Neyra Flint leaned back in her reinforced chair, the steel creaking beneath layers of grafted plating and rusted welds. From her perch above the main junction of Gravemarket SCW Plaza, she could see most of the sector—a tangled grid of jury-rigged scaffolds, broken roadways, and repurposed Core cannisters now serving as streetlamps. They glowed faintly green today. That meant the lower vents weren't leaking poison. Probably.
She adjusted the sensor-visor that covered the right half of her face, a thin flicker of data scrolling across the lens. Trade reports. Guard rotations. Power fluctuations from the west scaffold. And something else—barely a tremor on the readout, but it scratched at her instincts like rust under fingernails.
"Another pressure spike near the east corridor," mumbled Korr, her second-in-command, from behind a scaffold railing. "Could be a rigged core fragment again."
Neyra didn't answer at first. Her gaze had locked onto a figure moving between merchant stalls—tall, cloaked, walking like he didn't belong to the world around him. Not with that posture. Not with that stillness in his steps.
"Not a fragment," she murmured. "That's something alive."
The man—boy, really, no older than thirty—passed by a vendor hawking meat strips. Half the crowd cleared without knowing why. Just a ripple, a shift. The kind of silence that happens when something unnatural brushes too close.
Neyra tapped her gloved fingers on the edge of the railing. One beat. Two. The tension didn't fade—it deepened.
"Korr," she said, her voice calm, quiet.
"Yeah, boss?"
"Double perimeter. I want a suppression net ready. And clear the approach lanes."
"You think he's trouble?"
She smiled faintly under the rebreather mask. "Not yet. But I'd rather not be surprised when the trouble decides to notice us."
Sky stepped beneath the rusted archway, one boot crunching lightly on shattered glass and bone fragments, the other sinking slightly into a patch of black sludge that reeked faintly of ozone and rot. A haze hung over the plaza—thin, almost elegant, like smoke from a dying campfire. But it wasn't smoke. It was what happened when too many Weather Core remnants leaked into open air. Ashfall air. Tasted like copper and memory.
He pulled the hood of his scavenged coat tighter around his face, shadows curling just beneath his feet like they didn't want to detach.
The marketplace opened ahead in layers—overlapping tents stitched from old tarp, steel-slab tables bristling with Core shards, melted weapons, and fungus-grown food. Every corner flickered with movement. Voices rose in barter or broke in violence. Above it all, jury-rigged scaffolds groaned, holding up second-tier platforms that shouldn't still be standing.
Sky moved like water: not too fast, not too slow, just enough to blend. Or so he hoped.
His stomach gave a muted twist. Not hunger exactly—he'd eaten yesterday—but the smell of cooked protein and groundroot broth hit hard after days of smoke and heat. A nearby vendor waved something skewered and steaming. Sky didn't look. He couldn't afford to look hungry.
Not here.
Still, the whispers started.
"He's not marked."
"What's that pressure?"
"Void-touched?"
"He doesn't flicker. He pulls."
Sky slowed near a shattered wall, glancing at a makeshift display of knives. His fingers brushed the hilt of the one on his belt—solid, nothing special, but it had a balance he liked. Took it yesterday from someone who smelled like blood and lavender.
He felt them watching—not one, not two. The crowd. The guards. Something else.
This city never let you in quietly.
Sky adjusted the weight of his coat and took two more steps into the plaza. That was enough.
The whispers stopped.
Not just paused—stopped. Cut off like a blade to the throat. Even the grind of bartering voices dipped. A child's laughter somewhere near the north stalls caught in its own breath and didn't finish.
Sky felt the change before he fully understood it. Not fear. Not yet. But attention. Like walking into a storm's eye and knowing the wind hadn't left—it was just circling wider.
A scavenger merchant—skin like cracked leather, a glass lens over one eye—leaned over his table. "You lookin' for anything, friend?" His voice was wet and too casual.
Sky didn't answer. He didn't break stride.
The merchant chuckled under his breath. "Didn't think so."
The plaza ahead shifted like a hive. Guards repositioned, not with urgency, but with quiet familiarity. He wasn't the first Core anomaly to walk through this market—but something about him… was different. They couldn't name it. That made it worse.
A trio of younger scavvers flanked him on his blind side, walking casual, hands in pockets, cores flickering faintly in their chest harnesses. Low-grade Cores. Probably fire or static. Nothing Sky needed to worry about—but they didn't know that.
"You feel that?" one muttered under his breath, glancing over.
"Nah, it's just—pressure sickness," the second said, though his voice cracked. "The haze is dense today."
