Asven summoned him later that evening. Her quarters were a fortress within a fortress, buried under six reinforced gates, two levels of intricate, fire-slick traps, and a retinal scan keyed to her very heartbeat.
She was not important because she commanded great power or possessed immense physical strength. She was important because she controlled secrets, wielding information like a weapon in a world starved for understanding.
She poured him a thick, syrupy drink. He didn't touch it. His hunger was for essence, not liquid.
"You didn't kill Veyra," she stated, her voice flat. It wasn't a question, but a confirmation of her prior deduction. She had analysed the residual energy, the lack of a traditional struggle.
"No," Lyriq confirmed, his voice devoid of any inflection.
"Good," Asven replied, without a hint of relief or sorrow. "Because if you did, I'd have to pretend I cared. And I don't think either of us is good at pretending." Her pragmatism was absolute, her focus unwavering. She tapped a screen set into the table. It projected complex maps, swirling spheres of energy, and blood-red lines stretching across them like diseased veins.
"Devourers are coming," she explained, her voice hardening. "Mass migrations. Unorganised, but heavy. Our scouts saw a cluster moving through the Eastern Ridge. Fifteen to twenty, some even Second Order Chaotic Beings, a few approaching Third Order. They're getting bolder."
"Do you want them dead?" Lyriq asked, a simple, direct query.
"No," Asven immediately corrected. "I want time. Every day we breathe in this cursed existence is another day we might find something that explains what's happening. The Dominion Aeterna, the Collapse, the shifts in reality, the... unmaking of it all." She paused, her gaze settling on him once more. "And you. What do I want from you, Lyriq?"
She studied him, her expression shrewd. "You're not... like anything I've seen in my long life. You're an anomaly. So I want you to stay close. Observe. And maybe, just maybe, remind the others that even the worst monsters can bleed too. That even absolute things can be broken."
Lyriq's lips curved faintly, a subtle, chilling twist that was not a smile, but a predator's acknowledgement. "A monster to fight monsters. They always seek tools. Never understanding the tool might consume them, too".
That night, he wandered again, drawn by a cold curiosity to the Hollow Quarters, a district where most didn't go unless they were selling something, buying flesh, or killing time before the next, inevitable riftstorm tore through the city.
A woman found him there. Her name was Kalna. Her hair was the color of bloodied silk, and her skin was pale, bruised with tribal ink. Her eyes were red, but not the awakened red of power. It was the kind of red that came from crying for too long, from a soul worn raw.
She touched his chest, her fingers light against the armoured weave of his new coat. "You wear pain like perfume," she whispered, her voice husky.
He looked at her, his void eyes absorbing her. "And you?"
"I trade pleasure for a place to sleep," she answered, her voice devoid of shame, only exhaustion. "Want to buy my bed?"
He didn't speak. He simply turned, and she led him to a narrow tower just past the scream alleys, where the echoes of tormented souls still lingered in the air. Inside, the room was dusty, lit by the flickering glow of candlewax made from bone fat.
She kissed him, her lips soft against his. He let her. She pressed her body against his, a desperate, fleeting attempt at connection. He responded, not with lust, but with a cold, almost clinical curiosity. It was a study, a meticulous gathering of data on another human interaction.
Afterwards, she curled beside him, her breath a soft, wheezing sound in the quiet room. He lay still, observing her, the fleeting warmth of her body against his. The "study" was complete. The data gathered. And just as with Veyra, the profound, consuming boredom began to settle in.
He rose without a sound. He stared down at her, his expression utterly blank. Then his hand, with its newly developed claws, closed around her throat. There was no rage, no passion, no lingering affection. Only a cold, detached finality. He watched the spark vanish from her eyes, a flickering light extinguished. He whispered, his voice a low, rough rasp, "I wanted to know if it felt different. It doesn't."
She collapsed silently, her limbs slack, the room still warm with fading tension. He dressed, stepped outside into the chilling air. Above, the city breathed on, unaware that something terrible had quietly bloomed in its heart.
The next morning, the sky above Sector 17, perpetually sick with sepia and violet, was suddenly rent by a light none had seen in centuries. It was not golden, not holy, not the soft, comforting glow of a remembered sun. It was a thin, searing beam of violet-white that tore through the air like a scream made visible, a raw wound in the fabric of existence. It vanished in seconds, leaving only a lingering afterimage on the retina and a profound, unsettling silence in its wake.
Everyone saw it. From the highest battlements to the deepest, most shadowed alleys of the Hollow Quarters. No one understood it. Their minds, limited by their current reality, could not comprehend the scale of its origin or its purpose.
Except Lyriq.
A summons. A direction. He felt it deep in the core of his being, a resonance with the new shards nestled in his chest. It was not a message, not a command. It was a call, specifically for him, pulled from cosmic distances, a beacon to the next, higher form of unmaking. It was the universe itself, perhaps unknowingly, directing him toward his true function.
Later that night, he stood in the church ruins, the bones of a faith long since collapsed, crumbling beneath his boots. The shattered eye of a stained-glass seraphim stared down at him from above, empty and forgotten. There, under the oppressive weight of a dead god's house, Lyriq spoke. Not to anyone present. Not to the empty air. He spoke words that made no sense even to himself, sounds that resonated with the deepest, most ancient part of his soul, a language of absolute negation. Words that came from the depths of his Nyz'khalar being, flowing through him to something vast and incomprehensible.
He spoke to everything.
Meanwhile, somewhere deep in the cold, intricate veins of Sector 17, far beneath the scarred earth and the desperate hum of human survival, another cryo-pod hissed open. Not a violent awakening, but a controlled, almost surgical unsealing.
And a new thing began to breathe.
