Syn woke up on the cold ground. His entire body ached, as if he had been beaten with clubs and left to die. He groaned and tried to get up, but his hands trembled and gave way. He collapsed back, his forehead sinking into the mud.
"What… what happened?"
Memory returned in fragments. The Outburst. The Voice. The Shadow. A hand, reaching out from the darkness. And his own hand, accepting the offer.
He rolled onto his back and stared at the sky. It was still red, but somehow different. The colors seemed brighter, sharper. As if someone had wiped an invisible film from his eyes. Every detail of the world around him became clearer. The cracks on the walls of the buildings. The patterns of mold. Even the dust in the air, slowly settling after the Outburst.
He raised a hand in front of his face. His fingers trembled. But it wasn't from weakness. It was from something else. Beneath the skin, in his veins, something new flowed. Cold. Alien.
Syn swallowed and slowly brought his hand to his neck.
The Brand.
He couldn't see it, but he felt it. An icy touch, as if someone had wrapped thin, bony fingers around his throat. The skin under his palm was rough, covered in a raised pattern. He ran his fingers over it, feeling every detail. Tiny shapes. Skeletons. They weren't moving now, but he remembered how they had stirred at the moment of awakening.
"Keeper of the Threshold."
The shadow's words echoed in his head. A conductor. A path between worlds. He didn't understand what it meant. But he understood one thing: he had changed. Forever.
Syn forced himself to sit up. The world spun, but he clenched his teeth and waited for the dizziness to pass. Then, slowly, leaning against the wall of the nearest building, he rose to his feet. His legs held. That was good already.
He looked around. Sector Nine looked different. Not physically. The buildings were the same, the rubble was the same. But now he saw… traces. Thin, almost invisible lines in the air. They stretched from the ground to the sky, glowing with a faint, silvery light. Like cracks in an invisible glass.
"What is this?"
He stepped towards one of the lines and reached out. His fingers touched it, and the world around him shuddered. For a moment, he saw a different picture. Not ruined buildings, but whole, new ones. People working at sawmills. The sound of saws, the laughter of workers. Then the vision disappeared, and he was standing among the ruins again.
Syn jerked his hand back, breathing heavily.
"That… was that the past? Did I see the past?"
The shadow's voice did not answer. Inside, there was only silence. But Syn felt its presence. Somewhere deep, on the very edge of his consciousness, this alien entity lurked. It was silent. Observing. Waiting.
Syn clenched his fists.
"You gave me power. Now explain how to use it."
Silence.
"Answer!"
Nothing.
He cursed through his teeth and pushed off the wall. He had to leave. The Outburst had attracted attention. The patrol would come earlier than usual. If they found him here, with the Brand on his neck, they would take him. Without questions. Without choice.
Syn moved towards the exit from the sector, trying not to look at the glowing lines. They were distracting. Beckoning. He wanted to touch each one, to see what lay beyond it. But he forced himself to walk straight ahead.
He had almost reached the edge of the sector when he heard voices.
Syn froze and pressed himself against the wall. The voices were clear, loud. A patrol. They were coming from the north, from the main street. With quick steps. Syn peeked around the corner and saw them. Five soldiers of the Army of Stability in heavy black metal armor. Two carried torches. The others held spears with tips that glowed faintly blue. Artifacts. Weapons enhanced with resonator magic.
"They are looking for survivors after the Outburst."
Syn carefully retreated deeper into the alley. The patrol was only fifty meters away. If they turned here, he would be caught. Running was useless. They were faster. Stronger. They had weapons and armor.
"I need to hide."
He looked around. The alley was a dead end. The only exit was behind him, but the patrol was there. On the right and left were walls of ruined buildings. Ahead, a pile of rubble.
"The pile of rubble. I can crawl under it."
Syn rushed forward, trying not to make noise. He reached the rubble and began to push aside boards and pieces of basalt. The space underneath was narrow, but sufficient. He squeezed inside, scraping his skin on sharp edges, and froze.
The voices drew closer.
«This was the epicenter,» said one of the soldiers. His voice was rough, tired. «See the fungus? It only grows where the wave was strongest.»
«Could someone have survived?» asked another, younger one.
«Unlikely. Usually Outbursts of this strength kill everyone within the radius. But orders are to check. If we find a body with a Brand, we drag it to the Citadel. A living one even more so.»
Syn held his breath. They were standing right above him. He saw the torchlight through the gaps between the debris. He heard the creak of leather armor straps, the heavy breathing of the soldiers.
Don't move. Not a sound.
One of the soldiers stopped next to the pile of rubble. Syn saw his boots. Massive, steel. The soldier stood for a moment, then kicked one of the debris. A board near Syn's face shifted.
«Nothing here,» the soldier grunted. «Let's move on.»
