The storm broke over the city of Vaerath as if the sky itself had declared war. Rain slammed against the ancient stone walls, running down the grooves carved by centuries of wind and battle. The main gate loomed ahead, a fortress within a fortress, its black iron reinforced by layers of enchanted steel. Lysara stood beneath the shadow of the archway, her cloak soaked through, strands of her silver hair plastered to her cheek. Even in the downpour, she kept her gaze fixed on the twisting road beyond the outer wall. Somewhere in that darkness, trouble was moving closer.
The sentries above the gate moved like restless ghosts, their silhouettes pacing along the battlements. The city had been on high alert for two days now, but the tension had shifted in the past few hours. There were no cries of alarm yet, but whispers passed quickly from one guard to the next. A caravan had been expected from the east. It had not arrived. Instead, a single rider had stumbled into the city before dawn, bloodied and incoherent, muttering of shapes moving in the rain. The commander had ordered the gates sealed.
Lysara knew what those shapes likely were. She had seen them once before in the foothills of the northern range. They moved with unnatural fluidity, silent until they were close enough to strike. The boy from the old stories called them the hollow-born. Whether that name was true or a fireside embellishment, she could not say, but the memory of the way their eyes glowed like damp embers in the dark was enough to keep her awake at night.
A heavy footstep approached, and Lysara turned to find Commander Rhenar emerging from the inner gatehouse. His face was lined with years of soldiering, his dark beard threaded with streaks of iron. He held his helmet under his arm, his other hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
"You are still here," he said, voice rough from shouting orders all day.
"I am not leaving until I know what approaches," she replied, her tone sharper than she intended. "We cannot hide behind stone and wait. If it is what I think, the city will need more than walls."
Rhenar studied her, eyes narrowing slightly. "I heard you spoke to the boy in the old archives last week. He told you things. Things the Council does not believe."
"The Council believes what is comfortable," Lysara said. "Comfort does not keep you alive when shadows walk in the rain."
He gave a slow nod. "You think this is connected to the disappearance of the eastern patrol."
"I think it is more than that. I think this is the beginning of something much worse."
They both turned at the sudden clang of the warning bell from the north tower. The sound was deep and resonant, rolling through the stone streets like a shiver. Torches flared to life along the wall as the guards scrambled into position. Through the sheets of rain, Lysara caught the movement—faint at first, then sharper, a rhythm out of place against the wind and water. Figures emerged from the curve of the road, moving with a strange, synchronized grace. Too many for a merchant train, too few for an army.
"Archers!" Rhenar barked, his voice cutting through the storm. The guards obeyed, arrows nocked and aimed toward the advancing shapes.
As they drew closer, the flicker of torchlight revealed glistening forms—humanoid, but too smooth, too symmetrical, as if carved from some wet, dark stone. Their faces were featureless except for the faint, ember-red glow where eyes should have been. Lysara felt her stomach twist. She had not seen them in ten years, but the memory of that night had never left her.
The first of the creatures slowed, tilting its head as if regarding the wall itself. Then, in perfect unison, they stopped. The silence that followed was worse than their approach. Rain pattered on armor and stone, the only sound between the two sides. Lysara could feel something building in that pause, a coiling of intent.
Without warning, one of the hollow-born stepped forward, its body shifting with liquid smoothness. It raised an arm, and from its palm, a spear of blackened bone slid into existence as if pulled from its own flesh. The spear sailed upward with impossible speed, slamming into the battlement and throwing a guard backward into the rain.
"Loose!" Rhenar roared, and a volley of arrows arced into the storm. Several struck true, but the creatures barely flinched. Where arrows pierced their bodies, the wounds sealed almost instantly, droplets of rain hissing as they touched the strange surface of their skin.
The hollow-born moved as one, rushing the gate with terrifying speed. The guards above fired again, some calling for oil, others for magic reinforcements, but Lysara knew the walls would not hold forever. Not against this.
Her fingers tightened around the hilt of her blade. She had sworn never to fight again, not after the cost of the last battle, but if the hollow-born breached the gate, every person in Vaerath would be slaughtered before dawn.
"Lysara," Rhenar called without looking back, "if you have any tricks left from your days in the field, now is the time."
The rain plastered her cloak to her frame as she stepped forward, eyes locked on the advancing tide. She could feel the weight of the years pressing down on her, the ghosts of those she could not save, but beneath it all there was still the same fire she had carried into battle a decade ago. She drew her sword, the steel ringing sharply in the storm, and set her feet.
"Open the sally port," she told Rhenar. "I am going out."
He stared at her for a heartbeat too long, then gave the order.
The smaller gate within the main gate creaked open, and the wind immediately drove sheets of rain into the courtyard. Lysara stepped through, the mud sucking at her boots, the hollow-born now close enough that she could see the faint shimmer of water running off their strange forms.
