Cyros' grip tightened on the blade.
"Lucian," he breathed.
The name felt strange in his mouth—familiar, yet completely out of place in a burning, sealed building full of armed men and frightened civilians.
Lucian's pale eyes flicked to him first, then to Aerin, then to Taren. Recognition passed silently between them, the kind forged in academy corridors and unspoken rivalries rather than friendship. Then his gaze shifted.
To the woman.
Understanding dawned instantly.
"So that's her," Lucian murmured, almost to himself.
The woman shrank back at the sound of his voice, fingers clutching the fabric of her sleeve as if it were the only solid thing left in the world.
Cyros stepped forward, subtly placing himself between them. He lowered the blade, the embers along its edge dimming obediently. "You shouldn't be here."
Lucian let out a quiet huff of breath—half laugh, half sigh. "Funny. I was thinking the same thing."
Aerin glanced between them, tension coiled tight in her shoulders. "You're alone?"
Lucian nodded once. "For now."
Taren stared at him like he was watching a myth step off a page. "You— you were the one," he said slowly. "The noise earlier. The distraction."
Lucian tilted his head. "Was I?" A corner of his mouth twitched. "I was just… searching for her. And defeating men who got in the way."
Taren blinked. "…You say that like it's normal."
Lucian shrugged lightly. "Depends on the day."
Footsteps echoed somewhere distant again—boots, more than before, their rhythm sharper now. Not wandering.
Hunting.
Aerin's jaw tightened. "We should move."
Before anyone could respond, Taren blurted, "Wait— no, hold on. That thing you did— the ice. How can you do that?"
Lucian glanced at him, mildly surprised. "You noticed?"
"How could I not notice?" Taren threw his hands up, then immediately lowered them again when the woman flinched. He dropped his voice. "Everyone has an ember core. Fire. Heat. That's how it works. You just— froze a guy solid."
Lucian hummed thoughtfully, as if deciding how much effort the explanation deserved. "It's… more complex than the academy likes to teach."
Cyros watched him carefully.
Lucian continued, voice casual, almost conversational. "The ember core isn't fire itself. It's energy. Fire is just the most common expression—easiest to manifest. But with the right affinity, control, and a lot of pain you don't want to hear about…" He smiled thinly. "That energy can become other things. Ice. Electricity. Pressure. Sound."
Taren stared. "…Huh."
Lucian nodded. "That's usually the reaction."
"I don't totally get it," Taren admitted.
"That's fine," Lucian replied cheerfully. "Most people don't. Only a few can do this."
Cyros felt the woman behind him tremble again.
"W-who are you people?" she whispered.
Cyros turned to her, his voice steady despite the heat still humming through his veins. "People who won't let them touch you."
Her breath hitched, something fragile loosening in her eyes—hope, thin and dangerous.
Lucian's gaze drifted back to Cyros' blade.
Then to Cyros' hand.
Something unreadable crossed his face.
"That flame earlier," Lucian said softly. "That wasn't the sword."
Cyros didn't answer.
He couldn't.
Lucian studied him for another heartbeat—then nodded once, as if filing the question away for later.
"Alright," Lucian said lightly, clapping his hands once—far too loud for Aerin's liking. She shot him a glare.
He grinned at her. "Relax. I'm kidding. Mostly."
Despite herself, Aerin exhaled.
Lucian crouched slightly, lowering his voice again. "We move together. I can keep their suppression fields unstable for short bursts. Not long. It draws attention."
"Good," Cyros said. "We don't need long."
They moved.
Through shadowed corridors and open halls, their formation shifted naturally—Cyros at the front, blade low and ready; Aerin flanking, eyes sharp, body a coiled spring; Taren just behind the woman, whispering reassurance every time she faltered; Lucian drifting like an echo, occasionally stepping ahead, occasionally vanishing entirely.
Lucian talked while they moved.
Quietly. Casually. Constantly.
"So," he whispered at one point, leaning close to Taren as they slipped past an overturned kiosk, "was it just me, or did this turn into a disaster faster than usual?"
Taren snorted despite himself. "You should've seen the train ride."
Lucian's eyes lit up. "Oh? Do tell."
Aerin hissed, "Focus."
Lucian held up his hands innocently. "I am focusing. On morale."
Cyros almost smiled.
Almost.
They paused near a service junction, voices echoing faintly from multiple directions now.
Aerin leaned toward the woman. "Why are they after you?" she asked gently. "Anything. Anything at all."
The woman shook her head, tears slipping free. "I don't know. I swear. I work in municipal oversight. I file reports. I audit safety compliance. That's all."
Lucian frowned. "Oversight."
Cyros' mind clicked. "You review internal infrastructure?"
"Yes," she whispered. "Buildings. Transit. Energy routing. Why?"
Lucian and Cyros exchanged a look.
"Because," Lucian said quietly, "someone doesn't like what you've seen. Or what you're about to see."
Before she could respond—
A voice thundered through Zenith Hall.
Not broadcast.
Not amplified.
It carried anyway.
"Enough."
The word slammed into the building like a hammer.
Even from here, they felt it—the fury, raw and burning, no longer restrained.
The leader.
His men were failing.
Silence had been his weapon. Control his shield.
Both were cracking.
"Search patterns are compromised," the leader snarled somewhere below. "They're being picked off."
A crash echoed—something thrown. Something broken.
"No more patience," the leader continued, voice sharp with rage. "If you see anyone running—anyone—kill them."
The woman gasped, hands flying to her mouth.
Taren felt something cold settle in his stomach.
This wasn't strategy anymore.
It was punishment.
Lucian's expression hardened, all humor draining away. "Well," he murmured, "there goes subtlety."
Aerin's jaw clenched. "Civilians."
Cyros nodded. "He's forcing panic. Drawing us out."
"And punishing them if we don't," Taren said, voice tight.
Lucian rolled his shoulders once, ember-cold mist curling faintly around him. "I really hate people like him."
Footsteps erupted—running now. Shouting. A scream cut off abruptly somewhere far below.
The silence finally broke.
And it broke ugly.
Cyros tightened his grip on the blade, feeling the hum answer him again—familiar now. Too familiar.
He looked at his team.
At Aerin's resolve.
At Taren's fear twisted into stubborn courage.
At Lucian—annoying, talkative, dangerous, and somehow steady in the middle of it all.
"We keep moving," Cyros said quietly. "We don't let him turn this into a slaughter."
Lucian smiled thinly.
Somewhere in Zenith Hall, the leader's patience burned away completely.