The world after the breach was wrong. It wasn't merely the sounds that had changed – it was the silences between them. The way each pause now stretched and throbbed with a pressure I couldn't ignore, as though the very air was trying to crawl inside my skin. I crouched low, behind a half-collapsed wall of blackened steel, my breath ragged, shallow. The ember—the tiny flicker of stolen light—still pulsed faintly at my side, but the brightness had dulled, shuddering like a dying pulse.
Behind me, the ground was no longer solid. It rippled and sagged underfoot, oozing a tar-black substance that hissed where it met the cold, ruined air. It smelled of decay and something else—something older. Memory? Grief? The taste of forgotten names? I didn't know, but the scent coiled around me like a promise.
A low moan echoed through the air, not human, not even beast. It was the kind of sound that made my bones ache, vibrating against the hollow places inside me. I flattened myself against the steel and risked a glance around the corner. The breach yawned open still, a slit in reality that bled shadow and whispers. From it, shapes slid—fingers too long, heads that pulsed and shifted like candle wax in heat. Not entirely formed. Not entirely real. Their bodies shimmered faintly, like heat-haze, but in the blackness that flowed from them, I glimpsed teeth. Too many teeth.
I knew what they were now, though the name refused to surface. Something older than nightmares. Something that should never have been woken. They spilled from the breach slowly, as though testing the air, tasting the silence. The figures from before—the statues with hollow eyes and mouths wired shut—stood motionless beyond the tear, as if waiting for something. Or someone.
A sound behind me—a shift, soft, like breath against stone.
I twisted, heart hammering, and saw her.
She was young—no older than I had been, once. Skin pale as bone, hair tangled and dark with ash and oil. Her eyes were wide, too wide, reflecting the faint, flickering ember at my side. She crouched just beyond the wall, watching me with something between curiosity and fear.
"How long have you been here?" I whispered, though my voice cracked, barely audible over the hush of the breach behind us.
She didn't answer. Her lips moved, but no sound emerged. Instead, she pressed a finger to her mouth, signalling silence. Her other hand clutched a twisted length of metal—scrap fashioned into a blade. It was crude, rusted, but the way she held it spoke of practice. Survival.
Another ripple from the breach, louder this time. The ground near it cracked, and one of the figures with hollow eyes shifted, stepping forward with a jerking motion, limbs clicking like misaligned clockwork. The girl flinched but didn't run.
I gestured to her, beckoning, trying to keep my movements slow, deliberate. "We need to move," I said softly. "Now."
For a moment, I thought she wouldn't come. But then, with a trembling breath, she slid closer, crouching low as she moved to my side. I could feel her trembling, the way her body vibrated with fear she was trying to suppress. Together, we inched along the broken wall, away from the breach, from the shimmering horrors spilling through it.
But the world wasn't silent.
The breach spoke. Not words, but a hum that twisted through the air like a blade. It found the cracks in my mind, threading through the fractures, whispering things I couldn't understand but felt too deeply. Promises. Accusations. Hunger.
I pressed my hand against my chest, against the place where the figure had touched me. The skin there was scarred now, the mark raised and hot, pulsing faintly in rhythm with the ember I carried. The girl glanced at it, her eyes narrowing. Then, before I could stop her, she reached out and traced the scar with one dirt-smudged finger.
"You shouldn't have that," she whispered, her voice thin and shaking. "It's calling them."
A low, grinding laugh split the air. It came from the breach, from one of the hollow-eyed things. I turned sharply, but it hadn't moved. Instead, the shadows around it seemed thicker, more solid. The teeth in the blackness gleamed.
"We're out of time," I hissed. "Run."
The girl didn't hesitate this time. She bolted, nimble and silent despite the rubble beneath her feet. I followed, the ember clutched in my hand, the scar beneath it burning hotter with each step. Behind us, the breach groaned wider. The shadows followed.
The city twisted as we ran. The streets weren't the same as before. Walls leaned at impossible angles, stairways leading into nothing, windows that gaped like empty mouths. The sky overhead pulsed, bruised and torn, as though the fabric of the world itself was stretching thin.
We ducked into a narrow alley where the light—such as it was—couldn't reach. The girl crouched low, pressing her back against the crumbling stone. Her breath came in short, sharp bursts, her eyes wild.
"They're everywhere," she said, voice trembling. "They're looking for the stolen light. They'll tear you apart to take it back."
I stared down at the ember in my hand. It was dim now, flickering like the last gasp of a dying flame. But I could feel its weight, its pull. It wasn't just light—it was something more, something broken. Something that had once belonged to the stars.
"What's your name?" I asked quietly.
The girl hesitated, then whispered, "Lira."
"Lira, we can't stay here. The breach will spread. They'll find us."
Her mouth tightened, but she nodded. Together, we slipped from the alley into the deeper shadows, where even the breathing ground couldn't quite reach. Above us, the sky shuddered, and for just a moment, I thought I saw it—a flicker of light, a memory of stars, burning in the darkness.
And then it was gone, leaving only the scream of silence behind.