She breathed once, steadying herself. The last time she had faced them, she had barely lived. This time, she did not intend to survive by luck.
The first of the creatures surged toward her, and the night exploded into motion.
Chapter 14 – Part 1 (continued)
The streets leading toward the old aqueduct were unusually quiet for this time of day. Lysara's boots tapped softly against the uneven cobblestones as she moved at a steady pace, her eyes scanning every shadow. She had been in this city long enough to know that silence did not mean safety. In fact, it usually meant the opposite. The air hung heavy with the faint tang of smoke, drifting from somewhere deeper in the heart of the district. She could not see the source yet, but she could feel the tension that came with it.
At her side, Erynd kept his head low beneath the hood of his travel cloak. The boy had grown in the months since they had left the coastal refuge, but there was still a quiet uncertainty in his movements, as if every step in this place felt like trespassing. Lysara understood. This city had always been a place where allegiances shifted as quickly as the tide, and the wrong glance could turn a stranger into an enemy.
They reached the shadow of the aqueduct, its great stone arches blotting out the sun in long slanted shapes. Time and neglect had worn away much of its grandeur, leaving cracked pillars and vine-choked edges, yet it still stood as a testament to the empire that had built it. Beneath its arches, the air was cooler and the sound of the city muffled, though the smell of damp stone and stagnant water was strong.
"This is where the contact said they would meet us?" Erynd asked quietly.
Lysara's gaze shifted along the archway, noting a small cluster of crates and barrels arranged as if forgotten. "Yes. If the message was genuine." She crouched, running her fingers over the worn cobblestone, finding faint boot marks that were too fresh to belong to city workers. Her hand moved toward her dagger, but she did not draw it. Not yet.
Minutes passed before a figure emerged from the far side of the aqueduct, cloaked in grey, their stride unhurried. Lysara stood, her body angled slightly between the newcomer and Erynd. The figure stopped a few paces away, then lowered their hood, revealing a narrow face framed by hair the color of ash.
"You are Lysara," the stranger said, their voice low but carrying the calm certainty of someone who already knew the answer.
"That depends on who is asking," Lysara replied.
The stranger's lips curved faintly. "My name is Varik. I represent a group that has been watching your movements. You have something we need, and we have information you may find… valuable."
Lysara studied him, noting the way his stance never fully relaxed. His hands were visible, but his eyes never stopped scanning the shadows. "If you have been watching, you know I do not hand things over without reason."
Varik nodded once. "Understandable. The reason is simple. The storms from the east are not natural. The things that walk in their wake are scouts, not strays. Something older than the wars is moving again, and it will not stop with the borderlands."
The words tightened something in Lysara's chest. She had heard rumors, scattered and conflicting, but hearing it stated so plainly struck differently. "And you think I can help you stop it?"
"I think you can help us find the one who can," Varik said, his gaze shifting briefly toward Erynd before returning to her.
Erynd stiffened but said nothing. Lysara stepped closer, her voice dropping to almost a whisper. "If you know who he is, you also know the danger of saying too much in the open."
Varik's expression did not change. "Which is why I suggest we move to somewhere less exposed."
The decision sat uneasily in Lysara's mind. Every instinct told her not to trust him, yet something in his words matched her own quiet fears. She nodded once, signaling Erynd to stay close, and followed as Varik led them toward a narrow passage that ran behind the aqueduct.
The alley smelled of damp earth and rust. They passed boarded windows and doors marked with faded symbols of protection, the kind painted in desperation when the city had last been under siege. The deeper they went, the quieter it became, until the sound of the city faded almost entirely.
Finally, they reached a heavy oak door set into the base of a crumbling stone building. Varik rapped a slow, deliberate pattern against it. A slot opened, a pair of eyes studied them, and then the door swung inward. Warm light spilled into the alley, along with the faint aroma of burning cedar.
Inside was a long, low-ceilinged room filled with mismatched tables and chairs. Maps covered the walls, their edges pinned with notes and symbols Lysara did not recognize. A few figures sat at the far end, speaking in hushed tones, but they glanced up as the newcomers entered.
"This is safe?" Lysara asked under her breath.
"As safe as anywhere in this city," Varik replied.
He guided them toward a table near the center. As they sat, one of the figures from the far side approached, a woman with close-cropped hair and eyes sharp enough to cut through silence. She placed a small metal token on the table, its surface etched with spiraling patterns.
"If you are willing to hear the whole truth," she said, "then from this moment, you are part of our circle."
Lysara looked at the token, then at Erynd, whose eyes were locked on it as if it might vanish if he blinked. She reached out slowly, her fingers brushing the cold metal.
Somewhere deep inside, she knew that taking it would change the course of everything that had brought them here.