The Whispers stretched out before him, tangled and unwelcoming. The farther Felix walked, the more the city's cobbled streets gave way to uneven dirt paths, swallowed by creeping vines and the gnarled roots of old trees. The outskirts of Oryn-Vel had always been a place of forgotten things—forgotten people, forgotten debts, forgotten grudges.
One of Rook's hideouts was nestled deep within this mess of overgrown buildings and crumbling structures, an old storage house half-hidden behind a wall of ivy. Felix had only been here once before, long ago, and it had the same feeling now as it had then—a place where shadows lingered even in the daylight, where danger and secrecy went hand in hand.
He rapped his knuckles against the reinforced wooden door, stepping back just in time to avoid the hidden blade that shot out through a thin slit in the wood. A trap. A classic Rook move.
"Easy," Felix muttered, hands up in mock surrender. "It's me."
A pause. Then a low chuckle. The blade slid back into its slot, and the door creaked open just enough for a single sharp eye to peer out at him.
"Felix Cailen," Rook mused. His voice was rich, a touch amused but mostly unimpressed. "You're still alive. Can't say I expected that."
Felix exhaled slowly. "Neither did I."
Rook opened the door the rest of the way and gestured for him to enter. Inside, the storage house was dimly lit, filled with old crates and makeshift furniture. The scent of damp wood and something faintly metallic hung in the air. Rook had never been the kind to keep things comfortable—his home was practical, a place to hide, to plan, but never to linger.
Felix took a seat at the table in the center of the room, watching as Rook leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Even in the dim light, his sharp features stood out. The grey in his dark hair was more pronounced than Felix remembered, but the man's watchful eyes were the same.
"You must already know why I'm here," Felix started, keeping his tone steady.
Rook tilted his head. "Maybe. But I wanna hear you say it."
Felix sighed. He had expected resistance, but it still annoyed him. "Varrel wants to rebuild the Syndicate. I need help recruiting new members. People who know the streets. People who won't fold under pressure."
Rook let out a slow, deliberate breath. Then, he laughed.
Felix frowned. "Something funny?"
"Yeah. You." Rook pushed off the wall and paced toward the table, shaking his head. "Felix, do you even know what you're asking? The Syndicate isn't what it was before. It barely exists now. Roake and Marrow are dead. The council is in shambles. That little meeting at Keep Valcian wiped out half of Oryn-Vel's underworld in one night."
"That's why we need to act now," Felix countered. "The power vacuum—"
"—is already being filled by someone else." Rook's voice was firm. "You think you can swoop in and just take back control? The streets don't work like that. People have been waiting for this. There are hungry wolves in this city, and right now, you're a lamb trying to bark orders."
Felix clenched his jaw. "Varrel—"
"Varrel's desperate. And desperation gets people killed."
Silence stretched between them. Rook didn't look angry, just exasperated. Like he was dealing with a fool who refused to listen.
Felix leaned forward, gripping the edge of the table. "Then help me. If things are shifting, then you must know who's moving the pieces. I need names. Connections."
Rook gave him a long, measured look. Then, he shook his head.
"No."
Felix's fingers tightened around the wood. "No?"
"You heard me." Rook walked past him, heading toward the far side of the room where a rack of weapons hung on the wall. "You want to be useful? You want to survive? Walk away. Let the Syndicate die. It was built on shaky ground to begin with."
Felix stood abruptly. "I can't do that."
"Then you'll end up dead like the rest of them."
Felix's heart pounded, but he didn't let the fear show. He had come here hoping to gain an ally, but instead, he was being told to abandon ship. Rook wasn't the type to speak without reason. If he was shutting him down this hard, it meant he knew something.
Felix took a slow breath. "Who's moving the pieces, Rook? If you won't help me, at least tell me that."
Rook was quiet for a long moment. Then, he turned back to face him.
"There's a new name floating around," he said. "Someone with power. Someone who's been planning this for a long time."
Felix's stomach twisted. "Who?"
Rook met his gaze. "The name's Edmund Ardent."
The words hit Felix like a punch to the gut. He had expected something bad, but not this.
"That's impossible," Felix said. "He—he wasn't even supposed to be there. No one knew who he was."
"Well, they do now." Rook picked up a dagger from the rack, running a finger along its edge. "And from what I hear, he's just getting started."
