In the dim, ruined foyer of the forgotten estate, Sunless let his gaze drift aimlessly, not to find anything, but to give himself something to do. The stale air was thick with the scent of damp wood and decayed grandeur, a bitter echo of the estate's long-dead opulence. Faint motes of dust floated where light failed to reach, disturbed only by the subtle shifts of breath and motion from the people around him. Statues loomed from the corners—cracked, faceless figures draped in cobwebs, as if they'd been mourning for centuries.
He studied the group loosely clustered ahead, not for threat, but for pattern.
Twenty Sleepers. Three groups.
It reminded him of the Academy—how, on the first day, people sorted themselves like spilled coins: by shine, by usefulness, by who they already knew. This time, the first cluster stood out in ways that even the blind could see.
Nephis. Effie. Cassie.
*The three lights of the Dark City.* That was what he called them, silently, sardonically. And yet, the title fit. No one else drew attention like they did.
Nephis, radiant and unreadable, had built her legend from the duel with Andel onward. A fight so theatrical and brutal that it may as well have been written into the stone of the city. Effie's name still carried weight from years ago, back when she was known as one of the Settlement's finest. And Cassie... Cassie was the soft light that clung to them both. Not by force, not by action, but by sheer inevitability. Sweet, exquisite, and fragile, she was the cohort's face to the slums—and the slums loved her for it.
They didn't just tolerate her. They *needed* her.
After every hunt, Nephis handed out meat to the starving. At first, they looked at her with suspicion. Then hunger. Then awe. And when the food kept coming, the awe turned to something reverent.
He'd seen that gleam in their eyes once, faintly, when he followed her the first time. Now it shone with quiet fervor.
They joked about her. "Saint Nephis," they whispered, half-mocking, half-awed. As if they weren't sure whether to laugh or kneel.
The four Sleepers who came from the slums—the bottom feeders, the desperate—they didn't have a choice, really. They formed around the three lights not because they wanted to, but because *everyone* else had already made their choice. The Pathfinders ignored them. The Hunters pretended they didn't exist. And Sunless? He was the Duke of the Dark City. Their tyrant. Their enemy.
No, there was only one direction they could go. Even if they hated being pitied, being ruled by kindness was still better than being crushed by indifference.
The second group was predictable—the Host. Ten of them. Friends already, born into the structure of the castle, loyal to Gunlaug. They had joined the expedition by choice. They stuck close to each other, eyes wary, backs stiff, like dogs in unfamiliar territory.
But three plus four plus ten… that made seventeen.
The other two stood near *him*.
It was strange. He wasn't one of the lights. He wasn't one of the old guard. And yet here they were—two mismatched pieces orbiting his quiet gravity.
One of them was easy to place.
Gemma.
Tall, lean, built like someone who could run forever and then some. His gear was light and practical—segments of hardened leather designed for movement. No flair, no ornament. His hair was shaggy, his face sharp, masculine, quietly attractive. A Pathfinder, through and through. The leader of his faction . And while Sunless hadn't invited him to his side, he understood why Gemma had come.
It was politics. A show of cooperation. A nod to hierarchy. Sunless was the *official* leader of this mission, after all. Their presence together wasn't about liking each other—it was about reputation.
But the second one… she was a puzzle.
A girl. Even smaller than him. She stood with her shoulders curled in, chin tucked, trying to disappear behind the curtain of her brown hair. Her presence was so muted, so *small*, that it felt almost invasive—like a whisper too close to the ear.
Her clothes were… surprising. A Memory, likely, but one designed with strange sensibility. Half noblewoman, half scavenger, reinforced with leather and practical touches.
The corset caught his eye first—caramel-toned leather, tight-laced, shaping her thin frame with rigid posture and old-fashioned restraint. It looked more suited to a masquerade than a battlefield. A belt slashed across it diagonally, bold and utilitarian, studded with brass. Not just decoration, he guessed.
A pale blouse puffed out from beneath, its frilled sleeves too delicate for her surroundings. It gave the impression of softness, maybe deliberately so. A distraction. A lie.
