To the untrained eye, the art of the Fluxer appears as an uncanny feat—arrows that shift course midflight, knives that weave through the air as if possessed by unseen hands. Yet, what may seem like sorcery to the layman is, in truth, a precise and demanding discipline, one that blends martial skill with an acute understanding of weaponry.
A practitioner of the Fluxer Domain does not simply manipulate projectiles at will; rather, they act as guides, subtly adjusting an object's trajectory through minuscule, controlled bursts of spira. This requires not only an intimate familiarity with their chosen weapon, but also an instinctive grasp of aerodynamics, weight distribution, and momentum. A trained archer cannot so easily translate their skill to throwing knives or javelins, for the way each projectile interacts with the air, the way it spins, and the force required to alter its path, all differ greatly.
Thus, mastery of the Fluxer Domain is not attained through mere talent in ranged combat, but through tireless discipline. One must first become an adept marksman by mundane means before they can hope to wield spira effectively. Without this foundational knowledge, the unskilled Fluxer will find their efforts clumsy—arrows sent wildly astray, knives slowed to a useless crawl, or worse, weapons recoiling unpredictably upon the wielder.
It is a domain of refinement, not raw force, where the true master is not the one who moves their weapon the most, but the one who alters its path so subtly that their target never realizes it was meant to miss.
The city had changed.
Rell crouched in the shadows of a narrow alley, her cloak drawn tight around her, surveying the streets below. Brelith had always been a city of stone and steel, but now it bore the weight of something heavier—fear. Thaumaturgic lanterns cast an eerie, cold light, their glow bathing the streets in a ghostly haze and throwing stark shadows against the towering buildings. New gates blocked once-open paths, guards patrolled in tight formations, and even the slums felt the weight of Hammond's tightening grip.
It wasn't just a city anymore. It was a prison.
Two months. She had spent two months watching, waiting. Raids just like the one on her people had become routine, the checkpoints a constant reminder that movement was a privilege, not a right. You needed papers just to leave the city, and even then, only with signed approval. She had seen families torn from their homes in the dead of night, and yet, through it all, one thing remained constant—Reverend Kempford and the others were still alive.
No public executions. No news of prisoners being transferred or exiled. That meant they were still locked away in the dungeons beneath the Léveque estate.
And tonight was the night she would set them free.
Rell adjusted the bandana around her face, ensuring it covered everything but her eyes. Her bow rested against her back, the quiver's light weight a familiar presence on her shoulder. She didn't expect to use it, but she had long since learned that being unprepared was as good as being dead. The knife at her belt was another precaution. If it came to killing, she wouldn't hesitate. To save them, she would do whatever it took.
Hammond had chosen this night to celebrate his triumph, to bask in the wealth and power he had seized. The coronation ball would bring nobles, officers, and sycophants into one place, leaving the city's defenses stretched thin. It was the perfect distraction.
Taking a steady breath, Rell melted into the night, a shadow among many. The time for waiting was over.
She moved like a ghost through the slums, her steps light, her breath measured. The streets were silent—the curfew had seen to that. People had learned not to linger after dark. She kept to the shadows, slipping between alleys, navigating the twisting, familiar paths that led her to the hidden tunnel.
A month of searching had finally revealed its location—a nondescript corner of the slums, half-buried beneath collapsed brickwork. If she hadn't known what to look for, she would have missed it entirely. Even now, she wasn't sure who had made it or how the other refugees had known of its existence. She only knew that it had been their escape.
And now, it was hers.
Rell knelt beside the entrance and ran her gloved fingers along the edge of the loose stones, feeling for the grip she had carved into them nights before. With an exhale, she pulled, dislodging the heavy slab just enough to squeeze through. The abyss swallowed her as she crawled into the narrow passage, the damp scent of wet dirt and stone filling her lungs.
The tunnel was tight, forcing her to move in a low crouch. Her fingers brushed along the walls, counting the grooves she had memorized. Twelve paces forward. A left turn. Six more before the floor sloped downward. She had mapped it all, careful to note every uneven stone, every jagged outcrop that could trip her if she wasn't mindful.
Minutes passed in silence, save for the faint drip of moisture somewhere in the depths. Then, at last, the passage opened up. A faint, distant glow signaled the end of the hidden tunnel and the beginning of the train station tunnel.
She stepped into the cavernous space, the air thick and stagnant. The rails stretched endlessly in both directions, disappearing into the gloom. Above, thaumaturgic lights, lining the arched ceiling in bright, artificial radiance.
