The night had settled thick across the ruins, darker than any shadow Tom had ever known.
The ruined plaza lay silent now, most of the group huddled in corners of broken arches, their torches dimmed to embers. The faint hum of the hourglass overhead never ceased, its grains still rising in defiance of the world below.
Tom stood near one of the collapsed pillars, his pack light and his resolve heavy. He had been waiting for the moment when the camp's noise faded, when the weight of tired bodies gave him cover to move.
Grace noticed first. She always did. Her foxlike Face glimmered faintly behind her, its presence softer than usual, as if mirroring her own unease.
"You're leaving," she whispered, stepping closer, her tall figure casting a long shadow in the moon's fractured light.
Tom gave her a small, calm smile. "For now, Sister." His voice was low, but firm. "There's something I have to do. Something only I can chase. Stay with them. Follow whatever Elior says. I'll return."
Her brows drew together, eyes worried, but she nodded, accepting his words without pressing. "Then… come back alive."
Tom inclined his head in respect. "I promise."
He turned then, but a few others noticed his movement. A timid boy clutching his cloak too tight, a scarred woman with sharp eyes, and one older man who said nothing but simply nodded in solidarity. They, too, would leave, though not with him.
Their paths diverged into the darkness, each chasing their own chance at survival.
Tom stepped beyond the plaza stones. The night air bit cold against his skin, carrying a silence so deep it pressed at his chest. No crickets here.
No whispers of wind. Just the soft echo of his own footsteps as he moved into the ruined city beyond.
The map in his menu pulsed faintly, pulling him toward the Endless Black Ocean.
20 Minutes Later....
The night stretched vast and unkind, the sky a whirl of black and red clouds that rolled above like restless waves.
Tom trudged forward, his shirt and cloak clinging to him, the weight of dust whipping into his body with every gust.
He had torn a strip of fabric from his hem and tied it across his mouth and nose, breathing in shallow draws. Each step sank into loose grit, the ruins of the world grinding under his boots.
The storm hissed like a living thing, its voice rising and falling around him. Shadows blurred in the wind, and more than once he thought he glimpsed figures pacing just beyond reach of phantoms, or tricks of his strained eyes. He pushed on. He couldn't afford to stop in the open.
At last, after what felt like hours, the storm began to slacken. The air grew heavier, the winds breaking into ragged bursts until only a dry whisper lingered. Through the thinning veil, he spotted a jagged outcrop of stone. A fractured wall from some forgotten building, hollowed beneath like a crude shelter.
Tom ducked under the overhang, lowering his pack. For the first time that night, he let his breath out fully. His eyes scanned the ground until they found a scatter of acacia branches.
He set them together with practiced care, striking sparks until the brittle leaves caught.
Flame licked upward, golden and small, but enough. Warmth spread slowly through the rocky nook, driving the chill from his skin. The storm outside muttered on, but here, under the glow, it felt distant, almost unreal.
Tom sat with his back against the stone, eyes on the flicker.
The firelight painted his face in sharp lines. Calm, but weary, thoughts circling like hawks overhead. His map still pulsed faintly in the corner of his menu, locating the Endless Black Ocean.
But warmth was heavy, and the night was long. His eyes drifted shut, the flame's crackle blurring into silence. Sleep claimed him before he could fight it. He laid down under a broken stall.
....
Azmaik sat perched on a chunk of broken pillar, his long coat whipping in the breeze as if he'd placed himself there purely for effect. Around him, five of his closest followers crouched in a half-circle, waiting for his next proclamation like eager hounds.
He rubbed his jaw slowly, eyes narrowed on the faint fires that marked where Elior's people slept in the plaza.
"They think he's a leader because he's got a pretty speech and a pair of shiny daggers, Fools! Leadership isn't about talk. It's about fear. You make people fear you, they follow. End of story."
One of his men—short, pudgy, with a nose that had clearly been broken more than once nodded vigorously. "Yes, boss. Fear. You're terrifying. Real terrifying."
Azmaik glanced at him with an unimpressed stare. "You say that like you're trying to convince yourself."
The pudgy man stammered. "N-no, I mean it! Sometimes I can't even look you in the eyes. Gives me stomach aches."
The others snickered, and Azmaik sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "Pathetic, and you lot are supposed to help me carve a new order."
A tall woman leaning against the rubble smirked. "Hey, boss, you could always not kill everyone. That might earn loyalty too."
Azmaik's glare snapped to her, sharp as a blade. "Mercy is weakness. The weak rot this place. If they don't bow, they bleed. Simple."
Another follower cleared his throat. "But boss… what if we don't bow?"
Azmaik's expression softened into a grin that was anything but comforting. "Then you bleed faster. But don't worry, you've got time. I like you all too much to gut you… yet."
Nervous laughter fluttered among the group. They weren't sure if he was joking. Azmaik liked it that way.
As the night deepened, his grin lingered. Soon, Elior and his sheeps would see the difference between words and power.
....
Tom woke with the crackle of ash fading behind him. The fire had died to faint embers, and the storm outside had left a thin coat of dust across his cloak.
He stretched, stiff from the cold stone, then pushed himself up and stepped out from the shelter.
The land ahead was silent, gray with the remnants of night.
His stomach twisted, hollow and aching. With a thought, he pulled up his menu and tapped the small loaf stored in his item slot. It blinked into his hands, warm and real.
He broke it in half, chewing slowly, letting each bite linger. It was dry, plain, but it steadied him. The other half he broke, kept back in the slot.
Now, he was feeling more energetic and stronger than before. He thought something for a minute....
The begun to run here and there like a kid chasing a dog. It was an unknown enjoyment only he would understand.
Tom walked slowly across the fallen earth, each step crunching against the loose sand. His mind stayed on the pulsing map hidden in his menu, its glow urging him forward.
But then, his boot struck something solid beneath the grit. A sharp click rang out and he froze.
Looking down, he brushed the sand aside with his heel until a faint circle came into view.
A rune, etched deep into the ground. Its lines pulsed faintly with yellow light, clear and sharp against the dull landscape. The glow shimmered like it was alive, breathing beneath the soil.
Tom crouched low, staring. His hand hovered near it, though he dared not touch. "What is this…?" he whispered. It didn't look like coin, relic, or relic-fragment. It was toodeliberate and mysterious looking.
The rune pulsed once, stronger. A faint hum carried through the air, tugging at his chest like an echo of something vast.
Tom's eyes narrowed, thoughts racing. Was it a trap? A sign? Or the first step into the mystery of Faces?