The darkness came almost as fast as the sleep did.
First, there was blue flame, erupting behind the silhouettes of two figures. They were dark shells of what they once were, like he should have known them, but he couldn't make out their features. It was as if their bodies were made of black smoke, twisting and trailing as they ran toward him.
"Soren… I'm sorry. This isn't your fault. You couldn't have known."
The smoke spoke.
Pain burned across Soren's back, sharp and wrong in a way he couldn't understand, and his face was wet with tears. The angle of their height, the way they loomed over him, made it clear.
He was young.
He tried to speak, to ask what was happening, but no words came. The smoke figure continued.
"They will look for you, but you cannot let them find you. I wish we had more time to explain, but we don't."
The figure glanced back over its shoulder, urgency rippling through its form. Then it reached up, tearing something from its neck, and pressed it into Soren's hand.
"I had this made just in case we didn't have the time," it said. "Hold onto it and run. It won't make sense now, but someday it will. You need to understand why this happened. You need to be strong."
Soren looked down and saw only a cloud of black. He couldn't remember what it was.
The smoke leaned closer.
"You are my son. One day, you will be strong. Protect those who need protecting. Put an end to this."
The second figure stepped forward, long black smoke flowing from her head like hair caught in a storm.
"Just know that I love you," she said softly. "Be strong."
She placed both hands on his head.
His skull crackled with an unknown power, a violent pressure that shattered his thoughts into fragments. The world split apart.
As sleep dragged him under once more, his body falling back into someone's arms, he saw one last shape through the blur.
A tall figure crowned in blue flame.
Its fists burned with the same fire as it strode toward the two smoke figures, each step heavy and inevitable.
Soren's vision faded as the distance between them grew, and the darkness took him again.
When Soren awoke, he was drenched in a deep, clinging cold sweat, his clothes soaked through from the terror of the dream. His eyes burned, raw from tears, and there was an ache in his chest he couldn't place, tight and hollow all at once.
Were those his parents? Why had he never remembered them before?
As he shifted to rise from his bed, pain flared across his back, sharp and sudden, like the burning from the dream had followed him into the waking world.
Soren sucked in a breath and pushed himself upright. He crossed the room quickly, the first pale light of dawn spilling through the window as he reached the washroom. His hands shook as he peeled off his sweat-soaked shirt and turned toward the mirror, angling his body to see his back.
A dark mark had surfaced on his skin.
Faint at first, almost shadowed, it spread from the upper right portion of his back, rising over his shoulder and curving down toward the left side of his upper arm. The lines were not flat or random. They twisted and flowed with deliberate symmetry, as though they had been etched into him rather than formed.
As he stared, the pattern seemed to deepen, the black lines resolving into an intricate crest. Old. Regal. A spiral formed at its center, curling outward in layered arcs that tapered along his shoulder and down his arm, ending just above his bicep. It did not glow, but it felt warm, like something beneath the skin was stirring.
Soren swallowed.
"What is this?" he whispered.
His reflection offered no answers.
Why now? Why all at once? The dreams, the memories, this mark burned into his skin.
A loud pound at the door made him flinch.
He really should have gotten a sword.
A woman's voice, aged and sharp with concern, called through the door. "Soren, are you all right in there? My niece was still hoping you might show her around the Middle District today."
Relief washed through him.
"Yes, sorry," Soren called back. "I slept in a little too late. Give me a few minutes and I'll be right out."
"Thank you again, dear," Mrs. Harper replied. "I'll let her know to be ready."
Soren let out a slow breath and looked back at the mark on his skin, the spiral resting quietly against his shoulder. He needed to start finding some answers, but that would need to wait.
He rinsed off quickly in the basin and dressed in one of his nicer sets of clothes: a light white shirt and plain black pants. The boots he pulled on were the same ones he always wore, the only pair he owned.
When he opened the door, that was when he saw her for the first time, and the breath caught in his chest before he could stop it.
