Inside Zenith Hall, silence was no longer peaceful.
It was stretched—thin, brittle, held together by fear and held breath.
The second-floor conference room had been cleared of most civilians, but not all. A handful remained—elderly couples, a mother with a child clutched tightly to her chest, a man frozen in shock with his hands still raised as if someone had told him to do so and never came back to correct it.
One armed man stood near the doorway, back turned, watching the corridor through the narrow glass slit. His burning sword—embers licking faintly along its edge—rested casually against his shoulder, as if this were a guard shift and not a nightmare.
Cyros, Aerin, and Taren stood clustered behind a curved display table near the wall.
No words.
Only signals.
Cyros lifted two fingers, then pointed—one sharp motion toward the man, another toward the corridor. Aerin nodded once, already shifting her weight, muscles coiling. Taren swallowed, then took a slow breath, eyes moving to the civilians.
First plan.
Clean. Quiet. No sparks.
Taren moved first—not toward the man, but toward the civilians. He crouched low, flashing a gentle, exaggerated smile that didn't quite hide the tension in his eyes. Slowly, deliberately, he raised one finger to his lips.
"Shhh," he mouthed.
The mother nodded frantically, pulling her child closer. Others followed, fear overriding confusion. No one spoke. No one moved.
Good.
Cyros felt his pulse steady.
Wait.
The armed man shifted his stance, rolling his neck slightly as he leaned closer to the glass to peer down the corridor.
That was the moment.
Cyros moved.
He crossed the space in three silent steps, fist already tightened, knuckles aligned.
No sound. No hesitation.
His punch landed squarely against the man's throat.
Not crushing. Not lethal.
Precise.
The man's eyes went wide—but no scream came out. His mouth opened, air escaping in a soundless gasp as Cyros followed through, twisting just enough to collapse his stance.
Aerin was already there.
Her foot swept hard into the back of his knee, sharp and efficient. The joint buckled with a muted crack, and the man went down, choking silently, sword clattering softly against the floor as Cyros kicked it aside.
Taren lunged forward instantly, one hand clamped over the man's mouth, the other pressing his shoulder down.
No sound.
No chaos.
The civilians stared, frozen—but silent.
The man went still.
For half a second, none of them moved.
Then—
A glow.
Cyros felt it before he saw it.
Warm.
Too warm.
His hand.
A faint blaze shimmered around his knuckles, embers licking his skin like a breath of flame before fading away. He looked down sharply.
The man's throat was blackened—charred, as if scorched from the inside.
Cyros' breath hitched.
That shouldn't—
It wasn't possible.
His ember core was weak. Barely reactive. He couldn't—
But there was no time.
Aerin was already kneeling, lifting the fallen man's blade carefully. The weapon pulsed faintly, its ember resonance steady, dangerous.
She glanced at Cyros, then held it out to him.
"I guess," she said quietly, a small smile tugging at her lips despite everything, "you should be the one to hold it."
Cyros hesitated only a moment before taking it.
The weight felt wrong in his hand. Too alive.
"I won't use it," he said softly.
"I know," Aerin replied.
Taren was already patting down the unconscious man, quick and practiced. His fingers froze when he pulled something from the inner pocket.
A photograph.
He held it up between them.
A woman.
Mid-thirties, maybe. Sharp eyes. Dark hair tied back neatly. Wearing formal district attire—someone important, but not flashy.
Taren exhaled slowly. "Guess they're looking for her."
Cyros nodded once. His mind snapped back into motion.
"They're hunting," he murmured. "Not waiting."
"Then we don't wait either," Aerin said.
They crouched close together, heads nearly touching.
"The leader's on the ground floor," Cyros said. "If she knows that, she'll move up. As far away as possible."
"The top," Taren agreed immediately.
"Which means they'll sweep upward too," Aerin added.
Cyros tightened his grip on the blade—but didn't ignite it. "We search first."
Decision made.
They moved to the door.
Aerin peered through the narrow glass slit. "Two men in the corridor," she whispered. "One on the opposite side."
Cyros' gaze hardened. "I'll take the two."
Aerin glanced at him. "You sure?"
He nodded. "Non-lethal."
She shifted, already understanding. "I'll handle the other."
Taren straightened, rolling his shoulders once. "And I," he said quietly, "will be the world's most annoying lost kid."
Aerin snorted under her breath.
They moved.
Taren stepped into the corridor first, shoulders slumped, eyes wide, voice trembling just enough to sound real.
"H-hello?" he called, wavering. "Is— is anyone there? I can't find my parents."
The single armed man turned sharply, irritation flashing across his face. "What are you doing out here?" he snapped, striding toward Taren.
He never finished the sentence.
Aerin moved like a shadow.
One step. One strike.
Her elbow slammed into his temple, perfectly angled. He collapsed instantly, body hitting the floor with a soft thud.
The other two men shouted in surprise, turning and running toward the sound—
Straight past Cyros.
He stepped out from behind them, movements fluid, controlled. His hands snapped out, twisting sharply at their necks—not enough to break, just enough to disrupt.
Both men dropped like sacks, unconscious before they hit the floor.
Cyros exhaled slowly.
No blade.
No blaze.
Good.
They didn't stop.
The stairwell loomed ahead.
They climbed quickly, steps light, listening.
Voices.
Three men.
Above them.
Cyros raised a fist. Stop.
They pressed against the wall, breath controlled.
Cyros met their eyes and tilted his head slightly.
Same trick.
Taren grinned nervously but nodded. Aerin rolled her shoulders once, ready.
Then—
Footsteps.
From below.
Two sets.
Ascending.
Cyros' expression tightened.
They were no longer alone between levels.
The silence fractured.
And whatever was coming next wouldn't wait for them to choose.