Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The alarm rang with the metallic wail of a broken bell, harsh and low, announcing the start of another day of watch in Styxia. Hysilens opened her eyes before the second toll. She was already awake, truthfully, but the sound was enough to pull her fully out of the familiar haze of sleep.

She sat up slowly, the linen blankets slipping from her torso like a warm wave that had lost its strength. The room was modest but not unpleasant: pale stone walls, a shelf with three worn books, a small seashell framed in wood. Everything smelled faintly of salt, dampness, and lamp oil. The dawn barely touched the floor with a bluish light that seemed to rise from the sea itself.

With a hand calloused from years of hard labor and training, Hysilens turned off the alarm. The silence that followed was not peaceful—rather, it was heavy.

She got up and walked barefoot to the ceramic washbasin, where a jar of fresh water was waiting. She splashed her face firmly, as if trying to drive away not just sleep, but something else that had followed her from her dreams. Then she took the toothbrush made of reed fibers, dipped it into the small bowl of mint and sage paste, and began brushing with a steady rhythm. Not fast, not slow. Efficient. Silent.

The reflection in the small mirror on the wall didn’t say much: an eighteen-year-old girl, long brown hair, fair skin, and ocean-blue eyes. An uneven fringe fell over the right side of her face, while the left remained tucked behind her ear. Beneath her left eye, three white mermaid scales shimmered faintly under the filtered light.

"You're not as intimidating as you should be," she told herself softly, in a tone more dry than mocking.

The gentle knock at the door brought her back to the present.

"Helektra, are you awake yet?" asked her mother’s voice—sweet, like a piece of the sea that hadn't yet been swallowed by salt.

"Yes, mother. I'm almost out."

"I left you some bread with cheese. Don’t forget to eat something before you leave, alright?"

"Thanks," she replied, though she wasn’t hungry. She hadn’t been for days, really.

She returned to her room, dried her face, and changed with near-ritual precision. First the reinforced trousers, then the linen shirt bearing the emblem of Styxia—which was, in truth, the symbol of Phagousa, the Titan of the Ocean—and finally the leather belt with metal plates that denoted her rank. Everything fit like a second skin.

The door creaked again.

"Helektra, your brother already left to fish with your father. They told me if you pass by the port, bring them these bandages," her mother said, gently pushing a small linen pouch under the door.

"Understood."

"And please... be careful, alright?"

"I always am."

But she didn’t say it kindly. She said it out of habit, like someone reciting a prayer without faith, like someone who doesn’t want emotion to throw off her stride.

She took the pouch of bandages and fastened it to her belt beside the regulation dagger. She cast one last glance around the room—that small corner where she’d grown up. At that hour, Styxia was waking slowly, with the sound of waves lapping gently at the docks, the distant singing of vendors setting up their stalls, and the scent of freshly gathered seaweed mixing with toasted bread.

Everything seemed normal.

Everything seemed the same.

Hysilens stepped out of the house with silent steps, closing the door behind her with her left hand. The salty Styxian air brushed her face with familiarity. The streets still held that morning stillness that came just before the market bustle. The white stone houses curved in rows, following the shape of the cobbled streets as if they had grown from the rock itself. The sound of the sea, eternal and serene, pulsed in the background like the heart of the polis.

The patrol post was two streets from the port, right on the high terrace overlooking the breakwater. There, the squad had already gathered, as they did every morning.

Five figures, all youths between seventeen and twenty, wore the dark blue uniform of the Styxian garrison. There were laughs, shoves, poorly concealed jokes. One imitated the nasal voice of their superior. Another tried to balance on a barrel with his eyes closed. Everyone spoke at once, with the ease of those who had never known true fear.

Hysilens watched them from a distance, leaning against a stone column, arms crossed, gaze lost in the horizon. She said nothing. She didn’t need to. It wasn’t that she didn’t care about them—it was that silence suited her better than wasted words so early in the morning.

“Helektra!” shouted one of them—a curly-haired boy with a rough voice named Meryon—with a wide grin. “Come on, we saved you a spot!”

She nodded slightly but didn’t move.

“Still in marine statue mode?” joked Karmis, the smallest of the group, laughing into the wind.

“Don’t bother her,” said a deeper voice—not with authority, but with respect. It was Lysaros, her closest friend in the squad. His smile was sincere. “Let her watch the sea. If you listen closely, they say you can hear Phagousa sing.”

Hysilens gave him a faint smile, just a twitch at the corner of her lips. She didn’t believe in ocean songs, but Lysaros always had something on his tongue that broke the monotony without force.

“What if we play a bit before the round? We’ve still got twenty minutes,” said Meryon, pulling a slightly worn deck of cards from his belt.

“Only if the statue plays,” added Karmis, nodding toward Hysilens. “No fun winning without her.”

There was a moment of silence. The sun had climbed high enough to light up their faces, and the shimmer of the water below sparkled like fish scales. Hysilens hesitated. Not because she didn’t want to join, but because she felt something strange in her gut. A mute tension, like when the sky darkens without a single cloud.

But then she saw Lysaros’ hands outstretched toward her, cards well shuffled. The others looked at her with anticipation, not pressure.

