Cipher slipped into the reading room, his heart hammering like a tribal drum demanding to be heard. The door clicked shut, the noise reverberating through the cold space like a solemn omen, sealing the tense and unnerving atmosphere that Pierce instilled in the establishment’s hall.
The soldier’s visits became a daily ritual, marked by more than just shared lazy wisps of smoke with Amahd; each cigar that Pierce brought was like a token, an offering that was always met with his hearty laughter. But for all the gifts that he bestowed, nothing ever quite replaced the brittle leaves of Sollenia—wrapped in crisp, hand-rolled paper silk, each one chosen with a precision that belied the casual manner in which Pierce passed them over. The rare, fragrant tobacco was Mr. Waqar’s indulgence.
Cipher would often find the man there—an old comrade whose steady gaze held a spark that flickered with something a young boy couldn’t quite read. They would talk, and those conversations, at first seemingly mundane and innocuous, were laced with layers of unmissable undercurrent. What began with offhand observations about the best trade routes would inevitably spiral into discussions of power, ambition, and the fractures within Algehbra.
Pierce spoke with a deceptive nonchalance, painting pictures of the southern rebellions—fractured groups splintering, all vying for control over a country that had slipped too far from order. He spoke of the western territories of Gadenna, where shifting alliances were as unstable as quicksand, eager to tear the state’s government apart and reshape it in their own images. Cipher listened as he absorbed each word, his mind connecting the dots of a larger story that stretched beyond the dusty confines of the quaint shop.
There were tales of betrayal, whispers of assassinations, and hints of diplomatic deals that might never see the light of day. Pierce spoke of the current regimes—of governors Cipher had glimpsed on official parades and of power plays he had heard about in whispered rumors that fitted through taverns and markets. The prospect of war—a threat that seemed to loom like a storm cloud on the horizon—hung over the end of each conversation. The potential clash between dissidents and republicans, those who fought to preserve the old order and those who sought to dismantle it, was no longer a distant possibility that the veteran wove into his words, as if the specter of violence lurked just outside the windows.
The more they spoke, the clearer it became that Pierce knew more than he let on. He spoke of these unfolding events with a certainty that could only come from firsthand experience, but no matter how far their discussions roamed—whether detailing the fall of the state or a new edict passed in the capital—Pierce’s own origins were always absent. His past remained a mystery, veiled behind the practiced ease of a man who knew how to keep secrets buried deep, so practiced it felt like part of his soul. It was as if the very story of his life had been erased or had never existed—a few cryptic remarks, a hard set to his jaw when certain names were mentioned, a look in his eyes that spoke of battles fought far from the borderlines.
Cipher had tried to listen for clues, to detect something, anything, beneath Pierce’s composed exterior. The man’s unfaltering eyes held an intensity that belied his measured words. Each pause, every calculated drag of his mouth, was chosen with precision as his presence was arranged with purpose. When he spoke, it was deliberate, as though he was planting seeds, cultivating ideas Amahd could only grasp at. The faint narrowing of his eyes behind the dense haze of smoke held a silent assessment; where others might weave tales of heroism or missteps, he scrutinized without betraying his interlocutor.
In their brief glances, Cipher wondered if Amahd had any sense of the outsider's purpose. Each time Pierce lingered in the shop, his presence was a silent contradiction—a man whose demeanor bore the harsh marks of experience, yet who lacked the vacant brutality common among the followers of the Bloodson Ascension. His association with the Twin Brothers hinted at a violent past, one entangled with the murky underbelly of Algehbra’s politics. Yet, there was something about Pierce that set him apart from the usual breed of illiterate, fanatical thugs who roamed the desperate streets and shadowy alleys of the Sozidor capital. Cipher found himself watching Pierce with a growing intensity, bordering on fascination, trying to piece together the puzzle of a man who never quite fit into the desperate landscape of Algehbra. Pierce’s presence was strikingly out of place in a land worn down by hunger and fatigue, with a few fortunate families, where even the strongest men bore the marks of constant struggle. He dressed a cut above the rest, though still modestly, in well-worn clothes that suggested functionality over fashion. His body was lean but powerful, the kind of physique honed not by the grinding demands of labor or necessity but by choice—a form that spoke of battles far removed from the weary fields of the dissident country—each sinew could bend the world’s cruel machinery to his will when the price was right. His was the strength of a man accustomed to victory, not for glory or some noble cause but for the cold, calculative reward of money and favor.
