Perched on a quiet ledge above one of Lyvoria Crest's upper terraces, two figures rested in the shadows of a pillared arch, observing the troop search with mild, almost amused disinterest.
"Y'know," Vivian muttered, flicking a pebble off the edge with her boot, "you'd think with all that royal funding and dramatic armor, they'd learn how to track someone without interrogating fruit stands and yelling at pigeons."
Cassian stood beside her, arms folded neatly over the chest of his long black robe. His expression, as always, was unreadable—half bored, half deeply calculating. "It's because they confuse volume with authority. Strategy's never been their strong suit."
The wind pulled at their matching white hair, faintly tousled and gleaming like snow under the twilight sun. With identical sharp cheekbones, matching golden eyes, and near-perfect symmetry in their bone structure, they looked like mirror images—twins born of the same mold but shaped by different fires. Even when silent, their likeness was striking enough to unsettle anyone who got too close.
Vivian eyed her brother with a playful scowl. "You really have to talk like that all the time? Like you're giving a lecture at some dead emperor's tomb?"
Cassian didn't flinch. "It's efficient."
"You're insufferable."
"And you're nosy."
Vivian popped a small candied nut into her mouth and gave a lazy shrug. "Twins, remember? We share everything—DNA, bad habits, existential dread…"
Cassian's eyes narrowed just slightly. "And unfortunately, volume."
She laughed under her breath. "Admit it. You'd miss me if I wasn't here to narrate the empire's stupidity."
He turned toward her slowly. "Only slightly more than I'd miss the sound of arrows flying past my head."
Vivian gasped with mock offense. "You do love me!"
They shared a glance—one filled with unspoken history and battle-forged understanding—and then turned their focus back to the unfolding mess in the streets below.
"So," Vivian said again, resting her chin in her hand, "Yasuda girl escapes, Empress throws a fit, and now everyone's losing their minds over two kids and a fire-wielding lunatic."
Cassian's voice was calm. "She's not just anyone. If the rumors are true and she's a Soul Resonator..."
"Yeah, yeah," Vivian interrupted, waving her hand. "The rare kind. Soul Link stuff. That's not nothing."
A moment passed before she added more quietly, "You think we could actually learn something from her? About the Soul techniques?"
Cassian's gaze sharpened. "Possibly. If she really can link souls… then she's more valuable than the Empress realizes. She might hold answers even the Holy Arches never uncovered."
Vivian's smirk slowly returned. "Then I guess we better make sure no one gets to her before we do."
At a refined, ivy-draped café on one of Lyvoria Crest's upper balconies, the midday calm shimmered like a mirage. Citizens wandered leisurely past marble railings, the air laced with lavender and citrus, the quiet clinking of porcelain underscored by the occasional call of a hawker down below. But within that peace sat a man who pulled gravity toward him.
Desmond.
His marine uniform was immaculate—white tailored fabric with silver trim and polished medals gleaming under the soft sunlight. He sat perfectly upright, shoulders square, as if the chair had molded itself to his presence. Around him, quiet fell. No one dared speak too loud, and yet every eye stole a glance. Some did it with curiosity. Others, with caution. He wasn't just a soldier. He was Desmond. The name carried weight, coated in whispers of espionage and vanishing truths.
Across from him, poised with a precise, unshifting calm, sat a striking young man.
His shirt, partially unbuttoned, revealed the relaxed arrogance of someone unconcerned with decorum. Pale skin framed by neatly combed black hair swept back with methodical care. His violet-gray eyes, cool and unreadable, watched the passing figures in the street with the stillness of someone analyzing a puzzle with no emotional attachment. There was no urgency in him—just the quiet presence of someone always a step ahead.
Desmond broke the silence first, spotting movement across the street—Chiaki, Temoshí, and Razor weaving through the crowds.
"They think they've escaped," he muttered, his voice low and sure. "But they're walking straight into it."
The young man blinked once, slowly, his gaze unmoving. "You're sure it's her?"
Desmond gave a faint nod. "Chiaki Yasuda. Last true Resonator in the Vast Expanse. She's been off-grid since Cascade Cradle, but there's no mistaking her now."
Rhaziel remained still, his attention returning to his untouched cup.
Desmond leaned slightly across the table, lowering his voice. "Tell me something... Soul Severance. You were the first to mention it months ago. You think it's real?"
There was a pause.
Then, calmly and without a trace of emotion, Rhaziel answered. "It's more than real. It's a method of dismantling the soul from the inside—layer by layer. It doesn't just kill. It erases presence, memory, connection. Especially potent against Resonators. It was never meant to be made public."
