Cyrus returned to his quarters, the adrenaline of the night's events still pulsing through his veins. The small, stark room was barely more than a cell—its cold stone walls and narrow bed reflecting the austerity of the Obsidian Spire itself. A simple wooden table and a flickering lantern provided the only light, casting faint, trembling shadows that seemed to whisper and shift in the dimness. Devoid of comfort, this space had been his home for as long as he could remember. But home, in this place, had always been defined by survival, not solace.
He knelt beside the bed, reaching underneath to pull out a small, weathered box. The dark wood was smooth from years of handling, its surface worn by time, unremarkable to anyone else. But to Cyrus, it was his most precious possession, a relic of the past that still clung to his soul like a shadow he couldn't escape. Slowly, he lifted the lid, his breath catching as the hinges creaked.
Inside, on a bed of black velvet, lay a necklace—a delicate gold chain with a single, flawless sapphire resting at its center. The gem shimmered faintly, catching the dim light and reflecting it back in deep, mesmerizing blues. The necklace had once belonged to her—to Ella—the one person who had ever seen him as more than a weapon. The memories of her hovered constantly in his mind, a ghost from a time when he might have chosen a different path. But that path had closed the day she died, leaving him with nothing but her memory and this single, fragile token.
His fingers trembled as they hovered over the necklace, the cool metal a sharp contrast to the warmth of his skin. The sapphire seemed to pulse faintly, its glow matching the beat of his heart. For a moment, he was no longer in the Spire. He was back in that fleeting memory of her smile, the way she had always managed to find light in the darkest of places. His chest tightened.
"Why was it you and not me?" Cyrus whispered, his voice barely audible in the cold stillness of the room. The question, unanswered for so long, lingered in the air like a thread unraveling in the wind. "Maybe... it's better this way." His voice faltered, uncertain whether the words brought comfort or only deepened the pain. It was a storm inside him—regret, anger, sorrow—all tangled in a knot he couldn't hope to untangle.
After a long moment, Cyrus slipped the necklace over his head. The gold chain settled against his chest, the sapphire resting just above his heart. As it touched his skin, a burst of blue flames ignited within the gem, flickering and dancing like a memory brought to life. The flames didn't burn; instead, they filled him with a bittersweet warmth, a comfort that felt both distant and familiar.
Gradually, the fire in the gem calmed, the glow fading to a soft ember. It was a reminder of the power it held, of the past that still tethered him to a life he had left behind. Cyrus closed his eyes, letting the memories of Ella wash over him like a tide that he could never fully hold back. Her laughter, her touch, the way she had once looked at him with hope, maybe even with love—if they had lived in a different world. But that world was gone, as was she, leaving him with only this small remnant of who he might have been.
In the morning, Cyrus rose early. The shadows still lingered in his mind, but he pushed them aside as he packed his belongings. There wasn't much—his black cloak, which he draped over his shoulders, its familiar weight settling around him like a second skin; a few knives and smaller weapons that could be easily concealed with a spell; and, of course, Nightsong, the dagger that had become an extension of his will. He tucked the dagger into his belt, its blade humming softly as if sensing the mission that lay ahead.
As Cyrus approached the exit, he was greeted by the sight of the Four Ravens standing in formation, their dark figures silhouetted against the dim light that filtered through the ancient stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of smoke and magic, the power of the Ravens almost tangible in the confined space. Each of them bore the emblem of the Crow's End prominently on their armor—a black crow with wings outstretched, clutching a crescent moon. But as Cyrus drew near, he instinctively reached for his own emblem, tucking it away beneath his cloak. It would not do for the students and faculty at Ebonspire to see such a mark.
Morvyn, the Keeper of Secrets, was the first to speak, his voice a soft, chilling whisper that seemed to seep into the very air around them. "Cyrus, the shadows have molded you for this moment. Remember where your true loyalty lies—with the Crow's End. The Grandmaster of Ebonspire is cunning, but you will find his weaknesses. Learn his secrets, and use them to our advantage." As he spoke, Morvyn extended a slender, gloved hand, offering a sealed envelope and a small identification card, both bearing the official insignia of Ebonspire Academy.
"Here," Morvyn continued, "this letter and ID will grant you entry into the academy. The letter is forged, but it is flawless—it identifies you as Cyrus Vale, the son of a merchant family from Lionsworth. Present these to the guardians at the gate, and they will allow you entry. But remember, your true identity must remain hidden at all costs."
Vaela, the Mistress of Blades, stepped forward next, her eyes sharp as the daggers she wielded. "You've survived the pit, but this mission will test you in ways you can't yet imagine. Trust your instincts, Cyrus. Your blade is your voice—let it speak for you. And when you reach Ebonspire, be prepared for one final test before you are fully accepted into the academy. The guardians will require a demonstration of your magical abilities—a test to prove your worth. Fail, and you will be turned away. But I have no doubt you will succeed. You've been trained for this."