The soldier moved with the fluidity of someone used to being watched, as if he was playing a part in a game only he fully understood the script. In those moments of stillness, when he would pause to light one of the best cigars money could buy, he exuded a kind of quiet authority, his body poised and alert even as he savored each drag. There was a readiness to him, a latent force coiled in the muscles of his arms and legs that spoke of violence held in check. Even then, even in that fa?ade of leisure, Cipher knew what was certain: every nod from Pierce and every elusive smile from Amahd hinted at a buried understanding that he wanted to unearth. It was a pact, a brotherhood forged in the dangerous territory of intellect, a connection of common opinions and shared knowledge that left him at the threshold of something profound and immense—an inheritance of ideas, where the stakes were as high as any battlefield he had yet to claim.
Cipher moved with deliberate grace, his footsteps muffled by the plush carpet, as if the very room demanded reverence. The air was thick with the scent of cedar and iron, evoking a sense of tradition and history that now seemed overshadowed by uncertainty. Even the slightest groan of the floor seemed amplified, a reminder of the unsolved riddles that churned in his guts, stirring up memories, some peculiar, others haunting. The strange and uneasy beat of past and present pulsing in his temples, a meeting in restless confrontation, like the incessant murmurs of spirits, refusing to be laid to eternal rest.
A large, ornate slab of mahogany dominated the center of the frigid chamber, its surface polished to a mirror-like sheen, cluttered with books, scrolls, and artifacts. This was Amahd’s domain, where he sorted the significant from the trivial, the valuable from the mere scraps. Waqar’s discerning eyes, a legacy of his lineage, were crucial in spotting what others might overlook. Cipher approached it slowly, his eyes scanning the altar. He’d often been asked to assist in these delicate deliberations, watching as Amahd’s fingers, honed by years of experience, skimmed the pages and scrolls, searching for clues only he seemed to understand.
Among the scattered papers, one book stood out—a volume with yellowish lettering, though aged and barely legible, that glowed in the dim light with an almost unnatural luster, as if it were waiting for him, demanding to know his intent. He reached out and picked it up, feeling the weight in his hands like a challenge.
“The Codex of Blightning,” he whispered, the name rolling off his tongue like a weighty curse. The words tasted heavy, almost bitter, as an electric surge of curiosity intertwined with a visceral unease coiled in his stomach. The leather-bound cover revealed diagrams and complex writings in a language he could not comprehend. His mouth went dry as he scanned the spine. “Who left this here?” He muttered, more to himself than anyone. Amahd would never have overlooked a volume like this. And it was no ordinary book. As he groped the embossed characters, Cipher felt an intimate connection, as though the very words were reaching out to him, resonating with some deep and primal part within his soul. The Codex spoke of ancient powers and primordial energies that had prowled the land of Ivazmil long before humes had drawn their first breath. Cipher’s heart raced, pounding harder as the weight of its implications settled upon him like a shroud. He recoiled for a moment, his instincts screaming for caution, aware that The Codex did not merely contain knowledge; it pulsated with life—old, vicious life that hungered for something, or perhaps someone. He traced the thin, curling lines with his finger, unable to decipher their meaning but sensing the gravity nestled within these brittle pages. The text also hinted at a precarious balance—a delicate connection between this plane and a shadowy place known as Vanaeon. The vocable loomed on the page, inked in dark, jagged letters, its contours obscured. A reference to a realm as morbid as the thrumming through the bones of the world, a terrifying locus of nightmares and unsuspecting victims it devoured whole. Their existence trapped in an eternal cycle of suffering and disgrace. No one with an ounce of sense would ever want to wander too far into the grasp of the blight and make the arduous passage. Cipher knew he should fear. And yet, as he stared at the book in his hands, he could not shake the feeling that it had found him.