Her skirt was even stranger—tiered ruffles in dusty browns and greys, unevenly layered, short in front, cascading in a long tail behind. Her legs were bare save for flashes of white fabric beneath, frilled like lace caught in the wind.
Her gloves were plain. Black. Functional. The final note in an outfit that couldn't decide if it wanted to flirt or flee.
She didn't belong next to him. And yet, there she stood.
Gemma's voice cut through the silence with a gravelly drawl, too casual to be unintentional.
"Hughh… so why'd ya come back empty-handed? The damn glutton wouldn't leave without reason."
The glutton. That was his affectionate nickname for Effie. Somehow dismissive and mockingly affectionate in equal measure. Gemma's eyes were trained on the other Host members, his tone lazy but sharp. He wasn't fooled. He knew something was wrong.
Sunless let his neck roll slowly to the side, joints cracking as he turned. Pain flickered through his spine—a harsh whisper from his Flaw—but he bore it in silence. The movement was slow. Deliberate. Petty. But necessary.
Establishing pacing was part of dominance. Whoever controlled the tempo controlled the tone.
"Light," Sunless said finally. His voice was quiet, but not soft. *Measured.* Like something sharp drawn across glass.
"In the sky."
It was all the explanation Gemma needed. And more importantly, it was a warning. He doubled down with a bite of sarcasm:
"We had no interest in finding out what was so confident it wanted to be found."
A subtle insult, packaged as strategy.
Gemma didn't rise to it. Just grunted. A non-answer for a non-question.
"We should reach the cave entrance by morning if we go in two hours."
Not a suggestion. Not a request. A statement. But *also* a question. One with invisible teeth.
Sunless didn't let the silence hang long.
"We'll rest for an hour," he said, almost offhand. "I want to reach it by dawn at the latest."
His tone said: *This is not up for discussion.*
Two days to the statue. Two days back. Not because of distance—but because the path led *under* the city. A twisting mess of flooded caverns and collapsing stone veins. A Bunker system turned tomb.
At night, the sea would rise, the tunnels would drown. There would be no retreat once they entered. No backup. No margin for error.
The First Bright Lord had taken *years* to chart a safe path. Shortcuts led to death. The Slayer Statue lay in a pocket of air reachable only by a labyrinthine sequence of tight tunnels and shifting chambers. Their only hope was to reach the first safe haven by morning—a cave with offshoots to breathe in.
It was madness. He hated every part of it.
Gemma moved off to inform his people.
That left Sunless with the awkward girl still sitting beside him.
He hadn't noticed her sit down. She was that quiet.
When he turned to look at her, she flinched—not out of surprise, but like she'd been expecting to be looked at and still didn't know what to do with it. Her shoulders hunched higher. Her spine pulled taut like a string about to snap. Her cheeks lit up so suddenly and vividly it was like someone had lit a lantern behind her skin. She ducked her head, hiding behind the messy spill of her brown hair, but not fast enough to hide the wide-eyed guilt that flashed across her face.
Her hands were clamped tightly on her knees, white-knuckled. The posture wasn't casual. It was practiced—held, like a form of self-discipline. Or penance.
"What do you want?" he asked, his voice low and unkind.
"I—ugh—I… I…" she stammered, her voice thin and full of dread. She wasn't afraid of him, not exactly. It was more like she was afraid of failing in front of him. "I was told to inform you, by Lady Cassia, that, um… that…"
The rest of her sentence folded in on itself. She swallowed visibly, lips moving silently once or twice, trying to remember the words. Or maybe trying to remember how to speak.
"Spit it out."
She squeaked.
Literally squeaked.
"Her vision. The specters. She said they were hittable once in armor," she blurted out, as if the sentence had been waiting behind her teeth like a dam about to burst. Then she shut her mouth tight, as if afraid she might spill something else if she kept talking.
That was all he needed. "Got it," he said. "I'll tell the rest when it matters."
But she didn't leave.
Instead, she sat there—stiff, unmoving, as if someone had pressed pause on her body. Her back remained straight. Her knees stayed pressed together. Her gloved hands trembled faintly against the fabric of her skirt. She was waiting, not with expectation, but with fearful obedience. Like someone waiting to be told if they'd done something wrong.
