The relentless clash of steel echoed through the alleyway as Fenrick squared off against the Tidewarden, his movements fluid yet strained. His once-feral energy now a shadow of itself. Blood streaked his face, his breathing shallow, and his knees threatened to buckle. He shifted his stance, dodging another precise swing of her glaive as the wind carried her blade unnaturally, forcing him on the defensive.
Ariya crouched low behind the corner of a crumbled wall, her hands trembling a bit as she watched Fenrick falter. Beside her, Cidrin crouched with uncharacteristic intensity, his satchel open as he retrieved a peculiar metallic device.
Fenrick managed to sidestep a powerful horizontal slash that would have cleaved him in two. "Bit much, don't you think?" he taunted, though his voice lacked its usual bravado. Sweat trickled down his face as he barely kept up with her calculated attacks.
"I find no satisfaction in this fight," the Tidewarden replied coldly, effortlessly maneuvering to keep him off balance. "But criminals like you? You deserve nothing more."
Her glaive twirled through the air, sand and wind spiraling around it as if responding to her command.
A sudden roar of wind tore through the street, and Fenrick was hurled back, skidding across the cobblestones. Ariya gasped and immediately ran towards Fenrick kneeling beside him with one hand pressed to his chest, her Sanctis magic flowing like a faint light in the darkness.
"Cidrin," she hissed, glancing over at the inventor, "he's not going to last!"
Cidrin stepped forward, placing himself between the Tidewarden and his crewmates. Though Cidrin wasn't a fighter in the traditional sense, his expression was calm, calculating. He pressed a sequence of engraved symbols on the device. The contraption unfolded and expanded, its metal plates fusing into sleek gauntlets that locked around his forearms with a faint hum of mana.
The Tidewarden's gaze fixed on him immediately, her piercing eyes assessing every inch of his presence. She tilted her head, an amused but cutting smile forming as she appraised him.
"I sense no mana at all from you," she said, her tone dripping with disdain. "What does a failure of a human being possibly hope to do in a situation like this?"
"Failure's a bit harsh," he muttered, mostly to himself. "I prefer work-in-progress. And guess what? I just finished my latest update." He raised his fists. "Let me introduce you to the Hex Disrupters." The gauntlets flared with energy as intricate runes etched along the plating flickered to life. A ripple of mana coursed through the air, resonating with the suppressed tension lingering in the alley. "I reverse-engineered your suppression wards. With some ingenuity, I learned how to disrupt mana flow—both in the environment and in people." He clenched his fists tighter, the gauntlets pulsing in sync with his movements. "But they can also absorb magic. Let me demonstrate."
He slammed his fists together with a resonating clank, and for an instant, the air shimmered. A faint distortion spread outward from his gauntlets, forming a barely visible barrier.
The Tidewarden's smirk faltered, only slightly. For all her strength, the notion of a device interfering with her magic added an unexpected complication. But she wasn't one to back down. "You're full of tricks, aren't you?" She asked.
"I'm full of something," Cidrin shot back, offering a faint, humorless smirk.
The Tidewarden moved without hesitation. Her fingers twisted slightly as sand scattered at her feet, drifting upwards in small streams. With a flick of her glaive, the rising grains converged into a floating orb of dense sand, its surface shifting as if alive.
"Siltspire: Scorpryn Barrage," she hissed, her tone dripping with finality. The orb cracked like an egg, shards of sand bursting out in all directions. The razor-sharp projectiles hurtled toward Cidrin with terrifying speed, each carrying enough force to pierce stone, but he just stood there. The barrier's distortion shimmered visibly as the projectiles entered its range. Instead of striking their mark, they slowed, dulled, and dissolved into harmless grains that scattered harmlessly to the ground. Cidrin let out a long exhale almost as if he wasn't sure himself that the Hex Disrupters were gonna work, his hands steady as he straightened. "Told you. They don't just absorb—they cancel."
The Tidewarden didn't flinch. As the last shard dissipated, she lunged, closing the distance in an instant. Wind propelled her forward as her glaive whirled into a series of sweeping arcs.
Cidrin backpedaled, narrowly dodging the first strike, then twisted as the second swing grazed the edge of his gauntlets, sending a shower of sparks into the air.
"She's fast," he muttered, ducking under another swing.
