Rain hammered the ruins into rivers of blackened mud. Each gust stank of rust and rot. The corpse of Seresthos groaned under its own weight.
Lyra Vale crouched low, a blur against the wreckage. Her shirt and rough trousers clung to her, sodden and torn. Mud sucked at her boots. Cold gnawed her bones.
Another night. Another theft.
Same plan, same hunger gnawing at her gut. Steal enough to last another day. Slip away before they notice.
Maybe tomorrow would be different.
Maybe not.
Once there was warmth, the rough smell of cooking smoke, songs rattling through cracked walls, a sister's laughter under threadbare blankets. Then the Saints came with silver masks and torches. After that, there was only running, stealing, starving. Learning which streets stayed quiet at night and which ones led you to a knife in the back.
The hill still bore the scars of the city that once stood here. Years ago, a High Priest had ordered the ruins dug up, hunting for relics. Now scavengers worked under Wyrmwatch eyes, digging through the wreckage like trapped animals, trading pieces of the dead for scraps of food.
Lyra wasn't the kind to dig through ruins like a rat. Let the scavengers claw at the bones of the dead—she would rather steal from the fools too desperate to care.
Stealing from the desperate was easier. Cleaner. No digging, no clawing through graves just quick hands and quicker feet.
She stayed low, feet sliding carefully over the uneven ground. Mud gripped her boots, slowing her step. Her fingers brushed broken stone as she crept forward, every breath shallow, every movement tight and cautious.
Ahead, Wyrmwatch knights patrolled in tight lines, boots crunching the rubble with cold precision. Their armor was battered but sharp-edged, relic-insignias stamped over breastplates like brands. One muttered orders under his breath, eyes flicking through the wreckage, jaw clenched tight.
Slip in. Snatch. Vanish.
Her eyes locked onto a battered canvas bag half-hidden behind a stack of cracked crates, a ration stash, maybe, or gear meant for the next patrol. She wiped her dirty palms against her trousers, steadying her breath. No second chances. Quick grab. Quick run.
"Easy," she muttered under her breath. "Just like the last dozen times."
The rain masked her footsteps at first, pattering steady over the broken ground. Then a gust tore across the hill, stripping away the cover. A knight turned, sharp-eyed, spotting the slight movement.
Fingers brushed the battered canvas bag, slick with rain and mud.
She moved too close. The knight's gauntleted hand clamped down on her arm, crushing tight, yanking her off balance.
A boot crashed into her ribs. She curled up instinctively, trying to shield her head and sides.
The knight lunged to seize her fully. Lyra twisted, yanking free. She ducked low, driving a fist into the knight's gut, but his armor turned the blow useless. He countered with brutal efficiency, a backhanded strike clipped her jaw, spinning her sideways. She stumbled, spitting blood, and drew a hidden blade from her boot. Fast, desperate.
The knight didn't flinch. He caught her wrist mid-swing, wrenched it upward, and slammed her hard into the mud. Her breath fled in a wet gasp. She kicked out, catching his shin, but he barely grunted.
Another blow smashed her ribs, sending pain flashing white behind her eyes. She tried to roll, to slip free, but the knight pinned her down with a knee to the back.
No way to win.
The knight laughed under his breath. "Good fight," he said, mockery dripping from every word. "For a rat, anyway. Was getting bored out here. Nice of a pretty little thing like you to drop by."
Panic stabbed at her gut, but she crushed it down. Panic was death.
The knight chuckled and jerked his head toward another. "Look what I found," he called out, voice thick with mockery. "Another rat. But this one—might warm our beds if the night gets cold enough."
The others laughed, boots sloshing through the mud.
The knights dragged her across Seresthos Hill.
Rain bit like glass. Ash drifted from the cracked sky. Grass and weeds clawed at the rubble, but the ruins sprawled lifeless down the hill's broken slope.
A bell clanged in the distance, hollow and useless.
The ruins loomed empty, no living soul in sight.
Lyra spat blood into the mud. Her wrists throbbed from earlier shackles, but her hands were free, trembling with cold and fury.
The knight dragging her wore a necklace of cracked bones, stained with salt and grime.
Wind pushed through the ruins, rattling loose stones.
Ancient plazas lay broken, stones cracked and scattered. Statues of saints lay face-down in the mud, arms snapped and heads missing. Prayer carts, their wheels shattered, lay abandoned in puddles of ash-thick water. Scavengers picked through toppled tents, tugging at stormglass—glass born from lightning striking sand. Their hands were filthy, their eyes hollow. Blood still stained the trampled ground.
A body hung half inside a collapsed shaft, clothes rotted to rags, face half-buried in rubble.
Lyra stumbled. A gauntlet smashed her spine.
"Move, filth," a knight growled.
Everywhere, the shattered remains of the city sagged under broken stone and bone.
Ahead, a squat hut of scrap wood and rusted metal slumped over a pile of broken stone, barely standing against the wind.
In the middle of the hut's floor, a thick iron hatch lay chained shut, sealing off a stairwell that plunged into the rubble below. The metal was scarred with rust, the chains bolted tight into the cracked stone floor.
The knights halted. Rain pooled around their boots, thick with oil and blood.
Lyra stared at the doors.
Blood-signs smeared the hatch: WYRMWATCH MONSTERS GO DIE.
One knight spat into the mud. Another glanced around once, wary. Lyra's breath hitched. Her heart hammered against cracked ribs.
She flinched, expecting chains, but her hands were empty and shaking from cold and pain.
The knight with a storm-scar across his jaw stepped close.
He seized her hand and twisted it cruelly. Then he turned her around roughly, patting down her pockets with quick, practiced hands. He yanked out a few crumpled scraps, tossing them into the mud. With a sneer, he struck her across the backside with the flat of his hand, hard enough to drive her forward a step.
One of the knights yanked the chains loose and hauled up the iron hatch with a grinding screech.
Cold air rushed out from below, thick with the stink of wet stone and mold.
The knight leaned in, breath meat-thick, whispering:
"Get moving. We'll come back after our shift. If you're still breathing,"
Then they shoved her into the dark.
The hatch slammed shut behind her, the chains rattling as they locked it back in place.
Darkness swallowed her whole.
For a moment she stayed crouched, one hand pressed to the wet, filthy floor. Her breath came in sharp, ragged bursts. Mud oozed through her fingers. She gritted her teeth and forced herself upright, muscles screaming with every move.
Cold soaked into her bones.
She forced herself up, legs shaking, breath steaming in the freezing dark. Water lapped around her boots, ankle-deep and cold enough to bite through skin.
"Hey!" she shouted, voice raw. "Come back, cowards!"
Muffled laughter. Then silence.
Her fists clenched, nails biting flesh.
Quick hands. Quicker mind, she told herself bitterly, knowing full well she'd been caught like a fool.
She kicked at a loose stone. It shifted. Pain shot up her foot. She hissed, hopped and slipped.
Slammed down. The cold ripped her breath away.
Below, the broken stones shifted and scraped against each other, groaning under their own weight.
Crack.
...
...
Another crack, sharper.
The floor split.
Lyra dropped hard, a ragged shout tearing from her throat as the broken floor gave way beneath her. Rubble and darkness swallowed her whole.