At first glance, Seight shimmered with life.
Street vendors shouted under rust-stained tarps, clinking coins filled the dusty air, and neon cogs ticked slowly atop rusted signs, mimicking the rhythm of a city that still believed in hope. Children darted between alleyways, laughter echoing through the crumbling stone corridors, and music played somewhere unseen — muffled, distant, like a memory struggling to stay alive.
But Seight was a liar.
Beneath its cobbled charm and flickering lights, the foundations rotted. Its walls were lined with hidden speakers, watching eyes that hummed in tune with Velmira's paranoia. The laughter? Hollow. The smiles? Half-forced. This city belonged to no one but the shadows — and the hands that pulled their strings.
Azriel felt it before he stepped past the checkpoint. An itch in the back of his skull. The kind of silence that pressed down even in a crowd. Seight looked like survival. But it felt like surrender.
Gio felt it too—the facade of happiness in this city was no more than dust in the wind. Beneath Seight's bright storefronts and crowded plazas lay something fragile, something frightened. Lysara noticed it as well; the air was thick with layered frequencies, many repeating like a broken hymn. Her senses twitched at the artificial calm. They would have to tread carefully now that Velmira had seen their faces. Who knew what measures she'd take?
"Be careful with what you say," Azriel whispered.
They nodded and split off with their own tasks: Gio to gather food, Lysara to find shelter, and Azriel to dig for information. If this city was under surveillance, someone here had to know something—anything—about the resistance. He didn't expect anyone to speak freely, but it was worth the risk. Information was everything now.
They agreed to reconvene at the central plaza by 5:00 PM sharp.
Within two hours, Lysara found an inn—significantly better than the creaking shelter in Yspa. Thirty minutes after that, Gio discovered a restaurant that didn't serve rot disguised as food, which in Neuraleth was a rare miracle. But Azriel?
No luck.
Every person he approached stiffened. Eyes darted. Breaths held. They knew something—he could feel it—but no one dared to speak. Even though Azriel had the ability to absorb memories from those who'd killed him, he didn't want to resort to that. It wasn't just the risk of dying—again—it was the aftermath. A resurrection would trigger a flare of energy strong enough to alert every Grace across the continent. That power couldn't be used carelessly. Not here. Not yet.
Elsewhere—far from Seight—Velmira sat deep within the fortified bunkers of her glass-and-silver stronghold. Surrounded by loyal underlings, she sat in total silence, eyes closed, mind attuned to the endless web of her human drones. It was a taxing discipline, managing so many minds at once. But the warning she had received from Chroneth—the sleeping king—echoed louder than her fatigue. He was rarely active, but when he stirred, the Graces were expected to listen.
Chroneth had dreamed again.
And dreams, when spoken by the Grace of Time, were never just dreams.
Back in Seight, Azriel paced a quiet street. The same questions circled his mind: What would Velmira do next? And why was the silence in this city so loud?
Still no leads. Still no answers.
Only the creeping feeling that the calm around him was not peace…
…but pressure waiting to snap.
Suddenly, a small ball rolled under Azriel's feet.
He turned around, his senses instantly alert. A child stood several paces away—motionless, expression fixed in what should have been awe… but wasn't. His eyes were too still, too glassy. His mouth hung slightly open, but there was no breath, no emotion behind it.
Is this kid a drone? No… something felt off.
Then the boy's eyes widened—only for an instant, but in that flicker, Azriel felt it.
He sees it… my core?
Panic flashed through him. Not even Velmira's drones could detect that. His hand instinctively reached for the dagger hidden in his coat—but before it left its sheath, a firm hand clasped his wrist from behind.
"Easy," said a smooth, teasing voice. "You're gonna stab a kid?"
Azriel turned sharply. A tall figure stood beside him, cloaked in patchwork gray. The hood shadowed most of his face—except his eyes. Piercing orange. Unblinking.
The man tilted his head, flashing a lopsided grin. "Come with me," he whispered, just low enough not to draw attention. "You're looking for information, aren't you?"
Azriel blinked. How does he know that?
Every instinct screamed that this was a trap. But logic whispered otherwise. The boy… he had reacted to Azriel's core. That was no coincidence. And this man—if he was resistance, this could be the lead he needed. Silently, Azriel nodded.
The boy retrieved his ball, and together the trio slipped into a side alley—tight, damp, and veiled in deep shadow. The further they walked, the lower the path dipped, until the stone gave way to iron grates and a dripping tunnel. The stench of sewage was overwhelming.
Azriel covered his mouth with a cloth scrap as they navigated the winding underpass. Dim light flickered from old lanterns strung along the walls. Still, he said nothing. The air was changing. He could feel it. His core stirred like a heartbeat in his chest.
Then they stopped.
They had reached a sealed chamber deep beneath the city, the walls padded with glyph-marked fabric and rune-inked stone—ancient, obscuring, protective. His core settled. The eyes of Velmira no longer reached here.
The man removed his hood, revealing pale skin and a thin scar over one cheek. His orange eyes didn't waver.
"We can speak freely now," he said. "No hidden ears. No drone roots. No Velmira."
He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. "My name's Coren. And you... you're Azriel, aren't you?"
Azriel froze. The boy behind Coren finally blinked—once—and smiled.
"Don't worry, Azriel. You don't need to hide," Coren said with a casual shrug. "I'm a mind reader."
The words struck Azriel harder than he expected—but as wild as it sounded, it made perfect sense. He had felt the prying gaze. That subtle, invasive hum beneath his thoughts. He had come searching for answers. It would be naïve to think he wouldn't encounter someone like this.
In Signo, most mages could manipulate the classical elements—flame, wind, water, stone. But some... some surpassed that. They weren't just elementalists. They were wielders of the anomalous. Mind readers. Shapeshifters. Phantoms who walked unseen. Powers born from trauma, lineage, or something else entirely.
Coren was one of them.
"You fascinate me," Coren continued, eyes narrowed in interest. "I tried reaching deeper into your mind—past the surface memories, into the part people lock away without realizing." He paused, face tightening. "But something stopped me. My connection just… severed. Violently."
That was good news—terrifyingly good news. Whatever force linked Azriel to the core of Signo, whatever power had tethered him back to life—it had shielded his thoughts. Even from a mentalist of Coren's caliber. But that didn't mean he was safe.
Azriel masked his tension behind a controlled breath. "You should take that as a sign to stop digging."
Coren chuckled. "Oh, I already did. Trust me—I don't push past a wall of fire like that more than once."
He leaned forward, folding his arms as he studied Azriel. "But here's the catch. You're not just some reborn anomaly wandering Neuraleth. You've seen something. Something only the old ones whisper about. Something even the Graces have forgotten how to fear."
The boy with the ball stepped forward silently and sat cross-legged. He hadn't spoken a single word since they arrived—but he hadn't taken his eyes off Azriel either.
Coren nodded toward him. "This kid—he doesn't talk, doesn't respond to most people. But when you walked by, he reacted. You woke something up in him. That's not nothing."
Azriel crossed his arms. "Why are you telling me all this?"
"Because," Coren said quietly, "we need you. Not just the resistance—all of us. Something is coming, Azriel. Something deeper than the Seven. Something older. The Graces were never gods. Just thieves."
The room fell silent. A low, pulsing hum came from the walls. Azriel wasn't sure if it was real or just his core reacting again.
Finally, Coren leaned back. "I know you have questions. Ask them. We don't have much time. I'll tell you what I can before the city forgets we exist."