She pursued with relentless efficiency, her footwork smooth and purposeful as she struck again. Her movements wove together seamlessly, alternating between stabs, slashes, and spins. Her mastery of the glaive wasn't brute strength—it was a mixture of precision and relentless rhythm, forcing her opponent off-balance. The Hex Disrupters absorbed the momentum of her glancing strikes, redirecting bursts of energy into small shockwaves to buy himself precious seconds.
But she adapted rapidly. Using Wind Step, the Tidewarden created a platform of air beneath her feet, launching herself into a new position to gain an angle on him. Sand coiled into bullets around her hand as she prepared another assault.
"Sandcannon Gale!"
This time, she fired her projectiles with surgical precision. Each pellet spun violently as it shot toward Cidrin, aimed to cut off his escape routes.
Cidrin moved purely on instinct, his gauntlets humming as he deflected one pellet and absorbed the mana charge of another. Yet, he couldn't avoid them all. One grazed his thigh, tearing into fabric and flesh, forcing him into a stumble.
The Tidewarden landed softly, closing in with predatory focus. Her glaive twirled into position, poised for a strike. "A toy that defies magic but doesn't save its creator," she said mockingly. "How tragic."
He knew better than to trade blows. Using the environment, he kicked over a pile of broken crates, creating a temporary obstacle, then vaulted over a half-destroyed fountain. The Hex Disrupters whirred and buzzed as he raised one gauntlet defensively.
When her glaive connected with a small pillar near him, chunks of masonry rained down. Cidrin ducked again, using the rubble as brief cover. His mind raced.
She's closing the gap too fast. Disruption doesn't mean much if I can't land a counter.
The Tidewarden saw his struggle, and her gaze sharpened. She spun the glaive once more, the air howling as sand gathered around its blade. She slammed it into the ground, sending a concentrated shockwave of sand outward.
Cidrin crossed his arms, the Hex Disrupters pulsing as the attack met his cancellation field and dissipated. Still, the impact was forceful enough to knock him backward, forcing him into a defensive tumble.
"That bought me a second," Cidrin muttered, rolling back into a defensive stance.
"A single second changes nothing." Her narrowed eyes promised no reprieve. "You're only delaying the inevitable," the Tidewarden said coldly as she leapt onto a piece of fallen masonry and used the elevation to propel herself down toward him, glaive aimed at his chest.
Cidrin barely shifted in time. His gauntlets absorbed the brunt of the impact, but the force sent him sprawling.
The Tidewarden landed effortlessly, her glaive spinning into an overhead strike as she descended upon him again. Her relentless momentum left him little room to maneuver. He raised his left gauntlet to block, then his right to absorb another blow. Each strike sent vibrations running up his arms.
"You've had your moment, little inventor," she taunted. "Now let me show you how worthless resistance truly is."
Cidrin's attempt to evade a flurry of jabs failed as her glaive caught him in the stomach, knocking him into the side of a ruined structure. Dust rained down as he struggled to catch his breath. As she swept her blade forward, Cidrin crossed his gauntlets, channeling stored energy into a final counter. When the glaive connected, it was met with a pulse of disruptive force that rippled outward, forcing her back a step.
Cidrin used the reprieve to speak, his voice firm despite his labored breathing. "You think brute force and big moves make you invincible? That's not power—it's just noise. Power's knowing how to stay in the game long enough to win."
Her eyes narrowed again, but just as she raised her weapon to end him, her gaze flicked past him—toward the rear of the convoy. The empty wagon gleamed faintly in the dissipating haze of fog. Her grip faltered for half a second as realization dawned.
"I see," she muttered under her breath. "All of this... just to stall."
Cidrin noticed the subtle shift in her expression, the tension in her shoulders as she raised her glaive. A surge of wind scattered the surrounding fog, and the glint in her eyes darkened. "Enough games." The winds converged into a massive, spiraling vortex, sand cascading within the storm as it gathered momentum. The sheer pressure of her magic made the air unbreathable, forcing Cidrin to brace against the onslaught. He gritted his teeth, desperately analyzing her movements, searching for a countermeasure. The Tidewarden's expression remained impassive, but there was a flicker of intrigue in her eyes. "Absorbing magic won't save you from this."