“Fine,” she said at last, walking slowly toward the group. “But don’t blame me when I take your weekly pay.”

Laughter broke out, and for a brief moment, Styxia felt more alive than ever.

. . .

The cards were dealt with dirty, calloused, quick hands. Jokes bounced over the makeshift table—a wooden crate propped between two barrels—like stones skimming water. The chips were shells, polished stones, and even a rusted bolt Karmis insisted was worth more than any shell in the ocean.

Hysilens didn’t talk much while she played. She observed. Scanned gestures, fingers tapping, lips tightening, eyebrows arching too soon. She had learned to read the language of tension long before she was a soldier. Since she was a child, learning to guess when her mother was about to scold her, when her father lied about the day’s catch, or when Lysaros showed up with a poorly bandaged wound after a fight.

Five hands later, Hysilens placed her final card on the table with the precision of a sword sliding into its sheath. Two pairs: queens and sevens. Nothing glorious, but enough. More than enough.

“No!” exclaimed Meryon, collapsing his face onto the table. “Not again!”

“I told you not to let her play,” Karmis grumbled—deliberately ignoring that he had been the one to say there was no point in winning if Hysilens didn’t play—throwing down his cards with dramatic flair.

“That was luck,” murmured Lysaros, a smile betraying his pride. “Or that’s what she wants us to believe.”

“Luck?” Hysilens repeated, gathering the makeshift chips with an unreadable expression. “Maybe Phagousa winks at me when you’re not looking.”

“That’s divine cheating!” Karmis shouted, rising to his feet with one hand over his chest, as if he’d witnessed a ritual offense.

“Speak of luck, and the sea hears you,” said Meryon then, more serious now, eyes fixed on the coast. “My grandmother said mocking the ocean is inviting it to swallow you in silence.”

“Another one of your superstitious tales?” asked Lysaros, leaning back with his hands behind his head. “What was that one about the breathing lighthouse?”

Meryon straightened his back and cleared his throat, delighted by the attention.

“They say there’s a lighthouse on the eastern coast, so old no one remembers it. No one tends it. But its light still turns, alone, every new moon. And when it does, you can hear a sigh coming from it. Like the lighthouse itself is breathing.”

“And what’s so bad about that?” asked Karmis.

“That it breathes when it sees something that shouldn’t be on the shore. Something from the depths.”

“That’s a lie,” said Lysaros with a laugh. “You’re a terrible storyteller.”

“No worse than you at poker,” Meryon shot back, and the group burst into laughter again.

“My mother says that when sailors pull eyeless fish from the nets, they must pray three times to Phagousa or the sea takes them back,” Karmis added, more to regain ground than out of conviction. “She says there are creatures beneath the waves waiting for someone to look at them so they can remember they exist.”

“Sounds like the usual tale to keep kids from going near the water,” Hysilens muttered, shuffling the cards again to distract herself.

“And you, Helektra?” Lysaros asked, looking at her sideways. “Do you have any superstitions?”

She paused, letting the cards still between her fingers.

“I don’t believe in superstitions,” she answered simply, not overthinking it, falling silent as the conversations continued for long minutes.

The laughter rolled on like dice across the salty wood of the dock. Everything seemed motionless, suspended in that warm stillness of early morning, when Styxia had not yet fully leapt into motion.

And yet, something was off.

Hysilens barely furrowed her brow and stopped shuffling the cards in her hands. She lifted her head slightly and inhaled discreetly. For a moment, she wasn’t sure... but there it was again.

Smoke.

Not the dry, rustic smoke of a chimney or freshly baked bread. It was something more bitter, darker. The smell of wet wood burning, as if the fire had bitten into something that didn’t want to burn. As if the world itself resisted turning to ash.

“Do you smell that?” she murmured, almost without realizing.

“Smell what?” asked Lysaros, still lying down, eyes squinting from the sun.

“Nothing.”

She said it like someone convincing herself. Maybe it was just a bonfire closer to the port, or the smoke from her father’s fishing boat returning with the nets. But the smell was still there, sharper now, like it was slowly walking toward them through the city’s alleys.

She tried not to think about it. Refocused on the group, already joking about who would buy lunch after losing the next round.

Then she felt it again. This time, not just the smell.

The air. It had changed.

The breeze that usually blew in from the east—fresh, light—had turned heavy, warm, like the breath of a hidden beast. A shiver ran down Hysilens’ arms. She rose slowly, turning her head toward the port.

The water, so familiar, looked too still. It didn’t reflect light as it usually did—it absorbed it. The waves didn’t crash against the stones. Didn’t splash. Didn’t make a sound. It was as if the sea was holding its breath.

Meryon, still distracted with his cards, casually tossed a stone into the water.

The stone didn’t plop. Didn’t bounce. Didn’t splash.

It simply… vanished.

“What…?” Karmis was the first to notice.

“Where did it land?” Lysaros asked, sitting up with a hint of concern. “Did you see?”

“Yes, but it didn’t do anything. Just sank. Like… there wasn’t water there.”

