The Wrath of the Fell

A low, steady thrum filled the thieves' amphitheater, an undercurrent of tension woven into the hushed whispers and scattered conversations. Shadows danced in the dim light of the bar as rumors spread like wildfire, voices dipping to avoid tempting ill omens. Mirak sat hunched over his bowl of soup, his hood pulled low to obscure his face. He clenched his spoon tightly, forcing himself to focus on the faint steam curling from his meal. It was easier to concentrate on something mundane than the storm brewing around him.

"You heard the news?" Kord muttered, his voice barely audible over the hum of unease.

Lock leaned closer, his tone equally cautious. "The amphitheater in the First District burned to ash last night. They say nothing survived except the entrance to the labyrinth. And standing in the rubble was him—Solomon Fell, the Son of the Heavens."

The weight of the name dropped like a stone, silencing the whispers around them. Even the most brazen thieves and hardened brawlers shifted uncomfortably, their postures stiff with dread. It was as though a match dangled precariously over a barn full of dry hay, everyone bracing for the inevitable spark. If Solomon Fell had entered the Third District, it was only a matter of time before someone paid the price.

Mirak's grip tightened around his spoon. "Solomon is on the move, then," he said evenly, though his pulse quickened.

"This isn't something to brush off, Mirak," Kord hissed.

Lock shrugged, but the tension in his shoulders betrayed his nonchalance. "Koona's sprawling with thief amphitheaters. If Solomon's really here, he'd have to search all night just to find this one."

As if summoned by the arrogance of the statement, the thug stationed by the door came crashing through the back counter, splinters and shards of wood flying in every direction. The amphitheater fell into a deafening silence as the unmistakable scent of charred wood and burning ozone filled the air. All eyes snapped to the entrance, where heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed with a predator's patience.

The white-haired figure entered with an ease that was far more unsettling than aggression. Solomon Fell swept a hand through his hair, brushing loose strands from his face. "Sorry about the mess," he said casually, his amethyst eyes gleaming with faint amusement. "This gentleman here decided I didn't look like I belonged. Can you believe that?"

No one moved. No one dared. Even Mirak, who had prepared for this moment in a hundred different ways, felt the sharp edge of Solomon's presence like a blade pressed to his throat. The Son of the Heavens surveyed the room with calm precision, and then, as though delivering a verdict, he smiled.

"Perfect," Solomon said, his voice a soft hum of satisfaction. "You don't know how hard it is to find the little jewels buried in all this trash."

That was all it took. The tension snapped, and a flood of thieves and brawlers surged toward Solomon. The amphitheater erupted into chaos as chairs splintered and fists flew. But Solomon didn't so much as flinch. He moved like a shadow, effortlessly weaving between the attackers, his blows precise and devastating. Each strike sent bodies crumpling to the floor, their momentum turned against them in an instant. The smell of scorched flesh and burning wood grew stronger as Solomon's movements slowed, the last few challengers lying in broken heaps at his feet.

"We need to leave," Kord whispered, his voice sharp with urgency.

Lock and Mirak rose as one, shuffling toward the exit. Solomon's laughter rang out behind them, rich and unhurried, as though he were savoring every second of their panic. "You're not going anywhere," he called, his tone light but laced with unmistakable menace.

Lock flicked his blades free. "Think we can get out of this?"

"No," Mirak said flatly. He met Lock's eyes. "Neither of you would last two minutes against him. Go. Now."

"I'm not leaving," Lock snapped, his blades gleaming under the dim light.

"Neither am I," Kord added, his jaw set. "I'm not much of a fighter, but I'll slow him down."

Mirak swallowed the rising dread. "Fine," he said through gritted teeth, his mind racing. "Kord, get a sample of his blood—just one scratch. That's all we need for Lock to track him. Then you run."

Kord's voice brushed against his mind as their Atta link solidified. "What's the plan after that?"

Mirak didn't respond. He couldn't. There was no plan that ended with their victory.

Solomon stepped forward, steam rising faintly from his skin. His amethyst eyes burned with a quiet intensity that rooted Mirak to the spot. This was no playful noble looking to toy with his prey. This was Solomon in his element, his body coiled with lethal precision.

Lock moved first, darting forward with impressive speed, his blades aiming for Solomon's throat. The attack barely registered. Solomon sidestepped with ease, delivering a single punch to Lock's nose that sent him reeling. Blood streamed down Lock's face as Kord caught him before he could collapse.

"Stay back," Mirak ordered, his voice strained. He wove Atta into thin lines, sending them crackling toward Solomon in a desperate attempt to slow his advance. The energy hissed and sparked, only to fizzle out inches from Solomon's body. The transference system surrounding him was intricate, layered, and unyielding.

"You've improved," Solomon remarked, his voice devoid of mockery. "But you're still weak."

Mirak shot another burst of Atta, this time angling the energy to pierce Solomon's defense. The effort cost him—pain lanced through his chest as Solomon closed the distance in a blur. A single blow slammed into Mirak's ribs, cracking them with ease and sending him flying through the wall. The impact left him gasping, his vision swimming. But he felt it: a thin trail of blood trailing from Solomon's foot where the last strand of Atta had landed.

Kord, Mirak sent through their link. "Take the blood and run. I'll hold him off."

Solomon stepped through the debris with a sigh. "This isn't freedom, Mirak," he said, his tone almost regretful. "This is delusion."

Mirak's only response was to push himself to his feet and run. The cobbled streets of Koona stretched out before him, but he didn't dare look back. His breath came in short, ragged gasps as he rounded a corner, slamming into piles of trash in his haste. He braced himself against the wall, his hands fumbling to activate the mechanism on his arm.

"It took you longer than it should have," Solomon's voice drifted from the rooftop above. Mirak's heart sank as he looked up to see the white-haired man standing there, the storm whipping his jacket.

"I wanted to make sure I wasn't followed," Mirak replied hoarsely.

Solomon tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. "Did it work?"

Mirak swallowed hard. "No. I'm still talking to you."

Solomon sighed, turning his gaze to the amphitheater below. "You think this is freedom? The Revenant? All it's done is chain you in a different way."

Solomon raised his hand, his palm facing the amphitheater. Electricity crackled in the air, forming a ball of raw power. It expanded in a heartbeat, a searing sphere of light that obliterated the amphitheater in a flash. The Lunar Storms themselves seemed to cower before the surge, retreating as if in fear.

When the light faded, only smoldering ruins remained. Solomon lowered his hand, turning to Mirak. "This is what you're up against. You'll never be free unless you can match this."

Mirak found his voice. "What did you give up to become this?"

For the first time, Solomon paused. His expression softened, and for a fleeting moment, Mirak thought he saw a glimmer of regret in those amethyst eyes. "Everything," Solomon said quietly. "Everything."

Without another word, Solomon walked away, leaving Mirak to stare at the ruins and wonder if freedom was worth the price.