The sound of of a heart beating, loud and echoing, it was Cairon's heart , like he was disconnected from The outside , barely hanging in, "what does he mean it's looking for me? How? Why?
Wait , how do they even know it's looking for me exactly?" He thought to himself.
Suddenly
" What did you find out? Give me the full details ." Cairon asked.
Marek looked grim. "Plenty, and none of it good." He gestured for Cairon to follow, him tone low. "Someone's been asking around—and not in a subtle way, like they want you to know they're looking."
Following Marek they entered the adjacent lobby, joining the other two members of the team, Kel and Aeryn , both welcoming Cairon with a subtle nod.
Kel added with a sneer, "Doesn't sound like your usual city gossip, either. They described you—sharp features, black hair, streak of gold in your hair. Said you took out the Ironclads using mysterious means . Word's spreading fast, Cairon ; even the other arcane groups are looking for you in fear of being the next on that things list ! "
Cairon's stomach tightened. Too much exposure. His reputation among Valdrin's underbelly already carried weight, he was well known , but this? Someone wanted him seen.
"What exactly are they saying?" he pressed.
Marek hesitated. "That the person who froze the Ironclads did it with arcane power. Like something straight out of the Whisperbinders' rituals. But there's more—something…" he searched for the word. "Off."
Aeryn finally spoke, voice a measured whisper. "They say the power came from the caster, not any arcane object. And there's something hunting. It's killing anyone who gets too close to the answers."
Cairon frowned, glancing to Kel. "Something?"
Kel nodded warily. "A type of beast. The descriptions are all over the place—cloaked in mist, slick and quick with eyes like glass and shadows that move with him, accompanying him. Some of the Whisperbinders say it's like an old myth brought back to life. The Holder of The Stream."
The words hit like a blow.
Cairon heard it again—the hum of the shard beneath his coat. It vibrated faintly, like a soundless chuckle. Amusement.
"What's The Holder of The Stream?" he demanded.
Kel shuffled uncomfortably, his fingers twitching at his sides. "Some old tale among the arcane factions from before the city—before machines. It's said to be a higher beast that… governs the flow of everything in the world. Water, time, concepts , life itself. Streams that keep the world moving. The Whisperbinders call it a 'Marquis of Currents,' but it doesn't just guide. It can stop them, too."
Cairon exhaled slowly. "And now it's here? This is just dumb."
"They said they have found only some clues of it's existence, readings on relics , texts of the past , Despite all that People are Now seeing it," Marek confirmed. "Or Whatever it is that resembles it , it's no myth to them. A creature like that…" he trailed off, grim.
Silence fell as Cairon weighed their words. The shard's pulse grew stronger—an unmistakable rhythm against his chest, like a heartbeat.
"It's connected to this," Cairon muttered, half to himself., while putting his hand over where it was placed ,"The shard. The box. The Ironclads freezing. None of this is coincidence."
Marek shifted uneasily. "We need to figure out why it's looking for you. And more importantly—what it wants."
"Doesn't matter what it wants," Kel said with a humorless grin. "It's going to find him either way. Half the city's whispering your name, Cairon, it's a matter of time before they all rush over here with their forces."
Cairon's jaw tightened. So be it. "Then we keep moving. We stay ahead of this thing." He looked at Marek. "Who's been talking the loudest about me?"
Marek hesitated. "A so called tavern keeper. Calls himself Rulven. Runs the Rusted Valve near the docks. He was a witness of why happened to us and he's the one who first spread the word about you. He's scared out of his mind, Cairon—like someone forced it out of him."
"Then he'll know something," Cairon replied. "Kel, Aeryn—watch the streets. If anyone comes looking for me, follow them. See where they go."
"And what about the thing looking for you ?" Kel muttered. "If it's real, it's not going to stop just because we keep to the shadows."
Cairon looked down briefly, feeling the shard's pulse quicken, its faint hum reverberating in his skull.
"I'll deal with it when it comes," he said at last.
The Rusted Valve was no stranger to whispers of crime and conspiracy, its walls steeped in secrets and spilled drinks. Cairon slipped inside, the heavy wooden door creaking behind him. The tavern was half-empty—a few dockworkers hunched over mugs, a bard plucking lazily at a lute in the corner.
At the bar, Rulven stood wiping glasses with nervous, jerky motions. He was a wiry man, his skin pale beneath a patchy brown beard. When Cairon approached, his face drained of color.
"I assume Rulven ," Cairon said softly, resting a gloved hand on the bar. "I hear you've been talking about me."
Rulven froze. The glass slipped from his fingers and hit the floor, shattering. The bard stopped playing.
"I—I didn't have a choice!" Rulven stammered, his voice trembling. "They—they came to me. Told me what to say. Said if I didn't, I'd…"
"Who?" Cairon demanded.
Rulven's eyes darted around the room, wide with fear. "I don't know who he was! Tall, with a gas mask and a mechanical Eye , his voice like a whetstone scraping metal, something was off about him , his limbs were longer , He asked for you—your description, your name. He knew about the Ironclads, about what you did, he told me of your name."
Cairon leaned in closer, his voice low. "And?"
"And he said they were coming for you!" Rulven whispered, barely audible. "He called it the 'Herald of the Stream.' It's following your scent—through the mist, through the streets. He said it'll find you, Cairon."
Cairon's heart thudded heavily in his chest. The flow.
Before he could ask more, the room grew colder. The faint hum of the shard turned into a sharp vibration, and Cairon felt it's coldness burn faintly against his skin.
The bard stopped strumming altogether. The dockworkers looked up.
The mist outside the tavern door thickened unnaturally, tendrils slithering through the cracks like living things. A deep, resonant sound filled the room—a pulse, low and rhythmic, like the beat of some great heart.
Rulven paled. "It's here."
The door exploded inward. A wall of mist poured into the tavern, followed by a shape—impossibly large and shadowed. It moved like liquid, its edges shifting and curling in and out of focus. The eyes came last—glasslike black orbs that glowed faintly blue, as if reflecting some unseen light.
Cairon stared at the thing—the Herald—his muscles tensing. The shard beneath his coat was alive now, humming wildly in rhythm with the beast's approach.
"It knows you," Rulven whimpered.
The Herald's head tilted, those glassy eyes fixing on Cairon. And in that moment, Cairon understood.
The shard had called it.
The beast inhaled sharply, and the room's air seemed to stop. Time itself slowed—dust hung motionless, flames froze mid-flicker, voices caught and stilled. The tavern was paralyzed in a breathless instant.
And then the Herald spoke—its voice a whisper that echoed in the marrow of Cairon's bones.
"Oh my, You have already found an Aetheris Shard… it really seems no one can run from the flow." It smiled his mouth
The shard pulsed brighter, and Cairon knew, instinctively, that this was just the beginning.