They walked away from the blaze without looking back.
Not out of callousness, nor pride—but because neither Nyxia nor Perseus could bear to see what the fire was doing to the bodies. The bound figures didn't scream. They didn't writhe. They simply watched.
Even as the flames began to curl up their skin and catch in their hollow hair, those unblinking eyes stayed fixed on the pair moving through the haze.
Nyxia could feel them—those burning sockets locked on her back. Not pleading. Not accusing.
Just… watching.
The stench was worse than death. A thick, suffocating brew of charred flesh and oil, alchemical rot, Hollow-bloom resin, and wet stone. The smoke wasn't black—it rolled in waves of sickly violet that shimmered like fevered illusions at the edge of sight, crawling into the corners of their vision as if trying to nest inside their minds. It smelled of broken promises, of half-finished prayers and void-touched dreams. Of what came after hope died but before pain ended.
Perseus walked beside her, jaw tight, silent but burning from the inside. The shard he carried earlier had left a mark on him, Nyxia was sure of it—not physical, but deep in his expression, in the weight behind each of his steps.
Even Loque didn't growl. The spectral leopard walked behind her, close enough that his fur brushed the backs of her calves every so often, as if anchoring her with each ghostlike touch. His breath came in faint, rhythmic huffs, and his eyes—glowing with soft blue fire—remained fixed behind them, watching what she would not.
When they reached the arterial causeway leading back toward Boo's den, the city itself seemed quieter. As if Serath'Kai had taken a breath, holding it, waiting to see what would come next. The usual hiss of steam vents and distant grind of gears were hushed now, distant murmurs behind the weight of their silence.
They descended the final coil of the iron spiral that led to Boo's sanctuary.
The guards stationed there didn't move, didn't question. They knew better now.
Inside, the scent of bloodwine and smoldering incense tried—weakly—to veil the stench clinging to their clothes and skin. But it couldn't fool the senses of those who had walked through fire and ash. Not them. Not anymore.
Boo was waiting.
She stood this time, not lounging as she often did, but poised—half-draped in a sheer robe of burnt silk that rippled in the heat of nearby lanterns. Her skin shimmered with candlelight and the faint glimmer of etched runes across her collarbones. One leg crossed behind the other, poised like a blade before its strike.
Her eyes scanned them, lingering a moment longer on Nyxia's armor and the soot-smudged fur of Loque.
"Tell me you didn't bring me another headache," she murmured.
Perseus stepped forward and dropped the scorched data shard onto her table.
"We found the smugglers," he said. His voice was hollow, dry. "And what they were really moving."
Nyxia stepped beside him, armor still faintly vibrating with some memory of violence. "We burned it."
Loque padded forward too, sitting between them and Boo. His tail coiled protectively around Nyxia's ankle. He exhaled—an exhausted, mournful sound, like wind stirring over graves.
Boo's gaze dropped to him, then returned to Nyxia. Something passed behind her expression.
"I had it examined," Boo said, moving slowly to the back wall where a glowing projection hovered above a rune-marked array of chalk and silver. "Your earlier prize—the shard? It wasn't just an artifact. It was part of a larger ritual. Something old."
Perseus frowned. "Older than the Hollow?"
Boo turned, her face solemn. "Older than the Void."
She tapped a rune with two fingers.
The image expanded. A fractal network of glowing lines, runes, and root-like spirals burst outward like veins or teeth. Ancient, wrong, mesmerizing.
"The Vault isn't a tomb," she continued. "It's a cradle. A birthing ground. And what it's meant to release…" Her words trailed off like smoke curling toward the ceiling.
Nyxia's hand curled into a fist. Her armor responded, the plates flexing tight over her knuckles.
"Ves'Sariel," she muttered.
Boo's smile was all teeth. Her eyes, however, were dead as the stone underhoof. "She's just the midwife."
A beat of silence passed. The runes painted long, jagged shadows across their faces. Loque let out a low, uneasy growl.
Then Boo turned sharply, striding to her desk.
"I've begun assembling my own team," she said, her voice shifting—crisp, efficient, like war drums echoing down a tunnel. "You're not going in alone. Not this time. Not if what's down there is what I think it is."
She snapped her fingers.
From the far curtain, a figure emerged—a knife dancer, thin but wired with deadly energy, face half-masked, a dozen daggers visible and just as many surely hidden. Behind him, a priestess stepped forward, her eyes clouded with smoke and memory, her breath slow and laced with ritual toxins. Last came a man wrapped in technomage robes, fingertips alight with circuit-scribed sigils and ancient code.
"Talon, Mirell, Cipher," Boo said. "My crew."
Perseus studied them, his jaw working. "Mercenaries?"
"Survivors," Boo corrected. "Each of them lost something when Ves'Sariel betrayed this city."
Nyxia tilted her head. "And you?"
Boo met her gaze, unblinking. "I lost someone.."
That silence hit harder.
Even Loque seemed stiller than usual, his ears pinned back.
Then Boo turned to the projection, expanding it again. The lines pulsed now, slowly—like something breathing underground.
"Rest tonight," she said. "We move before dawn. The Vault's shadows are growing long—and we need to outrun whatever Ves'Sariel is birthing in the dark."
Nyxia stepped forward. Her armor didn't whisper this time. It growled.
The chamber emptied slowly.
Talon vanished like a knife flicked into shadow. Mirell lingered just long enough to offer a whispered prayer in a language older than sin. Cipher nodded once to Perseus, and again to Nyxia—with a glance toward Loque—and stepped into the hum of Boo's sanctuary.
The projection blinked.
Then faded.
Boo lingered by the desk. "Rest. While the city still lets you."
The door to their suite clicked shut.
And the silence that followed was suffocating.
Nyxia didn't speak as she peeled off her gauntlets, the dried ichor tearing from her skin in tacky threads. The armor still vibrated faintly. Dormant. Waiting.
Perseus set his hammer aside with a grunt, stretching his neck. "You believe her?"
Nyxia glanced toward the closed door. "I believe she wants Ves'Sariel dead. That might be the closest thing to truth we'll ever get down here."
Above them, the glowstones dimmed to amber. Outside, Serath'Kai flickered and twitched like a dying machine pretending to be a city.
They each found a corner of the divan. Nyxia curled in, eyes fixed on nothing. Perseus leaned back, arms crossed, his gaze unfocused.
Loque didn't settle. He paced, slow and careful, then circled around her feet like smoke tracing ritual wards. When he finally lay down, it was against her back, a pulse of warmth anchoring her to the now.
Eventually, the quiet became something gentler.
Eventually, the dark became too thick to notice.
And that's when it began.
Not in shadow.
But in memory.
A hush of moonlight. A scent of wildflowers.
A voice, uncertain and warm. She reached out, her fingers brushing the edge of his jaw.
Perseus opened his eyes.
It was her.
Not Nyxia.
Ves'Sariel.
Smiling.