The city was no longer just burning. It was dividing, fracturing not only under the weight of collapsed towers but in the way people looked at us—two people returned from the Rift, alive, scarred, and changed. Word had spread fast, faster than I had hoped. By morning, every pair of eyes that found us lingered too long, too sharp, too calculating. Whispers trailed us like shadows curling over broken streets, sneaking into every crack of rubble and ruin.
"That's them."
"The Rift-born."
"Did you see what she did with her hands?"
"Heard the boy's eye isn't even human anymore."
I tried to shut it out, focusing on the heat and smoke clinging to my skin, the ash in my throat that made every breath taste like cinders, the distant groans of unstable buildings moaning as if mourning themselves. But the weight of their stares pressed heavy against my spine. The crowd didn't see us as survivors; they saw us as tools—or threats.
Lysander's voice brushed against my thoughts, taut with irritation. "We should've left at night."
I shot him a glare sharp enough to sting through the bond. "And gone where? The city's all we know. Outside it? Monsters waiting to carve us up."
"Inside it, humans," he muttered, his corrupted eye flickering faintly beneath the shadow of his hair. "Don't tell me you trust them more than yourself."
I didn't. Not even close. But saying it aloud would have made the knot in my chest pulse too violently. I swallowed, feeling fire curl through my veins, just beneath the skin, trying to remember it was there to protect, not scorch indiscriminately.
We hadn't gone far when the crowd parted. A group of armed survivors approached—not ragged scavengers, but organized. Their weapons gleamed in the muted sunlight that filtered through smoke: pipes, scavenged knives, one carried a bent rifle. They moved with coordination, their steps precise, almost rehearsed. Armbands and scraps of uniform painted crimson identified them before they even spoke.
The Crimson Blades.
I'd heard whispers of them before the world had gone to hell—mercenaries, opportunists, dressed as soldiers but nothing more than wolves masquerading as shepherds. Now they looked like warlords in waiting.
Their leader emerged, a tall woman with scarred cheeks and iron-gray eyes that glinted like steel under the sun. She didn't shout. She didn't need to. Her presence alone silenced the crowd, the tension folding around her like a living thing.
"You're the Rift-born," she said, her voice calm but edged with an authority that made me stiffen.
I clenched my fists. "And?"
Her gaze swept over me, lingering on Lysander. A flicker of curiosity danced there—then hunger. "You walked into death and came back with power. That means the System chose you. Which means…" She leaned closer, her words brushing my ear, sharp, seductive, dangerous. "…you're wasted as strays."
I felt the knot in my stomach tighten. I already knew where this was going.
"Join us," she said, voice smooth, commanding. "The Crimson Blades are taking this city. With you two at our front, nothing can stop us."
The murmurs in the crowd shifted—hope mixed with fear, awe curling into whispered awe-struck warnings. Some even looked at us as if we were gods made flesh, tethered to something too dangerous to touch.
Lysander shifted beside me, jaw tight, fingers gripping the hilt of his blade until the knuckles shone white. Through the bond, I felt his disgust, his defiance. He hated her assumption that we could be owned. I hated it too.
"No," I said flatly, letting my words hang in the smoke-thick air.
The woman's smile didn't falter. It grew sharper, more predatory. "Think carefully. Alone, you're prey. With us, you're kings."
"We're not looking for thrones," I spat, voice low, firm.
Her soldiers tensed, hands hovering over their weapons. The crowd murmured louder, the tension slicing through the air like broken glass. Every flicker of heat from the fires at our backs pressed against me like a warning.
Then, piercing my skull, ringing in every nerve, came the System's chime. A pulse through my veins, unmistakable, impossible to ignore.
[Notice: You have been Marked.]
[Status: Chosen by a Faction.]
[Warning: Faction alignment will influence survival, hostility, and future evolution.]
I staggered, fire flaring along my arms as the bond pulsed violently, and I could feel Lysander's eyes widen. His corrupted eye burned brighter, shadows curling faintly around his shoulders, as though the ichor itself had noticed the mark.
The leader smirked, her expression smug, like she had expected it all along. "The city doesn't give you a choice, Rift-born. You're already ours."
Lysander's laugh was low, sharp, almost feral. "Try to make me yours."
Her soldiers stiffened. Swords rasped from scabbards. Rifles lifted.
I stepped forward, fire sparking along my skin, the bond igniting in my chest. Every heartbeat pulsed with heat and desperation. My voice cut through the crackle of flames and murmuring crowd.
"We don't belong to anyone."
The woman tilted her head, unimpressed. "Then you belong to no one. And in this world…" She raised a hand, eyes cold, deadly. "…that means you won't live long."
Her soldiers moved as one. The crowd scattered, screaming, stumbling over debris. Dust and ash swirled in the air, stinging my eyes and nose, filling my lungs with grit. The first shot cracked the tense air, sharp and metallic, and I felt the heat of gunpowder before I smelled it.
I didn't flinch. Lysander didn't flinch. Not entirely. We had been through worse than this. But the mark, the System, and the ichor—the unholy mix of all three—kept my pulse racing. This was only the beginning.
The city had chosen its hunters, and we were already on their list.
