Tlandar followed Saryna through the winding stairwells of New Asemeri's Lower District Shelter, the glow of overhead luminescence casting long shadows against the reinforced steel walls. The heat of the alloy refinery and salvage yards faded as they ascended, replaced by the cooler, artificial air of the upper communal halls. Though the passage was quiet, there was something heavy in the atmosphere—a tension that had settled over the city like mist before a storm.
At the top of the stairwell, the entrance to the Holographic Theatre loomed before them. Here, in this place of news and knowledge, the people of New Asemeri gathered to witness the events of the outside world. Rows of tiered seating stretched down toward the projection dais, where the massive holo-screen pulsed with the emblem of the New Asemeri Information Council.
Tlandar slowed his step as he took in the sight. The chamber was already filled with people, their whispers hushed, their faces drawn with an uneasy stillness. There was no lighthearted conversation, no idle chatter—only a quiet dread, the kind that settled into one's bones before hearing something that could not be unheard.
Saryna glanced at him. "Keep your head straight, boy. You ain't ready for what you're about to see, but you'll watch it anyway."
Tlandar exhaled, steadying himself. "Reckon I don't have a choice."
She led him to an open row near the back. The murmurs in the room ceased as the electronic hum of the holo-screen intensified, and the symbol of the Information Council dissolved into a live broadcast.
"We now bring you urgent reports on the fall of Verdantis Nexus."
A single moment stretched into eternity.
The Broadcast: A City Turned to Ash
The image shifted, revealing a drone's eye view of Verdantis Nexus, or what little remained of it.
Where once had stood homes of polished stone and timber, there was now only ruin. Smoke drifted like wandering specters, curling over the remnants of collapsed rooftops and scorched fields that stretched endlessly into the horizon. The marketplace, once brimming with merchants and laughter, had been reduced to skeletal stalls, their wares scattered and burnt.
Then came the bodies.
Some lay where they had fallen, clutching tools, blades, or nothing at all. Others had been piled together in the streets, left to the mercy of the elements. The camera panned to the broken entrance of the town's great hall, where a banner—the sigil of Verdantis Nexus—still clung to the charred beams, torn and blackened but refusing to fall.
A voice, calm and without emotion, narrated the devastation.
"The raid on Verdantis Nexus, conducted by marauders under the influence of Cosmus, has left the settlement in complete ruin. The attack lasted an entire day before the town fell. Initial reports estimate a death toll in the thousands. Less than one hundred survivors have been accounted for."
A stillness took hold of the theatre.
Then, a breath—sharp, trembling—broke the silence.
The Weight of Loss
The room did not erupt in anger. There was no shouting, no fists raised in defiance.
Instead, a deep, aching sorrow settled over the gathered people.
A woman sitting near the front pressed a hand over her mouth, her shoulders shaking with silent grief. A man beside her, perhaps her husband, perhaps her brother, simply stared at the screen, his hands folded so tightly together that his knuckles turned white.
Further back, a younger woman wrapped her arms around herself, as though shielding her body from an invisible cold. She whispered something—a name, a plea, a prayer—but no one answered.
An elder, his hair silvered with age, let out a long, unsteady sigh. His fingers brushed across a wooden talisman at his belt, tracing a symbol of protection that had failed to keep his loved ones safe.
Tlandar's chest grew tight.
The people here were the ones who had fled, the ones who had escaped before it was too late. But even in the safety of New Asemeri's steel walls, they had not been spared. They, too, had lost everything.
A voice, low and hoarse, broke through the quiet.
"They thought they had time…"
Tlandar turned, his gaze falling upon an older man seated near the center of the theatre, his weathered hands trembling as he wiped at his eyes. "I told them," the man murmured. "I told them to come with me. But they thought they had time…"
Another voice, from somewhere to Tlandar's right, spoke next.
"The last thing I said to my son was that I'd visit soon."
A moment passed. Then another.
A boy—**no older than fifteen, his face pale and drawn—**whispered, "I should have stayed."
The woman beside him shook her head, pulling him into an embrace. "No, my love. There was nothing you could have done."
Tlandar swallowed against the lump in his throat. His mind flickered back to the last time he had seen Verdantis Nexus, when it was still standing, when its people still had a future. He had left, escaping the fate that had been sealed for so many others.
"I should feel worse," he muttered, barely realizing he had spoken aloud.
Saryna, standing beside him, glanced at him sidelong. "That you got out just in time?"
Tlandar hesitated. Then, quietly, "Yeah."
She let the silence settle between them before nodding. "That ain't a sin. It's survival."
He exhaled slowly. His hands trembled slightly, though not from fear.
He clenched them into fists.
"I won't waste this second chance," he murmured.
Saryna smirked faintly, though the sharpness in her expression had softened. "Then don't."
The Whispers in the Air
The holo-screen flickered once, then dimmed, leaving the theatre in a hush of dim light and weighted silence.
Tlandar remained seated, watching the afterimage of flames dance in his mind's eye. Around him, people began to rise, some slowly, some with a sense of reluctance, as if leaving their seats meant truly accepting what they had just seen.
A woman lingered, her gaze distant. A man pressed his forehead against his clasped hands, lips moving in a quiet prayer.
The sorrow in the room was not loud, but it was suffocating in its weight.
Then, just as Tlandar rose to follow Saryna out, he heard it.
A voice.
Faint. Distant. Calling his name.
"…Tlandar…"
His breath caught in his throat.
The air around him felt colder, as if something unseen had brushed past his ear. The noise of the theatre faded, replaced by a low hum, like static just beyond perception.
Then he heard it again.
"…Tlandar… you must see…"
He whipped around, scanning the room.
The civilians were leaving. The elder who had spoken of his son still sat in quiet prayer. The young boy who had whispered of staying remained in his mother's arms.
No one was calling him.
Saryna, already near the exit, turned back. "Something wrong?"
Tlandar swallowed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah… just—thought I heard something."
Saryna raised an eyebrow but didn't press. "Come on. We should go."
He nodded slowly, but even as he followed her into the dim corridors beyond, the whisper still clung to the edge of his thoughts, waiting to be heard again.