The gates groaned shut behind us, their iron clang echoing through the narrow streets of Varn like a death knell. We'd made it inside, but the relief washing over me was brief and shallow. Safety was a lie we couldn't afford to believe—Sylas's voice still rang in my ears, his demand for the "Starborn" cutting through the chaos of our escape. His eyes had been wild with a hunger I couldn't understand, and the memory made my skin crawl.
The alleys sprawled before us, a maze of damp stone and flickering shadows. The faint glow of cinder-lamps revealed cobblestones slick with recent rain, offering little comfort as we fled deeper into the city's embrace. The scent of wet stone and mildew filled my nostrils with each labored breath.
Veyra took the lead, her steps swift but faltering. I could see the pain she tried to hide in the tension of her shoulders, the haze in her eyes more pronounced than ever. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the chill, and her knuckles were white where she gripped her pouch. I stayed close, my pulse hammering so hard I could feel it in my throat, while Toren trailed behind. The scrape of his boots against stone punctuated our flight, his cinder knife glinting in the dim light as he scanned the darkness.
The air was thick with tension, every breath tasting of grit and fear. My lungs burned, my legs ached, but terror was a better motivator than any rest could be.
"We need to lose them," Veyra rasped, her voice rough from strain. She paused at an intersection, chest heaving as she considered our options. She glanced back at me, and for a fleeting moment, something softened in her gaze—worry, perhaps, or exhaustion mingled with something deeper. A strand of dark hair clung to her sweat-dampened cheek, and she brushed it away with trembling fingers. The vulnerability in that small gesture struck me harder than any words could. It vanished as quickly as it appeared, her focus snapping forward again as she chose our path.
I nodded, though questions gnawed at me like hungry rats. Starborn. Sylas had spat the word like a curse, and the Abyss had whispered it too. What did it mean? And why had Toren flinched when he heard it, his face draining of color before he masked his reaction? There was no time to unravel it now—survival came first, answers later.
Veyra guided us through sharp turns, her knowledge of Varn's underbelly clear in every choice she made. But her pace slowed with each passing minute, her breaths growing shallow and ragged, the haze tightening its grip. I could see it in the way her shoulders slumped, the slight drag of her left foot, the way her hands trembled faintly when she thought I wasn't looking.
"Stop," I said, catching her arm. Her skin was hot beneath my fingers, feverish. She stiffened but didn't pull free, and that alone told me how exhausted she truly was. The Veyra I knew would never allow such contact. "You need to rest."
"We don't have time," she snapped, though her voice wavered. She swallowed hard, and I watched her throat work with the effort. "Sylas won't stop. And the Ashwraith—"
"I know," I interrupted, sharper than I meant to. Guilt twisted in my chest, heavy and bitter as I watched her struggle to stand straight. Every weave she'd spun, every step she'd taken—it was for me, and it was tearing her apart from the inside. "But you're no use to us if you collapse. I won't carry you."
Her eyes met mine, bloodshot and pained, and for a heartbeat, the guarded wall she kept between us faltered. I saw fear there, raw and human, beneath the determination. "I'm fine," she said, a lie so thin I could see through it like morning mist. She licked her cracked lips before adding, "Just… help me keep going."
I swallowed, my throat tight with words I couldn't say. She meant my Spark—the one thing I'd guarded since the Abyss marked me. The power that haunted my dreams and whispered promises I didn't want to hear. "It's not that simple," I said, lowering my voice. "It's not like your weaving. You know what happens when I—" I stopped, unable to finish.
Her jaw tightened, a muscle jumping beneath the skin, but she didn't argue. Instead, she turned away, wiping clammy palms on her trousers, her resolve hardening despite the exhaustion that bent her spine. "Then we move."
Toren stepped closer, his face half-shadowed. His eyes flicked between us, calculating, assessing. There was something in his gaze I couldn't read—not quite suspicion, not quite concern. "There's a safehouse nearby," he said, his voice low and rough, like he hadn't used it much lately. "An old Ashbreaker den. We can lie low there." He rubbed at a scar that crossed his knuckles, a nervous tell I hadn't noticed before.
I eyed him warily, too tired for diplomacy. "And why trust you? Joren was your contact, and now we're running from Veilkeepers. Quite the coincidence."
His lips curled into a grim smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Because I'm no friend of Sylas. He'd gut me as soon as he'd gut you." He leaned closer, and I could smell the sweat and dust on him, see the stubble on his jaw. "We're in this together—whether you like it or not."
His words held weight, but doubt lingered like a bad taste. There was too much he wasn't saying, too much hidden in the way he watched the shadows, the way his hand never strayed far from his blade.
"Fine," I said, the word sour on my tongue. My options were limited, and survival outweighed suspicion. "Show us."
We pressed on, the alleys narrowing, the air growing heavy with damp and decay. Every drip of water, every distant clatter of metal on stone, set my nerves alight. My back ached with tension, expecting a blade at any moment. Sylas was out there, hunting, and the Ashwraith's presence loomed like a storm on the horizon—I could almost taste it, a metallic tang at the back of my throat.
We turned a corner, and Veyra stumbled, a small sound of pain escaping her lips as her hand braced against the wall. Her fingers left smudges on the damp stone as they sought purchase. I was at her side in an instant, steadying her with an arm around her waist. She was lighter than I expected, and I could feel her ribs beneath my palm, her heart racing like a trapped bird.
"You're not fine," I muttered, worry overtaking my frustration. Her skin burned where it touched mine.
"I can manage," she said, pushing upright, but her eyes were glassy, unfocused, the haze deepening like storm clouds. She blinked hard, trying to clear her vision.
"Let me help," I said, softer now. "There's got to be a way to ease it without—without making it worse."
