No guards. Not even the distant echo of boots.

  No patrol, she noted. Either they’re careless… or they’re confident no one comes this far.

  Her boots touched the fourth level with a muted thud. The sound died almost immediately, swallowed by the corridor. Down here, even noise seemed unwilling to linger. Only the slow drip of unseen water broke the silence.

  Cells lined the hall in grim symmetry. Rusted iron doors. Narrow viewing slits. Some were scorched black, as if something had burned from the inside out. Scratches gouged the stone near a few frames—deep, frantic. One door bore unmistakable fingernail marks.

  Lysera stopped.

  Soft, uneven breathing slipped through a slit nearby.

  She knelt and eased it open.

  A woman crouched in the corner, barefoot on cold stone, limbs thin and shaking. A torn sleeve was clutched tight against her chest. Dirt and dried blood streaked her face; one eye was swollen nearly shut. At the sound, she flinched violently, then looked up—fear and disbelief tangled together.

  “…Who…?” The word barely made it past her throat.

  Lysera softened her voice instinctively. “I’m here to get you out.”

  For a heartbeat, the woman didn’t move. Then something broke loose. She dragged herself forward, palms scraping stone, as though afraid the moment might vanish if she blinked.

  Her fingers wrapped around the bars. “You’re not one of them…” Her voice cracked. “Please—the children. They’re still here. Don’t leave us.”

  Lysera’s jaw tightened. She held the woman’s gaze, steady and certain. “I won’t. I need to clear the way first. Then I’ll come back for all of you.”

  The woman nodded rapidly, tears cutting clean lines through grime.

  A few doors down, another voice cut through the silence—low, urgent. “Wait. You’re with the Dawnbreakers, right?”

  Lysera turned slightly.

  “There are two down here,” the man whispered. “Branded ones. Skin like stone. You won’t win head-on.”

  Lysera gave a small, acknowledging nod. She didn’t waste breath on reassurance she couldn’t guarantee.

  She moved on, opening slits where she could, letting them see her face—proof that hope had a shape.

  Six prisoners.

  Two women. Three men. One child.

  The boy couldn’t have been more than ten. Too thin. Too quiet. His eyes tracked her every movement, bright with fear and something dangerously close to belief.

  Some whispered thanks as she passed. Others said nothing at all—too hollowed out to form words. One man simply wept, hands clamped over his mouth as if the sound might summon death.

  Each time, Lysera left them with the same promise, spoken low and firm. “Stay quiet. Be ready. I’ll return.”

  She stepped away from the final door and drew in a slow breath. It didn’t steady her.

  As she slid the boy’s slit closed, he had whispered, barely louder than the dripping water, “Will the monsters come back?”

  He hadn’t meant the guards.

  Her fingers brushed the spine of her knife as resolve settled cold and sharp in her chest.

  Not if I have anything to say about it.

  Lysera turned toward the deeper corridor ahead and melted back into the dark—silent as dusk falling, lethal as the breath drawn before a storm.

  The air grew colder with every step.

  Lysera moved carefully along the fourth-floor corridor, boots whispering over stone as shadows stretched thin and distorted beneath sputtering ceiling lanterns. The walls here were no longer bare rock—damp stone gave way to reinforced iron plating, riveted and scarred. Ahead stood a heavy double door, its surface smeared with dark, rust-colored stains that no amount of scrubbing had ever truly erased.

  She pushed it open.

  The smell hit first.

  Blood—old and layered over older. Chemicals. Burned flesh.

  It was a laboratory.

  Metal tables lined the chamber in grim rows, their surfaces blackened and sticky with dried gore. Along the far wall, shelves held glass jars suspended in cloudy yellow preservative. Organs floated inside—some unmistakably human.

  Others were wrong.

  Ribs warped into jagged crescents. Clawed hands fused at the wrist. A malformed eye tangled in a web of veins, lidless and staring. Each specimen bore a neat label, written in tight, clinical script.

  Against the adjacent rack hung tools—cleavers, bone saws, hooks, scalpels of every size. One massive blade glistened wetly, something fresh still clinging to its edge.

  At the center of the room stood an operating table.

  The surface was crusted dark red, congealed into the metal. Shackles dangled loosely from each corner, chains etched with deep gouges. Fingernail marks scored the sides of the table, frantic and uneven—proof that someone had fought until their body gave out.

  Lysera stood frozen for a heartbeat, jaw tight, breath shallow. Heat burned behind her eyes.

  After I get them out… Her hand curled slowly into a fist. I will turn this place into ash.

  The thought barely settled before—

  WEEEEHHH—WEEEEHHH—WEEEEHHH!

  The siren shrieked to life, slicing through the chamber like a blade. The sound ricocheted off iron and stone, less an alarm than a scream.

  Lysera spun toward the door. “Shit.”

  Boots thundered in the stairwell—dozens of them, racing downward.

  She closed her eyes for half a breath and seized the pendant at her throat. “Valkryss.”

  Light exploded outward.

  Brilliant white feathers spiraled from nothingness, wrapping around her limbs and torso. Plates of armor snapped into place with sharp, mechanical precision, runes along their edges igniting with a low, windborne hum. The helmet unfolded from behind her neck, leaving her face exposed as a translucent veil of wards shimmered over her skin.

  When the light faded, Valkryss stood complete.

  The armor hugged her form like the wings of a hawk forged in steel—sleek, aerodynamic, and lethal. Divine in silhouette. Merciless in purpose.

  Lysera didn’t wait.

  The first wave of guards poured through the doorway, shouting as they charged—steel raised, panic thinly masked by numbers.

  Triastra swung into her hands. Gears clicked. The weapon’s core flared.

  Rapid-Fire Mode: Engaged.

  BRRRT—BRRRT—BRRRT!

  Thunder filled the laboratory. Bolts of white energy carved through the air in precise arcs, punching through throats, eyes, temples. Lysera moved like living wind—sidestepping blades, ducking wild swings, firing without pause.

  Bodies fell.

  One. Three. Seven. More.

  Screams cut short. Weapons clattered uselessly to the floor. Blood sprayed across the walls and tables they had once defiled.

  “Die,” Lysera said coldly, voice flat with certainty. “All of you.”

  The last guard barely lifted his blade before a bolt tore through his forehead. He dropped without a sound.

  Silence rushed back in—thick, waiting.

  Then the corridor shook.

  Heavy footsteps boomed against the floor, slow and deliberate. Two figures emerged beneath the metal archway, towering over the carnage.

  Seven feet tall. Shirtless. Their skin was a dull, lifeless gray—not ash, but flesh hardened into something closer to stone. Muscles bulged unnaturally beneath it, veins running black and swollen, pulsing with branded power. Their eyes glinted with feral amusement.

  Stoneheart Branded.

  One cracked his knuckles, bone grinding against bone. “Tch. What a mess.” His grin was ugly. “I’ll grind your bones for this.”

  The other laughed softly, rolling his shoulders. “Let me enjoy her first.”

  Lysera didn’t blink.

  She raised Triastra, stance shifting—feet planted, shoulders squared. Valkryss’ runes flared faintly as the Branded advanced, each step making the floor tremble beneath their weight. They were confident. They knew their strength.

  Lysera met them head-on.

  Her finger tightened on the trigger. No fear touched her expression—only resolve sharpened into something lethal.

  The line had already been crossed.

  The screen fades to black.