They moved forward, towards the center of the sector. Syn didn't move for another minute, until the voices faded in the distance. Then, slowly, carefully, he crawled out of his hiding place.
His whole body was covered in scrapes and dirt. But he was alive. And free.
For now.
Syn slipped out of the sector through a side passage and trudged back to his shelter. The journey took longer than usual. He stopped at every corner, listened, looked around. Paranoia. But justified.
When he reached the shed, dawn was breaking. The red sky was beginning to pale at the edges, taking on a rusty hue. Syn squeezed inside and collapsed onto the pallet.
Only now, in relative safety, did he allow himself to exhale.
"I got the Brand. I am a resonator."
The words sounded unreal. Just yesterday he was nobody. A thief. A boy without a future. Now he was… what? A conductor? A Keeper of the Threshold?
Syn took off his dirty shirt and walked over to the shard of mirror he had leaned against the wall a month ago. The mirror was cloudy, cracked, but clean enough to see his reflection.
He turned his head, exposing his neck.
And saw the Brand.
The black pattern encircled his throat, starting at the base of his skull and ending at the jugular notch. It resembled a collar or a chain, but instead of links, it was made of tiny figures. Skeletons. Birds, beasts, people. They intertwined with each other in a macabre dance, skulls facing different directions. Some seemed to scream with soundless mouths. Others bowed their heads as if sleeping.
Syn ran his finger over one of the skeletons. The skin was cold, almost icy. And under his finger, the skeleton… stirred. Turned its skull, as if following the touch.
Syn pulled his hand away.
"What the…"
The Brand froze. The skeletons were motionless again. But he knew it wasn't a hallucination. They were alive. In a sense.
"Guardians of the Threshold."
The words came on their own, like an echo of a foreign thought. Syn frowned.
"Are you here? Shadow?"
Silence. But he felt it. A presence on the edge of his consciousness. It wasn't speaking, but it was watching. Always.
Syn stepped away from the mirror and sat on the pallet. He needed to think. To plan. The Brand meant his life had changed. Sooner or later, the Order would learn about him. Either through patrols or through informants, of which there were plenty in the slums. And then they would take him.
"If they take me, I'll end up in the Institute. Like Lian."
The thought stopped him.
The Institute. The place where resonators were trained. Where they were made part of the Order. But also the place where records were kept. Data on expeditions, missions, the fallen.
"If I get there, I can learn the truth. About what happened to her."
But for that, he didn't just need to get into the Institute. He needed to survive there. Become strong enough not to be thrown out like trash. Useful enough to gain access to information.
Syn clenched his fists.
"Alright. So be it. I'll let them take me. But on my terms."
He stood up and began to gather his meager belongings. He hid Lian's locket under his shirt, close to his heart. He stuffed a few coins into his pocket. The rest was useless junk.
When he finished, the sun had already risen higher. The slums came to life. Voices could be heard, the creak of carts, the barking of dogs. A normal day for Lower Stone.
But not for Syn.
He left the shed and headed towards the center of the slums. To the square where the Army of Stability outpost stood. A small, fortified building of stone and metal. A symbol of the Empire's power amid the chaos.
Syn stopped in front of the outpost and raised his head, looking at the flag above the roof. A black banner with a golden sun. The symbol of the Citadel.
Then, slowly, demonstratively, he pulled down the collar of his shirt, exposing his neck.
The Brand blazed on his skin like black fire.
The outpost door swung open. A soldier came out, saw Syn, and froze. Then he barked:
«A Brand! He has a Brand!»
Three more soldiers rushed out, grabbing their weapons. They surrounded Syn, spears pointed at him.
Syn didn't move. He stood calmly, hands at his sides.
The patrol commander, a gray-haired man with a face scarred by old wounds, stepped forward. He examined the Brand. His eyes narrowed.
«Where did you get it?»
«Sector Nine. Last night.»
«Do you know what this means?»
«I do.»
The commander nodded to the soldiers.
«Chain him. We'll send him to the Citadel.»
Two soldiers approached Syn and roughly grabbed his arms. They put metal shackles on his wrists, cold and heavy. Then pushed him forward, towards a cart standing by the outpost.
Syn didn't resist. He let them shove him into the cart, on the bottom of which lay dirty straw. He let them close the grate behind him.
The cart moved. The wheels creaked over the stones. Syn sat on the straw, legs crossed, and watched the receding slums.
Goodbye, Lower Stone.
He would not return here. Either he would die in the Institute, or he would become someone who could traverse the Wastelands.
And find Lian.
The cart turned onto the road leading to the Citadel gates. Enormous, black gates, adorned with reliefs of resonators battling monsters. They slowly swung open, letting the cart inside.
Syn raised his eyes and saw the gates closing behind his back.
And the world of Lower Stone disappeared forever.