The third wasn't buying it. "Haze doesn't make your bones twitch."
Sky paused beside a broken rail of piping and let out a breath through his nose. His fingers brushed the hilt of the knife again. Not a threat—just a reminder. To himself.
He didn't want to fight. Not here.
But the city wasn't going to let him leave clean.
Something larger stirred behind the scaffolds. He didn't know it yet, but the wind had shifted direction—twice. The kind of shift that had no weather pattern.
A presence was approaching.
And the market... knew it first.
The wind turned sharp.
Not loud. Not violent. Just… sharp. Like it had a blade in it now.
Sky caught it immediately. The shift in current, the dip in pressure, the way his own Core reflexively tightened. The way it always did when she was near.
He didn't turn.
Not yet.
Somewhere behind him, a distant clang echoed through the scaffolds—metal on metal, then silence. The kind that waits. The kind that comes before a storm drops.
Then came the footsteps. Five of them. One led, four followed. Each impact deliberate. Boots striking steel and rusted concrete with unnerving unity. No chatter. No idle breath. Just presence. A wall of it.
The plaza shifted again—more violently this time.
A scavenger dropped their tray of modified arc-rifles. Another man flinched so hard he nearly fell into his own Core battery. Children scrambled into tents. Core signals dimmed. Even the fires at food stalls flickered as if deciding whether or not they had permission to burn.
Sky finally turned his head.
She was already watching him.
Seraphina Nyx Elarion walked like gravity bent for her.
Her coat was obsidian leather trimmed in void-thread, swirling faintly at the hem as if null-space was leaking from the edges. Burgundy eyes glowed low under her lashes—soft as velvet, cold as voidglass. Her expression unreadable.
Behind her, four Shadowsworn fanned out—featureless, armored, masked. They moved like blades waiting for a signal. Their presence, while subtle, rippled power across the plaza. But none of them held the air the way she did.
Nyx's eyes didn't blink. They claimed.
Sky exhaled. "Of course."
He moved, quietly—sliding a few steps back, keeping low, as if maybe—maybe—she was here for someone else this time.
She appeared beside him instantly.
No warning. No sound.
A pale hand reached up, fingers brushed his ear—and then pinched.
"Going somewhere, Wolf?"
Sky winced. "That depends. How many people are watching?"
"All of them."
She smirked. "Smile."
The silence that followed could've made glass sweat.
Sky stood still, Nyx's fingers gently resting behind his ear—not pinching now, just a firm touch that hummed with warning. Not painful. Not playful. Just... undeniable. Like her presence alone could keep him rooted in place.
The plaza didn't breathe.
And then she turned her gaze—westward, toward the elevated walkway built from scavenged bridge segments and twisted rail. The wind shifted with her glance, as if it, too, obeyed.
That's when Neyra Flint emerged.
Gravemarket's shadow queen moved with the authority of someone who'd never once been surprised and survived because of it. Her longcoat was matte-black reinforced plating, the kind that told bullets to think twice. A glimmering sensor-visor fed telemetry into her right eye. Everything else about her was still—watchful.
"Seraphina," Neyra said, tone even. "Didn't think the Null Queen still answered market summons."
Nyx's posture didn't shift. "You asked for weapons. I deliver what matters."
"And brought your gravity storm," Neyra noted, flicking her visor toward Sky.
Sky kept silent, shoulders tense. He hated the attention—but next to Nyx, the crowd didn't quite know how to look at him. Some tried and turned away. Others stared too long and shivered.
Nyx stepped forward, hand brushing Sky's shoulder as she moved past—not possessive, but protective. The kind of touch that said, I know where you are. The kind that grounded.
"He's with me," she said simply. "Try not to forget that."
Sky blinked, caught in the pull of her words more than the touch. Something fluttered in his chest. He hated that she could do that with such casual grace.
Neyra descended from her perch slowly, eyes narrowing. "You're early."
Nyx didn't flinch. "You're hungry. And low on trade-grade rations. You wouldn't have sent for me unless your reserves were bleeding."
Neyra smiled behind her mask. "Still sharp. Still cold."
Nyx's eyes flicked to the ration crate being guarded near the chamber wall. "Better cold than desperate."
They closed the space between them in silence—two forces shaped by opposite doctrines, meeting without striking, colliding without touch.
Sky took a step to follow, and Nyx's hand slid from his shoulder to his sleeve—a quiet anchor. Not a command. A presence.
He followed.
Because deep down, he knew: she wanted him here—not as a pawn.