This was the city's lifeline, the artery through which trade and travel flowed. Few ever walked these tracks—only engineers and maintenance crews, both of whom would be absent at this hour. The last train would be coming into the station soon, but she had plenty of time. The new security gates outside the city had slowed the train schedule considerably.
Rell kept close to the wall, her footsteps careful on the gravel between the rails. She moved swiftly, her senses alert for any sign of movement. Though this tunnel was safer than the noble district, it wasn't unguarded. Thaumic sensors pulsed along the walls, their glow faint but constant. Step too close, and she would trigger them.
She took her time, ducking beneath occasional outcroppings, using the tunnel's shadows to mask her approach. Every so often, she paused to listen—waiting, watching.
Then, ahead, the disembarking station came into view.
Rell pressed herself against the stone, scanning the area. The platform was empty, as expected. The real threat was above.
She tilted her head back, eyes tracing the sheer wall that loomed before her. The Léveque keep sat at the very top, its spires lost in the night sky. The only entrance into the Noble District was heavily guarded. The only option was the hard way.
Rell tightened the straps of her quiver and exhaled. She began to climb.
The climb was worse than she had expected. The stone was smooth, weathered by time and wind, with only the occasional crack or outcropping to serve as a foothold. She tested each hold carefully before shifting her weight, knowing that one mistake could send her plummeting back to the ground.
Her fingers ached as she pulled herself upward, her boots scraping against the wall in search of purchase. The chill of the night had seeped into the stone, making it slick beneath her grasp. She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to stay calm. She cleared her mind and focused only on the task—not the destination, not the lives at stake, not the yawning void below
There was a perfect opening ahead, just big enough for her whole hand—not just her ragged fingers. She reached for it, using it to pull herself further up. The handhold crumbled under her weight.
The rock gave way without warning, and suddenly, she was falling. The world lurched as her stomach shot into her throat, gravity yanking her downward.
With a sharp breath, she twisted, reaching for her belt. The knife.
Frigid wind rushed past her ears as she tore it free, her fingers barely wrapping around the hilt before she drove it forward. The blade slammed into a crack in the wall, her arm nearly wrenching from its socket as her fall came to a brutal halt.
For a heartbeat, she dangled there, her breath caught in her chest. Then, slowly, carefully, she tightened her grip and tested the blade. It held.
She let out a shaky exhale, pressing her forehead against the stone. "Thank ya, whoever made Bellacian steel."
Her heart pounded, the adrenaline making her hands tremble. She didn't have time to recover. Gritting her teeth, she shifted her weight and found another foothold. The knife had saved her, but she still had to finish the climb.
"Come on now, no more fallin'," she muttered to herself, continuing her ascent.
Rell crouched low, her breath shallow. The brisk night air clung to her skin and her body fatigued, but her mind was focused. Guards patrolled the perimeter, their lanterns casting long shadows against the stone. They moved in a steady rhythm, their eyes scanning for any sign of movement.
She'd spent enough time observing Brelith's guards to know when to strike and when to wait. Now, the trick was in the timing. The dungeons were on the far side, on the lower levels, and there was no way she could walk past armed soldiers in plain sight. Not without attracting attention.
She waited for a chance, a shift in the guard's movement—a break in the usual patrol. An opportunity.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. The anticipation gnawed at her, but Rell forced herself to stay still, not a muscle twitching. She had to be patient. One wrong move could alert the wrong people, and then there would be no escape.
Finally, one of the guards left his post moving towards the back entrance, disappearing into the shadows near a side door.
Rell silently crept along the edge of the hallway, her boots light on the ground while she flitted between the shadows. She knew the general layout of the place—the corridors, the hallways, the stairwells. But she had no illusions. Planning her route was one thing; navigating the maze of hallways while avoiding patrols was another entirely.
From here, the sounds of festivities already drifted in from the courtyard. She pictured the noblemen and women parading in their ridiculous outfits—feasting, squandering coin, and indulging in excess, only to trample the commoners underfoot the next day. The thought made her sick.
She reached the back door the guard had used. As expected, it wasn't locked—used regularly by the guards for deliveries and repairs, they hadn't bothered securing it more thoroughly. Still, she exhaled in muted relief. Cautiously, she eased it open just a crack and peered inside.
The corridor beyond was dimly lit, faint shadows stretching from the walls. She slipped inside without a sound, staying flush with the wall to avoid detection. The guard was already out of sight, heading deeper into the keep.
