Cinderfall

The messager boy led him to the guild runner who had requested him to call Reaper.

"You're him, aren't you? The Reaper." The guild runner's voice trembled, barely audible over the hiss of Cinderfall's steam vents.

His eyes darting to the scythe slung across the Reaper's back. Its blade, etched with grooves for Stalker blood, glinted under the guild district's gaslights. The Reaper didn't answer, his masked face unreadable, but his silence was answer enough. The guild runner swallowed, stepping back. "They… they're waiting. Iron Veil Guild. Please, don't—"

"Move," the Reaper said, voice like a blade through fog. The guild runner nodded at the boy who then scurried ahead, leading him through streets lined with iron walls and guarded watchtowers.

Cinderfall's guild district was a fortress within a city, its opulence a stark contrast to the slums' decay. Yet even here, the Veil's taint lingered—rusted pipes, flickering lights, and the faint reek of oil and rot.

The Reaper's boots were silent on the cobblestones, his coat trailing like a shadow. Passersby—guild clerks, armed Wardens—froze as he passed, their whispers trailing him like smoke. "That's him," one hissed. "Ungifted, but kills like a demon." Another, a Warden with a glowing Veil Gift pulsing in his hand, muttered, "He's no hero. Just a butcher." The Reaper heard, but didn't care. Their fear, their awe—it was noise, irrelevant to the hunt.

At the Iron Veil Guild's gates, the boy stopped, pointing to a towering structure of blackened steel and stained glass. "Inside," he said, then fled. The Reaper pushed through the gates, scythe still on his shoulder.

The courtyard was chaos—hunters shouting, medics hauling bodies, blood pooling on the stones. Five corpses, all Wardens, lay in a row, their eyes empty, skin gray as ash. Husked. No Gifts left.

A Revenant approached, her armor etched with Veil runes, her face hard but pale. "Reaper," she said, voice steady despite the tremor in her hands. "I'm Veyra, second-in-command. You saw the slums?"

He nodded, once. "Two Stalkers. New. Smart."

Veyra's eyes narrowed. "Smart enough to husk Wardens. Six dead here, plus those." She gestured to the bodies. "Their Gifts—gone. Like they were never Touched."

The Reaper crouched beside a corpse, tilting his head. The Warden's chest was torn open, but the cuts were precise, surgical, not the wild slashes of a Tier III. He traced a wound with a gloved finger, noting the angle. Claws, but guided, targeting the heart where a Gift's energy pooled.

His mind churned, mapping the Stalker's intent. It wasn't hunger. It was purpose.

"Pay," he said, standing.

Veyra bristled. "You'll get your coin. But we need answers. These things are targeting us—gifted only. You're…" She hesitated, eyeing his scythe. "You're not Touched. They might not see you."

The Reaper's gaze was cold, unyielding. "They see me." He didn't explain. Didn't need to. The Stalkers in the foundry had targeted him, not the scavengers. They knew his scent—the Veil's scent, though he carried no Gift.

A shout cut through the courtyard. "Another!" A hunter stumbled in, dragging a husked Warden. The man's armor was shredded, his face frozen in a scream. Veyra cursed, but the Reaper was already moving, following the hunter's blood trail back to the gate. It led to a sewer grate, half-open, ichor smeared on the iron.

"Reaper, wait!" Veyra called, but he was gone, sliding into the sewer's dark throat. The air was thick, damp with decay and the tang of Stalker blood. His eyes adjusted, catching faint light from cracked pipes overhead. The trail was fresh—claw marks, ichor splashes, a discarded guild blade. He gripped his scythe, its weight an extension of his arm, and moved silently, every step calculated.

The sewer tunnel widened into a junction, pipes groaning, water dripping. A Stalker crouched in the center, humanoid but wrong—limbs too long, tendrils writhing where a face should be. Tier IV, maybe higher. It was feeding, claws buried in another Warden's chest, the man's Gift fading as his eyes dulled. The Stalker's tendrils twitched, mimicking the Warden's voice: "No… please…"

The Reaper didn't hesitate. He swung, scythe arcing low to high, aiming for the spine's base—a weak point he'd learned from years of carving Stalkers. The creature spun, claws deflecting the blade with a screech of metal. Fast. Smarter than the foundry Stalkers. It lunged, tendrils lashing like whips. He ducked, using the tunnel's curve to roll behind a pipe. The Stalker's claws gouged the wall, spraying rust.