Suddenly, a frosty draft swept through the room, snuffing out the warmth of the candles in an instant. Cipher snapped his head toward the source, every instinct on high alert, adrenaline coursing through his veins. The shadows around him seemed to elongate, as if something unseen was stirring within the darkness, reshaping the room into a labyrinth of unknown threats. His eyes darted to the far side of the room, where the air was noticeably colder, disturbed by an unsettling presence—a watchful gaze that pierced straight through him, sending an icy chill down his spine. He strained to catch even the faintest sound, but the room had succumbed to an oppressive silence, a silence so deep it felt as though the very walls were holding their breath. Whatever was here with him didn’t belong in this world; it was something that had crossed the threshold between reality and madness. With a steady hand, he closed The Codex, the soft thud of the cover sealing shut the only sound in the stillness. His pulse quickened, and his thoughts turned to his uncle—Uncle Ismaihl. If anyone understood the gravity of Pierce’s presence, it was him; the ties with the Twin Brothers lay buried in the subordinate’s past, whatever else could no longer be ignored.
His resolve hardened, his mind sharpening with a newfound clarity. Cipher’s body tensed as he fought to steady his breathing, feeling the weight of anticipation coil tightly around his chest. He reached for that decision deep inside him, letting it spread through his limbs like fire in dry wood, igniting a sense of purpose that banished his hesitation. There was a truth he had to uncover, a dangerous path that was now part of his own story, whether he was ready or not. But the stalker force lingered, defying explanation, an unease that cut deeper than fear, pressing down on him with the weight of a thousand eyes watching his inner turmoil. It tugged at his gut, gnawed at his composure, and for a moment, Cipher felt as if a cold hand had reached out of the darkness, clutching his feigning-sane heart and refusing to let go.
“You’re late.” Za’ayd’s voice sliced through the silence, sharp as a winter’s night. The words pulled Cipher from his trance, snapping him back to the present with a jolt. Za’ayd stood rigidly on the far side of the long table, arms folded across his chest, his hazel eyes flickering with impatience as he watched Cipher approach the opposite edge slowly.
He swallowed hard, his throat dry like the sun-baked sands of the desert he crossed several times. “Had to be sure I wasn’t followed,” his voice rasping slightly in the cold air against his skin. The statement felt flimsy under Za’ayd’s tense posture; Cipher resisted the urge to step back, feeling the pressure build like a coiled spring between them.
Without breaking eye contact, Za’ayd reached into the inner pocket of his dark leather vest and pulled out a silver flask. The movement was smooth, almost practiced, and for a brief second, the metal caught the dim light, gleaming with an eerie brightness. With a deliberate slowness that felt like a calculated test, Za’ayd unscrewed the cap and brought the flask to his lips, taking a deep, measured sip.
Cipher’s eyes hardened as he met that flippant attitude, feeling a flush of heat creep up the back of his neck. The arrogance in Za’ayd’s tone only made the tension in his chest tighten. He had to remind himself why he was here in the first place.
“Where did you get it?” Cipher broke the ritual, slicing away the charade that Za’ayd had so carefully constructed over the years. He didn’t bother hiding his features; he had lost track of how many times Za’ayd had made empty promises, only to break them with a casual shrug. And it wasn’t just about the flask—there were rules they couldn’t ignore, rules enforced by Ismaihl with an iron will. They weren’t allowed to leave Waqar’s emporium without Ismaihl’s explicit permission, and Za’ayd knew it.
“Mirra bought it for me,” he replied instantly, almost too quickly, his voice carrying a note of careless ease that set Cipher’s nerve on edge. “Relax,” he added, almost as an afterthought, the corner of his mouth twitching with a hint of amusement as he reached up and pulled out a white, thin column, from behind his ear. He spun it between his fingers like it was some sort of talisman, meant to convey his aloofness, his dominance over the moment. He twirled it lightly, as if it were a game daring Cipher to challenge him.
Cipher slid him a face of disapproval as he leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Is she in town?” he pushed, his tone edged with doubt, the disbelief palpable. For all he knew, Za’ayd could have easily pocketed from Amahd without leaving a trace.
Za’ayd’s expression shifted, a faint flicker of annoyance crossing his face. “With the caravan and all...” He trailed off, shrugging as if the question itself was a nuisance he could barely be bothered to answer.
Cipher couldn’t express his excitement as he began to recall his friends, “Johan, Farenna…” he said, the names slipping past his lips like a half-remembered melody. He hesitated, as if he was treading on fragile ground, fragments of the occurrences in Suzanno flooding back.