She studied me, searching my face as if the answer might be written there. Her breath came in shallow gasps. "You could weave for me. Just a little—to take the edge off." She licked her lips again, a nervous gesture I was beginning to recognize. "It wouldn't have to be much."
My stomach knotted. Weaving meant exposing my Spark, inviting the Abyss's attention like blood in water. But watching her fade wasn't an option. I couldn't lose her—not when she was the only one who truly saw me. "Alright," I whispered, decision made. "Just a thread."
I slipped a cinder from my pouch, its warmth steadying me as I rolled it between my fingers. It pulsed with a gentle light, responding to my touch in a way that still felt foreign, invasive. Closing my eyes, I wove a faint thread of light, barely enough to cast a glow. The familiar tug came from somewhere deep inside, a hollow feeling like hunger but sharper. The Abyss stirred, its voice a distant murmur: Starborn… closer. I shoved it down, gritting my teeth, focusing on Veyra.
The thread of light sank into her skin where I touched her wrist, spreading like luminescent veins for just an instant before fading. Her breath steadied, the tension in her face easing, the haze retreating slightly. "Thank you," she murmured, her voice stronger. Her fingers brushed mine, a fleeting gesture of gratitude that spoke volumes from someone so guarded.
I nodded, unease settling in my gut like a cold stone. The Abyss had noticed—and Sylas wouldn't be far behind. The air felt different now, charged with something I couldn't name but feared nonetheless.
Toren halted, raising a hand in warning. We pressed against the wall, hearts pounding in unison. Ahead, a rune glowed faintly on the stone, pulsing with eerie blue light. It wasn't a shape I recognized—jagged lines forming something like a star but broken, incomplete. Toren's eyes narrowed, and he muttered something—a word I didn't catch, but it chilled me all the same. His expression shifted, a flash of naked fear quickly masked.
"What is that?" I hissed, my hand instinctively finding the cinder in my pouch again.
"An old mark," he said after a pause, his gaze locked on it. His voice had dropped to barely a whisper. "From before the Veil. A warning."
"For what?" Veyra asked, her hand hovering near her pouch, fingers twitching with readiness despite her fatigue.
Toren's jaw clenched so tight I could see the muscle jump. "For those who seek the Abyss." His eyes flicked to mine, and in that moment, I knew he understood more than he was saying.
The words sank into me, heavy and cold as metal. Before I could demand more, footsteps echoed through the alley—boots on stone, closing in. The rhythmic sound was unmistakable—Veilkeepers, moving with purpose.
"Move," Toren urged, his hand on my shoulder pushing me forward. We slipped past the rune, its glow fading as we fled deeper into the maze, our footfalls nearly silent compared to the approaching threat. But the footsteps grew louder, relentless, like a drumbeat counting down our remaining freedom.
Veyra's hand brushed mine, a quick, accidental touch that felt like electricity. She pointed to a crevice between buildings, so narrow I would have missed it. "There," she whispered, her breath warm against my ear. "It's tight, but it'll do."
We squeezed in, the walls scraping our shoulders, the space so narrow we had to turn sideways. The air was thick with rot and something else—old, sour decay that made my eyes water. I held my breath as the Veilkeepers passed, close enough that I could have reached out and touched their cloaks. The material rustled with their movement, and beneath that sound, the faint hum of their warded armor.
"They're close," one said, voice clearer than I'd feared. "Sylas wants the Starborn alive."
My blood froze in my veins. Alive. That meant something worse than death—interrogation, experiments, things I'd only heard whispered about. My pulse roared in my ears so loudly I feared they'd hear it.
When the sound faded, we emerged, gasping for fresh air, but the tension clung to us like cobwebs. Toren's face was taut, his eyes restless, constantly scanning our surroundings. "We're being hunted," he said, stating the obvious but giving voice to the fear we all felt. "Sylas won't stop. Not when he's this close."
"Then we need a plan," I said, mind racing through options and dismissing each one. "We can't keep running." My legs felt leaden, my energy depleted from the small weave I'd done for Veyra.
Veyra met my gaze, her exhaustion plain in the shadows beneath her eyes, the paleness of her lips. "There's a way," she said quietly, her voice dropping so low I had to lean in to hear her. "But it's risky." Her hand touched the hidden pocket in her vest, where she kept something she had never shown me.
Before she could elaborate, the air shimmered at the far end of the alley, light bending unnaturally. A wall of golden light flared into existence, crackling with energy that raised the hair on my arms. We were trapped. Sylas emerged from the shadows, his cinder blade gleaming with an unnatural blue flame, his smile cold as winter. He looked fresh, rested—nothing like us in our exhausted state.
"Did you think you'd escape?" he said, voice dripping with triumph. He was enjoying this, I realized. The hunt meant as much to him as the capture. "The Veil sees all." His eyes fixated on me with a hunger that made me want to shrink into myself.
My Spark surged in response to my fear, heat blooming in my chest, but I forced it down with every ounce of willpower I possessed—any weave would doom us, marking our location like a beacon. We were cornered, Sylas's magic barring our path, the Ashwraith's distant screech—carried on the wind from somewhere outside the walls—a promise of worse to come.
Veyra's hand tightened on her pouch, her knuckles white, her eyes defiant despite the fear I saw in the rapid rise and fall of her chest. "We'll see about that," she said, voice steady despite everything. She shifted slightly, positioning herself between Sylas and me in a gesture that made my throat tight with emotions I couldn't name.
But as Sylas raised his blade, his grin widening to reveal teeth too white and perfect in the dim light, I realized we'd run out of time. Whatever Veyra had planned, whatever secrets Toren kept—none of it would matter if we couldn't survive the next few moments.