The ruins were silent again.
Not peaceful—never that—but the kind of silence that comes after too much noise, when even the air feels scorched and hollow.
Ash drifted through the gaps in the broken walls, glowing faintly in the dying light. The campfire had been kicked over during the fight; its embers now bled across the stone like spilled stars. The scent of metal, blood, and burnt oil clung to everything.
Aria stood in the middle of it, her body trembling from the weight of movement she hadn't yet realized had stopped. Her cleaver hung loose in her hand, its edge dull with dried crimson. Her breath came in uneven gasps, harsh and shallow, scraping her throat.
Across from her, Lysander lowered his sword. The metal caught what little firelight remained, his reflection fractured in its edge. Blood streaked his arm where a bullet had grazed him, but his expression didn't waver. Only his eyes betrayed the exhaustion—dark, unguarded, and so very human.
For a moment, the bond between them pulsed like a second heartbeat. Not words, not thought—just sensation. His pain pressing against hers, her fatigue bleeding into him until neither could tell whose was whose.
Aria exhaled shakily and pressed a hand to her temple. The world tilted slightly, ringing in her ears. The silence wasn't empty; it was crowded—with ghosts of the fight, with the echo of every scream still caught between stone and smoke.
She sank to one knee beside a body that hadn't yet cooled. A scavenger, no insignia, face half-hidden behind cracked goggles. Just another soul who thought five thousand shards could buy him a better life.
She wanted to hate him. She couldn't.
The bond whispered—Lysander's guilt, quiet and jagged—and she knew he felt it too.
When she spoke, her voice was low, hoarse.
"They'll come in waves. Carrion. Blades. The freelancers. Everyone who smells the bounty."
Lysander didn't answer right away. He just looked out into the ruin's open maw—the endless sprawl of blackened stone and skeletal towers beyond. When he finally spoke, his voice was steady in a way that made her heart ache.
"Then we move before the next wave hits."
Aria nodded faintly. She wiped her cleaver against her sleeve and stood, legs unsteady. Her eyes stung from the smoke.
Through the bond, she caught a flicker of something from him—not quite reassurance, but enough. The steadiness beneath the storm.
She forced herself to breathe slower. The ruins shifted with each gust of wind, shadows crawling across the walls like restless things. Somewhere in the distance, a single metallic clang echoed and faded.
Lysander tilted his head slightly. "You hear that?"
"Yeah." Her fingers tightened around her weapon. "Too close."
The pulse between them quickened again. She could feel his focus locking into place—cold, efficient, precise. It steadied her, even as her own body screamed for rest.
The fire behind them hissed and went out completely, plunging the ruins into grey-blue darkness.
Aria took one last look at the bodies—the blood-streaked ground, the stillness that felt heavier than victory—and then turned toward the deeper shadows ahead.
"Let's move," she whispered.
Lysander gave a short nod. "Stay low."
They slipped into the ruins without another word, swallowed by the dark—two fading silhouettes beneath a fractured sky, bound by blood, ash, and something neither of them had asked for.
And as the silence closed around them once more, the world seemed to hold its breath.
The ruins thinned as they moved, crumbling towers giving way to the skeletal remains of streets that had once hummed with life. Dust clung to their boots, and the wind carried the bitter tang of rust and old smoke.
Aria's legs screamed with every step, each movement a negotiation with pain she hadn't let herself feel until now. Her breathing was ragged, rasping through the dry heat, and the taste of iron lingered thick on her tongue.
Through the bond, she felt Lysander's rhythm in her chest—steady, unyielding, but strained. Every muscle in his body hummed with control, every nerve coiled in anticipation, and she felt herself falter slightly beneath it.
Don't falter. Not now.
The thought burned in her mind like a warning, and she pushed harder, staggering forward. Every so often, she caught glimpses of him just ahead—a shadow moving with precision, the world bending around him in a way she wanted to emulate.
They passed through the remains of a marketplace. Collapsed stalls loomed like skeletal sentinels, bones and broken boards tangled together in a mournful lattice. Rusted signs squealed faintly in the wind. Somewhere, a bird cried, sharp and solitary.
"False alarm," Lysander murmured without looking back.
Aria's heart refused to slow. Every faint sound echoed through the ruins, every shift of shadow a possible threat. Through the bond, she felt his tension spike with each step, a taut thread pulling her along.
The sun rose slow and cruel, painting the wasteland gold and grey. The heat pressed against her skin, sticky and unrelenting, burning her arms and face as dust and sweat clung to her in stubborn layers.
They finally found refuge in the shell of a collapsed tower, leaning inward like a fortress of jagged stone. Aria slid down against the cold walls, letting herself sink into the rough stone. Every movement was agony, but the bond lent her strength—faint, borrowed, just enough to keep her upright.
Lysander crouched beside her, scanning the horizon with sharp, narrowed eyes. The fires on the distant ridges burned like veins of red across the land.
"Not long," he said finally, voice quiet but carrying weight. "The bounty is public now. Every scavenger with a pulse will be looking, and the factions…" He let the thought hang. "They'll come organized."
Aria swallowed. Her stomach knotted. "Then what do we do?"
He looked at her, unreadable, but she felt the truth in the bond—fatigue, doubt, frustration, and the faintest flicker of fear.
"We run," he said. "Fight only when we must. Survive long enough to figure out why the System wants us dead."
Her chest tightened. The words were meant to reassure her, but they left a hollow space behind.
She blinked, watching him. "Don't… think I can't keep up." Her voice trembled despite her efforts to stay firm. "I feel it all, Lysander. Every worry, every doubt. Don't carry me like I'm a liability."
