Chapter 7 - Chapter 7: Whispers in the Ash

The city was quieter after the battle, but it was not peace—it was the silence of something waiting, of shadows pulling tighter around broken buildings. Lucien stood with the shard clenched in his gloved hand, its pulse echoing against his veins as if trying to sync with his heartbeat, and though his face betrayed nothing, inside he could feel it whispering, gnawing, trying to burrow into his thoughts with words that were not words but feelings—hunger, fire, destruction. He slid it into the reinforced pouch strapped to his chest and turned sharply to the girl, who was still catching her breath, wiping soot from her cheek with the back of her wrist. "We can't leave these here," he said, his voice rougher than usual, each syllable shaped like a command. She tilted her head, a spark of mischief flickering in her tired eyes even though her body looked ready to collapse. "Why? Afraid they'll sprout legs and walk away?" He didn't smile, didn't even flinch, just stared at her until she sighed and rose unsteadily to her feet. "Fine," she muttered, "but you should know… collecting those is like carrying pieces of a curse. You'll attract more of them." He looked down at the pouch where both shards now pulsed faintly in sync, like twin hearts beating. "Good," he said flatly, "then they'll come to me instead of anyone else." She studied him for a moment, lips parting as though she wanted to argue, but she closed them again and followed when he began walking, his long coat trailing behind him in the faint glow of smoldering fires. The streets stretched endlessly, filled with abandoned cars and shattered neon signs buzzing with dying light. Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed, then died, swallowed by the weight of the night. They walked in silence until the girl finally broke it, her voice softer than usual. "You don't sleep, do you?" Lucien's steps didn't falter. "Sleep is for those who dream. I don't." Her gaze lingered on him, the curve of her lips pulling into something between a frown and curiosity. "That explains a lot." He didn't ask what she meant, because he already knew: the hollow eyes, the way he moved like a man with nothing left to lose, the silence that always seemed to follow him even in chaos. But she wasn't finished. "Still, you fight like someone who remembers why it matters. That's the difference between you and the rest of them." He stopped abruptly, turning to face her, silver eyes sharp and cutting. "The rest of who?" Her smile flickered, faint but knowing. "Hunters. Soldiers. All the ones who take up a blade or a gun. Most of them fight for orders, or for gold, or because they're running from the nightmares in their heads. But you…" She trailed off, searching his face for something hidden there, something he didn't want to show. He broke her gaze and kept walking. "You talk too much." She let out a low laugh that carried strangely warm in the dead air. "And you brood too much. Guess we're even." For a time, the only sound was their boots crunching over glass and ash. Then, faintly, they both heard it: a low, echoing hum, like chanting from beneath the earth. Lucien raised his hand for silence, every muscle in his body tightening as he listened. The girl pressed closer to him, her fiery eyes narrowing, and together they followed the sound through narrow alleys until they reached a collapsed subway entrance. The chanting grew louder, rhythmic, almost mechanical, and the shards in Lucien's pouch pulsed faster, as though answering the call. He drew his pistol silently, the click of its chamber echoing softly, and nodded once. Without hesitation, the girl slid past him and slipped down the broken stairwell, blade ready, her reckless confidence somehow making her movements soundless. Lucien followed, silver eyes adjusting instantly to the dark. The tunnels stank of smoke, sulfur, and something fouler, something alive but rotting. The chanting grew clearer now, and as they rounded a broken corner, the sight before them made even Lucien pause. Dozens of figures knelt in a half-circle around a glowing pit carved into the tunnel floor, their bodies cloaked and hooded, their hands raised in unison. The pit seethed with molten energy, shards—hundreds of them—floating and pulsing in the heat like a constellation of diseased stars. At the center of the circle stood the cloaked figure from before, its face hidden in shadow, its voice leading the chant. "They're not just breeding," the girl whispered, her voice trembling despite the fire in her eyes. "They're building." Lucien's grip on his pistol tightened, and for the first time in years, his chest felt something close to fear—but not for himself.