The hiss was almost imperceptible, a faint whisper of released pressure, easily lost in the ambient hum of Sector 17's failing systems. Far beneath the bruised sky, within a cavernous, forgotten sub-level of the city, shielded by layers of reinforced concrete and the silent passage of decades, a single cryo-pod stirred. It was not a violent, shattering emergence like Lyriq's, born of agony and external trigger. This was a controlled, almost surgical unsealing, a gentle exhalation after a long, enforced slumber.
Inside, suspended in a translucent, nutrient-rich gel that faintly glowed with a cool, blue light, a form began to stir. Her name was Astra. She was not a mutation, not a product of the current, chaotic decay. She was something ancient, something designed, a relic of a time before the Fall, before Lucifer's blight.
Her eyelids, heavy with the weight of centuries, fluttered open. Her vision, initially blurry and distorted by the fluid, slowly cleared. The world she perceived was not the vibrant, technological utopia she might have been designed for. It was a filtered, dimly lit chamber, a sterile womb carved from the very earth, punctuated by the rhythmic pulse of archaic life-support systems.
Cold. That was the first sensation that registered. A deep, bone-aching cold that permeated her core, a stark contrast to the ambient warmth of the gel. Her senses, keen and precise, began to register other things. The faint, metallic tang of recycled air. The distant, almost inaudible thrum of the city above, a low frequency that spoke of a thousand desperate lives clinging to existence. The whisper of circuits, old and weary, struggling to maintain their function.
She began to breathe. A shallow, experimental gasp at first, then deeper, drawing the filtered air into lungs that had been dormant for longer than human history remembered. Each breath was a new affirmation of life, a delicate counterpoint to the pervasive silence of her long sleep.
She pushed against the viscous gel, her limbs stiff but strong. Her movements were fluid, precise, betraying an inherent training despite the years of stasis. The pod's seal broke with another soft hiss, and the gel, like liquid sapphire, drained away, leaving her body slick and gleaming. She stood, bare and unblemished, her skin a smooth, unmarred canvas. Long, dark hair, unstyled but perfectly coiffed by her stasis, cascaded down her back like a midnight river. Her eyes, a striking, vibrant shade of emerald green, blinked slowly, taking in the alien environment. They held no fear, no confusion, only a profound, almost analytical curiosity.
System check. Parameters… anomalous. Environment… compromised. Directive… pending. Her thoughts were not a chaotic storm, but a calm, methodical processing of information, a stream of logical assessments.
She stepped from the pod, her bare feet making no sound on the cold, metallic floor. Her body, perfectly proportioned, radiated a quiet power, a latent energy waiting to be unleashed. She was built for a purpose, designed for a function that had, perhaps, been rendered obsolete by the world she now inhabited.
A display panel, embedded in the wall, flickered to life as she approached. Ancient data scrolled across its cracked surface. Dates. Protocols. Directives. And then, a single word, illuminated in stark, white light: Astra.
That was her name. A name that resonated deep within her core, not as a memory, but as a fundamental identifier.
Astra surveyed the chamber, her emerald eyes methodically cataloguing every detail. The cryo-pod, now empty, was a testament to a forgotten age of scientific advancement. The surrounding equipment, however, was clearly cobbled together, patched and jury-rigged with makeshift repairs. This was not the pristine, cutting-edge facility she should have awakened in. Compromise detected. Mission parameters likely altered. Adaptation required. Her internal logic flowed smoothly, already adjusting to the stark discrepancies between her programmed reality and the one she now faced.
She found a sealed locker and with a soft click, it opened at her touch. Inside, neatly folded, lay a single, dark suit. It was crafted from a sleek, form-fitting material that seemed to absorb all light, yet felt impossibly light and durable in her hands. It was designed for stealth, for movement, for the kind of precision work that her internal programming hinted at.
She dressed swiftly, the suit molding to her form like a second skin, enhancing her movements rather than restricting them. A subtle, internal energy shimmered across its surface as it powered up, a low hum resonating through her.
Within the locker, she also discovered a small, cylindrical device. It was a weapon, she instantly recognised, though unlike any she had seen in her pre-programmed knowledge. It was sleek, minimalist, and designed for efficiency. She grasped it, her fingers settling into the grooves naturally. It felt like an extension of her hand, a tool perfectly attuned to her purpose.
"Weaponry identified. Energy signature… unknown. Projectile type… uncertain". She raised it, testing its weight, its balance. A faint, electric crackle emanated from its tip. She lowered it, her movements economical.
She walked towards the single, heavy door leading out of the chamber. It was thick, reinforced, and designed to keep something in or out. Her hand pressed against its surface, her fingers instinctively searching for a control panel. There was none. Only solid, unyielding metal.
Barrier detected. Conventional egress denied.
Astra did not hesitate. Her internal analysis, drawing upon vast, dormant data banks, quickly presented alternatives. Her arm, encased in the sleek suit, moved with impossible speed. Her hand, instead of seeking a latch, slammed flat against the reinforced steel.
A concentrated burst of blue energy, visible only for a microsecond, erupted from her palm. The metal groaned, then buckled inward with a muted thud, leaving a perfect, unblemished handprint burned into its surface. Not a forceful impact, but a precise, molecular displacement.
She stepped through the newly created opening, into a long, dark corridor. The air grew heavier here, the scent of decay more pronounced. Distant sounds, distorted and alien, echoed through the gloom.
New environment. Threat assessment: incomplete. Data required.
Astra moved with a quiet, calculated grace, her every step silent. She was a being of purpose, a meticulously crafted instrument. What that purpose was, in this broken world, remained to be unveiled. But her core directives, long dormant, were now stirring.
The world outside her pod was a terrifying, beautiful contradiction. A place of cosmic rot and desperate, clinging life. A place where something named Lyriq stalked, driven by a hunger for unmaking. And Astra, pristine and purpose-built, was about to draw her first, true breath within it.