The night was alive with golden lanterns, raucous laughter, and the scent of spiced wine spilling into the air. But beneath the revelry, beneath the glittering façade of Oryn-Vel's New Year Festival, a darkness spread like ink in water.
Across the city, the Syndicate moved in silence, melting into the streets, splitting off in coordinated formations like a hunting pack closing in on its prey. Explosions were coming. War was coming. And not a soul celebrating in the city knew it.
*
Harker and Grendon marched as part of their twenty-strong unit, their heavy boots thudding against the cobblestones as they passed the shadowed alleys of the Whispers District. This part of the city had always been their playground—smugglers, thieves, mercenaries all ran their operations here, but none rivaled the Syndicate.
Tonight, though, there was no business to be done. No quiet deals, no exchanges of coin. Tonight was for destruction.
Harker glanced at Grendon, the latter stroking his thick beard with one hand while adjusting the flintlock rifle strapped to his back. "You ever get the feeling that this is too much?" Harker muttered.
Grendon snorted. "Now's not the time for doubts, mate. This is what we signed up for."
"Did we?" Harker glanced at the twenty men around them, Syndicate operatives marching with cold determination. "Or did Varrel just change the rules halfway through?"
Grendon didn't answer immediately. He didn't need to. They both knew the answer.
But it didn't matter.
Their orders were clear—guard the eastern gate, make sure no one interferes with the detonation.
So they marched forward, deeper into the district, where the first crate of explosives lay hidden beneath an abandoned fruit cart.
*
Ivara adjusted the straps of her leather gloves, cracking her knuckles as she led her squad of fifteen through the southern quarter, their dark uniforms blending seamlessly into the bustling streets. Unlike the others, she felt no hesitation, no second-guessing.
She had been with the Syndicate for years. She had seen cities burn, men fall, entire families erased from history by a simple misstep. Tonight was no different.
"Move faster," she ordered, her voice low but sharp. "We set up at the rendezvous point, then we disappear before the first detonation."
Beside her, one of the younger recruits, adjusted his grip on his blade. "You think the Church will make a move after this?" he asked.
Ivara smirked, her gaze flicking up into the distance, where, far away, the northern Royal Church was based. "Oh, they'll make a move, alright."
The Church had always watched the Syndicate from the shadows, waiting for a reason to strike. The bombs would give them that reason.
But by the time they responded, the city would already be burning.
They turned a corner, the southern gate looming ahead, where another set of explosive charges lay hidden beneath wooden crates.
*
The main streets of Oryn-Vel were overflowing with festival-goers, citizens dressed in vibrant silks, laughter echoing off the stone walls. The entire marketplace had been transformed into a sea of lanterns and performers, fire-breathers and acrobats twirling in the air.
And within it all, Jorem moved like a shadow, leading his team of thirty through the crowd with practiced ease.
"Make it look like an accident," he murmured under his breath. "Push over stalls, start a fight, cause chaos."
His men obeyed instantly.
One "accidental" shove turned into a drunken brawl. A simple knocked-over lantern set a silk stand ablaze. The merchants shouted, the performers scattered, and soon the entire city square was in uproar.
Jorem allowed himself a small grin.
The guards would be too busy calming the riots to notice the real threat.
The final explosive device was already in place beneath the old stone bridge, the structure that connected the top and bottom levels of the city center. Once it detonated, it would sever the city in half.
And by then, it would be too late.
*
Within the fortified Syndicate outpost, the two Holy Knights, Sir Alden and Lady Zefaria, stood, their silver-plated armor glinting in the lantern light.
Unlike the others, they did not march, they did not plant explosives.
Their duty was watching the north, keeping an eye on the Holy Church's movements.
Zefaria glanced out the window, towards the far-off distant cathedral spires that he imagined more than he could see.
Alden exhaled, his arms crossed.
They both knew the truth—this wasn't just the Syndicate's war.
If the Church decided to act, if they made a preemptive strike, then Oryn-Vel wouldn't just see bombs and riots.
It would be a massacre.
*
Meanwhile, Felix's breath came ragged, his lungs burning as he sprinted through the city, his mind racing faster than his feet.
This is wrong.
