Dawn came slow.

Elysia watched the first light spill between the stone spires of Empyria, turning last night’s rooftops gold. Below her, the city stretched — alive, unaware, indifferent.

Somewhere beneath those tiles, the Serpent Conclave moved.

She'd spent the night curled beneath the rusted arch of a forgotten chapel, breath fogging in the cold. Her shawl was damp. Her boots ached. The dagger still lay against her thigh like a coiled viper.

She hadn’t slept.

She’d thought about Bramm’s lopsided grin, about the way Thira’s voice had cracked when she said she didn’t want to die. About Kael’s haunted stare.

And about how stupid she’d been.

This wasn’t a game.

She rose with the city’s breath, disappearing into its arteries — another soul in the current.

By the time she reached the fat merchant’s manor on Sunstone Circle, her decision had solidified.

She wasn’t doing it for her.

She was doing it for them.

Elysia knelt before the gate, slipping the folded parchment from her coat. She’d written it in the dark:

"We didn’t know. We return what is yours. Leave us in peace."

She pressed it flat against the oaken door.

Then, without ceremony, she drew the dagger and slammed it through the note into the wood.

The serpent’s sigil gleamed in the morning light.

She didn’t linger.

The streets grew louder as the city stirred — bartering cries, cart wheels rattling, beggars muttering prayers to gods long gone. The world felt normal again.

That should have comforted her.

It didn’t.

Lowspire Street was packed — not with vendors, but with people. Silent. Gathered in a half-circle. Elysia’s stomach sank.

She pushed forward.

The crowd parted with hushed voices and wide eyes.

Then she saw him.

Bramm sat against the wall, crumpled like a doll. His body was limp. His beard was soaked with blood. His wide chest was torn open — too many stab wounds to count.

But it was the tongue — nailed to the wall above him with a dagger pin — that made her knees buckle.

A cruel offering. A message.

The Conclave didn’t just kill. They humiliated. They warned.

Elysia turned and ran.

The Hideout – Moments Later

Kael’s voice echoed through the stone hall. “She was the last one to see him. Don’t act like this wasn’t her fault!”

“I’m not saying it wasn’t!” Thira snapped back. “But we don’t know what happened!”

The door creaked.

Elysia stood there, mud on her boots, face pale as parchment, chest heaving.

They turned to her.

“Where’s Bramm?” Kael asked, voice tight.

“Did he go with you?” Thira added, stepping closer.

Elysia opened her mouth. Nothing came out.

She stumbled forward, sat on the edge of a crate, and whispered, “They got him.”

A beat of silence.

Kael’s fists clenched.

“I found him in the alley. Lowspire. He… they—” Her breath caught. “They nailed his tongue to the wall.”

Thira made a strangled sound, backing away until her back hit stone.

Kael’s eyes flickered with something between horror and fury.

“I gave it back,” Elysia said, almost to herself. “The dagger. I went to the merchant’s house. I left it. I thought they’d back off…”

Kael’s voice was a rasp: “You thought.”

“I was wrong,” she whispered.

Kael turned away, pressing his fists against the wall. His shoulders shook. Whether with grief or rage, she couldn’t tell.

Thira slid down beside a barrel, knees pulled to her chest, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.

The hideout was suddenly too small. Too quiet.

Elysia looked at her hands.

The blood wasn’t on them, not directly.

But the knife might as well have been hers.

The hideout felt colder now.

The Docks — Dusk

The sky bled orange and violet as the tide rolled in.

Ships groaned softly against the moorings. Lanterns swayed on masts, casting halos in the mist.

Elysia walked with Thira, quiet.

She didn’t know what she felt anymore.

Guilt? Rage? Emptiness?

Maybe all of it.

Kael stood near the loading planks, arms crossed, hair tugged by the wind. He didn’t look back as they approached.

Thira hugged him.

Elysia didn’t.

They stood like three stones in a river, close but pulled by different currents.

Then—

A flicker in the crowd.

A blur of movement.

A boy. Sixteen, maybe. Dirt-streaked face. Too thin. Too fast. Blade in hand.

“KAEL!” Thira screamed.

Elysia moved.

Everything slowed.

She slammed into the boy, knocking him sideways. They struggled — limbs tangled, the dagger glinting between them.

“Stop—! I don’t want—!”

But the kid panicked.

He twisted.

So did the blade.

It slid through his ribs.

A gasp. Sharp. Small. Like the air had been punched out of him.

The boy crumpled in Elysia’s arms, his eyes wide with pain, mouth trembling like he wanted to say something but couldn’t find the words.

And then he went still.

Dead.

Elysia knelt there, breath shallow, hands shaking, staring at what she’d done.

Kael stood frozen. Thira covered her mouth, horrified.

The dagger clattered from the boy’s limp hand — identical to the one Elysia had returned.

Another message.

Not just a warning this time.

Elysia staring at her bloodied hands, whispering.

"I didn’t want this"