For a moment, the mask cracked. She saw him, just a heartbeat, human and vulnerable. His eyes flicked to hers, and she felt the sharp, quiet edge of fear—not of the fight, but of failing her.
"I didn't say that," he murmured.
"You didn't have to," she said, voice low, steadying herself.
Silence fell again, heavy and intimate. The bond pulsed faintly between them, carrying their shared heartbeat, their shared exhaustion. Aria let herself lean slightly, just enough to feel him there without words.
The fires on the horizon burned brighter, a cruel reminder that they weren't alone.
Aria pushed herself upright, her cleaver in hand. "We move."
Lysander nodded, and together they slipped into the shadows of the city.
The wind dragged through collapsed walls, carrying the smell of dust and decay. Every step could be their last, every sound a warning. Yet through it all, the bond hummed—a fragile thread connecting them, holding them upright, reminding them that they were not entirely alone.
And in that quiet, shared understanding, Aria realized something she hadn't allowed herself to admit before: she trusted him. Even in the exhaustion, even in the fear, she trusted him to move them forward.
And for now, that was enough.
The wasteland stretched ahead like a blistering canvas, cracked earth and scattered bones under a sky bleeding gold into red. Every step burned through Aria's legs, every inhale rasped grit into her lungs.
Through the bond, she felt Lysander's presence pulse in her chest—steady, sharp, unyielding—but she could feel the strain, the way his control required effort, how each step he took was calculated, deliberate.
Movement flickered at the edge of her vision. Shadows slithered between ridges, dark shapes that belonged neither to wind nor wandering scavenger.
"They're herding us," she whispered, voice hoarse, tight in her throat.
Lysander's gaze snapped to the ridges. His jaw set. "Then we're already being surrounded."
Her stomach twisted. "How fast?"
"Too fast to stop," he said. His eyes swept the horizon, calculating, unblinking. The bond pulsed sharply, tension coiling between them like a spring ready to snap.
The Crimson Blades moved with terrifying precision. Men and women in scarlet-stiched leather and scavenged steel, faces streaked with ash and blood, marched in arcs, scouts fanning wide. One raised a polished bone horn, its note cutting across the wasteland like a predator's call.
Lysander's hand shot out, gripping her wrist before she could react. "Don't."
"I wasn't—"
"You were." His eyes didn't waver. "And it would've killed us both."
The sun climbed higher, baking them under its harsh glare, as they darted between jagged rocks, collapsed walls, and skeletal towers. Dust and sweat clung to every inch of skin, grit scratching raw in her palms.
Then it came: a faint vibration beneath their boots. Low, rhythmic, insistent. Drums. War drums.
Aria froze. Her heart pounded in sync with the beat, blood singing in her ears.
"They're marching," Lysander muttered. His hand went to his sword. "Not scavengers. Not amateurs."
The rhythm grew. Voices rose, horns blared. A warband closed in, and the earth itself seemed to shudder beneath their boots.
"Move," Lysander hissed. "Now."
They ran. The world blurred, a smear of sun-baked dust and skeletal ruins. Every breath burned, every stride a battle against exhaustion. Through the bond, they drew from each other—his focus sharpening her instincts, her desperation feeding his resolve.
Behind them, the drums pounded louder, echoing across the broken ridges. Red banners crested the horizon, the first real sight of their hunters.
And then they were on them.
A dozen figures fanned out, weapons glinting, visors catching the last light. One raised a humming crossbow, the charge of unstable energy screaming a warning Aria felt in her bones.
"Move!" Lysander barked.
The first shot streaked past her cheek, close enough to sear. She ducked low, rolling into the dust, cleaver slicing a line through the air instinctively. Sparks flew as Lysander's sword met another's strike, a shower of metallic fire.
Pain flared in her shoulder, mirrored in Lysander through the bond, and she tasted copper on her tongue.
(Shared Pain Active.)
(Vital Link Stabilized at 63%.)
Aria's movements began to merge with his, reflex weaving between them like a single organism. She could feel his thoughts, his anticipations, the subtle shifts of his weight guiding her through chaos.
Another strike, another dodge. Blood sprayed across her vision. Flashes of red, metal, and smoke filled the air. She didn't know whose blood it was anymore.
(Bond Sync: 68%. Skill Strengthened: Dual Awareness – Combat Reflex Enhanced.)
Time slowed. Every motion, every choice, became a thread she could trace, leading her safely through the storm. Lysander surged forward; she mirrored, striking through a second enemy before the first hit the ground.
Then he grunted. The bond pulsed violently—warning and instinct. A hulking figure stepped through the smoke. Armor blackened, heavy. A hammer crackled with unstable energy.
"Boss class," Lysander muttered under his breath.
The hammer fell like thunder. Aria rolled, chest colliding with dust and stone, coughs spiking with pain and blood.
Lysander's sword danced through sparks and smoke, striking the giant, but the man barely flinched.
Think, she told herself.
The bond pulsed. Left side. Joint. Instinct.
She moved before thought, cleaver slicing deep, Lysander thrusting, sparks and blood marking their path.
The giant staggered, roar echoing across the wasteland. He fell forward, shaking the earth with his weight.
Aria's knees wobbled. Cleaver slick with blood, she turned toward Lysander, both of them heaving, eyes bright with the shared adrenaline of survival.
(Boss Eliminated.)
(Hunt Completed.)
(Bond Sync: 72%.)
The silence after was deafening. Fires on the horizon glowed, a cruel reminder that this was only the first wave.
"We did it," she breathed, voice trembling.
"For now," Lysander said.
The world was hunting them.
And Aria realized, in the tight, shared heartbeat of the bond, that this was only the beginning. The war for their lives had just begun