But the storm halted abruptly, not because it was complete, but because something else had overtaken its presence. Cidrin and Ariya felt it immediately—a suffocating aura that demanded attention, The mana in the air thickened unnaturally, pressing down on those present like an invisible tide. The Tidewarden turned sharply, her attack faltering as her gaze landed on the figure now approaching through the fog.
"Thalor Aemryn," she whispered, her confusion evident but laced with recognition. "What... are you doing here?"
Thalor took slow steps forward, each one amplifying the gravity of his presence. His expression was unreadable—stern yet far from cruel.
"What kind of leader would I be if I didn't look after my crew?" he replied simply. He gestured faintly toward the struggling crew behind him.
The Tidewarden's eyes bore into Thalor as she stepped forward, glaive glinting under the fragmented light of the alley. "You've disgraced everything the Tideguard stands for, Aemryn. Traitor. Criminal. What kind of man even are you now?"
Thalor didn't stop walking, his presence cold and unwavering. He tilted his head slightly, lips curling into a mocking smirk. "The wagons emptied out under your nose, your magic canceled by someone you couldn't be bothered to take seriously. Looks like the only failure here is you, not me."
The Tidewarden's gaze narrowed, her composure faltering for the briefest moment as the weight of his dismissal set in. "I'll crush every single one of—"
"Shut the fuck up," Thalor said bluntly, his voice cutting through her words like a blade. The sheer authority in his tone froze everyone, even his crew, who had never heard him so curt. He pointed past her toward Fenrick, Ariya, and Cidrin, who were still recovering behind him. "You guys can head back to the ship, Erin's there."
Fenrick, bloodied and bruised but still managing his ever-defiant attitude, opened his mouth to protest. "What about you?"
"I'll be fine," Thalor snapped, his focus never leaving the Tidewarden. "I'm more than capable of handling this self-righteous blowhard."
Cidrin hesitated, his hands still wrapped in the faintly glowing gauntlets, his gaze flicking to the Tidewarden and back. "But—"
"Go," Thalor growled, his voice leaving no room for argument. "Now."
Ariya pulled Fenrick up, her hands steady despite her nerves. "Come on," she urged, sparing Thalor one last glance. She understood that the safest bet was to follow his directive.
The Tidewarden's knuckles whitened against the shaft of her glaive, and her lip twitched, but she steadied herself. "You speak as though you're untouchable, Aemryn. That arrogance is what leads men like you to ruin."
"Untouchable?" Thalor echoed, taking another slow step forward. His voice softened into a near drawl, biting with mockery. "No, I'm just pragmatic. I left the 'mighty and honorable' act behind with my Tideguard days. I don't waste time on pompous titles or pretty little oaths anymore." He flicked his hand vaguely toward her weapon. "Guess that's still your shtick, though. 'Tidewarden.' Has a nice ring to it doesn't it, Kaela? Makes you feel important?"
She bristled but didn't rise to his bait outright. Her voice was even, though ice-laced. "I'm not the one choosing thugs and thieves over order. Or betraying an oath meant to protect the people."
Thalor chuckled, low and humorless. "Order? Is that what you're calling it now? What I remember is how the Tideguard bullied the weak into line and dressed it up as 'keeping the peace.' You can't betray people you never swore an oath to. I walked away from all that because it was built on lies."
"And you think this is better?" she asked, a hard edge creeping into her words as she gestured toward the retreating crew. "Scurrying around like criminals, opposing the very foundations that keep the world from falling apart?"
"It's survival," Thalor replied, his tone hardening. "You, your 'justice'—you pick apart lives for the sake of appearances and call it righteousness. This," he gestured broadly, encompassing both himself and the wrecked convoy, "may not be clean, but at least it's honest."
The Tidewarden pointed her glaive at him, the sharp edge glinting faintly as she stepped forward. "Your idea of honesty ends where innocent lives pay the price for your crew's 'survival.' You've become exactly what you despised."
Thalor's smirk deepened into something darker. "Spare me the moral grandstanding. I don't need lectures from someone who fights for a broken system. Don't stand there waving your righteous banner and expect me to feel small."
Her eyes flashed with fury at his audacity, and she raised her glaive higher. But there was a flicker of hesitance, the cold calculation of a seasoned fighter realizing she no longer had full control over the battlefield. Thalor didn't strike first. He didn't need to. His presence alone was an answer—and a challenge.