Kael, the Warden of Shadows, regarded him with his usual stoic expression, though there was a flicker of something more in his eyes—pride, perhaps, or respect. "You are no longer a boy in the shadows. You're a Raven now, with our legacy on your shoulders. Let it guide you. The shadows will be with you, even when you're alone. And when you face the test, remember, it is not just your skills that are being judged, but your ability to maintain control, to wield the shadows without being consumed by them."
Zarek, the Bringer of Flames, was last. His voice was a low growl, filled with the heat of the fire that always burned within him. "You've come far, Cyrus, but this is just the beginning. At Ebonspire, you'll face enemies you've never seen before—both within and without. Keep your fire burning bright, and let it consume anyone who stands in your way. And when the time comes, when the final test is before you, remember what I've taught you. Control the flame, let it burn with purpose, and you will not fail."
Cyrus nodded, absorbing their words, each one a reminder of the path he had chosen, the life he had embraced. He met each of their gazes in turn, a silent vow passing between them. This was his mission, and he would not fail.
As he reached for the forged letter and ID, he felt the weight of their trust settle on his shoulders. The Ravens had prepared him for this, molded him into the weapon he had become. Now, it was time to prove that their efforts had not been in vain.
With the documents securely tucked away, Cyrus turned toward the Shadowrunner, ready to begin the long journey to Ebonspire. But as he walked, he couldn't help but think of the final test that awaited him—one last trial before he could fully infiltrate the academy. It would be the ultimate demonstration of his abilities, a chance to prove that the shadows were truly his to command.
At that moment, the sound of heavy, mechanical footsteps echoed through the corridor, growing louder as they approached. Cyrus turned to see a steam wagon rolling into view, its design a marvel of dark, intricate metalwork. The vehicle was known as The Shadowrunner, a name that had been whispered in fear and awe by those who had seen it pass through the night. It was pulled by two bio-mechanical horses, their bodies a blend of sinew and steel, their eyes glowing with an eerie, unnatural light. The horses moved with a fluid, almost predatory grace, their hooves striking the stone with a rhythmic, metallic clang that reverberated through the chamber.
The Shadowrunner came to a halt before Cyrus, the door swinging open with a creak of well-oiled hinges. Inside, the interior was dark and foreboding, lined with plush black leather and dark wood, a space designed for comfort but also for secrecy.
Cyrus turned back to the Ravens one last time, their forms imposing and unyielding in the flickering torchlight. He reached up to his neck, feeling the cool weight of Ella's necklace resting against his skin, a reminder of why he had to succeed. His resolve steeled, Cyrus nodded to the Ravens in silent acknowledgment, his expression unreadable.
Morvyn, the Keeper of Secrets, stepped forward, his dark eyes glinting with an inscrutable expression. With a subtle wave of his hand, he began to murmur an incantation under his breath, his voice low and almost melodic. The Shadowrunner, with its ominous bio-mechanical horses and otherworldly aura, began to shimmer in the dim light. The spell took hold, and the Shadowrunner's sinister appearance started to shift.
The sleek, dark form of the wagon gradually morphed, its metallic surface softening into the more familiar contours of a weathered, steampunk wagon. The bio-mechanical horses, once menacing and otherworldly, transformed into what appeared to be ordinary, albeit strong and durable, steeds with polished brass harnesses. The intricate machinery that had once powered the Shadowrunner became hidden beneath layers of wood and iron, giving the wagon a deceptively mundane appearance.
When the transformation was complete, the Shadowrunner looked like any other transport one might see on the roads leading to Ebonspire—a simple, unassuming steampunk wagon, perfect for blending in and avoiding unwanted attention. Morvyn's spell was flawless, erasing any trace of the vehicle's true nature.
"I will not fail," he said, his voice firm, carrying with it the cold resolve of one who had already faced the darkness and emerged stronger. "The shadows are my guide, and I will complete this mission. When I return, Ebonspire will have yielded its secrets to the Crow's End."
Morvyn nodded, his expression inscrutable. "Go, then. The night awaits."
Cyrus stepped into the Shadowrunner, the door closing behind him with a final, echoing thud. The wagon lurched forward, the bio-mechanical horses pulling it smoothly into the night. As the Spire receded into the distance, the weight of his mission settled over him like a shroud, the road ahead long and fraught with danger. But he was ready. The shadows were with him, and they would see him through.
The bio-mechanical horses at the front moved with eerie precision, their eyes glowing with a faint, otherworldly light as they trotted forward, guided by the arcane runes inscribed within the Shadowrunner's core. The destination was set—Ebonspire Academy—and the wagon would not deviate from its path unless commanded otherwise.
