Varen crouched on the rooftop three buildings down from the shop, his body pressed against the cold metal of a ventilation unit. The slums of Nexus City sprawled below him—a maze of converted cargo containers, prefabricated structures, and jury-rigged buildings that had grown organically over decades. Neon signs flickered weakly in the perpetual twilight, casting sickly colors across rust-stained walls.
His hands trembled as he raised the scavenged optical scanner to his eye, the stolen tech whining softly as it focused on the shop's entrance. The device was old, half-broken, but functional enough to magnify distant figures.
Nothing. Again.
Varen lowered the scanner, his jaw clenching hard enough to make his teeth ache. Three days. Three days since he'd last seen his target.
The silver-haired boy had been spotted leaving the Governor's mansion two mornings ago—Varen's informant had been certain. Jade had returned to the shop district just after dawn, that distinctive hair catching the artificial light of the street lamps as they dimmed for day-cycle.
And then he'd vanished.
No public appearances. No trips through the market stacks. No ventures into the dungeon districts. The boy who'd been predictable as clockwork for four years had simply... disappeared.
Varen's body screamed at him to move, to act, to do something. The Berserker's Blood coursing through his veins made sitting still feel like torture. His muscles twitched with excess energy, his heart hammering against his ribs in an irregular rhythm that couldn't be healthy. His vision occasionally doubled at the edges, and a metallic taste coated his tongue.
Six months. Six months of injections. His body was breaking down, organs failing one system at a time. The underground healer he'd bribed had given him weeks—maybe a month if he stopped immediately.
But stopping meant losing his chance. Stopping meant Jade would remain alive, unpunished, while Varen's father rotted in an unmarked grave.
His alpha pheromones leaked into the air around him, thick and aggressive . The Berserker's Blood amplified everything—strength, speed, instinct—but it stripped away control. His scent no longer carried the natural authority of an alpha. It reeked of chemical corruption and desperation.
Movement below caught his attention. Varen snapped the scanner back up.
The shop's side door—the one leading to the converted living quarters where the apprentices stayed—opened briefly. A young woman emerged, carrying a bundle of laundry toward the communal washing units two buildings over. She moved quickly, head down, then disappeared back inside.
No silver hair. No Jade.
Varen's hands shook worse as he lowered the scanner again. Where was he? The living quarters were built into the shop structure itself—converted storage spaces and upper floors transformed into small apartments. If Jade was inside, he should be visible somewhere. Training in the courtyard. Moving between rooms. Something.
But there was nothing. Just apprentices going about their work, Niamh managing the front counter, that other boy—Lio—helping with orders.
Paranoia clawed at Varen's mind with chemical-sharp talons. Had Jade detected the surveillance somehow? Impossible—Varen had been careful, had learned patience through four years of watching. Had the Governor relocated him? But there'd been no official transport, no security escorts visible.
Maybe the boy had left the planet entirely. Maybe whatever business at the Governor's mansion had resulted in an opportunity offworld, and Varen's obsession would die with him in this slum, his revenge forever incomplete.
The thought made bile rise in his throat. Four years. Four years of surviving in the underworld, of degradation and violence and slow starvation, all sustained by the singular purpose of making Jade suffer. And it would all be for nothing if the boy had simply... left.
No. No, that couldn't be it. Jade's business was here. His people were here. He wouldn't just abandon everything without preparation, without signs of departure.
Which meant he was still in the city. Still within reach.
But where?
The sun—filtered through Nexarion's perpetual haze—began its descent toward the horizon. Varen had been on this rooftop since before dawn, watching, waiting, his body protesting the stillness even as his mind demanded patience.
He'd already injected twice today. More than his carefully rationed schedule allowed. But the waiting was unbearable, and the Berserker's Blood quieted the screaming anxiety even as it destroyed him from within.
Below, lights flickered on in the shop's windows. The front area glowed warm and inviting—a stark contrast to the cold metal and rust of the surrounding slums. Through the main window, Varen could see figures moving. Apprentices settling in for the evening. Niamh organizing something at the counter.
Still no Jade.
As true darkness fell—as much as it ever did on Nexarion, where light pollution never truly faded—Varen made his decision.
He couldn't wait anymore. Couldn't afford to hope Jade would magically reappear. His body was failing, time was running out, and every day of inaction was another day closer to dying without achieving anything.
He needed information. Needed to know where Jade was, what had happened, whether the boy was even still on-planet. And the only place that information existed was inside that shop.
Breaking in was risky. Jade's reputation meant the slum residents watched out for suspicious activity around his property. But Varen was past caring about risk. The Berserker's Blood made him feel invincible even as it killed him—a fitting contradiction.
He waited until the shop's upper windows went dark. Waited until the street below emptied of the last few residents heading to their homes. Waited until the only sounds were the distant hum of the city's power grid and the occasional clatter of machinery from the industrial sectors.
Then he moved.
Descending from the rooftop was easier than it should have been. He dropped from ledge to ledge, his shadow manipulation cushioning impacts that would have shattered normal bones.
The alley behind the shop was dark, lit only by a single flickering lamp that cast more shadows than light. Varen pressed himself against the wall, his senses straining for any sign of awareness, any indication he'd been spotted.
Nothing. Just the ambient sounds of the slums at night.
The back entrance—the one opening into the workshop area—was his target. Less visible from the street. Less likely to trigger immediate alarm if he was quick.
He approached the door, his shadow manipulation flaring as he examined the lock. Standard electronic mechanism, probably keyed to specific biometrics. In his old life, Varen had learned basic infiltration techniques—useful skills for a noble's son navigating political intrigue.
But that required finesse he no longer possessed. The Berserker's Blood had stripped away his capacity for delicate work, leaving only brute force.
He wrapped shadows around the lock. Then he pulled, yanking with enhanced strength.
The lock shattered. Metal twisted, electronics sparked, and the mechanism gave way with a sharp 'crack' that echoed down the alley.
Varen froze, his heart hammering, waiting for shouts or alarms or signs he'd been discovered.
Silence.
Slowly, carefully, he pushed the door open. It creaked softly—a sound that seemed impossibly loud in the quiet. The workshop beyond was dark, shapes of workbenches and equipment barely visible in the ambient light filtering through windows.
Varen stepped inside, his shadows spreading around him like protective tendrils, and began his search.
He moved through the workshop quickly, his enhanced senses cataloging everything. Shelves of alchemical supplies—bottles and vials organized with meticulous care. Workbenches covered in half-finished projects. The air thick with the scent of herbs and chemical compounds.
But no signs of Jade. No personal belongings that would indicate recent use. No equipment that suggested someone had been working here recently.
Frustration burned in Varen's chest, acidic and desperate. He needed something. Some indication of where the boy had gone. Some clue about what had happened.
He moved deeper into the shop, toward the living quarters. If Jade was confined somewhere—sick, maybe, or injured—he'd be in the converted apartments. Varen could search room by room, find him, finally see him after three days of maddening absence.
A sound from the storage area made him freeze.
Footsteps. Someone moving, getting closer. Probably investigating the noise from the broken lock.
Varen's shadows flared aggressively, coiling around his arms like serpents. If someone stood between him and finding Jade...
Well. Varen would do what was necessary.
His hand moved to the pocket where the last vial of Berserker's Blood waited—his final insurance, his trump card. Not yet. Not unless he needed it.
He positioned himself in the shadows near the doorway and waited for whoever was coming.
....