Rahl crouched on the edge of a crumbling rooftop, his eyes fixed on the chaos below. His cigarette had long since burned out, the ember fading in the growing chill that gnawed at his skin. His breath hung in the air like pale specters, caught in a momentary glow from the dim lanterns flickering across the alley.
Something was wrong—far worse than the usual chaos of Slum City. He could feel it deep in his bones, a primal warning that set every nerve alight. He stared at the battlefield, the Tidewarden's relentless assault against Fenrick, Cidrin, and Ariya painting a brutal picture of desperation. Yet, his focus wasn't entirely there. No, his sharp instincts were fixed on something far more troubling.
Where are they? His mind reeled, scanning every shadow and corner. The rooftops should have been riddled with movement, the subtle hum of Ironshadow assassins slipping into place to play their part in Slum City's web of intrigue. But it was quiet. Still. Unnaturally so. It wasn't a lack of enemies that unnerved him; it was the cold. The frigid air was an intruder, creeping beneath his cloak and biting at his exposed skin. He rubbed his hands together as he exhaled another frosty breath, eyes narrowing in thought.
It didn't take long for realization to dawn. The kind of chill that lingered in the city now wasn't born of bad weather or evening fog. No, this chill was purposeful, malicious. He knew its source—he'd heard whispers, rumors, and myths meant to send shivers down even the most fearless spines.
The cold wasn't just here. It was here.
"The Glacial Reaper..." The words barely escaped his lips, but speaking them aloud made them all the more real.
The icy legend that loomed over the criminal underbelly like a specter of death had finally surfaced. A figure tied to frozen corpses, shattered wills, and silence so absolute it swallowed entire crews. Rahl shook his head, trying to suppress a smirk that threatened to creep onto his face despite the seriousness of the revelation.
"Of all the people who could show up tonight..." he muttered, wiping the frost from his gloves.
The Glacial Reaper's presence shifted everything. It wasn't just about their crew anymore or even the Tidewarden's relentless pursuit. This was a death sentence—for everyone. Rahl turned his attention to the alley below one last time. He'd watched the Tidewarden come closer to dismantling everything they'd worked toward, but now? None of it mattered.
His job had been to oversee the mission, to ensure it unfolded with precision. And while their failure annoyed him, the presence of the Glacial Reaper cemented his decision.
"Their plan's shot to hell," Rahl whispered to no one. He backed away from the edge of the roof, each step deliberate. His mind reeled with the weight of his realization, every instinct screaming to leave. For all his cryptic musings and apparent indifference, Rahl had no intention of going down in some grand sacrifice. He was too good for that.
As his boots met the ladder's cold rungs, he allowed himself a final thought, one spoken softly as he vanished into the gloom of Slum City.
"Fools don't get second chances when they gamble with the cold."
With that, Rahl was gone, leaving behind the chaos, the cold, and the inevitability of death.
The twisting streets of Slum City seemed darker than ever, as though the lights themselves recoiled from the suffocating aura trailing Narza and Kline. Each corner she rounded felt heavier, more oppressive, as though the world itself had turned hostile. She moved quickly, leading Kline through the labyrinthine paths, but her calm exterior was cracking under the growing weight pressing against her chest.
Their mana—they weren't just ominous; they were overwhelming, visceral. Her muscles tensed with every step, her breath hitching as old memories surged from the depths of her mind. She didn't need to see them to know what was coming.
Shadows flickered unnaturally, the sharp cold growing worse with every step. Each inhale was ragged, the air bitter against her lungs. Lantern flames flickered, bending unnaturally, as though drawn toward an invisible force. Each breath she exhaled was visible now, a white mist that felt more suffocating than the air. Gravel vibrated faintly before lifting, trembling as if alive. Her amber eyes darted frantically between the darkened alleys, her mind racing to calculate the best route. She tugged Kline forward with sharp, urgent motions. "Keep pace. Stay right behind me."
Kline scowled but didn't argue. "I get it. Wouldn't kill you to—"
"It might if you don't move faster!" she snapped, cutting him off before he could finish. "Do you even feel what's coming?"
He muttered something she didn't catch, and she turned back, dragging him along through another narrow alley. Her movements became quicker, almost frantic. Yet it wasn't until she rounded another corner that she truly stopped in her tracks.
