Rain cascaded down in relentless sheets, striking the soot-streaked cobblestones of Viradin with a ferocity that mirrored the city's pulse. The industrial sprawl churned with the roar of steam engines, the groan of grinding gears, and the acrid hiss of venting gas. Smoke coiled in the air, an oppressive shroud that suffocated the gas lamps lining the streets. Their feeble light wavered, casting jagged shadows that flitted like wraiths along the walls of the towering structures.
Cairon D'Aver moved through the labyrinthine alleys of the Lower Quarters with practiced ease. His patched leather trench clung to his wiry frame, slick with rain. Beneath his hood, a simple breathing mask filtered the toxic air, leaving his face partially hidden save for his eyes—deep, unsettling pools of black rimmed with molten gold. Those who dared to meet his gaze were left with a primal unease, as though they were prey caught in the sights of an unrelenting predator.
Behind him, a boy barely in his teens struggled to match his pace. Vynn's small, wiry frame was swaddled in an ill-fitting coat and a scarf wound tightly around his neck. He clutched a satchel to his chest, his knuckles white as he stumbled over puddles and uneven stones.
"Move faster, Vynn," Cairon said, his voice low and clipped.
The boy flinched but nodded, his wet boots squelching as he hurried to keep up. "I'm trying, Cairon. Just—" He hesitated, his words drowned out by the sudden screech of a distant iron whistle.
Cairon turned sharply, his hand brushing the hilt of a dagger concealed beneath his coat. His predatory eyes scanned the darkened street, noting every flicker of movement, every shadow out of place. The air felt heavier now, charged with an unspoken threat.
"We're still being watched," he muttered.
Vynn swallowed hard. "Still? The Ironclad? I can't see them anymore !!! "
"Doesn't matter." Cairon grabbed the boy's arm, steering him toward a side alley. "We don't stop. Not here , Kepp moving , Stillness creates opportunities for them."
The streets grew narrower and darker as they pushed deeper into the Valdrin's forgotten veins, where crumbling walls and rotted beams whispered tales of abandonment. At last, they arrived at a dilapidated warehouse, its facade sagging under the weight of decades of neglect. Cairon rapped three times on a concealed panel near the base of the wall, his fingers moving in a deliberate rhythm.
For a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a guttural groan, a section of the wall slid open, revealing a passage lined with rusted gears and dim, flickering lamps.
"Inside," Cairon said, motioning Vynn forward.
The boy hesitated, glancing at the narrow, unlit corridor ahead. "Are you sure this—"
Cairon's gaze bore into him, silencing his words. "Safe? Nothing here is. But this is better than out there. I don't mind leaving you back here ."
Vynn obeyed, slipping into the passage with a nervous glance over his shoulder. Cairon followed, the panel grinding shut behind them, sealing the outside world away.
The chamber they entered was dimly lit by a single oil lamp perched atop a crooked table. Maps, blueprints, and scribbled notes covered the walls, overlapping in chaotic layers. Crates were stacked haphazardly in one corner, while the faint smell of damp earth and rust lingered in the air.
"You're late," a gruff voice growled from the shadows.
A towering figure emerged, his silhouette bristling with utility belts, holsters, and the faint glint of steel. Marek's face was hidden behind a mechanical mask, its copper tubing hissing softly with each breath. He crossed his arms over his broad chest, his eyes narrowing as he looked at the boy.
"Who's the stray?"
"A wanted survivor , Checked his poster" Cairon said flatly, pushing his hood back to reveal his sharp features. Water dripped from his jet-black hair onto the cracked floor. "One of us now."
Marek snorted. "He doesn't look like much."
Vynn bristled, clutching the satchel tighter. "I can hold my own!" he blurted, though his voice quavered, he knew this was his one and only hope for now , to survive and live without being caught.
Cairon raised a hand, silencing the boy. "He's young, but he's quick. And he listens. That's more than I can say for most."
Marek grumbled something unintelligible but didn't press further. Instead, he gestured toward the wall, where a map of Valdrin had been stabbed with pins and inked with red lines.
"The Ironclad raided one of our safehouses last night. Burned it to the ground," Marek said, his voice hard. "We're running out of places to hide."
Cairon frowned, his gaze tracing the lines of the map. "We'll adapt. We always do. What about the shipment?"
Marek nodded toward a crate in the corner. "It's all there. Weapons, rations, and... something extra that you might wanna check."
Cairon approached the crate, prying it open with a crowbar. Inside were knives, pistols, and small vials filled with a shimmering, silver liquid that seemed to hum faintly. He picked up one of the vials, holding it to the light.
"What is this?"
"An alchemist's concoction," Marek replied, his tone uneasy. "They say it can paralyze even the Ironclad. But it hasn't been tested."
Cairon slid the vial into his coat pocket, his expression unreadable. "Then we'll have to test it, if it works we will have an opportunity to go aggro."
The Ambush
Hours later, the rain had lessened, but the air remained heavy as Cairon and his group crept through the alleys toward their target. The convoy—a column of steam-powered wagons escorted by Ironclad soldiers—rumbled ahead, their destination cloaked in secrecy.
"Stay sharp," Cairon whispered, crouching behind a stack of crates. His voice was calm, but his eyes—black and gold—gleamed with a cold, predatory light.
The group nodded, each slipping into position. Vynn crouched nearby, his hands trembling as he clutched a small blade. Cairon placed a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder.
"Breathe," he said quietly. "You only strike when the time is right. Just stay back for now and mostly support the others , Understand?"
Vynn nodded, his breathing steadying. "I won't mess up."
Cairon's lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile. "Good."
As the convoy rolled closer, Cairon raised a hand. The rebels tensed, their weapons drawn.
"Now!"
The street erupted into chaos. Marek's explosive struck the lead wagon, engulfing it in flames. Soldiers suddenly alarmed shouted orders, their formation breaking as the rebels swarmed. Cairon moved like a shadow, his dagger flashing as he took down one soldier from the back , quickly shifting the handle and throwing it towards the next one with calculated precision.
But as he kept fighting , tonight a strange pressure was building up in his chest—a sensation that grew until it felt as though his very essence would burst. When an Ironclad soldier cornered him, blade raised, the pressure creeped outward and exploded.
A torrent of water surged from Cairon's hands, slamming into the soldier with the force of a tidal wave. The street fell silent as the water receded, leaving Cairon standing at its center, drenched and trembling.
"What... what the hell was that?" Marek's voice cut through the silence, filled with awe and fear.
Cairon stared at his hands, the golden rings in his eyes glowing faintly. "I don't know," he said hoarsely. "But it's not over."
From the rooftop above, a shadowy figure watched the chaos unfold. The faint glimmer of a sigil etched onto their gloved left hand caught the dying light of the flames—an intricate symbol, ancient and ominous, like a serpent coiling around a cup . They lingered only long enough to trace an invisible mark into the air, their movements precise and ritualistic.
Then, as if swallowed by the night itself, they were gone.