Echoes of the Failed

Kael awoke to suffocating darkness.

The air was thick, clinging to his skin like damp cloth, carrying the scent of something old—something forgotten. His body felt off, his limbs sluggish, unresponsive, as if they weren't entirely his own. A dull pulse throbbed beneath his skin, centered around his mark, not painful, but… wrong.

For a fleeting moment, he wasn't sure if his body was even real.

Then a voice cut through the haze, distant but insistent.

"Kael—wake the hell up!"

A faint glow illuminated the space—Ronan's blade. Its silver light flickered, pushing back the darkness just enough for Kael to see.

They were still underground. The tunnels stretched endlessly in either direction, but something about them had changed. The very air felt heavier, pressing down on his lungs like unseen hands.

And then he saw them.

Figures stood around them, motionless, lingering in the dim glow of Ronan's weapon.

Kael's breath hitched. They weren't human.

Not entirely. Their shapes shifted in unnatural ways, bodies distorted, caught between states of existence. Some were half-formed—unfinished, as if something had stopped midway through creating them.

Their faces were vague, mere impressions of human features stretched over dark voids.

They didn't move.

They didn't breathe.

They only watched.

Kael's pulse pounded against his skull. The silence in the tunnel was suffocating. It wasn't the kind of quiet that signaled peace, but the kind that preceded something terrible.

Ronan took a slow step back, his usual composure fractured. "The hell are those…"

One of the figures twitched.

Then another.

And then—one of them reached for Kael.

The moment its formless hand extended, the mark on his arm flared violently, burning hot beneath his skin. His vision blurred—

A Sudden Flood of Visions, Screaming.

The sound of bones breaking. Flesh twisting into impossible shapes.

A ritual, conducted beneath a sky that bled shadows.

Figures, kneeling in worship—or in fear—before an ancient tower, a monolith shrouded in mist and forgotten by time. Its black stone pulsed, veins of crimson light coursing through its surface, like the beating heart of something alive.

The air was thick with whispers.

Aetheris… Aetheris… Aetheris…

Kael staggered, gasping for air. He could feel the weight of unseen gazes pressing against him, their voices slipping into the marrow of his bones.

He tried to focus—tried to pull himself out of the vision—but the shadows collapsed toward him, rushing forward in a tide of writhing darkness—

Then he was back.

Kael hit the cold stone floor, his chest heaving. The figures were gone—but they hadn't left.

They had fused with his mark, drawn into him like ink soaking into parchment.

Ronan stood over him, his expression unreadable. His fingers were tight around his weapon, but Kael could tell—he didn't know what to do.

Kael swallowed hard, pushing himself upright. His hands trembled. "What—" His voice cracked. "What the hell just happened?"

Ronan didn't answer immediately. He looked around instead, scanning the tunnels, his usual confidence absent. "The informant…?"

Kael followed his gaze. The informant was gone. There was no sign of struggle. No body. No blood. Just emptiness.

Ronan exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah. We're leaving. Now."

Kael barely registered his words. The whispers had stopped, but something lingered in his mind. A presence. A weight.

A name—Aetheris.

His name.

But spoken with a meaning he didn't yet understand.

The tunnels stretched endlessly before them, but as they walked, Kael could hear things—things he shouldn't be able to.

The faintest murmur of voices from the streets above.

The drip of water from somewhere far beyond sight.

Even the heartbeat of something unseen in the dark.

At first, he thought it was just his paranoia, but no. He wasn't imagining it. His senses were… shifting.

The shadows at the edges of his vision moved too much, even when nothing was there.

Then, as they passed a rusted metal panel, Kael caught sight of his own reflection—only for his eyes to betray him.

For just a flicker of a moment, they weren't his.

The pupils were wrong, stretching out unnaturally, as if something beneath the surface was trying to make itself known.

He staggered back, his pulse hammering.

"Ronan—"

But when he looked again, the reflection was normal.

Ronan gave him a sideways glance, cautious. "You look like you saw a ghost."

Kael forced a breath. "Something like that."

When they emerged from the tunnels, the air above felt too open, the city's neon lights glaring down at them. But the momentary relief was cut short.

The hunt had not stopped.

More wanted posters. More eyes watching from shadowed alleys.

The organization's reach was everywhere.

They weren't just looking for Kael anymore.

They were expecting him.

Ronan's gaze flickered across the streets, his hand tightening into a fist. "We can't just keep running. We need a lead. A plan."

Kael barely heard him.

For the first time, he wasn't just worried about the enemies chasing him.

He was worried about himself.

A room, dimly lit, filled with artifacts and old documents—a command center, but older, more ritualistic.

A figure stood before a screen, watching.

The image displayed? Kael, emerging from the tunnels.

The figure exhaled, slow and measured. "He's changing." Their voice was barely above a whisper. "It's already begun."

A pause.

Then, the faintest curl of amusement. "Let's see how long he lasts."

The screen flickered.

Darkness swallowed the room.