The air in Kaeltria was a suffocating mix of ash and iron. Factories churned endlessly, their smokestacks reaching into a sky that hadn't seen sunlight in decades. Beneath their shadow, the Wardens of Order, clad in their obsidian-black uniforms, patrolled the streets with mechanical precision. Their glowing red visors cut through the darkness, a reminder that rebellion was a death sentence.
Eryas Draegon stood in the alley's gloom, a cigarette dangling between his lips. He flicked his lighter repeatedly, watching the tiny flame dance before extinguishing it. A small comfort. Tonight wasn't about comfort, though—it was about survival.
"Are you sure this is wise, Draegon?" came a voice from the darkness. It was Karn, a fellow enforcer for The Hierarchy. A man Eryas had fought beside for years, but tonight, trust was thin.
"Wise?" Eryas echoed, exhaling smoke. "If wisdom worked, we wouldn't be living under tyrants who worship ancient gods."
Karn's hand hovered near the plasma blade strapped to his thigh. "And you think betraying the most powerful regime in history will fix that?"
Eryas smirked, though his eyes betrayed his unease. "Fix it? No. But it'll buy us a chance. A chance to live without bending the knee."
Karn's gaze lingered, and for a moment, Eryas thought he might draw the blade. But the man's hand fell back to his side, his shoulders sagging under the weight of the decision. "You're a damn fool," Karn muttered.
"I've been called worse."
The plan was simple: infiltrate the Vault of Eternity, a hidden chamber beneath the Ministry of Order. Rumors claimed it housed artifacts the Hierarchy used to maintain control—artifacts from an age before humanity's rise. Some whispered that these relics spoke, promising power in exchange for obedience. Others claimed they were cursed, driving men mad.
Eryas didn't care which was true. He only cared about breaking the regime's grip on Kaeltria.
The group moved through the undercity, where the mechanical hum of turbines and the hiss of steam pipes masked their footsteps. Eryas led the way, his modified revolver gleaming faintly under the dim glow of gas lamps. Behind him, Karn and three others followed in tense silence.
"Stay sharp," Eryas said. "The Wardens don't patrol down here, but that doesn't mean it's safe."
The undercity was a labyrinth of rusted pipes and abandoned machinery, but it was also alive. Figures watched from the shadows, their eyes glinting like feral animals. The forgotten citizens of Kaeltria—the scavengers, the desperate, the insane—lurked here.
They reached the entrance to the Vault: a massive steel door etched with runes that pulsed faintly, as though alive. Karn whistled low. "What in the hell is this?"
"Don't ask questions you don't want answers to," Eryas muttered. He retrieved a small device from his coat—a hacking tool stolen from a Warden's corpse.
The device sparked as he pressed it against the runes, and for a moment, nothing happened. Then, with a groan that seemed to reverberate in their very bones, the door began to open.
What lay beyond was worse than Eryas had imagined.
The Vault was a cavernous chamber, its walls lined with shelves that held strange artifacts: obsidian shards that pulsed like heartbeats, metallic spheres that whispered unintelligible words, and glass jars filled with swirling, inky blackness. The air was cold, carrying a faint metallic tang that made Eryas's skin crawl.
At the room's center stood a pedestal, and atop it rested a mask—smooth, featureless, and black as midnight. Something about it seemed to pull at him, like a voice just out of earshot.
"Don't touch anything," Eryas warned, though he wasn't sure if he was talking to the others or himself.
As they approached the pedestal, a low hum filled the air. It grew louder, deeper, until the entire chamber vibrated with it. Eryas froze. The others exchanged nervous glances.
Then the whispering began.
Words in a language Eryas didn't understand, yet somehow knew, slithered into his mind. They promised power, vengeance, freedom—all at a cost he couldn't yet fathom.
"Eryas," Karn said, his voice trembling. "We need to leave. Now."
But Eryas couldn't move. His eyes were locked on the mask, his mind drowning in its whispers. Without realizing it, he reached out.
"Draegon!" Karn shouted, grabbing his arm. The contact snapped Eryas back to reality, and he turned to see Karn's face twisted in fear.
Before either of them could speak, the chamber's hum reached a deafening crescendo. The artifacts on the shelves began to vibrate violently, some shattering, others glowing with an unholy light.
The mask rose from the pedestal, hovering in the air. Its smooth surface cracked, revealing an inky void within. From that void emerged tendrils of shadow, writhing and reaching like living things.
Eryas drew his revolver, but before he could fire, one of the tendrils shot toward him, piercing his chest.
Pain. Unimaginable, searing pain coursed through his body as the shadow spread, wrapping around his limbs and seeping into his skin. He fell to his knees, gasping, as visions flooded his mind—visions of cities consumed by darkness, of gods that watched from the void, and of his own face twisted into something monstrous.
When the pain subsided, Eryas opened his eyes. The tendrils were gone, the mask shattered. But something had changed. The whispers were louder now, clearer.
"You've been chosen," a voice said, not aloud but in his mind. It was ancient and alien, each word dripping with malice.
"Chosen for what?" Eryas rasped, his voice barely audible.
"To become more than human. To break the chains of this world... or to bind it in new ones."
Eryas staggered to his feet. His comrades were gone—dead or fled, he didn't know. He looked down at his hands and saw dark veins pulsing beneath his skin, faintly glowing.
For the first time in years, Eryas Draegon felt fear.
And then he smiled.