Cyrus sat within the dark, plush interior of the wagon, his eyes fixed on the landscape beyond the window. As the Spire faded into the distance, the terrain around him began to shift, transforming into a world of strange, otherworldly beauty.
The sun hung low in the sky, casting long shadows that stretched across the land like the fingers of some ancient, unseen god. The light flickered and danced as it hit the surface of a vast expanse of glassy black rock, a barren wasteland where nothing seemed to live except the shifting sands and the occasional, jagged spires of crystal that jutted out of the ground like the bones of the earth itself.
The Shadowrunner moved swiftly across the terrain, the magical energy humming softly through its frame. The landscape outside the window continued to change, becoming more desolate, more alien. As the sun dipped lower, casting the world into twilight, the black rock gave way to a desert of pale, powdery sand that stretched out as far as the eye could see. The wind began to pick up, howling through the empty landscape like a living thing, carrying with it the distant, eerie cries of strange coyote-like creatures that prowled the dunes, their forms barely visible in the growing darkness.
Cyrus stared out into the desolate expanse, his thoughts drifting to Ebonspire. He had heard tales of the academy—of its towering spires and ancient libraries, its labyrinthine halls filled with the knowledge of the ages. But he had never seen it with his own eyes, and now, as he journeyed closer to that fabled place, he couldn't help but wonder what awaited him there.
"I wonder what Ebonspire is like," he murmured to himself, his voice barely audible over the sound of the wind battering the sides of the wagon. "How will I act?" The question lingered in his mind, unanswered, as the last rays of sunlight disappeared below the horizon, plunging the desert into the cold grip of night.
The Shadowrunner pressed on, its magical guidance unerring as it navigated the strange, shifting sands. Cyrus allowed his thoughts to wander, his gaze fixed on the distant horizon where the sky bled from deep purple to black.
But then, cutting through the silence of the desert, a sound reached his ears—a sound that made him sit up straight, his attention snapping to the window.
It was a scream—a high-pitched, desperate cry carried on the wind, followed by another, more frantic shout. "Please!!! Somebody help!!!" The voice echoed across the empty expanse, faint but unmistakable.
Cyrus tensed, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of Nightsong at his belt. He tilted his head slightly, trying to ignore the screams, to shut out the sound of the girl's pleas. "This is not my problem," he thought to himself, his eyes narrowing as he forced himself to look away from the window. "Stay focused. The mission is all that matters."
But the voice wouldn't leave his mind. It replayed over and over, the desperation in the girl's cries gnawing at the edges of his thoughts.
Despite himself, Cyrus felt a spark of something—an emotion he couldn't quite name—begin to flare within him. The shadowy figure of Ella flashed across his mind, a ghost from his past, and for a moment, he could almost hear her voice, feel her hand on his shoulder, urging him to act.
With a low growl of frustration, Cyrus clenched his fist and commanded the Shadowrunner to stop.
The wagon obeyed immediately, coming to a smooth halt in the middle of the barren desert. The door swung open, the cold night air rushing in as Cyrus stepped out, his black cloak billowing around him like a shroud.
The screams grew louder as he approached, his footsteps silent against the shifting sands. In the distance, he could see the flicker of firelight, the smoke rising into the night sky, carried on the wind. The scent of burning wood and something more acrid, more sinister, filled the air as he drew closer, his senses sharp, his mind focused.
As he crested a small dune, the scene before him came into view. Four men, their faces twisted into cruel sneers, were gathered around a young girl, her face streaked with tears and dirt. One of the men held a blade to her throat, the edge glinting wickedly in the firelight. The others laughed, their voices low and mocking as they taunted her.
Cyrus's eyes narrowed, the air around him suddenly heavy with menace. The men seemed to sense his presence before they saw him, their laughter dying in their throats as they turned to look up at the top of the dune. There, silhouetted against the darkening sky, stood a shadowy figure, his eyes glowing with a cold, crimson light. The air around him seemed to ripple with unseen power, the temperature dropping sharply as he took a step forward, his hand resting on the hilt of Nightsong.
The girl's sobs caught in her throat as she turned to see the newcomer, her eyes wide with fear and hope. The men hesitated, their bravado faltering as they took in the sight of the figure before them. The one holding the blade to the girl's throat sneered, trying to muster his courage, but his voice wavered as he called out.
"Who the hell are you? This ain't none of your business!"
Cyrus didn't answer. He simply kept walking, his steps slow and deliberate, the sand crunching beneath his boots. The firelight flickered, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch and twist, mirroring the darkness that hung in the air.
The men shifted nervously, the leader tightening his grip on the girl as he barked orders to the others. "Get him! Kill him!"