But as her choice.
They didn't speak.
Not one of them.
The four Shadowsworn moved like blades unsheathed from the same scabbard—silent, seamless, synchronized. As Nyx and Neyra began to talk over rations and weapons, the operatives shifted subtly around Sky, enclosing him with the precision of a kill box.
Sky noticed immediately. His eye twitched.
They weren't being obvious. Just… close. Too close.
One stood behind his left shoulder, another to his right, two forming a loose semi-circle ahead. No weapons drawn, but their null signatures flared, barely audible—a low hum, like pressure dropping inside his skull.
Testing me?
They didn't know him. Not really. Not yet.
But they could feel it. His Core didn't flicker like flame or arc like lightning. It pulled. Quietly. Relentlessly. Like space itself leaned toward him.
One stepped forward just a little too far. Another tilted his head as if studying prey.
Sky sighed through his nose, gave them all a long, unimpressed look, then—
He moved nothing.
Not his hands.
Not his feet.
Just the weight.
The air around him thickened by degrees. Not hot. Not loud. Just heavy. The kind of pressure that collapsed the space between ribs, the kind that made your knees remember gravity's original language.
One Shadowsworn staggered. Another dropped to one knee with a grunt. The other two followed half a breath later, chests tightening, bodies betraying them before pride could intervene.
Sky didn't smirk. He didn't even blink. He just tilted his head slightly, gaze bored.
"Don't crowd me," he said.
From across the platform, Nyx paused mid-sentence.
Her voice came cold and clear—aimed at them, but louder than the market wind.
"Kneeling was not a suggestion."
The Shadowsworn froze. None dared rise. Not yet.
Then her tone shifted, almost playfully, as she glanced back at Sky over her shoulder.
"You really do hate being touched, don't you?"
Sky didn't answer.
But the ghost of a smirk curled at the edge of his mouth.
The weight in the plaza didn't lift. It just… rearranged itself.
Nyx turned without speaking, her coat flaring behind her like a quiet flag of war. The Shadowsworn straightened with rigid discipline—still silent, still wary of Sky now—and fell into step.
Sky hesitated.
Neyra gave a small nod toward a reinforced corridor built from half-collapsed scaffolds and rebar—a back passageway, leading down into a private chamber carved from what used to be a subway checkpoint. Low-lit. Secluded. Thick metal walls and a sensor door that closed like a vault.
Nyx didn't ask for permission.
She walked in as if it were hers.
Sky followed a few paces behind, the silence between them heavier than before. He didn't speak. But he could feel her awareness wrapped around him—sharp, subtle, coiled like thread drawn tight through a needle's eye.
Inside, the room was narrow and rectangular, a table made of old blast-doors resting atop stacked stone slabs. One overhead striplight flickered. Dust drifted like ash in the air.
Neyra stepped in last, flanked by two of her personal guards who stayed just outside the threshold. The door hissed shut.
Nyx took position at one end of the table. Calm. Immaculate.
Neyra didn't sit. She placed both gloved hands on the table's edge.
"You didn't come alone," she said.
"I never do," Nyx replied, eyes cool.
"You could've sent a courier."
Nyx's tone cooled. "I deliver what matters." She motioned to the crate beside her. "Weapons. Clean. Calibrated. Two days ago."
Neyra's jaw tensed. "In exchange for what?"
Nyx stepped forward, voice even. "Water. Food. One ration."
A small hiss escaped from the back of the room as Neyra signaled to a waiting guard. The ration seal cracked open, and the scent hit like a punch—real broth, tuber bread, purified water.
Sky's stomach growled. Audibly.
He froze. Visibly mortified.
Neyra blinked. Nyx turned her head slightly.
Then—giggling.
Both of them.
Neyra chuckled first, like rust breaking off an old hinge. Nyx followed, quieter, amused but not mocking.
"You could've said something," Nyx said gently to Sky, one eyebrow raised.
Sky muttered, "I didn't plan on being starving in front of assassins."
"Too late now," Neyra added, lips curved.
Nyx's fingers tapped the table once. Deliberate.
"One ration. Weapons for two."
The laughter faded. Business resumed. But the warmth lingered for a beat longer than anyone admitted.
Sky took a quiet breath and stepped back from the table. Just one step.
"This isn't my deal," he muttered, eyes already shifting to the door. "I'll wait outside."
He turned before anyone could stop him.
But Nyx didn't stop him.
She simply moved.
One moment she was beside the table, the next—in front of him, standing between him and the exit. No flash of power, no Core pulse. Just there, like space had shifted around her.