Hysilens was already fully standing. A silent alarm rang within her, louder than the bell that had woken her that morning. It wasn’t fear. Not yet. It was a mute certainty, like the exact moment one realizes they’re falling, before hitting the ground.

“Something’s not right,” she said, voice firm and low. The group turned to her.

“Another one of your superstitions?” joked Meryon, but his laugh no longer sounded natural.

“Silence,” Hysilens ordered, already gripping the hilt of her sword.

And that’s when they heard it.

A dull, wet sound, like something large and gelatinous dragging itself through the alleys. Like the earth exhaling with effort. Then, the first scream.

A single one.

Loud.

Distant.

Human.

Then, momentary silence.

No one moved for the first few seconds. The silence following the scream was so thick it seemed to smother the air. Even the sea, which had murmured until then, fell silent. It was a dense, cursed silence—the kind that comes just before something irreversible.

Then, the sky changed color.

“Is that… smoke?” asked Karmis, voice small.

From the terrace where they stood, they could clearly see Styxia’s upper district, where the oldest houses climbed the cliffside in a chaotic spiral. And now, a column of dark, slow smoke rose there, like a twisted arm clawing at the sky.

“That’s not a chimney,” Lysaros murmured. “It’s… that’s a house. Several houses.”

The fire became visible then—reddish orange, reflected on the white walls like a wound slowly opening. The flames began to spread like roots of light between the clay rooftops.

“An accident?” asked Meryon, more for logic’s sake than real belief.

But before anyone could answer, the screams returned.

Not one. Many.

At first, they came as a murmur—broken echoes bouncing between the alleys. Then louder, desperate, guttural. Cries from women, men, children. Not cries for help, but of sheer terror.

The squad stood frozen, and for a second, they looked like mere boys in soldiers’ costumes. The smoke was already beginning to stretch above the horizon, casting shadows over the sea.

“This isn’t just a fire,” Hysilens said, her voice low but resolute. “This isn’t normal.”

“What do we do?” Meryon asked, his face now pale.

“Defense formation,” she responded without hesitation. “We split. Meryon and Karmis, head to the port. Warn the captains. If there’s evacuation, it’ll be by sea. Lysaros and I are going to the middle district. We need to find out what’s happening.”

“We don’t have orders,” Karmis said, hesitating.

“Then follow mine.”

That sentence was enough.

Lysaros already had his spear in hand. The rest of the squad organized with a speed only discipline and fear can bring. But as Hysilens descended the stone steps beside Lysaros, she couldn’t help but glance once more toward the burning district.

The flames climbed the walls like living tongues. And among the screams, she began to hear something new.

A wet, rasping, irregular sound. Like something dragging flesh and bone across stone. Something not human.

And then, for the first time, the sea pulled back.

It wasn’t a wave. It wasn’t low tide. It was a withdrawal. The waters receded two meters, three… five. Puddles of black foam remained on the sandy bed, and the fish began to writhe, exposed, as if the ocean had decided to flee.

The streets of Styxia no longer smelled of salt or freshly baked bread. Now, they reeked of ash, blood, and burnt flesh.

Hysilens ran, her uniform billowing behind her like a dark rag through the smoke. Beside her, Lysaros kept pace, spear ready, eyes wide open. They didn’t speak. There was no room for words. Only the crunch of boots on cobblestone and the screams growing closer—screams that sounded less and less human.

As they turned the corner into the central market, they saw it.

The chaos.

The horror.

The creatures.

They moved between overturned stalls and collapsed houses like specters of flesh and shadow. Some walked clumsily, bones visible beneath what was once skin. Others slithered across the ground, fused with the stone by a black corruption pulsing like open veins. They had vaguely human shapes—but twisted, as if drawn by someone who had never seen a human body, only the concept of pain.

One raised its head as it sensed their presence. It had no eyes—its face deformed into a hardened shell.

“By all the Titans…” murmured Lysaros, stopping.

“Lysaros!” Hysilens shouted, unsheathing her sword with a sure gleam. “Now!”

The creature let out a screech that didn’t belong to this world and lunged at them, limbs spread like a net of bones. Hysilens dodged by pure instinct, rolled to the side, and slashed with a clean cut. The monster’s arm hit the ground with a wet thud—but it didn’t scream. Didn’t react. It kept advancing as if it felt no pain.

Lysaros impaled it from the side, the spear cracking through the torso. No blood came out—just a black mass that dispersed like thick smoke.

“There’s more!” Hysilens yelled, spinning as she saw three more creatures approaching from the alleys.

Every movement was a mix of military precision and raw survival instinct. Hysilens struck with contained fury, the precision of someone trained for years but never meant to kill something that didn’t cry out. One body twisted as it fell, splitting in two, still trying to crawl with half a spine.

Lysaros fought with more force than technique—shoving with the spear, spinning it like a jagged wheel, holding two at bay while gritting his teeth. One nearly reached him from behind, but Hysilens decapitated it with a slash before it could touch him.

When it was over, the market was silent.

Only their ragged breathing remained.

And the corpses.

So many corpses.