The Reaper's mind was a machine, calculating angles, timing, weaknesses. Its tendrils were its eyes—sensitive, vulnerable. He hooked a loose pipe with his scythe, yanking it free. Scalding steam burst out, blinding the Stalker. It shrieked, thrashing, and he struck, scythe slicing through tendrils. Ichor sprayed, hissing on the walls.

The Stalker recovered, claws slashing. He parried, scythe's shaft blocking the blow, but the force sent him sliding back. His coat tore, but he felt no pain—only focus. He pivoted, using the slick floor to slide under its guard, scythe swinging up to sever a leg joint.

The creature staggered, and he pressed the advantage, blade flashing in a precise arc to its neck. The head fell, tendrils still twitching. He stood, breathing steady, scythe dripping. The Warden was dead, husked. The Reaper knelt, checking the wounds. Same precision, same targeting. These Stalkers weren't hunting for food. They were assassins.

Footsteps echoed—Veyra and two Wardens, their Gifts glowing faintly. "Veil's mercy," Veyra whispered, seeing the Stalker's corpse. "You killed it. Alone."

The Reaper didn't respond, wiping his blade on his coat. One Warden, a young man with a fire Gift flickering in his hands for light as it was dark in there, stared in awe. "How? No Gift, no runes—just a scythe. You're…"

"Dangerous," the other Warden cut in, voice hard. "He's no better than the Stalkers. Kills without blinking. I heard he gutted a scavenger last month for crossing him."

The Reaper's eyes flicked to the speaker, who flinched. "Truth?" he asked, voice low.

The Warden swallowed, nodding. "Heard it from Korr. Said you left the man bleeding in an alley."

The Reaper didn't deny it. The scavenger had tried to steal a Stalker claw, his kill. He'd paid the price. "Interfere," he said, "and you're next."

Veyra stepped between them, hands raised. "Enough. Reaper, we need you. These Stalkers—they're organized. They hit three guilds tonight. Husked an Eidolon."

That stopped him. An Eidolon, reality-bending, untouchable, husked? The Veil was shifting, and not in Cinderfall's favor.

"Where?"

"Power plant," Veyra said. "Central district. They're moving there now."

The Reaper turned, scythe ready. "Lead."

The power plant was Cinderfall's heart, a fortress of grinding gears and sparking cables, its hum keeping the city's lights burning. The streets to it were chaos—hunters running, civilians fleeing, smoke rising. The Reaper moved through it like a specter, ignoring the cries. Veyra and the Wardens struggled to keep up, their Gifts flaring as they scanned for threats.

At the plant's gates, a dozen hunters stood guard, their faces pale. "Reaper," one whispered, stepping aside. Another spat, muttering, "He'll turn on us next."

The Reaper ignored them, pushing through. Inside, the plant was a maze of pipes and catwalks, lit by arcing electricity. Blood smeared the floor—more husked bodies, their Gifts gone. A Stalker lunged from above, tendrils mimicking a child's cry. The Wardens flinched, but the Reaper was already moving, scythe spinning to block its claws. He twisted, using its momentum to slam it into a cable bundle. Sparks flew, and the Stalker shrieked, burning. He finished it with a single strike, blade cleaving its spine.

Veyra stared, her sword half-drawn. "You don't even flinch," she said, half awed, half horrified. "How do you move like that?"

"Practice," he said, wiping the blade. He didn't explain the years of dissecting Stalkers, learning their joints, their instincts. He didn't need Gifts—just knowledge, precision, and a sharp edge.

Another Stalker emerged, larger, its tendrils forming a guildmaster's face. "Reaper…" it hissed, voice stolen. The Wardens froze again, but he charged, scythe low. It swung, claws sparking against his blade. He ducked, sliding under a pipe, and hooked its leg with the scythe's curve, pulling it off balance. His next swing took its arm, then its head. Ichor pooled, and he stepped over it, already scanning for more.

The hunters whispered behind him. "He's not human," one said. "No Gift, but he fights like an Eidolon." Another, quieter: "He's a monster. Worse than the Stalkers."

Veyra grabbed his arm, then froze as his eyes met hers. "We can't keep up," she said. "But you're our only shot. They're heading for the core—trying to shut the plant down." The Reaper pulled free, scythe ready. "Stay out of my way."

He moved deeper, the plant's hum growing louder. The Stalkers were converging, their cries echoing—human voices, stolen, taunting. He didn't care about their words, only their weaknesses. His scythe was his Gift, his mind his weapon. Cinderfall could fear him, hate him, worship him—it didn't matter. The hunt was all and money is what he wants.