The storm is gone.
But the light never comes.
Aldia steps out into a world that still feels touched by the night. She knows it is midday; she can feel the weight of time in her bones, the way her body expects the presence of the sun. But the sun does not reach here.
It never has.
Noxport remains drowned in its eternal half-light, a city that refuses to wake. The air is thick, damp, and cloying, pressing in from all sides, as if the ruins are leaning closer, listening. The streets stretch ahead of her, broken veins winding through the corpse of a world that never truly died.
Aldia moves carefully.
Not fearful, but watchful.
The presence from last night lingers, a whisper at the back of her thoughts. A thing unseen, a weight behind her ribs, a memory of something watching.
Or it could be someone. Aldia hisses at the thought. Something is always watching here, but it's different. The presence of the entity weighs differently than the usual shadows that follows Aldia. It was not impossible but almost never, happened very rarely. A person always meant danger, no matter from any realm they were.
"Nothing stays hidden forever." Aldiamurmurs to herself.
And she means to find it.
Aldia is not the only one exhiled into Noxport. She would find others now and then, after months sometimes. But they would usually stay in their own zones, not crossing echother due to certain reasons.
Her search takes her deeper into the city's ribs, where the ruins fold into themselves like broken hands. The streets are tighter here, curled inward, as if something once lived between the cracks.
The air changes.
It is still stale, thick with damp stone, rotting wood, and rusting metal. But beneath that, something sharper coils, a metallic bite, like iron left too long in the rain.
She slows.
Her boots scuff softly against the uneven cobblestones, the sound swallowed by the quiet.
There is no wind.
Yet—the dust shifts.
No movement.
Yet—the silence tightens.
Then—
Something breathes.
A low, guttural sound slithers through the empty space.
Not human.
Not shadow.
Aldia's fingers twitch towards the dagger at her hip.
Then—
It moves.
Not a wraith, not one of the mist-born things that whisper her name in her own voice.
This is something corporeal.
Something hungry.
It unfolds from the ruins, as if it had always been a part of them. The shape is twisted—half-beast, half-wrong, a thing built from limbs that bend too many ways, as though it had been assembled without understanding what a body should be.
Its skin is dark and mottled, thick like wet stone, and when it shifts, it makes a sound like cracking bone and grinding gravel.
But its eyes— Its eyes burn.
Not with fire, not with light—but with something bright, something sharp, something alive.
And its mouth— a jagged mess of bone-shard teeth, snapping once before it lunges.
She moves.
But not fast enough.
The impact slams into her like a falling building, sending Aldia skidding across the uneven stone. The world lurches, twisting in the pain blooming across her ribs—sharp, immediate, real.
She barely has time to breathe before she rolls, narrowly avoiding the next strike.
Clawed hands rake the space where her throat had been.
A breath too slow, a movement too delayed, and she would have been torn open.
The Mirehound is fast. Too fast.
Aldia pushes herself to her feet, her dagger glinting in her grip, slick with sweat. The wound at her side throbs, hot and wet beneath her torn shirt, but she forces herself to stay upright.
The beast circles her now, watching. Waiting.
It is playing with her.
Aldia curses under her breath "Bastard."
The Mirehound huffs out a sound, deep and rattling. A mockery of laughter.
Aldia doesn't wait for it to lunge again.
This time, she moves first.
Her blade cuts through the damp air, swift, precise.
The Mirehound twists, its body too fluid, too unnatural. But she manages to slash across its arm landing a wound. Not deep, but enough.
The beast pauses.
And then, it stops playing.
It moves like a shadow made of stone, its body shifting too fast for something so large, so unnatural.
Aldia barely dodges the first strike.
The second time it gets to her.
Claws rip through her side, tearing fabric, tearing skin.
A gasp wrenches from her throat as she stumbles back, vision flickering. The world narrows to pain, sharp and burning, blooming outward like ink spreading in water.
The Mirehound watches her falter.
It knows it has won.
And Aldia knows she has seconds before it kills her.
She runs.
Blood slicks her side, warm and wet. Each step sends a jolt of pain tearing through her ribs, but she does not stop.
The city twists around her, ruins blurring together in a fevered haze of stone and shadow. She does not think about where her feet take her—only that they keep moving.
Behind her, the Mirehound follows.
She can hear it—the scrape of claws against stone, the deep, guttural snarls of something that has already decided she is its prey.
Kaelen, panting, half-cursing, "Just keep running."
She pushes forward, breath ragged, feet pounding against the cracked cobblestones.
Then—
The city ends.
Aldia stumbles to a stop.
Before her, the world fractures.
The Veil.
Where Noxport unravels into something else.
The space where reality bleeds.
The air hums. It's a deep, pulsing force that seeps into her bones, making the world flicker at the edges. The cobblestones beneath her feet are not quite solid anymore.
Behind her, the Mirehound growls, low and hungry.
She has no choice.
Kaelen steps forward—
And the world pulls her in.