The sun hung low in the sky, a bloodshot orb barely breaking the horizon. The ruins of Surnhall stretched ahead, crumbling but steadfast in the creeping light. Sylas and Alira moved swiftly, their footsteps muted by the thick blanket of fog that still clung to the city.
They were no longer alone.
The pulsating shard at Sylas's chest was becoming a beacon, a signal for forces unknown. He could feel the heat growing stronger, not only in the artifact but within himself. It was as though something was awakening inside him—something ancient, a power that had long lain dormant. Every step felt heavier, as though the weight of the relic was sinking into his very bones.
"We can't keep running forever," Alira said, her voice tinged with impatience. Her eyes scanned the ruins, searching for a path that would lead them to safety—or at least away from the shadows now creeping closer.
Sylas glanced back over his shoulder, sensing movement. Figures draped in tattered cloaks and heavy armor lurked at the edges of the streets, their forms indistinct but unmistakably following them. The guardians of Surnhall—still very much alive, even if not in the way they once were.
Alira's voice broke through his thoughts. "Sylas, focus. We need to reach the outskirts of the city. There's a safe house there."
"A safe house?" Sylas muttered, barely processing her words. The fragment burned against his chest, its heat crawling through his body, making his heart race. He could hear it now—its rhythm matched his own, a syncopated pulse. Was it calling him, or was he being drawn in by his own need for power?
"Yes. If we get there, we can regroup. The relic… it's already too late to turn back, but we can still control how we use it," Alira added, her voice hardening as if trying to reassure herself as much as him.
They continued through the streets, weaving between collapsed walls and broken arches, their movement quick but cautious. Sylas could feel the guardians drawing nearer. They were closing in, their presence growing heavier, like the sky before a storm.
It was then that the first of them appeared.
A tall figure, clad in blackened plate armor, stepped from the shadows, blocking their path. His face was hidden behind a helm, but his eyes glowed faintly—white and cold, like the light of a distant star.
"Stop," the figure commanded, his voice deep, reverberating in the silence of the city.
Sylas halted instinctively, his hand tightening around his sword. Alira was already pulling a dagger from her belt, her eyes narrowed.
"Who are you?" Sylas demanded, his voice steady but laced with suspicion.
The figure didn't answer directly. Instead, he raised a gauntleted hand, signaling for more figures to step from the shadows. Within moments, the street was filled with them—more guardians, their movements synchronized as if they were all part of a single mind.
Alira tensed beside him, ready to fight.
"There's no need for bloodshed," the first guardian said, his voice like the rustling of dry leaves. "You carry what should not be in mortal hands. Return it, and we will let you live."
Sylas could feel the shard pulsing violently against his chest. He wanted to rip it from his body, to give it up, but a part of him—some dark part—resisted. It was power, and power was everything now.
"Why should I trust you?" he asked, his voice edged with defiance.
The guardian lowered his weapon, a long sword of blackened steel that shimmered with an unnatural light. "Because the price for its theft is beyond your comprehension."
Sylas didn't flinch. He knew what he had to do—fight. But he also knew they were outnumbered, and the last thing he wanted was to risk Alira's life for his own folly.
He glanced at her, her face set with grim determination. There was no way they were getting out of this unscathed. But there was something else, too—an undercurrent of fear in her eyes. She knew this would cost them.
Before he could say anything more, Alira moved, a flash of silver cutting through the air. She was faster than the guardian anticipated, ducking low to avoid his strike. In one fluid motion, she spun, her dagger catching the light as she slashed across the guardian's armor.
The guardian grunted but did not fall. Instead, his sword swung down in a deadly arc, forcing Alira to retreat, her feet scrambling against the uneven ground.
Sylas didn't wait for an opening. He charged, the shard's pulse matching his heartbeat. The strength it gave him surged through his limbs, and for the first time, he felt the power of the relic coursing through him—not as a foreign force but as something familiar, something tied to his very soul.
With a roar, he clashed with the guardian, his sword meeting the blackened blade with a resounding crash. Sparks flew, the force of the impact sending vibrations up his arms. But it wasn't enough. The guardian's blade was heavier, its edge sharper, and Sylas was already feeling the strain of the fight.
"Alira!" he shouted, his voice strained.
"I know!" she snapped back, already moving to flank their opponent. But before she could reach him, another guardian stepped forward, blocking her path.
The fight was escalating. The numbers were against them, and Sylas could feel himself tiring, the shard's power a double-edged sword. It was feeding him strength, but it was also demanding more than he was willing to give.
The moment stretched, an eternity in itself, before the ground beneath their feet trembled.
Suddenly, the figure at the head of the guardians raised his arm, the same hand that had once commanded them. The others stopped, their weapons lowering as if in response to an invisible command.
The pulse of the shard in Sylas's chest began to slow. The warmth that had filled him began to fade, replaced by a chill that sank deep into his bones.
"You are not yet ready," the guardian said. "But we will allow you a choice, Sylas Drevin."
Sylas's heart skipped. "What choice?"
"Return the shard to us. Leave Surnhall and never return, and we will grant you mercy."
Alira, panting and covered in blood, looked at Sylas. Her eyes were fierce, but there was something else—something almost pleading. She didn't want to fight this battle, not here, not now.
Sylas looked down at the shard in his hand. The power within it was undeniable, but the price was becoming clear. His heart thudded painfully in his chest, the weight of the decision pressing on him.
"What if I refuse?" he asked quietly.
The guardian's eyes flashed, but his expression remained neutral. "Then we will take it from you, along with everything else you hold dear."
There was no more time to hesitate. Sylas made his choice.