Kian woke to the scent of something … edible.

  He groaned as consciousness crept back in.

  Darkness. Again.

  But this time, it didn’t feel infinite or divine. Just... damp. Dusty. Kinda musty.

  “…ow,” he muttered.

  “Good, you're alive,” Zeyk’s voice said—dry as old bread and twice as judgmental. “Next time, maybe faint after we’re done fleeing.”

  Kian blinked at the dimly lit ceiling overhead. Wooden beams. Flickering lanterns. Stone walls—no iron bars this time. That was… progress?

  “Where—?” he started.

  “Underground.” Zeyk sat cross-legged beside him, looking slightly less panicked than before. “Safehouse. Or something like it. Courtesy of our new friend.”

  Kian turned his head—and immediately regretted it. A jolt of vertigo smacked him, followed by a sharp throb in his shoulder.

  “Careful. You cracked your shoulder on the threshold. Another inch and you’d be missing teeth.”

  standing at the far end, cloak hanging loosely off her shoulders, was their rescuer.

  Her mask was off now.

  She was… maybe early twenties? Sharp cheekbones. Long black hair.

  Kian sat up slowly. “Alright. I’m awake. Time for answers. Who the hell are you, and why’d you save us?”

  She tilted their head slightly. “Because you’re important.”

  Kian blinked. “Vague. Cool. Love that.”

  Zeyk raised a hand. “I also asked.She just keep doing that.”

  The figure didn’t deny it.

  Zeyk handed over a bowl.

  Kian sniffed. “Is this... stew?”

  “It’s hot, vaguely brown, and not moving. So yeah.”

  Kian took a bite and made a face. “It tastes like sadness.”

  Zeyk grinned. “Pairs well with our trauma.”

  “You’re welcome, by the way.”

  Kian turned his head back to the woman

  “I’m Nahl,” she said simply. “Formerly of the cult. Currently... freelancing.”

  Kian narrowed his eyes. “You’re the one who slipped the note.”

  Nahl nodded.

  “I didn’t do it for fun,” Nahl said. “And not for free. The cult’s after me too now. You’re not special.”

  Kian blinked at her, then looked to Zeyk. “And we’re just trusting her?”

  “She could’ve left us to rot. Or worse.”

  “I can hear you, you know,” Nahl said without turning.

  Kian didn’t flinch. “Then maybe you’ll answer me directly. Why’d you help us?”

  Finally, she faced him. Her eyes were calm but tired. “Because I’ve done enough damage already.”

  Kian narrowed his gaze. “Why did you join the cult?”

  “They found me young. Gave me a purpose. Order. Magic.” she said simply.

  Zeyk raised an eyebrow. “She’s fourth calibre.”

  “That’s high level, in case you’re wondering,” he added.

  Kian gave him a look. “I went to school, you know.”

  “Oh right. Like you made any use of it,” Zeyk grinned.

  Nahl continued, quiet but steady. “I studied at Caer-Thael. Specialized in spatial harmonics and invocation theory. Graduated early. Built my own sanctum in the southern woods.”

  Kian’s tone was cautious. “And then?”

  “I found out what they were really after. The cult doesn’t just want power. They want erasure. The unraveling of this world. Complete and utter reset.”

  Zeyk sat down his expression serious now.

  “ So I ran.” Nahl finished.

  Nahl let her words hang in the low flicker of the lanternlight.

  For a moment, no one spoke. The stew cooled in Kian’s bowl. Zeyk fiddled with the empty ladle.

  Then Kian leaned forward. “So. You’re a fourth calibre mage. What kind of magic are we talking here?”

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  Nahl exhaled slowly, almost like she’d been waiting for the question. “I cultivate through Kaethros. The God of Cinders and Remnants.”

  Zeyk blinked. “That’s… not one you hear every day.”

  Kian tilted his head. “What does that even mean?”

  “I draw from the remnants,” she said. “From what’s broken, burned, abandoned. Ash, ruin, rot—Kaethros grants power to those who know how to use what’s left behind.”

  She raised a gloved hand .

  “Come”

  A small puff of grey ash gathered in her palm, spiraling like lazy smoke.

  “It’s not flashy. But it endures.”

  Before Kian could reply, a sudden noise broke the stillness—a faint thump, like boots on stone.

  Then another. Closer.

  Zeyk stood immediately. “That wasn’t you?” he asked Nahl.

  “No,” she said, her voice cold. “They found us.”

  Kian was already on his feet, his shoulder flaring in protest. “How?!”

  Nahl’s jaw tightened. “Vikarma. It can track My Karmic Imbalance. Any where in any plane he can find us.”

  “Great,” Zeyk muttered. “So saving the world has a location tag.”

