Chapter 9: Shadows in the Aftermath

The city smouldered in silence. What remained of the Fringe District was a desolate wasteland of crumbled buildings and scarred earth. The people who had survived the Herald's onslaught wandered aimlessly, their faces pale with shock. Above them, the sky had returned to its usual oppressive grey, the rift's eldritch glow now a faint memory.

Eryas stood at the epicentre of the destruction, his breaths coming in shallow gasps. The Relic lay heavy in his hand, its once-brilliant light now reduced to a dim, pulsating glow. The whispers were gone—for now—but their absence felt like a void in his mind, a silence more unsettling than their incessant murmur.

Behind him, Veyra's boots crunched over the rubble. "You look worse than the city," she said, her tone forcedly light.

Eryas didn't respond. His gaze was fixed on the horizon, where the Obsidian Spire had once stood. Its destruction had severed the Herald's connection to the world, but the cost had been staggering. Entire blocks were gone, and the survivors were few.

"I should've let it take me," he muttered, more to himself than to Veyra.

Veyra folded her arms, her expression darkening. "Don't start with that martyr nonsense. You stopped it. That's more than anyone else could've done."

"For now," Eryas replied, his voice hollow. "You heard it. This isn't over. The Veil isn't done with me."

The Warden Patrol

Their conversation was cut short by the distant hum of Hierarchy engines. Veyra's head snapped toward the sound, her hand instinctively reaching for her daggers.

"They're sweeping the area," she said. "Looking for survivors. Or witnesses."

"Or me," Eryas added grimly.

The Wardens appeared moments later, their hulking, mechanical forms marching through the wreckage. Flanked by squads of soldiers in black, they moved with an efficiency that betrayed no concern for the people they were supposed to protect.

One of the survivors stumbled into their path, a young woman clutching a child to her chest. She begged for help, her voice hoarse and desperate.

The lead Warden raised its arm, a cylindrical weapon emerging with a hiss of pressurized steam. Without hesitation, it fired.

The woman and child were gone, replaced by a smouldering crater.

Eryas's fists clenched, shadows flickering around him in response to his anger.

Veyra grabbed his arm. "Don't. We can't fight them right now."

He glared at her but forced himself to stand down. She was right. He was drained, and the Relic's power was unstable. Picking a fight now would only get them both killed.

"Come on," Veyra whispered, tugging him toward an alley.

The Underground Network

They moved through the labyrinthine backstreets, avoiding patrols and slipping into the Underground, a network of tunnels and safehouses used by rebels and outcasts. The air here was damp and thick with the smell of mildew, but it was safer than the surface.

The people they passed gave Eryas a wide berth. His reputation had grown since the incident at the Obsidian Spire, but it wasn't admiration he saw in their eyes. It was fear.

"Let them stare," Veyra said as they entered a dimly lit safehouse. "You saved their sorry hides. They'll get over it."

Eryas collapsed onto a makeshift bench, wincing as pain flared through his body. The transformation during his battle with the Herald had left its mark. His arm, still encased in jagged black armor, twitched uncontrollably, and his reflection in a cracked mirror revealed eyes that glowed faintly with an unnatural light.

"You're burning out," Veyra said bluntly, tossing him a flask.

"I'll manage," he replied, taking a swig. The liquid burned his throat, but it helped clear the fog in his mind.

"Will you?" she pressed. "Because from where I'm standing, you're one bad day away from becoming another one of those things."

Eryas didn't answer. He didn't need to.

The Council's Demand

Before Veyra could press further, the door to the safehouse creaked open. A figure stepped inside, cloaked in gray and wearing a mask that obscured their face.

"Eryas Draegon," the figure said, their voice cold and mechanical. "The Council of the Shattered Chain requests your presence."

Eryas groaned. "Of course they do."

"They're not happy," Veyra said, smirking. "Something about you breaking their precious Spire and drawing a Herald to the city."

"It was that or let the world burn."

The figure's gaze didn't waver. "The Council will determine if your actions were justified. You will come with me. Now."

Eryas exchanged a glance with Veyra, who shrugged. "Might as well get it over with."

The Judgment Hall

The Council of the Shattered Chain operated from the depths of the Underground, their headquarters a sprawling chamber carved into the bedrock. Torches lined the walls, casting flickering light on the masked figures seated in a semi-circle at the far end of the room.

Eryas stood before them, his shadows restrained by glowing manacles that pulsed with anti-eldritch energy. Veyra leaned casually against a pillar nearby, her presence more for moral support than anything else.

The central figure of the Council spoke first, their voice sharp and accusatory. "Eryas Draegon. You have brought ruin to the Fringe District and endangered countless lives. Your actions have drawn the attention of the Hierarchy and unleashed forces beyond comprehension. Explain yourself."

Eryas met their gaze, unflinching. "I did what I had to. If I hadn't destroyed the Spire, the Herald would've consumed the city—and everyone in it."

"And in doing so," another Council member interjected, "you've made yourself a target. The Hierarchy will hunt you, and so will the entities beyond the Veil."

"Let them try," Eryas said coldly.

The chamber fell silent. The Council members exchanged glances, their expressions unreadable behind their masks.

Finally, the central figure spoke again. "Your power is dangerous, Draegon. The Relic you wield is not meant for mortal hands. You are a liability to our cause."

"Then take it from me," Eryas challenged, his voice laced with defiance.

A tense pause followed.

"We cannot," the Council admitted. "But know this: if you lose control, we will not hesitate to end you."

The Next Mission

As they left the chamber, Veyra let out a low whistle. "That went well."

Eryas shot her a look. "What's next?"

She handed him a rolled-up map. "The Council's given you a choice. Either lay low and let the heat die down, or take the fight to the Hierarchy."

Eryas unrolled the map, his eyes scanning the marked locations. "And what's this?"

"Rumors of another Veil Shard," Veyra said, her tone serious. "If it's real, it could give us a fighting chance—or make things a whole lot worse."

Eryas stared at the map, the weight of the Relic in his hand reminding him of the price he'd already paid.

"I don't do 'lay low,'" he said finally.

"Good," Veyra replied with a grin. "Because things are about to get a lot worse."