Sundown bled across Marrow City like a wound reopening. Rust-red light spilled between the narrow brick alleys, mixing with the ever-present fog until the world looked dipped in diluted blood.
Azerath stepped out of the orphanarium gates, hood pulled low, posture calm but alert. The brass token in his pocket burned like a hot coal pressed against his ribs.
It wanted him at the Sin Bridge.
Lady Verradine's note wanted him to run from it.
And something inside his marrow just waited—silent, patient, watching him with eyes he couldn't see.
He moved through the crowded main street like a shadow. People rushed past in layers of Victorian coats and frilled dresses, completely unaware that two realms had begun shifting beneath their feet again.
Somewhere in the distance, a lone church bell tolled.
Not marking the hour.
A warning.
Azerath crossed a busy intersection when he felt it.
Eyes.
Someone watching him.
Not hostile. Not curious.
Calculating.
He scanned the faces in the crowd—vendors shouting, carriages rolling, lamplighters climbing poles—but saw nothing out of place.
Until he caught it.
A flicker of violet at the edge of his vision.
A coat.
A gloved hand resting on a cane.
Inspector Halewick.
The man stood across the street, half-lit by lamplight, motionless as a painting. Just watching.
Their eyes met.
Halewick smiled faintly.
Not friendly. Not cruel.
Interested.
Azerath shifted his weight, readying himself.
Halewick lifted two fingers to his temple—like tipping a hat—and then vanished into the fog.
Not walking. Not fading.
Gone.
The whisper in his marrow coiled nervously.
You are seen…
Azerath ignored it and kept walking toward the outskirts, toward the abandoned church where the Sin Bridge could be reached.
But the city wasn't done with him yet.
He passed the old cracked fountain at the end of Westheel Street and noticed a small figure perched on the edge—a boy no older than eight, eyes wide and unblinking.
The kid stared straight at him.
"Are you Azerath?"
Azerath slowed.
"Who are you?"
The boy hesitated, hands trembling. "They said you'd come this way."
"Who did?"
The boy didn't answer. Instead, he held out an envelope—sealed with the insignia of the United Empire's Depth Guard, stamped in black wax.
Azerath stepped closer, but the boy flinched backward.
"I—I don't want it! I don't want anything to do with you!"
The boy dropped the envelope and bolted into the crowd, disappearing before Azerath could say a word.
Azerath picked it up carefully.
Inside was a single sentence written in cold, perfect calligraphy:
"We know what you carry.Do not resist recruitment."
Below it, a symbol he'd never seen before.
A circle filled with jagged lines.
Not Depth. Not Empire.
Something older.
The whisper in his marrow finally spoke:
Do not follow them.Do not bend the knee.
Azerath pocketed the letter.
He already had enough decisions for one night.
And one deadly place left to visit.
The old church loomed at the city's edge—stained-glass windows shattered, roof sagging like it was exhausted from holding secrets for too long.
Azerath stepped inside.
Dust floated through beams of dying light. The pews were overturned, clawed with marks that didn't belong to anything human. Symbols—circles within circles—had been carved into the floorboards, each one spiraling toward the altar.
Toward the hidden staircase behind it.
The staircase that led down.
Deep down.
Where the Severance Line thinned. Where the world blurred into the Depth Realms.
Where the Sin Bridge existed.
Azerath approached the altar, but before he could touch it—
A voice drifted from the corner pews.
"You shouldn't have come alone."
Azerath spun, muscles tensing.
A figure stepped out of the shadows—a girl not much older than him, black coat dusted in ash, eyes sharp as broken glass.
She moved like someone raised on secrets and survival.
"Azerath," she said quietly, "you're being hunted by three factions right now. And you walk into the Bridge alone?"
She shook her head.
"You really don't value your life, do you?"
Azerath studied her.
"You know my name."
"I know more than that." She stepped closer. "I know what woke inside your marrow." Her voice dropped. "And I know what the Bridge wants from you."
Azerath kept his tone even.
"And who are you?"
She hesitated—just long enough to be telling.
"My name is…" Her eyes flickered with something like fear. "…not important yet. Not until you survive tonight."
Azerath said nothing.
The girl sighed.
"Fine. Call me Serah."
A soft, eerie creak traveled through the church walls.
The floorboards trembled.
The altar split open with a crack, revealing the staircase beneath.
Azerath stepped toward it.
Serah grabbed his wrist.
"Azerath," she whispered, "once you go down there, the Bridge will change you. It won't care what you want."
Azerath's gaze sharpened.
His voice was cold, quiet, final.
"I'm not here for what the Bridge wants." He pulled his wrist free. "I'm here for what it took."
The whisper inside him unfurled like a black wing.
Yes…
Azerath descended the stairs without another word.
Serah watched him go, eyes full of dread.
The stairwell swallowed him whole.
And the door slammed shut behind him.