Sky froze half a pace away.
"Move," he said under his breath. Not sharp. Just tired. Too many eyes. Too much tension. He didn't belong here—not in their war, not in this barter.
Nyx tilted her head. Then—gently, deliberately—placed her hand flat against his chest. Fingers splayed just below his collarbone. Not pushing him. Just holding him.
"I said I'll wait outside," Sky repeated, gaze flicking to her hand.
"I heard you," she said, voice low. Not cold. Not cruel. Just quiet and full of gravity. "But you're staying."
Sky narrowed his eyes. "Why?"
Nyx didn't blink.
Her voice dropped to a near-whisper—just for him.
"Because you steady me."
His breath caught. Just for a second.
Not because of the words.
Because of the way she said them.
There was no mockery in her tone. No demand. Just presence. And that dangerous kind of affection—the kind that didn't ask, didn't beg. It just claimed, with softness sharpened by steel.
Sky looked away first. Not because she won. But because he couldn't think straight when she said things like that.
"I hate when you do that," he muttered.
"Good," Nyx replied, her hand still resting on him like she'd forgotten how to let go. "Stay anyway."
And he did.
Not because he had to.
Because somewhere between her hand and her voice, part of him wanted to.
The moment passed, but the air didn't ease.
Nyx stepped away from Sky like wind withdrawing from a flame. Her hand slipped from his chest with deliberate grace, fingers trailing just long enough to remind him she'd been there.
He exhaled slow.
Neyra Flint, leaning against the slab-table like it owed her nothing, arched a brow beneath her visor. "So, you've gone soft."
Nyx didn't turn to face her. "No. I've grown selective."
She motioned with two fingers, and one of the Shadowsworn stepped forward, setting down a reinforced crate with a hollow clang. Neyra's guards tensed as the lid opened.
Inside: clean weaponry. Modified. Scavenged, yes—but Resonance-polished. Each blade and pulse rifle bore the faint, shimmering etch of null runes. Not Core-linked—anti-Core.
Neyra's mouth pressed into a line. She didn't ask where Nyx got them. Only a fool would.
She reached into a side drawer embedded in the rusted wall, retrieved a sealed lockbox, and keyed it open. Inside, wrapped in insulated foil and white vapor, sat a ration unit the size of a hand: clean-cut tuber bread, compressed protein, and a flask of actual water.
Sky's stomach growled again. Louder this time.
He winced, eyes flicking away like he could somehow take the sound back.
Neyra heard it. So did Nyx.
Neyra let out a low chuckle, short and unexpected. "Still hungry, pretty boy?"
Sky didn't answer, cheeks reddening faintly.
Nyx smiled. A small, rare thing. "I'll take that as agreement."
She slid the crate forward. Neyra pushed the ration unit across in response.
"One for two," Neyra said.
"I could've asked for three," Nyx replied.
"You could've left with none."
They held the moment between them like flint and steel, not striking yet, but both holding fire.
Neyra was the first to nod. "Pleasure, as always. I think."
Nyx's tone cooled. "Keep thinking."
The trade was done. Words spent. Tension folded away like blades sheathed, but not forgotten.
The Shadowsworn moved first, exiting with practiced silence. Neyra said nothing else, only nodded once as Nyx passed her. The kind of nod you give a lightning strike that missed.
Sky lingered. He didn't know why. Maybe to reclaim his breath. Maybe because part of him still hadn't left her orbit.
Nyx stopped beside him at the doorway, fingers gliding past his shoulder—not a pull, not a leash. Just a brief touch to his coat. The smallest spark of connection. Then her voice, quiet and close, brushing against the edge of his spine.
"You can run again if you want, Sky."
His heart kicked once.
"Just know… I'll always find you first."
He didn't speak.
Couldn't.
She was already walking again, coat sweeping, void-threaded shadows curling at her heels.
Sky followed—because the silence behind her said more than any command.
They stepped out into the upper plaza where dusk had started to swallow the sky, painting the edges of Gravemarket in rust and smoke. The crowd still hadn't recovered. Whispers followed them like ghosts.
Then—
His Core pulsed. Just once.
Not outward. Not defensive.
It was a resonance.
Something far above answered.
On a broken tower to the north, half-shrouded in smoke and static haze, a figure stood still. Watching. Unmoving. A presence that didn't belong. It didn't attack. It didn't retreat. It just waited. Measured.
Sky didn't stop walking.
But he felt the weight of its attention.
Felt it remember him.