Darkness did not release him at once.
It thinned slowly, like smoke peeling away from dying embers, and Aras drifted upward through it as though rising from the bottom of a deep, forgotten sea. Sounds reached him first—muffled, distant, wrapped in layers of dust and stone. A low rumble. A metallic scrape. A faint, rhythmic tapping.
None of it belonged to anywhere he knew.
He was no longer on a city street.No longer kneeling on cracked asphalt.He wasn't anywhere that made sense.
His body floated in a weightless haze until sensation returned as a heavy pressure pinning him against something cold and uneven.
Stone.
His fingers twitched, brushing across a rough, grainy surface—like ash pressed into rock. The air he inhaled was dry and metallic, carrying the scent of scorched earth and something older, deeper… something that felt ancient enough to have memory.
A voice whispered at the edge of his consciousness.
Not the voice from the falling light.This one was new—quiet, deliberate, steady.
"Still breathing. Good."
Aras tried to open his eyes.The world answered with a shimmering gray blur,as though he were peering up from beneath rippling water.
He blinked again.
The haze sharpened.
A ceiling revealed itself—dark stone streaked with soot, cracked by time or something rougher. To his right pulsed a faint source of light. Not fire. Not electricity. Something else entirely—an ashen glow, dim yet strangely alive, flickering without heat.
His breath dragged unevenly.His throat was dry.The taste of ash coated his tongue.
"Try not to move too fast," the voice said again.
Aras turned his head toward the sound.It took effort—his body felt heavier than it should, as though gravity here obeyed a different rule.
A face emerged from the dimness.
A young woman, sharp-featured, with dark hair streaked in gray dust. Her eyes—deep, vigilant, and faintly luminous in the ash-glow—studied him with equal parts caution and curiosity. A short obsidian blade hung at her hip.
"You're awake," she said. "That's… rare. People don't usually wake up in the Ashcell."
Aras parted his lips to speak,but the only sound that escaped was a dry rasp.
She knelt beside him and offered a small clay cup.The liquid inside shimmered faintly, gray as mist.
"Drink. You'll need it. The air down here drains strength from outsiders."
Aras drank. The liquid was cool, cleaner than it looked. As it passed down his throat, a burning pulse shot through his chest—the exact spot where the gray light had struck him. He hissed softly and pressed a hand against the ache.
The woman noticed.
"Right," she muttered. "The mark."
Her expression darkened."That's not good news."
Aras swallowed hard, voice scraping out in broken pieces:
"Where… am I?"
The woman stood slowly, listening to something beyond the walls—something Aras couldn't hear. Only after a moment did she answer.
"You're beneath Ashmount," she said."In the lower chambers… the Ashcell."
His confusion must have shown, because she added:
"You're not in your world anymore.Not the one you remember."
A deep vibration rolled through the stone floor—a low, guttural thrum that made the dust tremble.The woman's eyes narrowed. She reached for her obsidian blade.
"They're moving," she whispered."We don't have much time."
Aras pushed himself up on shaking arms.The world tilted for a moment,as though the darkness itself leaned toward him in recognition.
Lira's gaze snapped to him.
"Stay close if you want to live," she said."And try not to make any noise.If they realize you're marked…"
Another rumble.Closer.
Aras's heart tightened.
"If who realizes?" he asked.
Lira didn't look at him.
"The ones who collect the fallen," she said softly."The Ashbound."
The chamber darkened as something massive passed beyond the stone walls, shaking dust loose in a slow, ominous spill.
Aras rose unsteadily to his feet.
The Ashcell was waking up.
And it had felt him arrive.