Za’ayd didn’t miss the opportunity. “Boruk?” he probed, lighting the cig with a single, practiced flick of his wrist. The flame danced for a brief moment, casting shadows over his angular features before disappearing into the acrid scent of burnt Sollenia leaves that curled from his lips. He took a deep drag, letting the spicy, earthy flavor fill his mouth, the blend of mixed herbs lingering on his taste buds and tempering the more potent effects of the smoke.
Cipher’s eyes dropped, his shoulders slumping as a shadow of sorrow clouded his expression. He couldn’t bring himself to look Za’ayd in the eye.
“Your uncle didn’t tell you?” He pressed, his voice almost mocking.
Cipher remained silent, his mouth tightening as if the words had been physically wrenched from him. Two months. Two endless, aching months since their arrival in Azalea and they’d barely spoken. Tense days had passed with little more than brief exchanges and half-truths. His memories, so often shattered by his recurring breakdowns, had become a blur of fragments—disjointed images and half-formed thoughts that slipped through his grasp like sand.
“Hah,” the word burst from Za’ayd’s lips, cracking like a twig underfoot. ”Damn Boruk Godak,” Za’ayd continued his narrative, exhaling a plume that filled the air with a sour, bitter omen. “He went missing.” There was a dark glee in the way he spoke Boruk’s name—a satisfaction, an undercurrent of triumph as if the news of his rival's disappearance was some kind of victory.
Cipher’s jaw clenched, and he snorted, shaking his head in disgust. He could feel the heat rising in his chest, the undeniable fury that Za’ayd could speak so casually about Boruk, his friend—the one person who had stood by him when everything else had fallen apart.
“I don’t know what you guys are into,” Cipher said sharply, his voice tight with contained emotion. It was impossible for him to accept that Mirra, of all his friends, would have lent a flask for Za’ayd—she had always despised him. ”But you can’t drink here,” he warned, the words like a slap, cold and blunt, hoping to steer the conversation away from the truths he wasn’t ready to face.
Za’ayd’s gaze narrowed, a keen, razor-edged look, before he exhaled another long trail of smoke that made Cipher feel as if he’d been peeled back, exposed. “Easy, kid,” he demanded, his voice dripping with a kind of derisive amusement that made Cipher’s blood boil. “Did you get it?” And took another deep drag. It was as if he thrived on Cipher’s discomfort, as if the tension was just another game, one he intended to win.
The thrill of the hunt still buzzed in his veins, yet Cipher knew this was merely the beginning. There would be more tests, more errands. He offered a silent thanks to Prospera for the perfect timing, the fickle spirit of chance, for somehow guiding him to The Codex. With a steady hand, he slid the book across the table, careful not to let it linger in his hands a second longer than necessary, as though it held a charge he didn’t dare to absorb.
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A rare glint of approval sparked in Za’ayd’s eyes, the faintest hint of a smile curving his lips. His face, normally passive, betrayed a moment of containment. He spun on the heels of his worn-out black leather boots, their soles thudding against the wood floor as he moved with confidence, reaching out. The low light glinted off the high pipe slung over his salt-blue denim, the fabric mottled with smears of grease—remnants of countless hours spent bent over his motorcycle. He lived for the roar of the engine and the thrill of the open road, his hands as familiar with tools as they were with smoke. Cipher wrinkled his nose; the metallic scent of oil clung to him, mingling with the aroma of Sollenia, Za’ayd exhaled devotion to one thing that granted his freedom—the sheer, unrestrained velocity of the ride.
He took the volume in hand. The shadows seemed to stretch and twist around Za’ayd as if even they knew something had shifted. “The Codex, huh?” He muttered the words with reverence, unfolding the delicate pages. “This changes everything.” He breathed, his pulse quickening at the possibilities and the thought that the secrets contained within those pages could reshape their future.
“Amahd will miss it,” Cipher blurted out, the words escaping his mouth before he could rein them in. A flicker of unease passed over his face, but it was already too late.
Za’ayd shrugged it off, the flames flickering in his mouth. “He won’t.” His tone was casual, waving the concern away as if Mr. Waqar was a mere trifle. His voice carried an icy, detached logic. “Amahd has enough money to buy mountains of junk,” he added, a chill practicality in his voice that made Cipher’s stomach churn.
