Sylas Korr strode through Ironhaven's slums, her silver hair catching the dim glow of Aether lanterns. The ember-like runes on her skin pulsed faintly, a reminder of the Ecliptic Codex now coiled in her soul. Her tattered cloak swayed, and her grey eyes burned with a new edge. The air stank of rust and despair, but she didn't care. Not anymore.
The Shardling's ashes still lingered in her mind, and the Codex's smug voice echoed: "Time to burn, little spark."
The slums were a maze of crumbling shacks and narrow alleys, where Scavengers fought over scraps and Sentinels patrolled like vultures. Sylas had spent years dodging fists here, her silver hair a beacon for every bully with a grudge. "Silver Weakling," they'd called her, snatching her Aether hauls, kicking her into the dirt. She'd swallowed the pain, hiding tears behind a clenched jaw. But now? Now she felt different. Like a storm waiting to break.
She adjusted the Aether vial at her belt, its warmth humming from her Emberclad power. The kid she'd given her spare vial to earlier darted past, his bruised face lit with a flicker of hope.
Sylas smirked. "Keep it safe, runt," she called, her voice low but firm.
He nodded, clutching the vial like a treasure, and vanished into the shadows. She'd been him once—small, scared, stepped on. Not anymore.
Footsteps crunched behind her. Heavy. Deliberate. Sylas didn't turn, but her lips curled into a dangerous grin. She knew those steps. Gorran and his crew, the Scavengers who'd ditched her in the Shatterscape, thinking she'd die. They'd been bullying her for years—stealing her hauls, bruising her ribs, laughing at her "cursed" hair.
Gorran, a hulking brute with a shaved head and a scar across his lip, led the pack. His cronies, Lila and Vek, trailed like hyenas.
"Oi, Silver Weakling!" Gorran's voice boomed, thick with mockery. "Heard you crawled outta that Veil. Dumb luck, huh? Hand over that vial, or I'll break your skinny arms."
Sylas stopped, her braid swinging as she turned. Her grey eyes met Gorran's, unflinching. "You want it?" she said, her voice dripping with gangster swagger. "Come take it, big guy."
The alley went quiet. A few slum kids peeked from doorways, their eyes wide. Gorran laughed, a harsh bark, but his cronies hesitated. Something about Sylas was off—her stance, her smirk, the way she didn't flinch.
"You got guts now?" Gorran sneered, cracking his knuckles. "Let's fix that."
He lunged, his fist aiming for her jaw. Sylas moved—fast, like the Shatterscape had rewired her reflexes. She sidestepped, grabbing his wrist and twisting it with a strength she didn't know she had. Gorran yelped, stumbling, and Sylas slammed her boot into his knee, dropping him to the dirt.
"Ecliptic Marks: One gained," the Codex purred in her mind, its tone amused. "Defeat the weakling's tormentors. Reward: Three Marks. Keep it up, spark."
Lila and Vek froze, their mouths open. Sylas cracked her neck, her silver hair glinting like a blade.
"Who's next?" she taunted, her voice low and dangerous. "I got plenty for both of ya."
Lila, a wiry girl with a crooked nose, swung a rusty pipe. Sylas ducked, the pipe whistling over her head. She lunged, her palm flaring with Emberclad's heat. Fire sparked—not enough to kill, just to scare. Lila screamed, dropping the pipe as her sleeve caught fire. She scrambled back, patting out the flames, her eyes wide with fear.
Vek, a lanky boy with greasy hair, bolted. Sylas let him go, her gaze locked on Gorran, who was scrambling to his feet.
"You're dead, freak!" he roared, pulling a jagged knife.
The slum kids gasped, backing away. Sylas didn't blink. She'd faced worse in the Shatterscape.
Gorran charged, knife slashing. Sylas dodged, her body moving like it knew what to do before her mind caught up. The Codex's power thrummed in her veins, sharp and alive. She grabbed Gorran's arm, twisted it, and slammed her fist into his gut. A flicker of Emberclad flared, singeing his shirt. He collapsed, gasping, the knife clattering to the ground.
"Trial Progress: Two of three defeated," the Codex said, chuckling. "One more, spark. Make it quick."
Sylas stood over Gorran, her silver hair falling loose from its braid. "Stay down," she growled, her voice pure gangster. "Next time, I won't play nice."
She kicked his knife into a gutter, turning to Lila, who was still clutching her scorched arm. "You done, or you want more?"
Lila shook her head, backing away. "You're crazy," she muttered, then ran, leaving Gorran groaning in the dirt.
The slum kids stared, some whispering, others grinning. Sylas caught the eye of the bruised kid from earlier. She winked, tossing him a piece of scrap Aether from her pocket.
"For you," she said softly. "Don't let 'em take it."
The kid's face lit up, and he scurried off. Sylas's smirk faded as she felt a new weight in her chest. The Codex was watching, its presence like a shadow.
"Not bad," it said. "But the real trial's coming. Look up."
Sylas glanced at the sky. Ironhaven's Aether core pulsed faintly, but a faint violet shimmer caught her eye—a new Veil, opening above the slums. Not F-tier. Bigger. Dangerous.
Her stomach twisted, but her grin returned, sharper now. "Trouble already?" she muttered. "Bring it."
Footsteps approached—not heavy, but steady. Toren Vask, her only friend, jogged up, his messy brown hair bouncing. He carried a clunky Aether gadget, its gears whirring.
"Sylas, you okay?" he panted, eyeing Gorran's crumpled form. "Heard the commotion. And… was that fire?"
"Don't worry, tinker," Sylas said, her gangster vibe in full swing. "Just teachin' some lessons."
She nodded at the Veil. "You seein' that?"
Toren's eyes widened. "That's a C-tier, at least. Sentinels are already mobilizing. You shouldn't—"
"Shouldn't what?" Sylas cut him off, her grey eyes flashing. "Stay outta trouble? Too late for that."
The Codex hummed, its voice low: "Trial Two: Enter the Veil. Slay three Shardlings. Reward: Ten Marks. Fail, and you'll wish you'd stayed weak."
Sylas's fingers flexed, the ember runes on her skin flaring. She'd spent years running from bullies, from pain, from the memory of Elias's scream. No more.
The Veil loomed, its violet glow promising danger—and power.
She glanced at Toren, softening for a moment. "Stay here, keep the kids safe," she said, her kindness slipping through. "I got this."
Toren frowned, gripping his gadget. "Sylas, you're not a Sentinel. You're—"
"Done being a weakling," she snapped, her swagger back.
She turned toward the Veil, its hum calling her like a challenge. The slums watched, whispers spreading. The Silver Weakling wasn't weak anymore.
As she stepped toward the rift, a figure emerged from the shadows—a woman in a dark cloak, her ice-blue eyes sharp. Veyra Sol, the exiled Sentinel, her sword gleaming with Aether frost.
"You're the one who survived the F-tier collapse," Veyra said, her voice cold but curious. "What are you, Scavenger?"
Sylas grinned, all teeth and defiance. "Trouble," she said, brushing past Veyra toward the Veil.
The Codex laughed in her mind: "That's my spark. Let's see how bright you burn."
The rift pulsed, and Sylas stepped into its light, ready to face whatever waited—or die trying.