Sunless felt the headache tighten behind his eyes.
Why is she still here?
"You," he snapped.
She jumped. Actually jumped. Like her body was wired straight into alarm bells.
"M-me?" she squeaked.
He blinked at her. "That the only armor you got?"
She nodded. Vigorously. "Yes, sir! Absolutely, Your Dukeness, this is the only one!"
There was a war going on in her expression. She clearly thought she'd just said something very stupid, but also had no idea how to fix it. Her ears were bright red. Her eyes didn't quite focus on him—hovering near his shoulder instead, like looking at his face directly was too much. Too sharp.
Gods.
He grabbed her arm—just enough to touch skin—and ignored the sharp "eep!" of alarm she let out. She went rigid instantly, like a rabbit caught in a trap, eyes darting to his face with a wild flicker of panic.
a second later, a Memory was sent to her soul see. Mid-tier armor. Nothing flashy. Better than rags, worse than his. But to good for Saint.
"Tell Cassie I'm thankful for her help," he said. "Can you do that, sweetheart?"
The nickname was deliberate. Condescending. Dismissive. Sharp enough to sting.
She fled, her face burning so red it practically lit the hallway, her gait stiff as a soldier marching into her own funeral.
The girl turned back for a second."Y-yes! I will! Absolutely! She'll be so happy to know—"
She trailed off as she realized he wasn't listening anymore.
Then she turned and bolted.
Sunless exhaled slowly, letting the silence settle again around him.
A moment later, behind him, Effie snorted.
"What'd I miss?" she muttered to no one in particular. "You charm another one?"
'*'
The entrance to the tunnels was nothing grand—just a hole in the ground, squat and unassuming, barely one hundred and thirty centimeters across at its widest. It crouched like a wound beneath the ruins of a small building near the eastern fringe of the estate. The structure itself was ancient and stubborn, built from thick stone that might have been granite—Sunless neither knew nor cared. It had survived centuries of rot and rain, and that was all that mattered.
This was where the descent began.
The first leg of their journey would take them into the bowels of the city—into the long-forgotten arteries of the old sewage system. Fortunately, the millennia of disuse had left it dry of human waste. Unfortunately, that didn't make it safe. Far from it.
The real danger here was something far quieter, far more insidious.
Dead air.
Colorless. Odorless. Invisible. A perfect killer. It gathered in pockets like breathless ghosts, waiting for some unlucky fool to take one step too far and draw in a single, final breath. The result? Asphyxiation at best. Brain damage and slow, stuttering death at worst. A match struck in the wrong place could just as easily set off an explosion and leave nothing behind but scattered limbs and fire-blackened walls.
They would be down here for hours—at least three—navigating these cramped, damp veins beneath the city's skin. Every step forward meant swallowing more darkness. Which was why nearly everyone with an Echo had already summoned theirs.
Cassie and Nephis shared the Carapace Scavenger he had gifted her—a heavy, insectoid creature that clung to the tunnel walls with quiet patience. The others, mostly Outsiders without the coin or prestige to afford a ride of their own, would have been left to walk. If not for Gunlaug's men. The old warlord had provided five of his Echoes—long, centipede-like beasts with broad, soft carapaces that undulated gently with each step.
Sunless didn't want a ride.
Somehow, despite the lack of mount or interest , he found himself at the front of the column once more. It was happening more and more lately. Not because anyone appointed him, but because no one could fulfill his role besides him. His ability to see in the dark—truly see—was proving less an asset and more a quiet burden.
Flanking him were two others: a hulking Pathfinder with thick arms and a quiet stare, and a ghost-thin Outsider from Nephis's camp. Both of them had gifts that could warn against Dead Air—some mixture of Aspects or sensory enhancements that let them catch what others could not. Sunless wasn't here to lead. He was here to make sure they made it through alive.
Because these tunnels weren't just empty of people.
They weren't empty at all.
