Night fell like spilled ink over Dystyx. Through narrow alleys, Syrith, Averith, and Roukhal wove toward the city's darkest artery: the Obsidian Bridge. Constructed of black basalt streaked with silver veins, it spanned a yawning chasm that led from the crumbling Old Quarter to the heart of the city. Lanterns—borne by Watchers' patrols—cast dancing shadows that swallowed trespassers whole.
Draped in hooded cloaks, the three moved in silence. Averith's hand pressed against Syrith's back, warning of approaching footsteps. Roukhal melted into the gloom, scouting ahead. The cold night wind carried distant church bells tolling midnight—an unholy warning that the Watchers' orders had been issued.
As the bridge's stone gargoyles loomed, Syrith felt the storm within pulse. He tasted ozone on the wind and saw in every flicker of torchlight the flicker of lightning. Here, at the threshold to Velkyrion's realm, he was both king and beggar, god and fugitive.
They paused behind a buttress when Roukhal signaled. Two Watchers paced beneath a lantern, shields ready, spears gleaming. Averith bit her lip; the tunnel ahead would take them beneath the bridge and into the echoing vaults where The Crimson Covenant held court.
"On my mark," Roukhal whispered. He slipped between the gargoyles, unseen by the Watchers. Syrith nodded, drawing the dagger that thrummed with latent power.
When Roukhal raised his hand, Syrith and Averith dashed forward. Roukhal struck the first Watcher's thigh with the butt of his spear; the guard crumpled with a surprised howl. Syrith spun, his dagger singing in the dark, and disarmed the second with a precise slice across his gauntlet. Averith—hands alight with violet flame—scorched his shoulder, forcing him to drop his spear.
Within seconds, the two Watchers slumped. Syrith bound them with lengths of cloak. He met Averith's eyes; she nodded, fear and excitement intertwined.
They crept to the bridge's center, then slipped down a narrow spiral stair cut into the stone's underside. Wet stone stairs led them into vaulted corridors carved with swirling runes. Faint chanting echoed ahead.
At the corridor's end, a massive iron door studded with blood-red gems barred their way. Six facets glowed dully, as though pulse-beating with life. Syrith placed his hand on the seventh spot—empty—and felt a jolt of recognition. This was the portal to The Crimson Covenant's sanctum; the seventh ruby was missing.
Roukhal produced a small pouch of black powder and pressed it against the door's edge. "Explosive casting," he murmured. "Should buy us a minute."
He touched a burning ember to the powder. The door shuddered, then blew inward with a roar of steam and flame. Behind it, a circular chamber opened beneath a single shaft of moonlight. In the center stood seven masked figures in crimson robes, their backs to the breach.
Syrith drew a slow breath. Averith's eyes glowed as she summoned her healing flame into a blade of violet light. Roukhal readied his spear.
Stepping into the chamber, Syrith's voice rang clear: "Velkyrion!"
The masked figures turned as one. Seven blood-red rubies glittered in the iron mask atop the tallest robed figure—Velkyrion himself. His gaze, hidden behind jeweled facets, swept the intruders.
"So," his voice echoed through their minds, soft but brittle as ice. "The dead storm returns to my doorstep. And you bring friends."
Averith hissed, "Stand down, traitor!"
But Velkyrion raised a hand. The rubies flared, and an invisible force slammed Syrith against the far wall. Roukhal lunged; his spear clanged harmlessly off the force field. Averith unleashed her violet blade, but it shattered on the barrier.
Velkyrion drifted forward, each step a silent promise of death. "You are strong, King of Storms—but not yet strong enough." He lifted a gauntleted finger, and chains of living shadow shot from the walls to bind Roukhal and Averith. They struggled, their magic and steel unable to cut through the dark coils.
Syrith staggered free, storm-fire crackling at his fingertips. He concentrated, drawing power from the charged air of the chamber. Bolts of lightning flickered between his hands.
Velkyrion's mask tilted. "Child's play," he murmured—and struck the floor with a gauntlet that reverberated like thunder. The chamber shook; stone splintered. Lightning bolts his own masked ancestors had once commanded danced in the air, seeking Syrith's life.
Yet Syrith stood firm. He thrust his hands forward, meeting Velkyrion's storm with his own nascent power. The lightning collided in a blinding flash that shattered the force field and sent both combatants reeling.
In the aftermath, Roukhal and Averith burst free of the shadows. Syrith's cloak billowed, damp hair plastered to his brow. Velkyrion's mask was cracked, one ruby splintered into dust.
Velkyrion staggered, breathless. "You dare—" he rasped, reaching for the mask and finding only emptiness.
Syrith advanced, dagger raised. "The storm is mine," he declared. "And tonight, your power falters."
Velkyrion's robes fell open, revealing beneath his mask the twisted face of a man centuries old—skin drawn taut over sharp bones, eyes dull embers of fury. "This is not over," he hissed. "You will die again… and again."
With that, he vanished in a swirl of shadow and blood-red light, leaving behind only the echo of his threat and the splintered rubies at Syrith's feet.
Syrith knelt and pressed a lightning-warm hand to the largest shard. A pulse of storm-fire coursed through him—stronger now, fed by victory and rage. Roukhal released Averith's hands, and she rushed to Syrith's side, concern and awe in her violet eyes.
"We weakened him," Roukhal said, voice grim. "But the Covenants will come for us."
Averith slid an arm through Syrith's. "Then we leave before dawn. We have what we came for."
Syrith rose, the shattered ruby shard humming in his palm. "And I have something more," he said softly—"hope."
As they fled the collapsing chamber, the Obsidian Bridge above them trembled, and somewhere far off, the Watchers' alarms rang out. The king returned had drawn first blood.
And the long war for vengeance had truly begun.