Ugly Faces

Darius fled the city, the anguished cries of the fallen ringing in his ears like a relentless toll. The faces of those he’d killed that night—etched with terror and betrayal—haunted his every step. He’d reached the outskirts, the air heavy with the scent of dust and regret, when a shrill alarm shattered the silence. Its piercing wail jolted him, confusion warring with a gnawing curiosity. Against the pull of his guilt, he turned back, drawn toward the chaos like a tide reclaiming the shore.

The city unfurled before him as a tempest of motion. Vanguards swarmed the streets, their armored silhouettes glinting under the fractured glow of streetlights as they hauled massive crates of Chronotite. The ground trembled faintly beneath their synchronized march, the metallic clatter of their gear a grim underscore to the rising panic. Darius’s pulse quickened as he wove through the disorder, his eyes fixed on the palace—a beacon amid the storm.