The first gunshot cracked the air, slicing through the smoke and ash. It struck the wall a foot away from my shoulder, showering me with splintered stone and the acrid stench of scorched concrete. I dove sideways, fire flaring instinctively along my arms, licking the air, painting molten cracks into the rubble.
Lysander was already moving. His silver-and-black blade hummed faintly, light bending along its edge, shadows clinging like obedient wolves. The ichor under his skin pulsed, and I could feel it thrumming through the bond—restless, dangerous, eager. He shot me a glance, smirk twisting into grim determination. "Ready, Aria?"
"Always," I whispered, fire coiling around my fingers.
The Crimson Blades advanced in disciplined lines. Swords rasped, rifles clicked, and the heat of their intent pressed like a physical weight against my chest. One of them lunged with a jagged sword, and I sidestepped, igniting the ground where his feet would have landed. The stone hissed, cracking, smoke curling up to burn his eyes.
"Lysander!" I yelled over the roar of flame and gunfire. "Flank left!"
He pivoted with a grace that almost made me forget the corruption inside him. Silver fire erupted from his blade, cutting a swath through the first two attackers. Black streaks followed, twisting unpredictably as the ichor's influence tugged at him, whispering in shadows only we could hear.
I leapt onto a fallen beam, fire trailing behind me, raining molten shards at a third soldier. Heat seared my legs, and ash stuck to the sweat on my skin. Every inhale tasted like smoke, metal, and fear—but I didn't have time to care.
Through the bond, Lysander cursed under his breath. "Aria… feel that? The ichor… it's trying to push me."
I clenched my teeth. "I know. Push back with me. We're not just surviving. We're burning it down."
The air around him shimmered as he swung his blade, silver fire clashing against steel, the black veins beneath his skin pulsing in time with each strike. I could feel the strain in the bond, the danger of his corruption spreading faster than his control. Every motion was a battle—not just against the Crimson Blades, but against the ichor whispering inside him, promising power, promising surrender.
A rifle barked, the bullet skimming past my head, tearing a chunk of wall into dust. I lashed out with fire, and the air hissed, molten sparks cutting through the smoke, searing the hands of anyone who tried to stop me.
"Lysander!" I shouted again. "Now!"
He understood instantly. His blade swung in a wide arc, silver and black fire mingling, as I drove a pillar of molten heat up from the ground. The collision erupted in a storm of flame and light, scattering the Crimson Blades like ragdolls. Their coordinated lines broke, and fear replaced their arrogance.
Even as we fought, the bond pulsed violently. His pain, his resistance, his fear—they all bled into me. I shouted, gritting my teeth, forcing fire through every vein and into him, trying to tether him, to keep him from surrendering to the ichor.
"You're not theirs!" I yelled. "Not now! Not ever!"
His corrupted eye met mine, and for a heartbeat, I saw his humanity flare through—the same defiance I'd come to love, ragged and raw. The black fire around his veins twisted, then shrank slightly, as though the bond itself had burned a path of resistance.
But the System wasn't silent. That pulsing mark burned in my skull again, a constant reminder. [Chosen by a Faction.] The weight of it pressed into every decision, every strike. Being Rift-born meant we weren't just fighting the city, the Crimson Blades, or the ichor. We were fighting the rules of a game we hadn't agreed to play.
The leader—iron-gray eyes cutting through smoke—moved with predatory precision, her sword flashing. Lysander met her gaze, and I could feel her expectations, the pressure of her calculating mind pressing against ours. The ichor inside him quivered, sensing opportunity. I hissed, sending a flare of fire through the bond, warning him, anchoring him.
He exhaled, a shaky, black-and-silver flame escaping his lips. "Not today," he growled.
We moved together, synchronized without thought. Fire and blade, light and shadow, weaving through the advancing soldiers, scattering debris, melting metal, igniting the air itself. Every step, every strike, burned the mark of the System into our awareness, whispering, You are theirs. You will bow. You will evolve.
I shouted, twisting a pillar of flame upward, forcing a wall of heat between us and a rifle aimed too close. "We don't bow!" The fire licked higher, smoke curling around my hair and face, stinging my eyes, thick in my lungs.
Lysander's blade cut a clean path through the last of the Crimson Blades' front line, sparks showering against stone walls. The black veins under his skin pulsed once more, but I could feel him resisting, fighting the ichor with every ounce of will.
The leader staggered, momentarily unbalanced. Her soldiers hesitated, seeing her falter. I knew we had only seconds before they recalibrated.
I gritted my teeth. "Lysander… finish it."
His corrupted eye burned with intensity, a clash of shadow and silver. Together, we drove forward, fire and blade converging, and the first real screams of the Crimson Blades rose into the smoke-thick sky.
But even in victory, the bond screamed warnings. The ichor was still inside him, still alive, still waiting. And the System's mark pulsed, promising more challenges, more stakes, more evolution we couldn't escape.
I exhaled through the heat and smoke, gripping Lysander's shoulder. He was breathing hard, silver fire flickering weakly against black veins, but he was still him. For now.
The city was burning. The Crimson Blades were broken. But the Watcher, the System, and the ichor—none of it was gone. And deep in my chest, the bond pulsed, a burning reminder: the fight had only just begun.