Sylas dropped through the darkness for what seemed like an eternity, the stone walls of the well rushing past him as his hands instinctively reached for anything solid. But there was nothing—only the chill of the air and the endless fall.
Finally, with a jolt, his feet hit the ground. The impact was softer than he expected, like landing on dirt soaked in centuries of neglect. He took a breath, the smell of ancient earth and dust filling his lungs. The darkness around him was suffocating, but the faintest glow from the walls offered a weak comfort.
His hand instinctively reached for the hilt of his blade, but it wasn't out of fear. It was a reflex. He knew something was down here. The voice. The symbol. It had all led him to this point.
He pulled himself up from the floor, rubbing the back of his neck. His eyes slowly adjusted to the gloom, the faint shimmer of arcane runes marking the stone as if they had grown from the walls themselves, not carved.
Sylas stepped forward cautiously, feeling the tension in the air. His boots crunched lightly on the earth as he moved deeper, each step drawing him further into the ancient labyrinth beneath the city.
He didn't know what he was looking for. Not yet. But the feeling gnawing at him—the one he couldn't shake—told him that it would find him first.
And then, just as his mind began to wander, something shifted in the air. A low hum reverberated through his bones, something alive, something... waiting.
He froze.
The runes on the walls brightened, their light pulsing in a rhythmic pattern that matched his heartbeat. They weren't just glowing now—they were calling.
Sylas gritted his teeth. He didn't need to be told twice. Something was alive down here.
He drew his blade, the steel humming faintly in the eerie quiet. He wasn't sure if it was the blade or his own pulse, but it didn't matter. Not yet.
He rounded a corner, his senses alert, every fiber of his being screaming that something wasn't right. But that was the thing about underground ruins—things never felt right.
A soft whisper brushed against his ear.
You've come. But will you understand?
Sylas didn't flinch. He had learned long ago that fear was a luxury. Understanding, however, was a necessity.
"You're welcome to try and explain," he said, his voice cutting through the dark like a blade. "But I won't wait forever."
A deep chuckle filled the air. The sound was low and ancient, like the earth itself had laughed. And then, from the shadow of a crumbled archway, a figure stepped forward.
It wasn't human. It wasn't even alive, in the sense he knew it. But it was there, standing before him—a mass of shadow and twisted forms, held together by the ancient runes that seemed to pulse from within.
Its voice, when it came, sounded like it was torn from every corner of his mind at once.
You are not the first to seek the truth.
Sylas's grip on his sword tightened. "I'm not here for your riddles."
The figure loomed closer, its form constantly shifting, as if it were struggling to maintain any shape at all.
Truth... is the greatest lie. And it is here, where the balance breaks.
The air shifted again. A rush of cold swept through Sylas, and for a moment, he saw the walls of the chamber warp and distort, shifting in impossible angles. The ground beneath his feet trembled, but he held steady, focusing on the figure before him.
"I don't care for your games," he said firmly. "Tell me what's happening here."
The figure tilted its head in what might have been amusement—or something darker.
You seek to understand. But understanding demands a price. You cannot walk both paths, Sylas Drevin.
He took a step forward. "I never walk a path I don't control."
The figure's form flickered, its voice now a whisper, barely audible. Then you will lose more than you realize.
A sudden burst of force lashed out from the figure, sending Sylas stumbling back. His feet slid on the uneven floor, but he managed to regain his balance, his sword raised, ready to strike.
But the figure wasn't finished. The shadows around him thickened, growing heavier, colder, wrapping around him like tendrils, trying to drag him into the depths. Sylas swung his blade, slicing through the air, but the shadows were too fast, too insistent. They closed in around him.
For a moment, everything felt like it was closing in. The walls. The floor. The very air itself. He felt trapped.
And then, just as quickly, it stopped.
The shadows receded, and the figure was gone, leaving only the lingering hum in the air.
Sylas exhaled sharply, wiping the sweat from his brow. His pulse still raced, but he steadied himself.
You have been warned.
The voice echoed in his mind one last time before fading into silence.
Sylas took a deep breath, sheathing his blade. He didn't look back at the walls or the runes. He didn't need to. He'd learned enough.
But it wasn't over. It couldn't be. The moment he had stepped into this place, the city had shifted, and now there was no turning back.
The following morning, back at the Drevin estate, Sylas stood alone in his study, his fingers tracing the edge of a map. His thoughts lingered on the vision from the ruins.
You seek to understand.
The city was changing, and he needed answers. Fast.
He glanced at the door as it opened.
Alira stepped in, her face as serious as ever. "You've been gone too long."
"I found something," Sylas said, his voice steady but edged with something darker. "And I think it's more than just a disturbance. Whatever was sealed beneath us—it's waking up. And it wants something."
Alira's gaze sharpened. "What is it?"
Sylas met her eyes, his expression cold.
"It's not just the city that's broken. It's the balance. And I'm not sure we can fix it."