Felix's pulse pounded in his ears. Edmund Ardent. The name wasn't just an anomaly anymore. It was a force. A storm brewing over Oryn-Vel, one that Felix wasn't sure they could stop.
And for the first time since the massacre at Keep Valcian, he wondered if the Syndicate was even worth saving.
*
The Whispers lay behind him, its tangled streets and overgrown ruins fading into the distance as Felix stepped through the western gate of Oryn-Vel. The city stretched before him, bustling and alive, but he barely registered the movement of merchants and travelers pushing past. His mind was elsewhere, anchored in the past.
His feet carried him through familiar streets, winding paths he hadn't walked in years. The smell of the city—the blend of spiced meats, burning coal, and damp stone—clashed against the scent of something only he could smell: smoke, thick and acrid, clinging to his memories.
It wasn't long before he stood in front of it.
What was once his home.
The husk of the house remained, half-collapsed, charred beams reaching toward the sky like skeletal fingers. The stone walls still stood, though blackened by fire, but the wooden door had long since rotted away. Ivy crept up what remained, nature reclaiming the ruin.
He had avoided this place for years. Even after returning to Oryn-Vel, he had never allowed himself to come back here. And yet now, he found himself rooted in place, staring at what had been taken from him.
A breeze carried the scent of damp earth and something faintly metallic. The city around him continued as it always did—voices shouting, the distant clang of a blacksmith's hammer, the laughter of children. But none of it reached him.
His past was louder.
Fifteen years ago.
It was autumn, and the air carried the crisp bite of approaching winter. Felix ran through the streets, his little sister trailing behind him, her laughter ringing in his ears.
"Hurry up, Aria!" he called over his shoulder, grinning.
She pouted. "You're too fast!"
Felix slowed, letting her catch up. She was small for her age, barely seven, with wild curls and bright green eyes. Their mother always said she looked just like their father.
They turned a corner, their home coming into view at the end of the street. The smell of roasting meat wafted from inside, promising a warm meal after a long day of errands. Their parents would be waiting.
Aria beamed. "I bet Mama made stew!"
Felix ruffled her hair. "Then let's go help her."
But then the shouting started.
He turned, frowning. A group of people was coming down the street—twenty, maybe thirty men and women, all with torches. Their faces were twisted in anger, their voices a roaring tide of accusations.
"Thieves!"
"You won't take from us again!"
Felix's stomach dropped. He grabbed Aria's hand and pulled her back, but she strained against his grip, confused.
"Felix, what's happening?"
He didn't know. Not yet. But he saw the mob's destination, and his blood turned cold.
Their home.
Before he could react, before he could do anything, a torch was flung forward. The flames caught the thatched roof in an instant, spreading like hungry fingers.
A scream ripped through the air—his mother's voice.
Felix moved without thinking, dragging Aria toward the house, but the mob surged forward, blocking the way.
"Stop!" he shouted. "My parents are inside!"
No one listened. No one cared.
Through the flames, he caught a glimpse of his father at the window, his face contorted in panic. He saw his mother trying to push him forward, but the smoke was too thick.
A deafening crack split the air as a burning beam collapsed.
Aria wrenched free from his grip.
"Aria, no—"
She sprinted toward the house, her tiny frame disappearing into the blaze.
Felix lunged after her, but hands grabbed him, pulling him back.
He fought, kicked, screamed, but the grip was unrelenting.
The fire roared, drowning out everything else.
Then the roof caved in.
And the screaming stopped.
Felix could still hear it now. The way it had turned into something raw, something broken. The sound of his family dying as he was held back, forced to watch.
The flames had taken everything.
He hadn't cried that night. Not as the fire burned itself out. Not as he stood in the ashes of his childhood, surrounded by people who looked at him with nothing but disgust.
And he didn't cry now.
Standing before the ruin of his past, Felix felt only the weight of silence. The scars had never healed, not really. They had festered, grown into something else. Something that had driven him for fifteen years.
He had built himself from the ashes, turned grief into purpose.
But now, as he stood here, he wondered—
Had it all been for nothing?
He thought of the Syndicate, of Varrel and Ivara scrambling to regain their grip on power. He thought of Edmund Ardent, a name whispered like the beginning of a storm.
And he thought of Rook's words.
"Let the Syndicate die."
Felix clenched his fists.
No.
He wasn't done yet.
He turned on his heel, leaving the ruins behind.
There was still work to do.