It wasn't that Soren hadn't been around women before, but she looked different somehow, and he couldn't quite place why. Her long blonde hair shone as though it had just been washed, and the bright purple sundress she wore felt almost out of place in the Lower District. Hanging just above her chest was a necklace set with an ornate obsidian crystal, its surface so dark it seemed deeper than black.
Calling her beautiful felt like an understatement.
"Soren?" Her smile was already warm. "My great-aunt has told me so much about you. My name is Elira, and it is divine to meet you."
There was an ease to her, a brightness that didn't feel practiced. She spoke like someone who hadn't been worn down by the Lower's edges, who still expected the world to meet her halfway. Definitely not from here.
Soren smiled back, deliberately pushing the thought of the mark on his back out of his mind. "The pleasure is mine. I'll be happy to be your tour guide this morning. The good news is that pretty ladies get tours for free."
"Oh, deary," Mrs. Harper said with a laugh, "you're just as smooth as ever."
Elira laughed too and stepped closer without hesitation, her hand closing around his. It was warm, but unexpectedly rough, the faint callouses catching against his palm before she let go and turned toward the stairs, already moving as though the decision had been made.
They walked side by side toward the Middle District gate, and Soren noticed the looks almost immediately. Not staring, not openly, just glances that lingered a second too long before people caught themselves and looked away. A vendor paused mid-motion as they passed, eyes flicking toward Elira before returning to his stall. A group of kids near the corner went quiet, tracking the flash of purple until she was behind them.
Elira walked easily, unhurried, like the street had no claim on her at all. Soren adjusted his stride to stay beside her, suddenly aware of how they looked together. He'd walked these streets his entire life, but they had never felt quite like this.
"So," she said casually, glancing his way, "is it always this quiet in the mornings?"
"Depends on the day," Soren said. "And the street."
"You do this often?"
"What, walk?"
"No," he said, a grin tugging at his mouth. "Get stared at."
She laughed, light and unbothered. "Should I be offended?"
"Not usually," Soren said. "Just not used to it."
As they neared the gate, the guard straightened when he saw her. Not much, but enough. His gaze lingered on the obsidian necklace before he waved them through without a word, and Soren felt it then, clear as the weight of the badge on his chest. If you looked the part, people stopped asking questions.
The noise of the Lower faded behind them as they passed into the Middle District. The streets widened, the stone cleaner beneath their feet, the air carrying faint scents of oil and flowers instead of sweat and rot. Elira slowed, turning in a lazy circle, her dress spinning a soft arc of purple.
"It's quieter than I expected," she said. "Not peaceful. Just… held back."
"People here don't like attention," Soren replied.
"And yet they notice everything," she said, smiling.
"You catch on quick."
They walked a few steps before she asked if he'd lived in the Lower his whole life. "Pretty much," he said. "Worked there too."
"For Master Ellric."
He raised an eyebrow. "You really did your homework."
"My aunt talks," she said lightly. "A lot."
"Seems right."
After a moment she asked if it bothered him, being so close to the inner districts. He thought about it. "Used to. After a while, you stop thinking about what you don't have."
"And start thinking about what you do."
"Or what keeps food on the table and makes things a little easier."
She hummed softly, filing it away. They passed a pair of merchants who lowered their voices as Elira walked by, and this time she noticed, glancing back with mild curiosity.
"People keep looking at us," she said. "Is that normal?"
"For me?" Soren grinned. "Yeah. Every time I come through here, all the women can't help staring at how handsome I am."
She gave him a wry smile, then laughed. "I think you're very handsome, sir."
He hesitated. "But no. This time it's different," Soren said. "Like they can't look away, even if they want to."
"Strange," she murmured, watching the street.
They walked on. She asked what he did when he wasn't running deliveries, and he gave the same answer he always did: stay out of trouble, fix things, help where he could.
"That's vague."
"That's honest," he shot back.
She laughed. "Fair enough."