Not of the creatures, but of the citizens. Familiar people. An old baker, apron still on, stained red. A little girl clutching a wooden toy. A couple, embraced, fused in a dark puddle where blood and water no longer differed.

Hysilens lowered her sword. Her fingers trembled—not from exhaustion, but from helplessness.

“What are these things? I’ve never seen them before!” Lysaros shouted, stabbing another creature that had crept too close.

She didn’t answer. She just crouched beside an unrecognizable body. The chest had exploded from the inside. As if something had come out rather than gone in.

Then, looking at her right hand, she noticed something.

Her blood.

A small cut on her wrist had bled during the fight, but it wasn’t red. Not entirely. In the light of the flames, the dripping liquid had a faint golden hue, as if the fire’s glow had entered her.

She blinked. Wiped her hand quickly.

It wasn’t time for questions.

“We must go,” she said, standing up with a firm voice. “There are still people alive.”

Lysaros nodded.

Hysilens and Lysaros’s steps echoed heavily against the blackened stone as they moved between smoldering ruins and collapsed structures. Torches were no longer needed: fire consumed everything it touched on its own.

They turned a corner, and there, among broken alleys and shattered windows, they saw a dozen soldiers wearing the garrison’s uniform. Many were wounded, with improvised bandages and vacant stares. One of them, a lieutenant with dented armor and dried blood on his neck, approached upon seeing them.

“Guard unit?” he asked urgently.

“Second coastal squad,” replied Lysaros, though his voice trembled more than he wanted.

“We fell back from the market. The creatures… they regenerate. Some even change shape,” said the lieutenant, clenching his teeth. “We don’t know what’s happening.”

Before Hysilens could reply, the body closest to the group—a fallen soldier, still barely warm—began to convulse.

First a spasm. Then another. After that, a dark bubble burst from his chest, pulsing like a second heart.

“Back!” Hysilens shouted, drawing her sword.

But it was too late.

The corpse arched with a sickening crack. From his throat emerged a blackish tendril that spread like roots along the ground, and in seconds, what had once been a comrade was now another creature. Deformed, skinless, with a jaw hanging like a piece of torn net.

And it wasn’t the only one.

Other nearby bodies began to mutate, to twist, to awaken. Not by will, but by infestation. The Dark Tide didn’t just kill… it fed. It multiplied.

“It’s using them!” Lysaros shouted in horror. “The bodies… they’re the fuel!”

The squad entered combat once again, but Hysilens was no longer listening. Blood pounded in her temples, and the world seemed to blur around the single thought piercing her mind:

Her family.

The smoke that had once seemed distant now rose in the exact direction of her street. A furious fire, dense, like a beacon of tragedy. Her breathing turned erratic. A tremor ran down her fingers.

“No…” she murmured.

And without waiting, she ran.

“Helektra, wait!” Lysaros shouted behind her, but his voice was only an echo that didn’t reach her skin.

She ran through rubble, through screams, through ash and dust and unrecognizable forms. The garrison was left behind, the squad left behind, the world left behind.

Only the image of her home remained—the one her memory clung to stubbornly: hanging flowerpots at the window, the scent of warm bread, shared laughter at dawn.

With each step, the smoke grew thicker.

With each step, the heat enveloped her more.

And then, as she turned the final corner, she saw it.

Her street was on fire.

House after house burned like torches lit by furious gods. Hers—the one of her childhood, of her blood—stood in the middle, engulfed in living flames rising like serpents toward the gray sky.

Hysilens froze for a second, eyes wide, chest trembling as if something inside her was about to shatter. And despite the impossibility of it all, she took a step forward. Then another. Until the run took over her body again, driven by the oldest panic of all: the fear of losing what you love.

When she arrived, the flames licked the walls of her house with reckless violence. The heat slapped her face over and over, and still, she didn’t stop. The smoke made each breath hurt, made every step feel like running through boiling water.

The front door was ajar, creaking, burning around the edges.

She was going to enter. She would.

But just as she took the first step toward it…

The wall exploded.

It wasn’t a burst of fire, but of stone and wood. As if something inside had pushed outward with impossible force, the left wall of her home collapsed outward with a dry crash.

Among the debris, something flew out.

Someone.

The body hit the ground like a sack of flesh, rolled, and came to rest face-up just a few feet from her.

It was her father.

His robe was torn, his chest twisted at an unnatural angle. His eyes were wide open, staring at the gray sky. The expression on his face wasn’t fear. It was surprise.

Hysilens froze. The air fled her lungs. She didn’t even know if she screamed.

She wanted to run to him, but the fire crackled louder, as if trying to stop her. And then she heard it: her mother’s scream.

Inside the house.

It wasn’t long. It was a choked cry, a brief wail that broke midway. Hysilens launched herself toward the opening, climbing over beams and smoke, shielding her face with her forearm.

The interior was unrecognizable. The roof had partially collapsed, and the curtains, the shelves, the family table… all were ablaze.

Amid the flames, between shards of wood and glass, she saw her.

Her mother.

Kneeling, held by a creature that could not have been born of any womb. It had long, thin arms like broken oars, and its back jutted with black spines that moved as if they breathed. Its face was an incomplete mask, mouthless, but with trembling cracks.