She froze.
Hovering in the alley ahead was a figure, inverted like a twisted mockery of gravity. They moved with deliberate calm, debris floating in lazy circles around their silhouette. The faint ripple of space distorting around them made their presence almost blurry, an unsettling blemish on reality. Lantern light in the distance stretched unnaturally, casting elongated shadows that shifted as if alive. Narza's mind reeled as her eyes locked onto him, unable to turn away despite every survival instinct screaming at her. He wasn't just there—he owned the space around him
Her body tensed, her mind racing to process the impossible sight before her. Memories clawed their way to the forefront, disjointed flashes of blood, ice, and helplessness. He tilted his head slightly, his outline shimmering faintly as though the world struggled to define him. From her vantage point, Narza could see his body in detail—the stark angles of his limbs, his casual posture. It was haunting how calm he was, as though none of this required effort. Every instinct in her screamed that she shouldn't be seeing this.
Her thoughts spun chaotically. What is that? He's floating—he's just floating. Does he not even need the ground? That… can't be Gravira. Gravira bends gravity—it doesn't… break it.
The figure rotated upright with eerie ease, as though responding to her unspoken thoughts. His movements were too smooth to be natural, and yet they lacked the typical fluidity of magic manipulation. It was as if the space around him obeyed his whims simply because he existed.
His voice broke the silence, cutting through the frozen air."Darial Kline," he began, his tone was light, casual, as though this were some idle meeting, but the malice was unmistakable "You've been running for a while now, haven't you? It's impressive, I'll admit. Not many people make it this far." He shifted his attention to Narza, his piercing gaze cutting through her like a blade. "But you—you must be some kind of optimist. Putting yourself in danger for this man? Tell me, does loyalty taste any better when it's served with desperation?"
Narza clenched her jaw, but she couldn't bring herself to reply. The man continued, unfazed. He gestured lazily toward Kline, as though this entire encounter were already beneath him. "I'm here to kill him. Nothing personal—it's just business. Step aside, and maybe, just maybe, I won't kill you too. No promises, though."
His grin widened slightly, a predator's smile devoid of humor or kindness. "Of course, if you insist on playing hero, we can always make this more fun."
Before Narza could respond, her gaze drifted past him, locking onto something worse.
At the other end of the alley, frost crept slowly along the walls. The second figure stepped into view, his presence far heavier than the first. The very air seemed to coil inward around him, feeding the unnatural chill spreading outward. This mana—there was no mistaking it. It was him. She hadn't seen him in years. But his presence—colder than the frost creeping up the walls—was unmistakable. Her breathing hitched as her scar began to burn—not just a dull ache but a searing reminder of who and what she was facing, an echo of the pain etched into her memory.
Her lungs tightened as though the figure's aura pressed directly against her ribs, and everything froze: her limbs, her thoughts, even her defiance. Every muscle in her body cried out for action, but fear took hold.
Kline touched her shoulder lightly, snapping her out of her paralysis for just a moment. "Do something!"
She shook her head sharply. Her throat felt dry as she whispered, more to herself than him, "I can't… Fight? No—running might…"
Her thoughts fractured into rapid-fire conclusions. Fighting was suicide. Turning would put her back to an opponent who wouldn't hesitate. There was nowhere to run where she could stay safe for long. Her mind screamed at her to figure it out.
"Get ready," she breathed out, a trembling, quiet determination seeping into her tone.
Before Kline could question her, she yanked him toward a nearby wall. He stumbled as she dragged him forward, her speed growing with a frantic sense of urgency.
Her mana surged with desperate precision. Smoke erupted in a sharp, unnatural plume, swirling like sentient shadows before enveloping them both. In an instant, they dissolved into the black haze, slipping through the alley like phantoms.
On the rooftop, they reformed, Narza clutching Kline's arm as he coughed and stumbled forward. Her breaths came in uneven bursts, the frost still biting at her skin as she tried to calm her racing heart.
She looked back at the alley briefly—just long enough to see frost climbing higher along the walls. Though she couldn't see them clearly anymore, she felt their presence as if they were just feet away.
Narza's eyes narrowed, hardening as she faced forward again. She didn't waste another word on Kline, grabbing his arm and forcing him to move. Talking wasn't necessary. Neither of them had the luxury of thinking this was over.