He saw them first—lurking just beyond the curtain of shadow, skittering along the walls like the nightmares of a fevered mind. The offspring of scorpions and earwigs, as if the gods had stitched together the worst parts of both and thrown them into the dark to fester.
Each was the length of a P.T.V., low and sinuous, with a dog's height at the shoulder. Their chitin was black and oily, reflecting glimmers of movement in the torchlight. Long, segmented antennae jutted from their twitching faces, sweeping the air like blind fingers. Six eyes—two of them grotesquely swollen, the size of tennis balls—watched the convoy with alien intent.
Thick drool threaded down between their clicking mandibles. Their bodies mimicked a scorpion's curve, but their tails ended not in stingers… but in grasping, wicked pincers, each as long as a man's arm.
Two of them. Maybe more behind.
Sunless didn't hesitate. He raised a hand, silent and deliberate.
The convoy halted.
'*'
Sunless moved like smoke—low, quiet, and unreadable. The damp stink of the tunnel clung to everything, water dripping rhythmically in the dark as his boots pressed into the slime-slick floor. Gloomy was drawn tight around him, an oil-slick cloak that clung to his form,enhancing him to be ready to lash out at the slightest twitch of danger.
Ahead, the two insectile monsters twitched in grotesque stillness. Bastard spawns of earwigs and scorpions, they stretched nearly the length of a P.T.V., dog-height at the shoulder with chitinous armor that gleamed darkly in the torchless gloom. Their antennae, long and segmented like whipcords, scraped against the low stone ceiling, tasting the air. Six bulbous eyes shimmered in the dark—two massive orbs the size of tennis balls, clustered with four smaller ones, all swiveling independently, twitching toward every sound.
Sunless crouched low, coiled like a spring. He reached silently for a pebble from a pouch at his hip, rolled it between his fingers, and then lobbed it high in a gentle arc.
It hit water with a *splash*—small, distant, intentional.
The effect was immediate.
Both creatures snapped toward the sound, limbs jerking in unnatural synchronicity. Their tails, thick and segmented like armored cables, whipped forward and down with terrifying force, smashing the direction of the noise like twin executioner's axes. It was faster than Sunless expected. These weren't simple scavengers. They didn't sting—they *cleaved*.
But speed meant nothing without precision.
He was already moving.
Silent as breath, he lunged forward with the Midnight Shard in hand. The weight of the curved blade felt natural, his movements sharp, honed—*Nephis's* teachings etched into muscle memory. He twisted at the hips, driving force through his core, and used one hand to yank the grip, snapping the blade upward in a brutal arc aimed at the vulnerable joint where the thorax met the tail.
The otachi bit deep.
There was a *crack* of chitin giving way, a gout of greenish fluid bursting out in a caustic spray, the sharp stench of ammonia instantly assaulting his nostrils. The monster shrieked in a high-pitched chitter as its tail fell twitching to the ground, severed. But Sunless was already on the backswing.
His blade came down again, hard and fast—another clean cut, and three of the creature's left legs flew free in a wet splatter. It buckled sideways with a shrill, clicking whimper, flailing helplessly.
The second one—still fully intact—twisted in place, tail rising high for a devastating swing. But it was too slow.
Sunless's shadow bloomed.
From the darkness under the Beast , something rose—*someone*. A blade burst up like a spear through water, impaling the insect mid-turn. The creature's legs kicked helplessly as it was lifted clear off the ground, run through by a sword forged in shadow.
And then *she* emerged.
Saint.
The Tactum Knight ,in the embrace of happy,strode up through his shadow like a spirit rising from the abyss. Her armor was obsidian-black, jagged and elegant, as though carved from ancient stone under impossible pressure. Her shape mirrored his own armor in design, a stark contrast to her smooth skin that seemed to be made out of Alabaster,but held a regal, battle-scarred grace—a war goddess in shades of void. Her helm was smooth and featureless, save for two burning slits of crimson fire deep within the visor, watching the world with inhuman calm.
Her sword—the same that had pierced the beast—jerked sideways, flinging it from the blade. As the second insect tried to skitter away, she advanced without pause.
One smooth step.
One downward swing.