Desmond's expression hardened. "And it's here. Lyvoria Crest. In the open."
Rhaziel finally looked up, locking eyes with him. "If someone's using it now... then she's either the first experiment—or the key."
Desmond exhaled through his nose, gaze sharp as a blade. "That massacre… the Deadly Rain. They blamed it on a marine failure, but it reeks of erasure. The kind you just described."
He paused, then muttered, "This isn't just about one girl anymore. It's about everything hidden beneath this city."
He turned to Rhaziel again. "You still think the Empress knows nothing?"
Rhaziel gave no nod, no smirk—just his usual cold stillness. "She knows something. But likely not everything. This isn't her domain. It never was. Soul-based warfare belongs to the ones who understand it. And she—like the rest—still plays in the dark."
Desmond leaned back, folding his arms slowly. "Then we move before light finds them. The Resonator is exposed. The chain has begun."
Down the street, Chiaki and the others disappeared into a turning alley, unaware of the eyes that watched from the shadows above.
Desmond's voice dropped to a murmur, almost to himself.
"You can run, girl. But you'll never outrun what's already inside you."
Desmond took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving the man across the table. The moment lingered, tension dancing between silverware and silence.
"This reminds me, Rhaziel," he said, setting his cup down with a quiet clink. "You always seem to have answers before the questions even reach the table. Soul Severance… you talk about it like it's theory, but you describe it like it's memory." A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Maybe you know something the rest of us don't. Or maybe… you're the reason it even exists."
Rhaziel's gaze didn't falter. He reached for his glass, calm as ever, but didn't take a drink.
"I read," he said simply, voice like marble—smooth, cold, carefully carved. "And I listen. The world likes to talk when it thinks no one's paying attention."
Desmond chuckled under his breath. "That doesn't answer the question."
"And your question doesn't have an answer you'd believe," Rhaziel replied, finally meeting Desmond's eyes. "Not yet."
There was a pause, long enough for the wind to shift through the awnings above them.
Desmond tilted his head. "So you're not denying it."
"I'm denying nothing," Rhaziel said, folding his hands on the table. "But truth isn't about denial. It's about timing."
He leaned back slightly, the weight of his words hanging heavier than before.
"Soul Severance is a tragedy waiting to unfold, Desmond. And the moment it does, no amount of medals or old alliances will keep you clean."
Desmond raised an eyebrow, intrigued by the shift in tone. "That sounds like guilt."
Rhaziel exhaled quietly through his nose. "No. It sounds like experience."
Then, as if the conversation had never happened, he turned his head to the side and watched the breeze sweep the petals off a nearby vine.
And in that silence, Desmond couldn't help but wonder just how much of Soul Severance Rhaziel had created… and whether it was already too late to stop what had begun.
Desmond leaned in slightly, his voice low and unreadable.
"Then tell me more about it."
Rhaziel didn't blink. Instead, he calmly adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, buying just enough time to construct the version of the truth he was willing to share.
"Soul Severance," he began, his tone measured, almost academic, "isn't just a technique. It's a disruption—an unraveling of what ties the soul to its host. Think of it like... snapping a violin string mid-symphony. The body remains, but the harmony is gone. No more music. Just silence."
He tapped the rim of his glass once, letting the thought hang.
"It was developed—so I've heard—through experimentation on Soul Links. Bonds that once enhanced strength, memory, instinct… They became points of weakness. Vulnerabilities to be… exploited."
Desmond narrowed his eyes. "And you just heard about all this?"
"I listen very carefully," Rhaziel said, with the faintest ghost of a smile. "There are whispers. In hidden places. From people who shouldn't be speaking. Names erased from record. And yet…" He tilted his head slightly. "Patterns emerge."
"The first confirmed test—if you believe the records—was on a girl with flame-based abilities. A Link whose soul manifested through the spirit of a fox. She was believed to have been killed by her own brother—if memory serves. But that wasn't the end. She was retrieved before death took full hold... and subjected to experiments. They severed her soul partially. Fractured it. And that's the only reason she's still alive now. Not whole… but alive."
Desmond's gaze sharpened. "And you're saying you don't know who perfected it?"
Rhaziel's eyes didn't shift. "Wouldn't that be dangerous knowledge to carry?"
He folded his hands neatly, eyes calm, unwavering.
"Whoever refined Soul Severance likely realized it could do more than disable. It could erase. Memory. Identity. Entire purpose."
Desmond leaned back slowly, eyeing him.
Rhaziel stared straight ahead, as if the truth was just beyond the horizon—visible, but unreachable—and he had no intention of letting anyone else get close.
To be continued...