The creature raised an arm. From its wrist emerged a curved spine, shiny and black, like an organic dagger.

And without hesitation, it drove it into her mother’s abdomen.

“No.”

It was barely a whisper. A murmur from Hysilens’s dry lips. But inside her, something broke. The world stopped. The fire lost its heat. The sound faded like a receding tide. Only the image remained: her mother’s body collapsing, blood mixing with ash, and the creature slowly turning its head toward her.

And looking.

Not with eyes.

But with intent.

Hysilens didn’t think. She screamed.

And the scream was a blade.

She leapt over the burning remains, drew her sword without thought, and slammed into the creature with her full weight. The blade pierced its neck with a wet sound, and a stream of dark liquid—thicker than blood, colder than water—splashed her face.

The creature writhed like an eel out of the sea, and Hysilens ripped the sword out with fury, stabbing it once, twice, three more times until the body collapsed like an empty sack.

Only then did she approach her mother.

She knelt beside her, trembling. Took her in her arms. The body was still warm. Blood still flowed, but without strength. Her eyes were half-lidded. Her breath, gone.

“No… no, no, no, mother…”

Her voice was no longer strong. It was a broken whisper, a prayer without faith. She refused to let go. Then something creaked behind her.

A step.

Slow. Heavy. Dragged.

Hysilens didn’t stand right away. Her body knew what was coming. Every fiber of her skin recognized it without needing to look.

Another step.

And another.

A whisper.

“Helektra…”

That voice.

Hysilens’s heart froze.

It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be.

She turned slowly.

The figure stood a few meters away, half-hunched, lit by the fire behind him. His silhouette was familiar. Broad shoulders, slightly slanted posture, dark hair falling over his face.

Lysaros.

But it wasn’t him.

Not entirely.

His skin was cracked, torn in places. His right arm twisted as if it forgot how to hold shape. One eye was gone—only a dark, pulsing cavity remained. The other… the other still looked at her. Blue, trembling, human.

“Helektra…” he repeated. His voice was like a stone falling into the sea. He had been touched by one of the creatures of the Dark Tide.

Hysilens stood frozen.

“No… no, no… Lysaros, no…”

He took another step.

His head hung to one side, as if his neck might snap completely.

He raised his hand.

Not in hostility.

Just raised it.

As if asking for help.

“It… hurts…”

That was the last word.

Then, his mouth opened fully, dislocating. A monstrous shriek burst from within—a mixture of air, blood, and something no longer human. His arm tensed, and dark filaments sprouted from his nails like claws.

He lunged.

Hysilens moved by reflex. Rolled to the side, drew her sword with trembling hands, and stood. Her heart pounded—not from danger, but from horror. She didn’t want to do this.

He attacked again.

She dodged.

The blade flashed under the firelight and stopped just short of piercing her friend’s chest.

“Please…”

He gasped. His body convulsed.

And still…

“…Helektra…”

The voice was so soft. Like a farewell.

Hysilens didn’t think—she simply plunged the sword the moment she had a chance.

The blade pierced his torso, cutting through him. Lysaros—or what remained of him in the deformed creature—let out a dry sound, almost a sigh, and his knees buckled.

Hysilens caught him as he fell.

“I’m sorry…” she whispered.

Lysaros’s eyes—at least one of them—were still looking at her when the body lost all form and went still in her arms.

The world turned red. Red from fire. Red from blood.

. . .

The creatures were upon them.

What had begun as an improvised trench of survivors turned into a slaughter in seconds. The girl who had coughed black blood was the first, but not the last. One by one, those who had shared weapons, words, and hopes began to writhe. To tear themselves apart from within. To mutate.

The Dark Tide had touched them. And it did not forgive.

Hysilens saw them break.

She saw how the woman who had helped her climb bled from her eyes before throwing herself onto her own son. Saw how the boy with the lantern screamed his sister’s name as his ribs opened like petals and a different creature emerged from within.

It wasn’t a battle. It was a transformation. A damnation.

And she was in the middle of it.

Wounded, gasping, soaked in blood —her own and others’— Hysilens staggered backward until her back hit a split stone column. Her arm trembled. Her vision filled with black specks. The pain in her side intensified with every breath, every heartbeat.

One of the creatures approached, dragging a dislocated arm. Its face still looked vaguely human, barely, as strange bark grew along one side of it.

Another moved on her left flank. Another behind.

She was surrounded.

And then, something inside her broke.

Not her mind.

Not her heart.

Her limit.

The accumulation of everything: the smoke, the fire, the bodies, the golden blood on her hands, her mother’s face, Lysaros’s eye, the heat, the scream, the void.

She heard a visceral scream, but didn’t know it came from her until she felt the pain in her throat.

A wild, animal sound, tearing through the air and reason. The scream wasn’t just rage. It was loss. Loneliness. A bitter certainty: nothing was left.

And then she attacked.

The sword moved as if weightless, as if her arm no longer belonged to her. Each slash, each thrust was blind, furious, desperate. She cut tendons, broke bones, smashed skulls. The creatures shrieked, but did not retreat. They hurled themselves at her as if they meant to devour her alive.