The Awakened Demons greatsword cleaved through the remaining creature as if its armored carapace were paper. The blade shattered stone beneath it with the force, splitting the thing in two clean halves. A splatter of acidic ichor hissed against the damp ground, sizzling gently.
Then silence.
Just the drip of water. The click of claws no longer moving. The hollow weight of death settling over the air.
[You have slain two Awakened Beasts, Lesser Waist.]
[Your shadow grows stronger.]
Shadow Fragments: [36 / 2000]
Sunless exhaled. His chest rose and fell once—controlled, quiet. He glanced at the blood pooling on the tunnel floor, then down at his summoned knight. Saint still stood with her blade lowered, black armor pristine despite the carnage, crimson eyes staring out from within the helm's dark interior.
A thousand more kills. That's what it would take to shape the soul-devouring tree into a shadow. A thousand more like these.
He sheathed the [Midnight Shard].
This place was disgusting.
'*'
The entrance to the cave system was nothing like the sewage tunnels before. If the old passages had been narrow and vile, this was their opposite—a yawning, monstrous maw carved into the bones of the earth, so wide and black it felt like a wound in the world itself. Stalactites hung like jagged teeth from above, mirrored by the stone daggers below, creating the illusion of a mouth half-frozen mid-devour.
It looked bottomless.
And for once, Sunless wasn't at the front.
That duty had fallen to a Sleeper with an Aspect attuned to vibration. Poor soul. Whoever they were, he spared a flicker of sympathy. It wouldn't last long down here.
Sunless used the moment to slip into the middle of the expedition's formation, where he could let his shadow stretch wide without drawing too much attention. The further back he kept himself from Cassie, the better. From Neph, too. They needed distance from him—distance from whatever [Fated] might bring down on their heads.
Still, it ached.
He could hear the scuff of boots on stone, the quiet mutters swallowed by the cave's throat, the occasional metallic chime of gear brushing against armor. He kept his balance by gripping the wall—a ribbon of slick limestone polished smooth by centuries of unseen water—and tried not to imagine what might be waiting in the dark below.
This was a terrible idea. Every instinct whispered it. Every breath of cold air confirmed it.
But he had to do this.
He had to earn Gunlaug's approval. Had to find a way to grow stronger. Had to keep clawing forward until he could reach the Crimson Spire, tear it down, and crawl out of this city-shaped grave.
And maybe… maybe reach out to Rain again.
He'd told himself she was better off without him. That staying away was the merciful choice. But mercy without truth was just cowardice dressed in white. If nothing else, she deserved the choice.
So he walked.
Time dissolved into footsteps and silence, broken only by groans of the earth and the distant shuffle of boots. They balanced along narrow ridges, squeezed through gaps that scraped his ribs raw—figuratively, mostly, but he wouldn't have minded the pain. It would've been something to focus on. Anything but the constant pressure of the dark pressing in from every side.
He regretted that thought the moment it passed.
It started with a faint sound. A subtle distortion. A *plop*. Then another. And another.
The dripping grew louder. He could feel it—something vast, something *wet*, rising in the black.
"The hell—?"
"Everyone, MOVE!" Sunless shouted, his voice cracking through the heavy air like a whip. His lungs burned with the force of it. "Follow the one in front of you! Don't stop—MOVE!"
He stood still long enough to let the others pass him—he could see in the dark, they couldn't. If someone had gotten stuck or stumbled in the pitch black, the panic alone might've dragged half the group down with them.
When the last of them had gone, he followed, feet flying, shadows swirling like coiled smoke around his ankles.
The descent steepened.
Then his boot slipped.
The stone beneath him turned slick as ice, and gravity yanked him forward like a dog on a leash. The tunnel became a chute, the limestone walls streaked with rust-colored mineral veins, slick and narrow as a serpent's gullet. He twisted mid-fall, tucked his limbs in tight. No cry left his lips. He saved his breath. Saved his panic.
Impact.
Pain.
Then darkness.
He came to in a void so deep even his enhanced senses couldn't pierce it. His ears rang. His head pulsed, sticky warmth trickling down his spine.
