Rain slicked the rooftops of Ash Whisper, turning dust into mud and bloodstains into rust-red puddles. The storm came without warning—sheets of water cascading from dark skies as if the heavens themselves had decided to mourn or cleanse. Alaric stood alone at the edge of the northern wall, hood drawn low, letting the rain soak through his jacket and drip from his jawline.
Below him, the town was alive with quiet motion. Smugglers reinforced sandbag barricades. Caravan guards sharpened blades and checked rail magazines. Asha's crew mounted motion turrets scavenged from downed Council walkers, bolting them into reinforced steel struts.
The air had changed since the Council envoy's departure. It wasn't just tension anymore—it was resolve.
A war was coming.
And for the first time in years, Alaric felt something burning inside him that wasn't just survival.
It was purpose.
Footsteps approached, nearly silent. Selene appeared beside him, her cloak clinging to her slender frame like wet silk. She didn't speak for a while, simply looked out over the town with her unreadable eyes.
"You're thinking too far ahead," she said at last.
Alaric exhaled, rain trailing from his nose. "I'm thinking just far enough."
"You can't protect everyone, Alaric."
"I know." His jaw clenched. "But I have to try."
Selene's gaze remained on the rain. "If you keep carrying their hope like this, one day it will either break your back… or turn you into something else."
Alaric didn't answer.
Because deep down, he'd already started changing.
Elsewhere in Ash Whisper, Lia watched from a window. She leaned against the wooden frame, watching her brother speak with Selene from afar. Her fingers clutched the windowsill, knuckles pale.
A part of her knew she should feel happy—Alaric was finally becoming something more, someone admired, followed, feared even. But that same part of her twisted with something darker.
He kept getting further away.
Not in distance—but in purpose.
She shook the thought from her mind and grabbed her cloak, stepping out into the rain.
That night, Alaric stood before the assembled leaders of Ash Whisper.
Smugglers, dock bosses, ex-Council defectors, even a few mercenaries who'd once hunted him. All now sat around the central table in the saloon's upper room, maps and ammo crates piled between them.
"We've intercepted chatter from the southern line," Patch reported. "The Council's staging a proxy operation—no formal insignias, just hired killers and local mercenaries. They want to smear us in mud and call it justice."
Alaric leaned forward. "They'll strike the supply convoys next. Hit morale. Starve us out."
Griggs spat into a tin mug. "Cowards. Hit 'em first, I say."
Selene's eyes narrowed. "Too predictable. We let them move first, trace their handlers. Find who's pulling the strings."
"And then?" Rhea asked.
"We cut off the hand."
Agreement passed in low murmurs. Plans were made—ambush squads, rotating patrols, new defenses at the rail tunnel.
Alaric waited until the room emptied before he pulled out the sealed message that had arrived just hours earlier. A letter from an old ally in Zenith. One word burned at the bottom:
"Marcus."
Alaric's eyes narrowed.
He hadn't forgotten Marcus—the man who'd once pulled strings in the slums, the one who moved like a ghost, whose mere presence had unnerved him before he even knew what strength was.
If Marcus was involved, this wasn't just a Council retaliation.
It was personal.
Later, in his room, Alaric stared at the system interface flickering gently in front of him:
[Quest Triggered: Ghost in the Smoke]
Objective: Confront the Shadow behind the Proxy War.
Optional: Survive.
Reward: +1 Stat Point, ???
He absorbed the message, then dismissed it. As much as the system could guide him, it never gave him answers—only options.
Footsteps sounded behind him. Lia entered, carrying two cups of herbal tea. Her hair clung to her cheeks, still damp. She smiled faintly as she sat across from him.
"I heard about Marcus."
He blinked. "Already?"
"You're not the only one with ears, brother."
They sat in silence for a while. Then Lia set down her cup.
"When you face him… will you kill him?"
Alaric's hands curled slightly around his mug. "I don't know."
Lia reached across the table, placing her fingers over his. "I do."
Their eyes met. Rain continued to patter against the roof.
Outside Ash Whisper, beyond the ridge, a figure crouched in the rain-soaked brush. Black armor. Obsidian mask. A grav-dagger hung at his belt. His breath misted quietly as he watched the faint glow of the town's perimeter lights.
He pressed a finger to his comm bead. "Confirming location. Target's position locked."
A beat.
Then the voice on the other end: smooth, confident. Marcus.
"Excellent. Watch them burn. And tell Alaric Vale… the next time we meet, it won't be in a mansion."
The rain swallowed all sound.