Dawn's pale light crept through the barred window of Syrith's cramped room, casting jagged shadows across the worn blanket. He rose on trembling limbs, body aching from yesterday's trials. The distant wail of the Watchers patrol drifted up from the street below—their black armor glinting like oil-slick scales, their boots echoing dread through Dystyx's alleys. He dressed in the same ragged tunic, his fingers lingering on the hidden dagger at his waist—the only blade he owned.
Leaving the inn, Syrith slipped into the winding streets, weaving between fishmongers hawking stale catch and beggars wailing for alms. Each face in the crowd was a blur, but his mind churned with purpose. He had two goals this morning: first, find Averith Ylunea Vei and thank her for saving his life; second, uncover more of the storm-essence that lingered within his veins.
He retraced his steps to the spot beneath the collapsed aqueduct, where Averith had her makeshift camp. The sky here was lower, the air thick with the scent of damp stone and mildew. But the camp was deserted. Syrith's stomach sank. Had she been captured by the Watchers? Slain by rivals? Or haunted by her own hidden past?
He called her name softly: "Averith…" No answer. Only the echo of dripping water and distant clangs from the Underlevels below.
Steeling himself, Syrith found the iron grate beside the gutter. Imprinted on the rusted metal was the symbol of the Bloodbinders—a spiraled flame. He pried it loose with effort and dropped into the darkness beyond.
The Underlevels of Dystyx were a labyrinth where light died. Walls dripped black ichor, and the narrow passage reeked of decay. His heart thumped. Somewhere here lay Averith's secrets—and perhaps answers about his own.
He followed the torchlight flickering ahead, shadows dancing like specters. Voices murmured in low tones—pleas, threats, curses. Syrith pressed against the damp wall to remain unseen. Two Watchers flanked a chained figure on a low dais: Averith, her violet hair tangled, her arms marked by iron bracelets that burned with a faint purple glow.
"Magic runs in her veins," one Watcher said, voice cold. "A Bloodbinder. We'll break her and then burn her. Dystyx must be purged."
The other nodded grimly. "Bring the Inquisitor. He'll know how to extract her gift—and our city will remain pure."
A surge of fury ignited within Syrith's chest. He stepped forward, drawing the curved dagger from his belt. A spark of lightning flickered along its etched blade, illuminating the dank chamber. The Watchers turned, surprise and fury in their eyes.
"Let her go," Syrith commanded, voice low but resonant. The dagger hummed as though eager for blood.
"You, urchin?" one snarled, advancing. "This is none of your concern."
"I make it my concern," Syrith replied. He lunged. The blade flashed, cutting through chain links as if they were mist. Averith staggered free.
The Watchers attacked in unison—claws of steel swirling, boots pounding. But Syrith moved with impossible speed, guided by instincts older than this life. He parried one blow with the dagger's flat, then twisted, sending the other reeling. Sparks danced where metal met metal.
Averith rubbed her wrists, eyes wide with wonder at her savior's strength. "Who are you?" she gasped.
"Syrith," he said. "Remember me?"
But before she could answer, alarms blared overhead. More Watchers flooded in—shields raised, spears pointed. Syrith gripped Averith's hand. "Run," he ordered, voice urgent. "Follow me—if you want life."
Together, they sprinted through the twisting tunnels—Averith stumbling over loose stone, Syrith casting wary glances back as pursuing footsteps thundered. At a fork, he pulled her left, where a hidden hatch he'd noticed earlier lay half-concealed behind hanging chains.
Bursting through, they emerged into a cavern lit by phosphorescent fungi—walls studded with crystalline growths that pulsed with soft light. Water dripped from the ceiling in silver threads, and the cavern opened into a subterranean river.
"Go," Syrith urged. "We take a boat."
Averith's violet eyes glistened. "Why save me?"
He hesitated. "Because... you once saved me." The memory was faint—a hand cloaked in violet fire closing over his own in a golden hall. He didn't fully understand it, but the bond was real.
She nodded, breathless, and they slipped into a small skiff tethered at the bank. Syrith shoved off with a broken paddle, and the current bore them deeper into the hidden waterways.
As the cavern receded, Averith finally spoke. "You're not from Dystyx. Who are you?"
He stared into the phosphorescent waters, lightning dancing beneath his skin. "I was a king once," he said softly. "And someone murdered me. Now… I have returned. I don't know how. But I will find the one who killed me. Even if I must tear down every realm to do it."
Averith's lips parted in shock. "A king?"
He met her gaze. "And I will need allies."
She swallowed hard, the fire in her veins stirring at his words. "Then let us forge this alliance, King of Storms… or whatever name you bear now."
The subterranean river carried them onward into shadow, the promise of vengeance echoing in every drip of water and glint of crystal. In the silence, Syrith felt the storm within him grow—ready, at last, to break free.