The ruins of Surnhall greeted them with a silence so absolute it pressed against their ears. No insects, no wind, only the faint sound of their boots on broken stone.
Sylas adjusted his cloak tighter around him. Even without the mist, the air here was heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and forgotten histories.
Alira led the way, stepping lightly over collapsed archways and shattered statues. The city had once been a jewel of the old kingdoms, but now it was little more than bones gnawed clean by time.
"Stay close," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Not all the traps here are dead."
Sylas nodded. His hand brushed the shard at his chest, feeling it pulse steadily—stronger with each step deeper into the city. It was pulling him somewhere, though whether toward salvation or doom, he couldn't tell.
They passed a broken fountain, its basin choked with moss and vines. A cracked statue of a woman with wings outstretched stood at its center. Her face was worn smooth by rain and years, but there was still something noble in her posture.
Alira paused there, studying the base of the fountain.
"Old markers," she murmured. She ran a finger over the faint etchings. "House of Suns. They had a hall nearby."
"You think that's where the shard is leading us?" Sylas asked.
"Maybe," she said. "Or maybe something worse."
A distant noise pricked Sylas's ears—a soft scraping sound, like stone against stone. He stiffened, scanning the shadowed alleys between the fallen buildings. But nothing moved.
They pressed on.
Through a collapsed marketplace, they picked their way among rotting wooden stalls and shattered pottery. A faded banner, its sigil unrecognizable, hung from a leaning post.
Sylas's foot struck something under the rubble. He knelt and brushed away the dirt: a child's doll, half-buried, its glass eyes staring blankly upward.
He swallowed hard and left it there.
The shard pulsed harder now, vibrating faintly against his chest.
They came at last to a grand boulevard lined with crumbling stone pillars. At the far end rose a building still mostly intact—a wide, circular structure crowned with a shattered dome.
"The Sun Hall," Alira said.
It looked like a wound in the city, the only part not yet fully claimed by nature. The great bronze doors hung open, one dangling from broken hinges.
A cold draft breathed out from the darkness within.
"Ready?" Alira asked.
"No," Sylas said honestly, drawing his sword. "But let's go."
They entered.
Inside, the hall was vast and cavernous, the remnants of grandeur clinging to the air. Broken chandeliers dangled like dead spiders from the ceiling. Sunlight speared through the cracks in the dome, painting golden pools on the dusty floor.
In the center of the hall stood a dais, and upon it, a pedestal. Something small and black rested atop it, barely larger than a man's fist.
The shard in Sylas's chest burned hot, almost painful now.
"It's calling you," Alira said, watching him carefully.
Sylas approached the pedestal, every step heavy with unseen weight. The object on the pedestal wasn't just a shard—it was a core fragment, a condensed relic from a time before recorded history.
He reached out.
The moment his fingers brushed the surface, a low hum filled the hall. The dust on the floor began to stir in lazy spirals. The light shifted strangely, bending and warping.
"Sylas—" Alira warned, her hand darting to her dagger.
From the shadows at the edge of the room, figures began to emerge. Cloaked and robed, their faces hidden. Their movements were slow, deliberate.
Guardians.
Ancient, half-dead sentinels bound to protect the relic.
Sylas clutched the fragment against his chest. The warmth of it surged through him, anchoring him against the growing pressure in the room.
"Run?" he asked, backing toward Alira.
"Fight first," she said grimly, drawing twin blades from beneath her cloak.
The guardians moved as one, their arms lifting. In their hands, weapons glinted—some rusted, others gleaming with unnatural sharpness.
The first blow came fast—a spear thrust aimed at Sylas's ribs. He sidestepped, feeling the air split beside him.
Alira whirled into the fray, her blades flashing silver arcs. She moved with deadly grace, carving a path through the guardians. But for every one that fell, another seemed to emerge from the shadows.
Sylas fought to stay near her, parrying blows and striking where he could. The core fragment pulsed stronger with every heartbeat, flooding his limbs with unnatural vitality. He moved faster, struck harder—but he could feel it draining him too, siphoning something vital in exchange for its power.
"We can't hold them forever!" he shouted.
Alira didn't respond. Her focus was absolute.
Seeing an opening, Sylas grabbed her arm. "The relic has what it needs! We have to go!"
Alira hesitated a fraction of a second—then nodded.
They sprinted toward the broken doors, weaving through the maze of guardians. Blades flashed. Sylas felt a line of fire slice across his shoulder but ignored it, focusing only on the fractured light ahead.
They burst out into the boulevard just as the first hints of dawn began to lighten the sky. The guardians did not follow beyond the hall's threshold.
Panting, Sylas and Alira stumbled into the ruins, the fragment clutched tight against Sylas's chest.
For a moment, they simply stood there, catching their breath.
Then Alira spoke, voice tight. "You just woke up half the city."
Sylas gave a breathless laugh. "Good. Maybe they'll throw us a parade."
Alira smiled despite herself, wiping blood from the corner of her mouth. "Come on. We're not safe yet."
With the first light of morning breaking over the horizon, they fled deeper into the dead city, carrying the relic—and whatever consequences came with it—into the waiting dawn.