A few steps later she asked if he'd ever wanted more. More than the city. More than running between walls. Everyone wants more, he said. Most people don't get it. He got enough. Most days.
She studied him then, sharper now. "You don't talk like someone who's never had anything taken from him."
"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked.
"Nothing bad," she said quickly. "Just an observation."
They turned down a quieter street, and after a moment she asked about dreams. Not normal ones, she clarified, but the kind that felt heavier, like they left something behind when you woke up. Soren slowed, his steps faltering. She took another step before noticing and turned back, her expression open, almost curious.
"You don't have to answer."
"Why are you asking?" he said.
"I like understanding people," she replied. "Especially ones who don't quite fit where they're standing."
"You ask a lot of questions."
"Only the interesting ones."
"If you're looking for something," Soren said, starting forward again, "you won't find it by poking at people."
"Maybe," she said softly. "Or maybe I already know what I'm looking for."
Soren didn't reply, but the feeling that she wasn't just sightseeing settled deeper in his chest as the Upper District wall rose ahead of them, towering stone built to keep the world out. He glanced up, thinking of the stories he'd heard, of people living like royalty behind it.
"It's not as nice as you think," Elira said from just over his shoulder. "It's almost the opposite of the Lower. People there expect everything and want you to do everything for them."
Soren turned back, ready to catch her grin, and saw him.
The guard from the Lower District stepped into view behind her, the same one Soren had tossed into the trash the day before. His armor was still dented, his expression twisted with something between anger and satisfaction.
"I see you brought me a nice little prize," the guard said, his hand settling on the hilt of his sword. "You cost me a good bit of coin yesterday. Embarrassed me, too." His eyes slid to Elira. "Figure that earns me some payback. And maybe a little time with your lady."
It clicked all at once. The space. The quiet. The thinning crowds near the Upper wall. He'd followed them.
"Run," Soren shouted.
He grabbed Elira's hand and bolted, boots pounding against the stone as they cut into the narrow alley between the Upper wall and the clustered houses beyond it. The walls closed in fast, sound echoing sharp and hollow. They didn't get far. Soren slipped on loose stone as he took the corner too hard, panic finally catching up to him. His grip broke. He heard the shout before he saw anything, ugly and raw, followed by the scrape of steel being drawn too late.
"Elira—"
He turned in time to see her stepping toward the guard.
"No!" Soren yelled.
She was already moving. Not rushing. Not hesitating. The knife appeared in her hand like it had always been there. One clean step forward, a twist of her wrist, and the blade slid into the guard's side just beneath the ribs. He gasped, a wet, broken sound, eyes wide as he staggered back into the alley wall. The crude, rusted sword slipped from his grip and clattered across the stone. Blood spread fast, darkening his uniform.
Soren's breath caught in his throat.
This wasn't the Elira who laughed easily. This wasn't the woman who walked the streets like nothing could touch her. Her face was calm now, focused, almost bored as she pulled the blade free and stepped back. The guard slid down the wall, coughing, one hand clawing uselessly at the stone. His other hand lashed out blindly and caught at her chest.
The necklace.
The obsidian crystal cracked beneath his grip with a sharp, hollow sound. The air around Elira rippled as a dark shroud peeled away from her body like smoke caught in a sudden wind, tearing free in strips. Her shape blurred, stretched, then settled again, wrong in a way Soren's mind couldn't make sense of.
The woman was gone. In her place stood a hooded man, taller and broader, his features sharp and hard, like they'd been carved rather than grown. Dark eyes locked onto Soren, cold and calculating.
The guard stared up at him, horror dawning too late. "What… what are you—"
The man didn't answer.
A low sound rolled through the alley, deep and vibrating, felt more than heard. Soren turned just in time to see them step out of the shadows: two four-legged shapes, hairless and lean, skin stretched tight over muscle and bone. Their eyes burned low and red, fixed on the dying man like he was already meat.
The hooded man took a single step back, giving them space.
The guard screamed as the dogs leaped upon him.