Sylas Korr's silver hair whipped in the acrid wind, glinting like a blade beneath the Veil's violet glow.
She clung to a jagged spar of stone, her shadow stretching across Ironhaven's slums—a thousand feet below.
The Shatterscape roared around her.A nightmare of liquid stars swirled above bone-white spires that stabbed into the void.
Her scavenged Aether net shook in her calloused hands, its runes flickering as a Shardling's claws slashed the air.
Six ember-like eyes locked onto her.Its insectoid legs skittered across the floating platform—each step a taunt.
"Back off, bug," Sylas spat, voice sharp as broken glass.
She hurled the net.Aether-infused cords wrapped around the Shardling's limbs, binding it tight.
The beast thrashed, leaking prismatic essence that shimmered like blood in the surreal light.
She yanked the cord, channeling the essence into a cracked crystal vial at her belt.
Another haul.Another day surviving.
Barely.
Scavengers like Sylas were the dregs of Ironhaven—scrounging Aether from Shatterkin corpses while Sentinels played gods with their flame blades and gravity tricks.
She was nineteen. Wiry.Pale skin, scarred from slum fights.Grey eyes that burned with defiance.
And that cursed silver hair?
Made her a walking target.
"Silver Weakling," they called her.Other scavengers stole her hauls. Sentinels shoved her into gutters for her weak Aether affinity.
She'd learned to dodge fists.To swallow tears.But the anger?
That burned hotter every day.
Her team—three scavengers, names not worth remembering—had ditched her the moment the Shardling appeared.
"Let the frail freak handle it," they'd laughed, sprinting for the exit rift.
Typical.
Sylas gritted her teeth, braid swinging as she tightened her grip on the net.
One day, she'd make them choke on their taunts.
Above, the Veil pulsed.A tear in reality humming with menace, its edges fraying like torn cloth.
F-tier Veils were supposed to be safe—low risk, low reward.
But nothing in Eryndor was ever safe.
The floating city-states, suspended by Aether cores, were humanity's last stand against the Shatterscape's chaos.
Ironhaven's slums, where Sylas barely scraped by, were a brutal hierarchy of bullies and broken dreams.
Her muscles screamed.Her lungs stung with the Shatterscape's air—thick, like breathing ash.
The exit rift shimmered ahead.A faint promise of escape.
If she could just—
A tremor cracked the ground.
Stone splinters slashed her arms. Blood mixed with the dirt on her tattered cloak.
The Veil's hum turned to a scream.The platform bucked beneath her boots.
"Not now!" she growled, sprinting for the rift.
The Shatterscape was collapsing.Even an F-tier collapse was a death sentence.
Bone spires shattered above.Liquid sky boiled.Waves of starlight crashed against invisible shores.
A crushing pressure seized her chest.
She dove for the rift, fingers grazing its edge—
Too late.
The Veil tore wide.
It swallowed her whole.
Darkness slammed into her, cold and absolute.
Her brother's face flashed behind her eyes—Elias.Shielding her.Laughing.Screaming.
Gone.
"I'm not done," Sylas snarled, clawing at the void.
The vial at her hip clattered—useless.
Then a voice thundered in her skull.Ancient. Sharp. Mocking.
"Mortal, you cower in the dirt. Will you burn, or ascend?"
Light seared her chest.
Blinding. Burning.
She gasped. Her heart pounded like a war drum.
A weight settled inside her.
Alive. Unyielding.
Like a storm trapped in her bones.
The darkness parted.
And she stood in a new Shatterscape.
An endless hall of mirrors surrounded her.
Each reflected a different Sylas.
One was bloodied, slumped in defeat.Another stood tall, wreathed in fire, eyes blazing.A third wore a crown of stars—her silver hair glowing like a comet's tail.
At the center pulsed a crystalline orb.
Etched with runes that writhed like living flame.
They pulsed in time with her heartbeat, whispering power.
"I am the Ecliptic Codex," the voice intoned, amused and cruel."Forged by Ecliptor's will. Bearer of ascendance.Bind with me, and claim the storm.Refuse, and fade into oblivion."
Sylas's lip curled into a smirk.
Years of bullies had trained her for this moment.
"Ascendance? Sounds like a fancy scam, glow-ball. I just wanna live."
"Then prove you're worth my time, little spark."
The orb flared.
Pain ripped through her, white-hot.
Her blood burned.Bones hummed with raw power.
The mirror-hall shattered.
Reality twisted—
She was back on the collapsing platform.
The Shardling, free from the net, lunged.
Claws a blur.
Sylas didn't flinch.
She raised her hand.
Instinct over fear.
And fire—raw, primal, hers—exploded from her palm.
The beast screeched.
Crumbled to ash.
Its essence spiraled into her chest like a greedy wind.
"Aspect Unlocked: Emberclad," the Codex announced, smug."Trial One: Survive the Shatterscape.Reward: Five Ecliptic Marks.Not bad, kid. You've got grit."
Sylas staggered.
Her skin glowed.
Ember-like runes traced her scars.
Her silver hair shimmered, catching the last light of the fading Veil.
The platform stabilized.The collapse faded to a hum.
She stumbled through the exit rift—
—and collapsed into the dirt of Ironhaven's slums.
Her breath was ragged.The cracked vial at her belt pulsed with her own heat.
Like it was alive.
A scrawny kid, no older than ten, stared from the shadows.
Bruised.Silent.
Sylas knew that look.
Fear. Shame. The weight of being powerless.
She looked at the glowing scars on her arms.Then at the boy.
And smiled.