But before they could move, Cyrus's voice cut through the air, cold and deadly. "Leave her. Or face the consequences."
The men hesitated, but their leader snarled, his fear turning to anger as he pushed the blade harder against the girl's throat. "You're gonna regret—"
He never finished the sentence. In a blur of motion, Cyrus drew Nightsong, the blade gleaming with a dark, malevolent light. The men barely had time to react before the shadowy figure was upon them, the air filled with the sound of steel slicing through flesh.
The girl's scream echoed through the night as the men turned to face their attacker, their faces twisted with shock and fear. But it was too late. Cyrus moved with the precision of a predator, his movements a blur as he cut through the men with ruthless efficiency. The leader's blade clattered to the ground as he stumbled back, his eyes wide with terror as the shadowy figure advanced on him, the air filled with the stench of blood and fear.
As Cyrus closed in, the flames of the campfire flared up, casting his shadow across the desert like a specter of death. The girl watched, frozen in terror, as the last of her captors fell, their bodies crumpling to the ground, lifeless and still.
The night grew silent, the only sound the crackling of the fire and the soft, steady breathing of the shadowy figure as he stood over the fallen men. Cyrus looked down at the bodies, his expression unreadable, his eyes still glowing with that cold, crimson light. He slowly turned his gaze to the girl, who stared up at him with a mixture of fear and gratitude, her body trembling as she tried to find her voice.
Cyrus turned away from the scene, sheathing Nightsong with a fluid motion. He didn't speak to the girl; his mind was already shifting back to the mission ahead, the cold calculations of his next steps trying to drown out the faint echo of her desperate pleas. But as he began to walk away, he heard her stir behind him, the soft rustle of movement as she pulled herself up from the ground.
"Thank you… thank you so much," she whispered, her voice trembling as she wiped the tears from her face. She bent down to pick up a small, battered briefcase that had been thrown aside during the struggle, cradling it against her chest as if it were the most precious thing in the world.
Cyrus didn't respond. He kept walking, his boots crunching softly against the desert sand as he made his way back toward the Shadowrunner. The night was cold, and the wind howled softly through the dunes, carrying with it the faint scent of smoke and blood. But he could still feel the girl's eyes on him, following his every step.
"Wait," she called out, her voice stronger now, though still tinged with fear. "What's your name? I want to know who you are… the person who saved me."
Cyrus's hand paused on the door of the Shadowrunner, his back still to the girl. For a moment, he considered not answering at all, just stepping into the wagon and leaving her behind. But something stopped him, an indecision that gnawed at the edges of his thoughts. He glanced back over his shoulder, his crimson eyes narrowing as he studied her.
The girl stood there, a stark contrast to the desolate landscape around her. She was small and delicate, with short, bubblegum-pink hair that framed her face in soft waves. Her large, round eyes were a striking shade of blue, filled with a mixture of fear and gratitude as she gazed at him.
Despite the dirt and tears that streaked her cheeks, there was an undeniable cuteness to her—a fragile, almost ethereal quality that made her seem out of place in the harsh desert night.
Cyrus hesitated, unsure if he should silence her permanently. It would be easy—quick. A simple motion, and she would be nothing more than a memory lost to the desert. But there was something about her—something that made him pause, the image of Ella's sapphire necklace briefly flashing through his mind.
The girl must have sensed his hesitation, the dark intent that flickered behind his gaze, because she took a cautious step back, her grip tightening on the briefcase. Still, she forced a shaky smile, trying to mask her fear.* "I—I'm Layla… Layla Wiseheart. I'm on my way to Ebonspire Academy… It's my first year there."
Her words hung in the air between them, the name of the academy sparking a flicker of interest in Cyrus's mind. She took another step closer, her eyes searching his, as if trying to find some hint of humanity in the shadowed figure before her. "Are you a new student too?" she asked, her voice soft, hesitant.
Cyrus didn't answer. He turned back to the Shadowrunner, the door flinging open as he stepped inside, the dark interior welcoming him like an old friend. The girl's expression faltered, shock and confusion crossing her features as she watched him go.
"Wait!" she cried out, her voice rising in panic. "You're just going to leave me here? Please, don't go… I—I don't know what to do… I don't know how to get to Ebonspire from here!"
Cyrus paused, his hand resting on the doorframe. He stared into the darkness of the wagon, his mind a storm of conflicting thoughts. It would be so simple to leave her behind, to let the desert take her, and continue on his mission without any distractions. But something held him back—perhaps it was the way she had looked at him, not with fear alone, but with a desperate hope, as if he were more than just a shadow in the night.
He let out a slow breath, the cold night air filling his lungs. Without turning around, he pushed the door open wider, a silent invitation.