Her heart pounded, but she forced the anxiety aside, focusing on the task at hand. Moving swiftly yet cautiously, each step deliberate. The contrast was unsettling—lively music drifted from the ballroom, yet here, the silence pressed in around her, heavy and absolute. Only the distant echo of footsteps and the occasional creak of wood disturbed the stillness.
Her eyes scanned the corridors ahead, looking for any sign of life. The guards' passage had brought her to the servants' quarters, which meant she had to get past the kitchens and storage areas before reaching the staircase that led down into the dungeon.
The real challenge was the dungeon—it would likely be locked up tight. Not to prevent escape, but to prevent any inebriated nobles from accidentally exploring where they shouldn't. Picking locks wasn't beyond her ability, but with the added risk of detection, it would be safer to avoid it if possible. If she could find a keyring left carelessly left behind by a guard—or even better, lifting one from a distracted servant would be ideal.
Rell paused at a corner, her eyes narrowing, she heard the soft clink of metal—someone was walking down the hall, a set of keys dangling from their belt. It was almost too perfect.
She held her breath, waiting until the figure turned the corner and walked toward her, unaware of her presence. The guard's footsteps were steady, unhurried—the rhythmic jingle of keys at his side practically echoing in her ears.
The moment he passed, she struck—quick and efficient. Her fingers barely brushed the keys before she yanked them free in one smooth motion. For a heartbeat, time seemed to stretch as she froze, waiting. The guard kept walking, unaware, and she slipped back into the shadows, her prize secured.
She glanced at the keyring in her hand. So far, so good. Now her path to the dungeons would be far easier.
Still, she had to get down there and free her brethren. Unfortunately, getting them out was another matter entirely. She didn't specifically have a plan of escape, but she figured Kempford would be able to help with that. He was a gifted enchanter, and with him, they'd be able to disable the guards long enough for them to find a way out.
She turned the corner, slipping deeper into the labyrinthine hallways. The air grew cooler as she descended, the sound of her boots echoing off the thick walls. She passed empty rooms, narrow staircases, and shadowed corridors—none of them holding the answers she needed. Frustration crept in. She had thought the dungeon was down this way, but perhaps she had gotten it wrong?
She made her way down to the lower levels, and after a time, her eyes fell on the door she had been searching for.Behind it the stairwell to the dungeons, yet something felt wrong. There was no guard, no sign of life—just an eerie stillness that made her skin crawl. She had expected at least one to be stationed here. Why wasn't there anyone?
Rell's fingers tightened around the keyring, the iron door looming before her. She hesitated for a moment, hairs prickling on the back of her neck. She was so close; why get scared now?
With a slow exhale, she slid the key into the lock and twisted. The door creaked open slowly, revealing the dimly lit hallway beyond. Her eyes adjusted quickly to the gloom. At first, she saw nothing out of place—just the usual stone walls and dim lanterns. But then, she saw it. A trail of dark stains marred the stone floor, leading further down the corridor, pooling in scattered patches.
Her heart sank.
Rell moved cautiously, her hand instinctively drifting to the knife at her belt. She followed the trail of blood—it was old and coagulated, narrowing as it grew more concentrated. The metallic tang in the air was unmistakable, but there was something else: the smell of rot.
She reached a doorway and paused, listening. Nothing.
She pushed the door open, holding her breath, and stepped inside.
What greeted her, she wasn't prepared for. The dim light from the hallway cast shadows over the bloodstained floor, but it was clear enough to see the carnage. Bodies lay scattered in the behind iron bars. Some were slumped against the stone, while others were piled atop each other. Worst of all, she recognized a few of the faces.Their eyes, glassy and lifeless, stared back at her.
Rell's eyes darted across the room, searching for any sign of Kempford. Her pulse quickened as her gaze settled on a figure in the corner.
The body was slumped in the farthest cell, his hands still bound by rough shackles, but it was the amulet around his neck that caught her attention. She recognized it immediately—the reverend never took it off.
Tears welled up, blurring her vision. Her thoughts spiraled, her chest tightening with the raw, aching truth. When had they been murdered? Could she have saved them if she'd acted earlier?
Rell's breath hitched. She fought for control, swallowing the sob that clawed its way up her throat. There was no time for weakness. But the pain was intense, threatening to overwhelm her.
She curled her fingers into fists, nails digging into her palms. Rell straightened, wiping the dampness from her eyes with the back of her hand. She took a long, steadying breath, her gaze locking on Kempford's lifeless form for one last moment.
No final words. No goodbyes. No promises.
Rell turned and left with a hardened resolve.