Hysilens rolled on the ground, rose, screamed again, and drove her blade through an enemy’s chest with such force it lodged into the column behind. It didn’t matter.

She kept going.

With fists, with feet, with stones if needed. Kicks, elbows, bites. Everything worked. Everything was fair.

The world was red.

The sky, an open furnace.

The sea, a dead silence.

The heart, a storm.

Another creature fell.

And another.

And another.

Until there were no more.

Until the ground trembled only from the ragged sound of her breathing. Until her knee gave out and she collapsed among the bodies.

Blood ran down her side, hot. Her weapon remained embedded meters away. The eyes of the dead —creature and human— stared at her from all sides.

And then she noticed: the world swayed. A sharp pain pulsed in her side, and when she placed her hand over it, she felt the sticky sensation of blood soaking her palm. She had been wounded.

Her arms didn’t respond.

The ground enveloped her.

And just before she lost consciousness, vision blurred by smoke and blood, she saw something moving among the flames.

A figure.

Three silhouettes, actually.

One at the front, walking with steady steps, followed by two more.

Hysilens fell. Her vision went dark and she lost consciousness.

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The first sense to return was pain.

Not sight. Not hearing.

Pain.

A dull, deep burn lodged just beneath her ribs. As if the fire of Styxia hadn’t burned her outside, but from within, slowly, without rest. Hysilens furrowed her brow before opening her eyes. A stab of pain in her abdomen stole her breath.

She was alive.

That was the first thing she understood.

The second, that she wasn’t alone.

The murmur of muffled voices floated in the air like a thin veil. Metal tools. The rustle of fabric. The whisper of someone dragging heavy steps across dry earth.

She opened her eyes with effort.

The ceiling was white canvas, worn. A tent. The smell was a mix of leather, herbal alcohol, and distant smoke. She tried to move, but the simple act of turning her torso unleashed a storm in her side.

She let out a dry groan.

Instinctively, she reached for the wound. Felt tightly wrapped bandages across her abdomen. They were damp. Not with blood, but some thick ointment that burned like liquid fire.

Her sword was gone. So were her clothes. Only a white linen tunic covered her body —light, coarse, likely standard for the wounded.

She sat up slowly, using her left elbow for support. Every muscle protested. Every breath was a battle. The world spun, slowly, as if she still had a fever.

The tent was wide but empty inside, save for a few empty cots and a water bucket nearby. On a small table to her left, she saw her military belt… without the sword.

Hysilens swallowed. Her mouth was dry. Her tongue tasted of ash and metal.

She placed both hands on the cot and let her legs hang off the edge. The dirt floor beneath her feet was cold. More real than anything she’d felt since she fell.

She closed her eyes for a second.

Her mother’s memory.

Her father’s face as he flew through the air.

Lysaros… saying her name.

Everything hit at once, like a flood, but she didn’t cry. Her body no longer allowed it.

She just breathed.

Shallow.

Short.

And opened her eyes again.

She pulled aside the tent flap with a trembling hand.

And then she saw it.

The outside world was gray. Not because of the hour, but the smoke. The camp was set on firm ground, among what seemed to be a set of coastal ruins. Beyond, in the distance, Styxia still burned. But not with chaos fire —with the embers of what can no longer be saved.

Ruins. Only ruins.

People came and went between tents, wounded on stretchers, armed soldiers who didn’t relax for a second. A medic shouted orders far off. None seemed to be from Styxia or any nearby village.

Hysilens blinked.

How many had survived?

Who had saved her?

And why?

She brought her hand to her side, where the painful throbbing beat beneath the bandages. And for a moment, just one, she remembered the golden shimmer in her blood.

A shimmer that made no sense.

The air tensed suddenly.

Footsteps.

Three figures approached from the edge of the camp, toward the tent. Two in light armor, armed escorts with short spears and black steel gauntlets.

And between them, a young woman with a firm stance, sharp gaze, and white hair tied in a low ponytail.

The tent’s fabric opened with a controlled motion.

The figure who stepped across the threshold didn’t walk—she advanced. Every step of the short woman with the imposing presence was precise, as if the ground obeyed her by habit. Her posture was straight, almost too much for her age, and her gaze —cold, clinically focused— landed immediately on Hysilens, without diverting for even a second toward the wounded or the surroundings.

Her white hair fell in a low ponytail, with strands of pale blue standing out, vibrating with the same hue as her eyes. She wore a short cloak over her shoulders, made of reinforced fabric, and a dark gray tunic marked with the symbol of an army Hysilens didn’t recognize.

Behind her, the two escorts stopped just inside the entrance, still, silent, like statues.

Cerydra stopped in front of Hysilens, assessing her with a stare. There was no sympathy in her eyes, no pity, no pride. Only recognition —the way a general looks at a map beginning to take shape.

Hysilens held her gaze as best she could, still seated on the edge of the cot, one hand gripping her bandaged side. The pain throbbed like a drum beneath her skin, but she would not show weakness.

Cerydra’s voice was the first to break the air.

“Name.”

Her tone was firm, almost dry, but not aggressive.

