The settlement clung to life like moss on a dying tree. From the moment Silas and Serina stepped deeper into its heart, he felt the fragility in every stone, every hushed voice, every flickering lantern.
Children darted between makeshift huts, their laughter shrill and too quick, as if joy had to be stolen in short bursts before reality claimed it back. Women boiled pots of bitter-smelling roots over open fires, men sharpened rusted blades or patched broken walls with scavenged metal. It was life, but it was survival more than living.
Silas moved like a shadow through it all, shards orbiting him in restless spirals. The survivors watched him as though they weren't sure if he was their salvation or their executioner. Whispers trailed behind him wherever he walked. Hybrid. Unauthorized. Ghost.
Serina's steps were slower, but her presence drew fewer stares. Some even dared nod to her, as though sensing she still belonged in a way Silas never could. She stayed close, brushing his arm lightly whenever his shards flared too bright.
They were led to a crumbling tower hollowed into a hall. The old man who had spoken before now sat at its center, lanterns casting deep shadows across his hollow face. His staff leaned against his knee as he gestured for them to sit on the cracked stone benches opposite him.
"You've seen it too, haven't you?" the old man rasped, his eyes flicking between Silas and Serina. "The tremors. The glow beneath our feet. The breath that does not belong."
Serina exchanged a look with Silas before answering. "We felt something when we arrived. But what exactly is it?"
The old man lowered his voice. "The Sleeper. That is what we call it. Long ago, before the Cataclysm tore the world into shards, this place was built on veins of the System itself. Power too deep, too vast for men. When the world fell, something sank into those veins. Something that… waits."
Silas felt the shards tighten around him like a warning. His hybrid blood pulsed with heat, the resonance inside him stirring at the name.
"You believe it's alive," he said flatly.
"I do not believe. I know." The man's voice shook, though it carried weight. "When it stirs, we all feel it. The air grows heavy. The whispers come."
Serina leaned forward, frowning. "Whispers?"
The old man looked at her with hollow eyes. "In the dark. In dreams. Words that are not words. Promises. Warnings. Judgment." His gaze lingered on Silas. "You've heard them, haven't you?"
Silas didn't answer, though the silence was answer enough. The old man's lips thinned.
"The Sleeper does not wake, not fully. But its dreams are poison. Sometimes people go missing. Sometimes they return… changed. Other times they don't return at all."
Serina's face went pale, her hand tightening on her sword hilt. "And you stayed here?"
The man chuckled bitterly. "Where else is there to go? The Conclave burns what it cannot control. Here, at least, the Sleeper frightens them as much as it frightens us. They pass overhead, but they do not land. Not often."
That word—often—hung heavy in the air.
Silas finally spoke, his voice calm but edged. "They'll come. For me. And when they do, this place will burn."
The man's eyes hardened. "Then perhaps you shouldn't have come."
A ripple of tension spread through the hall. Silas' shards brightened faintly, an instinctive flare of hostility. Serina quickly placed her hand against his arm, shaking her head slightly.
"We didn't come to bring ruin," she said firmly. "We came because we had no choice. And if we stay a while… maybe we can help you stand when the Conclave does come."
The old man studied her for a long time before sighing, the strength leaving his shoulders. "Help, you say. Then walk among us. See what it is we fight for."
So they did.
The next hours passed in fragments of uneasy peace. Serina helped a woman stitch torn cloth into a blanket. She taught a group of children how to properly wrap a wound. They clung to her words, their bright eyes filled with awe. For the first time since the Cataclysm, they saw not just another warrior but someone who cared.
Silas kept his distance, wandering the edges of the settlement. He passed sharpened spears lined against walls, caught the fearful eyes of men who kept their hands on weapons when he walked near. He heard mutters—some hopeful, most wary.
At one point, he paused at the edge of the square. Beneath his boots, the stone vibrated faintly. He crouched, pressing his palm to the ground. The resonance surged. A voice, faint but undeniable, whispered in the marrow of his bones.
Hybrid. Broken. Balance denied.
His shards whirled violently before he forced them still. He pulled his hand away and stood, eyes narrowing at the cracked ground.
Serina found him there some time later. Her face was flushed from the firelight and the work she had done, but her gaze was sharp when she saw him.
"You felt it again, didn't you?"
"Yes." His voice was quiet. "It knows I'm here."
Her hand brushed his sleeve, hesitant. "Does that… bother you?"
He turned to her, and for a moment something unreadable flickered in his gaze. "No. What bothers me is that I can hear it clearer than anyone else."
They fell into silence, broken only by the distant cries of children and the crackle of fire.
And then, from beneath, the whisper came again. Stronger this time.
Judge them.Judge them all.
Silas' hand tightened unconsciously. For a heartbeat, he imagined the entire settlement aflame, every guilty, fearful, whispering face turned upward at him in terror. His shards shifted eagerly, like predators straining at the leash.
But he forced the thought down. The storm stilled, though the hunger in his chest did not fade.
Above, far in the distance, the night sky pulsed faintly with light. Conclave ships—just specks for now—drifted slowly closer.
The storm was coming.
And in the deep, the Sleeper's breath rattled once more.