The Council’s Hand
Zoren and the others moved fast, slipping through the ruined streets before the council's enforcers arrived. The night was thick with tension, the kind that pressed against your skin, whispering that something unseen was watching.
They weren't alone.
Talis noticed it first. His instincts weren't as sharp as Nyssa's, but he knew when someone was tailing them. He didn't say anything at first—just let his eyes flick to the rooftops, the narrow alleys, the shadows that stretched too far. Then he muttered, low and tight, "We've got company."
Nyssa didn't look back. "How many?"
"Three. Maybe more."
Linda swore under her breath. "Council's faster than I thought."
Zoren's pulse quickened. He could still feel the aftershocks of his Core's outburst—his body wasn't at full strength, and something inside him felt wrong. Like his Core wasn't syncing with him properly. There was a flicker of something—an echo, a whisper—but he forced it down. They didn't have time to stop.
"We split," Linda said. "Lose them in the lower districts, meet at the market ruins."
No one argued. They knew what was at stake.
Then, they ran.
---
Zoren darted into the side streets, Nyssa close behind. Talis and Linda peeled off in the opposite direction. The plan was simple: draw attention away from the main path to the dungeon.
But the council's enforcers weren't amateurs.
They moved like hunters, cutting across rooftops, slipping through the shadows with practiced ease. Zoren barely caught a glimpse of them—figures in dark, reinforced armor, their weapons humming with faint energy. These weren't just soldiers. They were Core Sentinels, warriors trained specifically to suppress Titan Core wielders.
And they were closing in.
"Left!" Nyssa snapped. Zoren followed without question, barely avoiding a crackling bolt of energy that seared through the air where he had been standing. It struck the stone wall behind them, leaving a jagged scorch mark.
Nyssa growled. "They're not messing around."
Zoren gritted his teeth. "Neither are we."
His Core flared—unstable, flickering, but still enough. Shadows curled at his fingertips, a ghost of the power he had unleashed earlier. The energy felt foreign, jagged, as if it didn't fully belong to him.
He pivoted, palm snapping forward, and a tendril of darkness lashed out.
The enforcer dodged, but not completely. The shadow grazed his shoulder, and for a split second, his armor pulsed—reacting to Zoren's Core.
The man recoiled, like something had rattled inside him. Then he steadied.
Nyssa took the opening, launching herself forward with a burst of speed. Her blade flashed. The enforcer blocked at the last second, the impact sending a harsh clang through the alley.
But even as she pressed forward, Zoren saw something he didn't like.
Nyssa wasn't just fighting hard—she was fighting recklessly.
Zoren hesitated. "Nyssa—"
"Go," she ordered. Her voice was sharp, edged with something deeper.
He didn't move.
She turned to glare at him, eyes burning. "I said go."
Something flickered in her expression—not anger, not fear, but something else.
There was no arguing with that tone.
So he ran.
---
By the time Zoren reached the market ruins, his breath was ragged, his Core thrumming with exhaustion.
And then—
"You're late."
Zoren turned, muscles tensing—
And froze.
A figure leaned against the remains of an old merchant stall, arms crossed. He wore dark robes, the kind that blended too easily into the night, and his face was hidden beneath a half-mask of polished bone.
Not a council enforcer.
Something worse.
"Who the hell are you?" Zoren demanded.
The man tilted his head. "Just someone who prefers to be ahead of the game." His voice was smooth, measured. "The council is making its move. You want to survive? You need to make yours first."
Zoren didn't trust him. Not for a second. But something about the way the man spoke—so certain—made him pause.
"You're unstable," the masked man continued. "A fractured vessel. Two voices in one body, pulling in opposite directions."
Zoren stiffened. His fingers curled.
"How do you know that?"
The man chuckled. "Because I know what's inside you. And so does the council."
Zoren's mind raced. His Core—the white one—had felt off ever since it awakened. But this man… how did he know?
The masked figure pushed off the stall, stepping forward. "The council wants you because they don't understand what you are. They're afraid. You have two choices—let them put you in a cage, or figure out the truth before they do."
Zoren's pulse pounded.
The dungeon.
He didn't trust this man. But he wasn't wrong.
"I'm listening," Zoren said.
The masked man smiled.
"Good."
--
Meanwhile, Linda and Talis weren't so lucky.
They had managed to evade the enforcers—barely—but they weren't fast enough to outrun the real threat.
By the time they reached the lower district, it was already too late.
The council had arrived.
Not just their enforcers. Not just spies.
The Inner Circle.
Figures in ceremonial robes stood at the edge of the ruined plaza, their presence suffocating. These weren't warriors. They didn't need to be. Their power came from something else—authority, influence, the weight of centuries-old secrets.
And at their center, the one who spoke for them all.
High Keeper Marek.
His eyes were cold, unreadable. His presence felt like a judge at an execution.
Linda cursed under her breath. Talis swallowed hard.
Marek's voice was quiet. But it carried.
"Where is the boy?"
Silence.
Talis knew lying was useless. He also knew telling the truth was suicide.
So he did the only thing that made sense.
He smirked. "Wouldn't you like to know?"
Marek sighed. Then, he raised a hand.
And the ground beneath them shattered.
---
Zoren didn't know why he trusted the masked man. Maybe he didn't. Maybe he just didn't have a choice.
But as the night deepened, as the council tightened its grip on the city, as Nyssa fought, as Linda and Talis faced the impossible—
He made his decision.
There was no running. No hiding.
The dungeon held answers. Secrets. The truth about what he was.
And whether he was ready or not…
It was time for the door to open.
---
To be continued.