The mist of Valdrin clung to the city as if it were alive, slithering through the labyrinthine streets and broken rooftops. Lamps flickered, sputtering weak glimmers of amber light into the fog while the rumble of steam engines and the faint creaking of iron gears painted the soundscape.
Cairon D'Averin stood at the center of a dim, decrepit room, his silhouette cutting a sharp figure against the candlelight, flickering shadows warping his features.
His team—an assortment of outcasts, thieves, and survivors—stood around him. Tension hung thick in the air, amplified by the recent events. The shipment, the substance that rendered the Ironclads useless, and Vynn's cryptic warning weighed on all of them.
"Honestly I have no idea what happened or who the man Vynn mentioned is ; what i Know is we need answers, whatever happened just now has some connection with what happened to Vynn. " Cairon said at last, his voice low but firm. "Valdrin's underbelly doesn't hide things without reason. If The Ironclad are Involved , Someone knows what's happening."
His sharp gaze swept across the room. "Scatter through the city. Speak to anyone from the arcane factions you can find—The Whisperbinders, the Obsidian Hermits, even the Coilbloods if they'll listen. Don't mention names. Just… ask about anything strange. Substances, sigils, whispers , about those vials we found And make damn sure you ask about the Ironclads."
The team murmured their assent. Each of them nodded or grunted as they mentally mapped out their assignments.
Marek came closer . "Arcane folk are stingy with their secrets," she muttered, "but I'll try to get something out of them."
"And the rest of you," Cairon added, eyes narrowing, "find out where that substance comes from. Why it freezes those machines. Why it feels... wrong." He glanced toward the crate in the corner, where remnants of the eerie substance still remained—a slick, bluish material that shimmered faintly under torchlight.
As his team filtered out, one by one vanishing into the maze of Valdrin, Cairon exhaled deeply. The room grew still, the distant echoes of footsteps fading. Alone now, he let his posture drop, muscles loosening as the weight of leadership rolled off him, if only for a moment.
He lowered himself onto a crooked chair, clasping his hands together and resting his chin on them. He shut his eyes. Just breathe.
The noise of the city dulled into nothing, replaced by his own heartbeat—slow, steady. His mind drifted into the darkness behind his closed eyelids. He wasn't sleeping, not exactly; this was something else. A calmness, a deliberate easing into nothingness.
And then—
A murmur.
Cairon's brows furrowed. The sound was faint, like voices carried through water. Whispers tangled together, words dissolving into unintelligible fragments.
"…be careful… Vynn…"
The name jolted through him like a spark. He tried to focus, but the sounds shifted—cluttered, blurry, impossible to make out. It was as though he were submerged in a river, struggling to hear the voices echoing across its depths.
And then, the distinct rhythm of words began to surface.
"The A… The A…"
"Please watch over this child ... " the voice hummed.
Cairon's breathing grew shallow. A shiver crawled up his spine, and the whispers pressed closer, louder. Silence fought to hold its grip but was shattered as screams erupted, followed by the furious clang of metal on metal—the unmistakable sound of Ironclads in motion.
"Catch them!" a distorted voice bellowed. "It's him—he came to save the boy! Both of them need to be destroyed!"
The vision fractured.
Cairon gasped, his eyes flying open as he shot upright, heart pounding violently against his ribs. His surroundings returned in an instant—the grimy room, the flickering candle, the faint scent of oil and metal in the air. He wiped the sweat from his brow, exhaling in ragged breaths.
That voice. That scream.
It matched exactly what Vynn had described in his stories. The whispers, the Ironclads, the pursuit.
Cairon rose unsteadily to his feet, as if the memory of that sound had physically struck him. He needed to figure out what was happening to him . Proof. Answers. His mind clawed through his memories of his past , anything with any semblance to what Vynn described , that was until it latched onto a memory , about a year ago he found a box , dark and black with a tint of gold , like the coins that Vynn described."
He moved swiftly, dragging his hands across old shelves, upending dusty drawers and papers. The search was frantic but purposeful. It had to be here.
Finally, in the corner of the room, tucked under a loose floorboard, Cairon found what he was looking for. A box—simple and unadorned. Its surface was smooth and unnaturally black , the reflection of light on it's surface a tint of gold ."
He stared at it for a moment, dread pooling in his gut. He had always known this box wasn't… ordinary. It had no design, no carvings—nothing to suggest what it was, who had made it, or why. It was just black. A void given form.
His fingers trembled slightly as he picked it up. The box was light—almost weightless—yet it seemed to hum faintly in his grasp, a vibration just beneath the threshold of hearing.
Cairon swallowed hard. Slowly, he turned the box over, searching for a latch or seam. There was none. Just endless smoothness. Nothing.
He wondered , what even is it? There's literally nothing on it ! He applied pressure onto it , nothing happened.
Cairon gritted his teeth and placed his hands firmly on either side of the box. With a deep breath, he pushed.
At first, nothing. The box remained motionless, unyielding. But then, under the pressure of his hands, a seam appeared—a thin, near-imperceptible crack running along its center. It widened, light seeping through as if the box itself were splitting open.
The whispers still echoed faintly in his mind.
"The A… The A…"
The hum grew louder, vibrating in the air now, filling the room with an almost musical resonance.
Maybe the whispers are connected to the box, at last Cairon uttered the words
" The A. "
Suddenly something happened!
Cairon flinched as the faintest smell—salt, smoke, fire, metal—washed over him, carried on a breeze that shouldn't exist. The box, still glowing with an otherworldly light, clicked.
It opened.
The light was blinding for a heartbeat before it dimmed to a soft, pulsing glow. Cairon leaned over it, breath hitching as he saw what lay within.
A single shard.
It looked like glass but wasn't. It was shaped like a splinter of ice, glimmering with a faint, opalescent hue that shifted and pulsed. Blue. White. Black. It was alive.
He reached out instinctively but stopped short, the shard's glow intensifying as his hand drew near. His palm tingled, as if it recognized him—knew him.
And in that instant, he heard something again.
The humming of a woman:
"The Aetheris… It encompasses all…"
Cairon staggered backward, nearly dropping the box as the words resonated through his mind. They weren't spoken. They simply were, as though etched into the air itself.
"The Aetheris…" he whispered aloud, it was what Vynn said was on the coin from the man's stomach ,the name tasting foreign and ancient on his tongue.
Before he could process further, a sudden pounding rattled the door to his hideout.
"Cairon!" Marek'a voice called out urgently. "Open up!"
Cairon slammed the box shut, its glow vanishing instantly as though it had never been. He shoved it beneath his coat just as Marek burst through the door, panting. His face was pale, eyes wide with barely restrained fear.
"What is it?" Cairon asked sharply.
Marek took a moment to catch his breath. "The Whisperbinders," he gasped. "They—" he swallowed. "They're scared, Cairon. Someone—or something—has been hunting them ."
Cairon's heart sank. "What do you mean something?"
Rhian shook her head. "They wouldn't say. But they mentioned a mark. A sigil… something new. And they said whoever's behind it…"
He hesitated, looking at him with dread. "They're looking for you."
Cairon froze.
The shard beneath his coat seemed to pulse again, as though it had heard his words.