Hysilens watched her silently for a second, distrustful, still dazed. Then she replied:

“Hysilens.”

Cerydra tilted her head slightly.

“Your real name.”

There was a moment of pause.

No one in Styxia asked that. To everyone, Hysilens was enough. A nickname that became identity. But now, surrounded by strangers, stripped of weapons, home, and all that was once hers, the question exposed her as if another layer of skin had been torn away.

“Helektra,” she said at last, her voice hoarse. “But no one calls me that outside Styxia.”

Cerydra nodded, as if confirming something she already knew.

“Styxia has fallen,” she stated, without drama. Like delivering a statistic. “You are the only known survivor.”

The words struck like a cold blow, though Hysilens already knew it. She had seen it. Lived it. But hearing it from the mouth of a stranger with ice in her eyes made it more real. Irrevocable.

She said nothing.

Cerydra also remained silent, watching her as if measuring something unseen.

Finally, Hysilens was the one to speak:

"Who are you?"

“Cerydra. Commander of the Third Continental Detachment,” she replied without hesitation. “We’re at a temporary outpost, south of the ruins.”

“Did you come to save us?”

Cerydra shook her head.

“We came to contain the Dark Tide. We didn’t know Styxia was doomed until it was too late.”

The coldness in her words was almost unbearable, but there was honesty in them. Brutal honesty.

Hysilens clenched her jaw, unable to hold back a sarcastic comment:

“Great containment.”

One of the escorts stepped forward, upset. But Cerydra raised a hand briefly, ordering silence without even looking at her.

“I didn’t come to defend myself,” she replied. “Only to tell you the truth.”

For the first time, Cerydra slightly averted her gaze. Hysilens didn’t notice immediately, but it was then that the commander lowered her tone just a bit.

“Those who carry golden blood usually don’t survive their first contact with the Dark Tide. You not only survived. You killed. You resisted. You screamed. That makes you useful.”

Hysilens looked up. “How do you know about my blood?”

Cerydra looked at her, raising an eyebrow.

“I saw it myself. It poured from your wound while you slept. It glowed even in the dark.”

Hysilens swallowed, her hand pressing against the bandage.

“What… what am I?”

Cerydra looked at her directly. This time, her pale blue eyes weren’t cold. They were grave.

“A Chrysos Heir, like me.”

Hysilens gritted her teeth.

Chrysos Heir.

The words echoed in her head as if they belonged to a different language, distant but not distant enough to ignore.

“I don’t know what that means,” she said finally, her voice dry. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Cerydra didn’t answer immediately. She simply observed, as if weighing how much to say, how much to allow. Finally, without looking away, she raised a hand.

“Leave us.”

The escorts turned at once. A mix of surprise and resistance appeared on their faces.

“My lady, it is not wise—”

“Out.” This time her tone was firmer, as sharp as an execution order.

The soldiers hesitated, as if expecting Hysilens to become a real threat. One even frowned in clear disapproval, but when Cerydra turned slightly toward him, with a single raised brow, both obeyed. One by one, they exited, leaving only the whisper of canvas flapping as the tent closed.

Silence.

Hysilens slowly lowered her feet to the ground and sat up a little more, despite the pain shaking her abdomen. The bandaged wound burned with every movement. But she endured it. She was no stranger to pain.

“Quite the commander,” she muttered with sarcasm, more out of spite than true disdain. “You don’t look like you’ve fought much.”

Cerydra remained in place, unshaken.

“And I don’t seem to need to, to stand here.”

The chill in her reply didn’t come from arrogance. It came from certainty, as if every word had been measured, calculated, projected from an immovable position.

Hysilens straightened slightly, eyes fixed on her.

“You know, I’m injured, not dead. If I wanted, I could come over and strangle you with this hand.”

She slowly raised her arm, trembling, bandaged, but still full of the restrained rage that kept her upright. The gesture wasn’t theatrical. It was real. Her body spoke from the instinct to fight, from the desperate desire to reclaim control of something —anything.

Cerydra didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Didn’t even raise an eyebrow.

“I know you won’t.”

Hysilens narrowed her eyes.

“Oh, yeah? And how can you be so sure?”

Cerydra’s reply was soft, like a knife already inside the flesh.

“Because you have nowhere to go. No one to look for. And right now, I’m the only thing standing between you… and absolute ignorance.”

She stepped forward once, without threat, without urgency. Just enough for her voice to drop to a near whisper.

“I know what you are. You don’t. And even if you don’t want to trust me… you need answers.”

The wound in her side throbbed. Blood pounded in her ears. Her mother’s face. Her father’s body. Lysaros whispering her name with an empty eye.

All of it was inside Hysilens, like embers beneath her skin.

And still, in that moment, Cerydra was right.

Hysilens lowered her arm slowly, jaw still clenched. Not in surrender.

In recognition.

“I don’t like you,” she said with a hoarse voice, almost a growl.

“Perfect,” Cerydra replied, utterly unfazed. “Liking me isn’t required for survival.”

Cerydra didn’t move from where she stood. Hysilens still sat at the edge of the cot, breathing heavily, the pain still fresh, and emotions pulsing beneath her skin like an overflowing tide.

