Episode 9: Unsettled Dome

  Chapter 029 - The Hardened Sword

  Workers froze the moment they turned. A sharp gasp escaped from one man’s throat, and he dropped his pan and clattered to the floor, skidding across the stone. Flames from his cooking fire continued to burn atop a flat rune-inscribed slab, but without his magical focus, they began to flicker erratically, dying without a command. His body shook as he stepped back.

  Nearby, a woman sorting broken and used rune-stones let out a half-scream, dropping her satchel. The cracked pieces scattered across the dirt. A dozen more heads heard the noise and turned as well. The hall of clothing stalls and canvas shelters halted. Every eye that caught sight of the figure approaching stilled in place.

  A shadow moved down the road.

  He carried a single torch, its flame low and steady. The light danced off the chiseled armor and dulled steel, throwing his form in long slashes across the walls. The people gazed at the man while his shadow passed over them.

  “…It’s Xollor,” someone whispered.

  The words passed throughout the district. Some fell to their knees, trembling. Others wept, unable to look directly at him. Most ran, darting behind walls and stalls to collect their children. Mothers disappeared into alleys. Fathers lined up in rigid rows without speaking, shoulder to shoulder to protect their loved ones.

  “Why is he here?” another voice asked. “What does he want?”

  The whispers multiplied, but Xollor said nothing. He walked forward, and the sea of people parted ahead of him. No one stood in his path. The very air recoiled from him.

  He reached an intersection. More screams broke out as people in the next stretch of road caught sight of him. They scrambled backward, clearing the way in disjointed panic. It was as if death itself had taken human shape and wandered freely among them. Especially for parents. For children younger than ten, they knew nothing of this man.

  Then, amid the shifting silence, Xollor’s eyes locked onto a structure near the far edge of the district: a half-collapsed shack.

  It was still there. Once behind a hill, now surrounded by repurposed ground and newer buildings.

  The shack had never been touched. He suspected that, as the Lady’s final refuge area, it was kept as a memorial place for many. Trees had been cleared, and the soil was reshaped. Rows of worker homes and merchant stalls had risen where wild growth once stood. But no one had ever laid a hand on that ruin.

  Xollor walked toward it. No voice followed him, and the whispers died out.

  He stepped over the fractured threshold. The door lay in pieces where it had fallen a decade ago. Inside, the walls had long since warped and blackened. The table was shattered. The cot was torn. Bones remained, but the smell of rotten flesh was long gone. Only silence filled the space now.

  Then he moved to the back of the shack. Beyond it, a ring-like wall of stone kept its shape. Some chunks were taken out for use. But just ahead was the tunnel he clearly remembered. Entering and leaving the other side, the land sloped downward into green. Trees stood undisturbed here, thick and ancient, sheltering the path in a canopy of leaves. Dirt walls hugged both sides of the trail.

  Xollor continued advancing, and the sound of his boots against the path was the only noise that followed. He walked slowly like a man retracing steps he’d once made. And at the end of the path, the river waited.

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  The current moved with a steady pace. The shoreline glimmered with gravel and wet stone, and as Xollor approached, the torch cast uneven flickers across the surface. He reached the place.

  Here. This spot. Where the mother knelt.

  There was no blood now, no body, or a sign of the lives lost. But Xollor could still see it, the red stains that no rain had washed away. A decade had passed, and the river hadn’t changed.

  He stared out across the water, down the stream that once carried a child into the wild. The flame of his torch hissed as the wind rolled by. Still, he said nothing.

  Then his grip tightened. Fingers curled around the torch’s handle until the wood creaked beneath his strength. His eyes narrowed in recognition. Resolve was growing thin. The brows never furrowed.

  Without labeling his emotions, he turned, and he did it sharply. There was no farewell or a final glance. Only the steady crunch of boots on gravel as he ascended the narrow path, the flicker of his torch trailing behind him.

  By the time he stepped past the crumbled threshold of the old shack, the slave district had already quieted. Doors closed. Lanterns dimmed. Curtains covered. From inside cramped homes, soft bells rang from ceiling cords. They were the final ritual before sleep. One by one, their echoes faded into the night air. Even the fire pits began to die out.

  The district slept, and so was the land of the rich. But in Armiton, not all of it was quiet.

  Deep beneath the higher barracks, in a stone chamber, the air was alive with motion.

  Armor clanked. Straps tightened. Gauntlets snapped into place. A dozen Night-class soldiers moved with quiet efficiency. They spoke little, only the necessary words: “Left shoulder locked.” “Runes gathered.” “Check your steel.” They weren’t elites, but they were handpicked. And they understood the weight of an unsanctioned mission.

  In the center of the chamber stood Xollor, still cloaked, still silent. He said nothing as the men prepared, only watching through a tall window that framed the horizon. The night beyond was starless. A sea of black.

  The faint sound of metal against leather echoed behind him. One soldier with a helm under arm approached and stood at Xollor’s side.

  “We’re ready, sir,” he said, head bowed.

  Xollor didn’t look at him at first. His gaze lingered on something beside him. A patch of empty air. Perhaps a memory. Perhaps not. But his eyes narrowed right after. Then he turned fully.

  A face worn by years of blood and fire met the soldier with unwavering clarity. It was scarred and silent, almost unreadable. Yet it felt commanding, forcing the man to lower his head more. Xollor’s voice was low and precise.

  “Follow my lead,” he said. “Gather intel. Confirm the child’s location. If you see anyone matching the age of ten, you will report it immediately. Do not question my command.”

  The soldiers nodded as one.

  The torches above flickered, and the shadows stretched. A gust of night air seeped through the hall’s far crevice, brushing past the soldiers as their new command lingered above them.

  Xollor’s cloak shifted as he moved. The line of armored men followed, two by two, boots striking stone in solemn rhythm. Beyond the barracks, the gates of Armiton awaited. They were gates that followed the higher orders of the Marshal. But she was absent. Ernol, the commander of the Nights, was rarely seen these past few days. Xollor had a major concern about him.

  This man had been restless for too long. He never touched his bed ever since the public outrage in the poor district. Witnesses reported him curled up in random halls, muttering inaudible words. Every attempt to calm or support him caused the man to resist and threaten his men. And not long after, he disappeared. Something was going on with him, but no one understood what. And without him in sight, things were stale for these soldiers. Thus, Xollor used this opportunity to deploy them.

  It was past midnight, and the city was asleep.

  Far beyond its walls, deep in the wilderness, a small camp rested beneath the tangled roots of trees. The fading warmth of a fire slowly smoked out. Nearby, two figures lay curled together beneath coarse blankets. Wallan and Vynelor.

  The child slept with his head tucked under the crook of the old man’s arm, breath slow and even. A rare stillness blanketed the clearing.

  But the wind had changed. It crept through the forest now, brushing over stone and under root, rising in tempo as a dozen began the search. The branches above swayed harder, the leaves whispering with new urgency. And somewhere behind it all, Xollor’s eyes remained fixed, with Nights under his command.

  And now, he was coming.

  End of Episode 9