The Syndicate was supposed to be a way out, a means of survival, a chance for people like him to rise above the filth.
But this?
Slaughtering civilians? Burning the city?
This wasn't what Varrel had promised.
Felix gritted his teeth, pushing forward, dodging festival-goers, slipping through alleyways, his destination clear—
Keep Valcian.
Where Varrel would be.
Where he needed to stop him.
*
Inside the heart of Keep Valcian, Varrel sat alone in a dimly lit chamber, surrounded by shelves of ancient texts and forbidden knowledge. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment, wax, and something more—ash.
His dark eyes flicked over the pages of the Book of Ashes, his fingers tracing the dark, curling script as if deciphering some hidden truth buried within its pages.
The words hummed beneath his fingertips.
A whisper in his mind.
He could almost hear them.
A great fire is coming.
And Oryn-Vel would be its pyre.
Varrel closed his eyes, inhaling deeply. Two hours left.
Two hours until the new year began.
Two hours until the city fell.
*
The bells of Oryn-Vel rang through the air, their chimes lost beneath the deafening uproar. The once joyous New Year's Festival had descended into pandemonium—lanterns flickered in the streets, stalls lay overturned, and panicked citizens fled as gunshots cracked through the night.
Syndicate operatives moved like wolves through the fire-lit haze, flintlocks drawn, sabers flashing, cutting down anyone in their way.
Through the madness, Char and Ishmael sprinted for cover, weaving between the frightened festival-goers.
"Shit—go left!" Ishmael shouted, pushing past a fallen fruit stand.
Char barely had time to react before a Syndicate enforcer lunged at him from the side, tackling him straight into the hard cobblestones. The breath ripped from his lungs as he hit the ground.
A knee slammed into his chest.
His attacker—a burly man with a jagged scar splitting across his cheek—pressed a dagger against Char's throat.
"You're dead, rat."
Char gritted his teeth, his fingers twitching instinctively.
"Come on… come on…!"
He needed Author's Note, but he was pinned, unable to summon it fast enough.
The Syndicate thug raised his dagger, ready to plunge it down.
But Char wasn't going to just lie there.
With a sharp twist of his hips, he shoved his knee hard into the man's ribs, disrupting his balance. In the same motion, he grabbed a handful of dirt and gravel from the ground and flung it into the man's eyes.
"Agh—!" The thug recoiled, blinking furiously.
That split second was all Char needed.
He threw up a hand, feeling the power surge through him—
Author's Note.
Crystalline Manipulation.
A sharp, blue glow burst forth, and from the shimmering air beside him, a heavy crystal hammer materialized in his grip.
With one brutal swing, he smashed it into the thug's face.
A sickening CRACK.
The man crumpled instantly, his nose shattered from the sheer force of the impact.
Char exhaled sharply, pushing the man off him.
Nearby, Ishmael fought like a shadow, his twin blades flickering with dark energy as he engaged two Syndicate swordsmen at once.
The first came in fast, slashing at him with a curved saber. Ishmael deflected it with ease, twisting his wrist in a downward parry before snapping his leg up into the man's gut.
The second swordsman lunged in, aiming for Ishmael's exposed back—
But Ishmael was faster.
With a single breath, he let the darkness coalesce around his blades, his skill activating—
Darkness Cut.
The shadows erupted from his sword's edge, trailing behind like liquid night as he spun in a perfect arc. They raised their sabres in defense, the first holding it in two hands to block the attack, while the second swung down to intercept the attack and hopefully cancel it.
The two Syndicate men froze mid-motion. Their swords stopped moving. Then, the metal cracked, then splintered into dozens of shards.
A moment later, their bodies fell apart, cleanly severed at the torso.
Dark blood splattered the cobblestones.
Ishmael exhaled, his eyes cold.
"Move!" he called out, already turning towards Char.
Char didn't hesitate—they needed to get out before more arrived. Still, he felt sick at seeing the corpses Ishmael had left behind. If he hadn't acted, those men would've killed him. Still...
As they sprinted into the next street, the air behind them erupted with gunfire, Syndicate members closing in from all directions.
The city was a battlefield now.
And they weren't getting out without a fight.