  Another sound now—shuffling footsteps. A voice whispering a low chant through the doorframe.

  Nahl turned sharply toward the oil lamp beside her. She ripped the cloth from a nearby crate, held it over the flame until it caught fire—then dropped it to the ground and crushed it with her heel.

  Smoke and ash rose in a swirling column.

  Kian stared. “That’s it? Smoke signals?”

  Nahl’s eyes glinted. “No.”

  She reached down—dragged two fingers through the ashes.

  The temperature dropped.

  The floor darkened in a ripple around her as if the stone itself had remembered every fire it had ever known.

  Kian swallowed, heart pounding. “Forget telling us—just show us.”

  Nahl nodded once.

  Then she moved.

  With a sharp command—"Scatter"—the ashes leapt from her hand like knives, streaking through the room. The door burst open just as the first figure stepped in—hooded, chanting.

  A line of ash tore across their face,blinding them.

  More rushed in behind, but the room was no longer quiet. Nahl shouted another command—"Rekindle."

  The ash exploded into an arc of flame.

  They screamed, slipping, choking, stumbling back.

  Kian’s hand shot to his side.

  The ring—Emotion’s ring—it was gone.

  His heart stuttered.

  Not in his pocket. Not on his hand. As if it had never been there.

  “What the—?” he gasped, eyes scanning the floor. He kicked over a broken crate, tore through his cloak—

  Nothing.

  A burst of panic rose in his throat—but then, memory struck him like a flash of lightning.

  The counsel, at Vhar’Serai

  “It is not the source of your power. Just a conduit.”

  And suddenly, something clicked.

  He closed his eyes.

  The world dimmed—the shouts, the fire, even the clamor of Nahl’s ash-driven war faded like echoes.

  In the silence behind it all, something stirred.

  A familiar voice, rich and eternal, vibrated through his skull like the toll of a great bell.

  “Yes, my herald,” Emotion whispered. “Harness the Fear.”

  The world returned, sharp and immediate.

  His eyes glowed with an otherworldly aura.

  He raised his hand

  And spoke. It was not a voice of his own, but of a being greater than existence. A god.

  “Fear.”

  Just one word.

  But the moment it left his lips, the air twisted. Reality flinched.

  The cultists stopped mid-step. Eyes wide. Muscles tensed.

  One let out a choked sob. Another dropped their weapon and backed away, trembling. A third clutched at their head, whispering frantically to no one.

  Fear hit them like a wave. Raw, unfiltered.

  One fell to their knees, weeping. Another turned and ran.

  Even Nahl paused, glancing back at him—not in alarm, but recognition.

  Zeyk blinked. “Okay… that was new.”

  Ash coiled like a serpent around Nahl’s arm, drawn from the smoldering cloth she’d ignited earlier.

  She gave Kian a half-smile, deadly and impressed. “Cool.”

  The smoke coiled low. The cultists who hadn’t fallen to the ground outright were now staggering back, clutching at their chests, eyes wild.

  Those closest to Kian bolted—screaming.

  Not strategic retreat. Not a fallback.

  Panic.

  They clawed at each other trying to escape the tunnel, one of them shrieking about a shadow that wasn’t there.

  The rest—the braver ones—looked between Nahl and Kian, weapons trembling in their hands.

  Nahl didn’t waste the chance.

  With a sharp flick of her wrist, she pulled the ash into the air—like a painter dragging black across a canvas.

  “Kaethros, bearer of embers—Scald.”

  The ash ignited mid-air. A burst of red and white.

  Searing heat licked across the remaining cultists like a breath from a dying flame.

  One screamed as his cloak caught fire. Another dropped his blade and scrambled away, burns blooming across his arms. The last looked around—saw he was alone—and ran.

  Silence settled.

  Just the crackle of the burned cloth. The hiss of cooling stone.

  Zeyk let out a slow breath. “So... we’re not dying today.”

  Kian lowered his arm, his body suddenly heavy.

  “Nope,” he muttered. “Not today.”

  Nahl stood, ash drifting off her like fading mist. Her expression unreadable.

  Zeyk turned to Kian. “ What the hell was that, you made them scream for their moms, and run away!”

  “I… I think it was one of Emotions Powers. And I think I know how to use it now.”

  Kian replied just as confused.

  Nahl turned toward her.

  “That,” she said, voice calm, “was the Herald of Emotion.”

  Kian gave a weak smirk. “Guess I’m finally living up to the job title.”

  Nahl looked around, her expression grim.

  "I know the cult, they're not so weak. This was just a small patrol, the main force is gonna come soon."

  Zeyk stood up. " Pack up, we need to be on the move. Let's leave Vaelmont."