The captain cleared his throat again and did not repeat the order.
He didn't need to.
The doors of the training area slammed shut behind them with a dull metallic thud, as if the barracks itself were exhaling in relief. The noise of swords, shouts, and discipline was left behind, replaced by a different kind of silence. More contained. More watchful.
Lux stretched his arms over his head, exaggeratedly relaxed.
"Well," he said. "That was entertaining. Almost educational. I learned at least three new ways not to challenge a mage."
Sunday shot him a dry look.
"You're taking this too lightly."
"Me?" Lux grinned. "Just a bit, yeah."
Kōri walked a few steps ahead of the group, her brow furrowed and her shoulders tense. She didn't look back. Her boots echoed with a steady, almost irritated rhythm.
Merlin hummed softly, clearly satisfied, twirling his wand between his fingers as if it were nothing more than a decorative object. Nero noticed something he didn't like: as they moved forward, soldiers and cadets instinctively stepped aside… especially when it came to Merlin.
It wasn't just fear.
It was learned rejection.
They turned down a corridor and stopped.
A man was waiting for them.
His hands were clasped behind his back, his posture flawless. His uniform was darker than standard issue, without visible insignia. He didn't look young, but neither did he look old.
An old scar crossed his jaw, clean and precise. His eyes were sharp, the kind belonging to someone who had survived too many difficult decisions.
"Resten," he said. "Follow me."
Lux opened his mouth, no doubt about to make some ill-advised remark.
Kōri drove an elbow into his ribs before he could make a sound.
Resten had already turned and started walking, not bothering to check whether they were following.
They did.
The path he took wasn't part of the barracks Nero recognized. Polished stone hallways gave way to narrower corridors, low ceilings, and rough walls. The torches here didn't emit warm light, but a dim glow tinged with blue.
This isn't decoration, Nero thought. This is functional.
The air grew colder with every step.
Lux subtly slowed his pace, positioning himself closer to the center of the group. His eyes scanned every intersection, every shadow.
"This isn't the administrative wing," he murmured.
"No," Merlin replied quietly. "It definitely isn't."
Sunday leaned slightly toward Nero.
"Do you think this is where they kill us quietly?"
"If that were the case," Nero answered, "we wouldn't still be walking."
They passed through a narrow archway where ancient symbols were carved directly into the stone. Nero didn't recognize them, but a subtle pressure formed in his head the longer he looked at them.
Merlin stopped twirling his wand.
"…Hm."
Just that. But it was enough.
Resten stopped in front of a smooth iron door, without insignia or guards. He pushed it open.
On the other side, there was no stone.
There was metal.
The walls were smooth, dark, faintly reflective, segmented by thin golden lines that pulsed slowly, as if the place itself were breathing. The floor emitted a low, constant hum.
Technology, Nero realized. But not modern. Nor ancient.
Victorian… but twisted.
"This place gives me a headache," Sunday muttered.
"It's full of seals," Merlin replied. "Layers upon layers. Whoever built this didn't trust anyone. Not even himself."
Resten kept moving.
The corridor was far too long for the space it should have occupied. Nero counted steps out of habit. When he reached fifty, he stopped.
Mild spatial distortion, he concluded. Intentional.
On both sides were sealed doors. Some bore numbers. Others symbols. One… had nothing.
Nero didn't like that one.
At the end of the corridor, the metal gave way to stone once more. The space opened into a circular chamber.
And there it was.
A staircase.
Wide. Ancient. Worn stone. A staircase built to last for centuries.
Or to hide secrets for centuries.
The temperature dropped abruptly.
Resten turned for the first time to face them directly.
"From here on," he said, his voice echoing, "you listen. You do not interrupt. And you do not touch anything without permission."
Lux raised an eyebrow.
"Sounds welcoming."
Resten's gaze locked onto him.
"I've buried men more pleasant than you."
Silence.
Nero felt it then.
That subtle pressure at the edge of his senses. It wasn't hostility. Nor killing intent.
It was authority and power.
Something… or someone… had noticed them from below.
Resten pointed toward the staircase.
"Sikan is waiting for you."
Kōri swallowed.
Sunday straightened his posture.
Lux's smile vanished for the first time.
Merlin stopped looking amused. Now he was curious. Focused.
And Nero…
Nero stared into the darkness opening beneath them.
Something down there mattered.
Not to the world.
To him.
He took the first step.
The staircase spiraled downward, each footstep echoing more than it should have. The walls changed with depth: the stone grew darker, threaded with veins of dim, irregular red light.
Like a pulse.
A heartbeat.
Not of the city.
Of something alive.
Nero's thoughts crowded in.
Mage. Sorcerer. Sinner. Instant rituals. Catalysts. And finally… Gods.
Whoever was waiting for them below wasn't there to answer questions.
He was there to create new ones.
The staircase made one final turn.
And ended.
The darkness before them… opened its eyes.
The staircase led into a chamber.
It wasn't stone.
It wasn't common metal.
It was absolute iron.
The walls, floor, and ceiling appeared forged from a single piece, without visible seams or imperfections. An artificial space, sealed, designed not to be inhabited… but to contain something.
At the center of the room floated a prism.
It didn't touch the floor.
It didn't touch anything.
Suspended in the air, it rotated slowly on its axis, emitting a constant wind that followed no natural logic. It didn't blow outward, but spiraled erratically, as if the air itself were being torn from space.
A thick, translucent crystal filled with internal markings surrounded it, forming a containment capsule. Across its surface, ancient runes and metallic circuits coexisted, layered over one another, as if magic and technology had been forced to cooperate.
The air around it was broken.
Not metaphorically.
Thin cracks opened and closed in space itself, distorting light and warping shadows. Every time the prism turned, the fractures vibrated, as if reality hesitated for a second before continuing to exist.
The group came to a dead stop.
No one spoke.
Sunday was the first to react, taking an instinctive step back.
"That… shouldn't exist."
Lux swallowed, for once without a joke ready.
"Tell me that's not what I think it is."
A shiver ran down Kōri's spine. Not from fear, but from something deeper. Something about the object felt… wrong.
Merlin wasn't smiling.
He wasn't joking.
His eyes were fixed on the prism, opened just a fraction wider than normal, as if he were staring at a masterpiece… or a perfect blasphemy.
"…This isn't just magic," he murmured. "It's a wound."
Nero said nothing.
He couldn't.
The wind raised goosebumps on his skin, but it wasn't cold or hot. It was empty. Every beat of his heart seemed to respond to the prism's pulse, synchronizing against his will.
He felt something familiar.
Something he didn't want to recognize.
Resten stepped aside.
And then, from the opposite shadow of the chamber, a figure stepped forward.
Sikan.
The captain looked different down here. Smaller… and at the same time, more serious. His face was rigid, devoid of arrogance or doubt.
He looked at the group.
Then at the prism.
Finally, he spoke.
"That," he said in a grave voice, "is a fragment of Zephyr."
The wind intensified for a second, as if reacting to its name.
Nero's eyes narrowed.
A fragment.
Not the whole.
And yet, this alone could break reality.
Sikan took a deep breath.
"And now," he continued, "I'm going to explain exactly what it is… and why, if anyone manages to fully activate it, this city will be the least of our problems."
The prism turned.
The cracks in the air widened by barely a centimeter.
And the darkness, silent, listened.