He blinked. Nothing. No change. No light.
He moved. Slowly. One joint at a time. Bruised, but not broken.
Dripping water echoed around him, a metronome for dread.
He reached for his pack.
Gone.
Somewhere along the fall, it had been torn from his shoulders. He still had the belt at his waist, the Midnight Shard —but no lantern. No rope. No food.
Just stone. Just shadow.
His breath quickened despite himself. He closed his eyes as though that might lessen the crushing dark. Stupid instinct.
He pushed it down.
Focus.
The ground was damp. Limestone grit beneath his palms. No airflow. No moss. Just closed space. Not a tunnel. A chamber.
A prison.
Then—movement.
A ripple in the water. Barely audible. A whisper against the silence.
He froze.
Again. Closer this time.
He crept forward, hands skimming the stone until fingers dipped into frigid liquid. Still water. But rising.
He turned to check the path behind. Rubble. Choked tight. The collapse had sealed his way out.
The water lapped against his boots.
Then at his hips.
He counted his breaths. Four seconds in. Four seconds out.
No panic.
Just the steady rise of icy water coiling up his calves.
If it kept rising at this rate, he had maybe an hour. Two if the cave was merciful. But he didn't believe in mercy anymore.
He pressed a hand to the ceiling—low, unyielding. No obvious seams. No cracks.
He began to move. One slow, careful step at a time. Mapping the space by touch. Hoping for airflow. Warmth. A slope.
Instead he found silence.
Then—*thud*. A distant, wet impact.
He froze.
Again. *Thud*. *Splash*.
Like something heavy had entered the water.
A beat of silence. Then the dripping resumed. Closer now.
The water kissed his thighs.
He pressed forward faster, Serpent cycling his essence, scouring the stone with his hands.
Then—a breeze.
Faint. Chilly. Cutting across his face.
He turned. Found a chimney—tight, steep. Moss slicked the stone, but the air came from above.
He climbed.
Hand over hand, boots scrabbling, lungs aching. Cold water below surged higher, greedy.
The rock narrowed around him, pressed into his sides like a vice. He twisted, dragged himself up inch by inch.
His coat tore. His knuckles split.
But he rose.
One final heave—and he broke through, sprawling onto a narrow ledge high above the flooding chamber. Gasping. Soaked. Freezing.
Alive.
Below, the black tide still climbed, swallowing the cave.
He lay there, shaking—not from fear, but sheer adrenaline. The rush of survival.
Then, slowly, he sat up.
Still alone. Still blind. Still breathing.
The cave hadn't claimed him.
Not yet.
But he could feel it watching.
Waiting.
And he knew this place wasn't done with him.
But neither were his subordinates. A pair of small yet strong hands gripped him.
He was not alone in this as someone dragged him away from the water.
"We… we have to move up… the safe point is just over there!"
The voice was high and feminine, but he couldn't place it. Still, he listened. He grabbed the girl by her arms, lifting her into a bridal carry. His shadows, Gloomy and Happy , wrapped around him as he felt Serpent tap into his ever-recovering sea of essence.
Sunless could feel the chill of the cave air around his face, could see the soft glow of bioluminescent moss, a sign of the safe point ahead.
With the unknown girl in his arms, he overcame the last hurdle and reached the safe point. He could see Effie holding onto Cassie and Nephis, keeping them close. That was all that mattered.
Sunny let the girl down—recognizing her now as the small one from the previous night. He'd have to thank her properly, somehow.
But first, he would sleep. His muscles screamed for rest. After that, a long bath was definitely in order.
He glanced around, making sure everyone was safe. Effie had both Cassie and Nephis pressed close to her, her arms wrapped around them tightly. Nephis' lithe form curved against Effie's, the delicate outlines of her body pressing intimately into the other two. The sight was far too close, far too heated, as Effie's playful squeeze made Nephis flush a shade darker.
Sunless turned away, needing space to unwind. He took his leave toward an adjacent cavern, and Saint rose from his shadow to guard the entrance. The sound of his own footsteps echoed as he stepped into solitude. He really needed a cold shower.
The girls were driving him crazy.