“So?” she asked roughly. “What is a Chrysos Heir?”

Cerydra looked her straight in the eye.

“They’re people born with golden blood. Blood that doesn’t age the same. Blood that doesn’t die the same. Blood that, instead of being corrupted by the Dark Tide, reacts.”

She paused briefly, not for drama, but because the words that followed seemed heavy.

“That blood comes with a fate: to face the Titans. Steal their Coreflames. And replace them.”

Hysilens frowned, confused.

“Replace the gods?”

Cerydra nodded.

“The Heirs aren’t meant to live normal lives. We’re fragments of something that comes before the end. Divine authority… must change hands.”

The silence between them grew dense.

Hysilens lowered her gaze to her side, where the bandage covered the wound. She remembered the golden shimmer between her bloodied fingers. The fear in the creatures’ eyes before she struck them down.

“And how do you know all this?” she asked, looking up again, squinting. “Why do you know it all?”

Cerydra reached into her cloak and pulled out a scroll of parchment, carefully rolled and sealed with a white ribbon.

“I wasn’t the first to receive it,” she said while holding it aloft, without handing it over. “A month ago, this message was sent across all Amphoreus. Signed by the last Sacred Maiden of Janusopolis.”

Hysilens raised an eyebrow. The name was familiar only from old prayers, almost a myth. The Sacred Maidens were intermediaries between the divine and human… or so they said.

“And what does it say?”

Cerydra slowly unrolled the parchment, revealing clean, precise writing, tinged with gold at the edges. It didn’t look handwritten, but etched with sacred fire.

“It calls all those born with golden blood. Speaks of a mission. Of the duty to gather, begin what they call the Flamechaser journey… and find the Era Nova. A time beyond the collapse, where not even the shadow of the Titans remains.”

She closed the scroll with a fluid motion and tucked it back into her cloak.

Hysilens remained silent.

Cerydra watched her a moment longer, as if measuring her reaction word by word.

“I heard nothing of that in Styxia,” Hysilens finally said, her voice laced with suspicion.

“I’m not surprised,” Cerydra replied. “The message didn’t reach before Styxia fell.”

She turned slightly, as if the conversation were about to end.

“The world is splitting apart. The Dark Tide isn’t just a plague. It’s the symptom that something has ended, and something else is about to begin.”

Hysilens stared at the ground.

All this was too much.

Too fast.

Too big.

She had only wanted to protect her family. Her comrades. She hadn’t asked for this. Hadn’t sought any fate written in fire.

But here it was.

And that golden blood burned in her side like a reminder that, for some reason, she was still alive.

“And what do you expect me to do?” she asked softly, without looking at Cerydra. “Just get up… and follow you?”

Cerydra didn’t reply right away. She simply said, in a voice that allowed no refusal:

“I expect nothing. I offer you the choice.”

Cerydra remained still for a moment, watching Hysilens with that same unshakable composure she’d maintained since entering the tent. Then, without a word, she raised her hand.

Not symbolically.

Not solemnly.

She simply held it out.

Her palm, open, steady, waited.

“Follow me,” she said at last. “I’m gathering all the Chrysos Heirs I can find.”

Hysilens looked up, and for a moment, she seemed not to understand.

Cerydra continued:

“There are others like you. Some have already fought the Tide and survived. Others are just discovering what they are. I’ve been recruiting them one by one. In every corner of Amphoreus where the message reached… or where intuition led me before chaos.”

Her voice wasn’t passionate. It wasn’t inspiring.

But it had that kind of conviction that cuts deep, like an anchor in the middle of a storm.

“They’re not just Heirs,” she added. “Mortals come too. Those who’ve lost something. Those who want to fight. Those who won’t give up. I mix them. I train them. I give them structure. And for now… that’s enough.”

Hysilens swallowed, feeling the sharp throb of her wound every time she breathed.

“And why me?” she murmured. “Why look for me?”

“Because you stood up.”

The answer was so simple it hurt.

“You didn’t know what you were. You had no special training. No one prepared you. And still, you survived. You fought. You chose to, when everything was already lost.”

Cerydra stepped closer, her hand still extended, her face still unreadable.

“That’s enough for me.”

Hysilens lowered her gaze to that hand. The bandage on her abdomen burned, and beneath it, she felt it: that faint golden tingling in her blood, as if something ancient pulsed with its own rhythm, separate from her heart.

Everything she had known had been reduced to ashes. Her home. Her family. Her world.

And yet, something in her still beat. Not like a flame, but like a spark refusing to die.

She looked up.

Cerydra’s eyes were that pale blue that didn’t offer comfort. But they did offer promises. Of Strife. Of purpose. Of vengeance, even.

Hysilens hesitated. Just for one more second.

And then, slowly, she raised her hand and placed it over Cerydra’s.

Her fingers were cold.

But the grip was firm.

“All right,” Hysilens whispered, without solemnity, without hollow promises. Just a weary, yet resolute acceptance. “I’ll follow you.”

Cerydra nodded.

“Don’t regret it,” she said.