Cipher’s fingers twitched at his side as he struggled to keep his composure. His thoughts were spinning in a reverie, trying to reach the fragments of memory tied to Boruk. What happened to him? Not a fragment surged. Declan’s name surfaced; his cousin’s face a fleeting apparition in his mind’s eye. Where are you? The question shivered, clogging his throat for a split second. “Do you understand the scripts?” he asked subtly, unable to keep the tremor out of his voice. Cipher knew he had the answers; the fear and excitement warred within as the tanned biker moved closer, their distance shrinking, his aura pressing against Cipher like a tangible force.
Za’ayd’s response was unhurried, his voice calm yet underpinned by a quiet determination. “I’ll figure it out.” His hand came to rest on Cipher’s shoulders, fingers tightening for a moment in a gesture that felt both reassuring and possessive. “You did well, boy.” There was something in his eyes, pride—real, undeniable pride, Cipher wasn’t used to, not in their usual strained exchanges.
Cipher’s breath hitched, caught off-guard by the uncharacteristic warmth in Za’ayd’s gaze. It was a look he had never received before. “What do you expect to find?” He insisted, his voice lower now, almost desperate. He searched for any crack in his resolve, any breath that might reveal the truth behind all his way of thinking.
“I need to understand your world,” Came the simple words with an uncommon air of detachment, but there was a depth to his sentence, a purpose behind them that left Cipher momentarily stunned. Their feelings of belonging were bound together by a shared alienation—a mutual understanding from the scars of being outsiders, an orphan and a stranger without a home.
“There’s only destruction in it,” Cipher finally managed to reply, his voice rough and raw. The words felt like they had clawed their way out of his chest, dragging with them the pain and sorrow that had settled there long ago. His past—his broken, irredeemable past—pressed down on his shoulders like a leaden cloak, each remembrance a weight he could never shed.
Za’ayd’s gaze didn’t flinch. With a casual gesture, he brushed a stray lock of blonde hair from his forehead and finally took a slow, deliberate drag. The motion carried a strange intimacy. It was as if he had expected that answer, as if he already knew the depths of Cipher’s core but refused to be daunted by it. “There’s always something weighing you down, kid.” There was no pity in his eyes—only a quiet resolve that spoke of understanding, of seeing the world’s darkness and choosing to face it head-on.
Cipher’s shoulders sagged under the pressure of his confession, the words spilling out like blood from a reopened wound. “The blight took my family.” His voice hoarse and jagged at the edges, as if the words themselves had scraped his throat on their way out.
Za’ayd tilted his head, his brow furrowing in skepticism. He turned away, presenting his back as if daring Cipher to challenge the very foundations of his past. “Do you still believe this… bullshit?” The muscles on his neck taut.
Cipher faltered, “I was too young,” uncertainty clouding his tone. “I don’t remember...” The admission carried the weight of a half-truth, one he had clung to for as long as he could recall. He had no choice but to trust the stories that had been spun for him. Ismaihl, the uncle who raised him, had taught him to navigate this cruel world’s pitfalls. More than a guardian, Ismaihl had been his anchor, treating his illness with patience and pulling him back from the brink during his breakdowns.
Za’ayd’s laugh was harsh and almost cruel. He glanced over his shoulder, his expression unreadable, measuring Cipher’s naivety. “Your rotten heart is the only thing that holds you, huh?” His tone cut through the air like a scalpel. He leaned against the table’s edge, his posture relaxed, his hand resting with a casual carelessness that belied the intensity of his gaze.
Cipher raised his chin, locking eyes, his expression gentle yet firm. “Grab your bloody sword.” The command slipped out before he even realized he had spoken. Standing under Za’ayd’s shadow, Cipher couldn’t help but wonder if he had crossed a line—one that he could never step back from.
“It would be the end of you.” Za’ayd shot back, grabbing his shoulder again, the smirk on his lips razor-sharp. For a fleeting second, Cipher caught a flicker of something in his eyes—hesitation, perhaps, or the recognition of the unspoken truth they both knew all too well. It wasn’t just Cipher’s end that lay on the edge of that decision. It was theirs.
Another silence accompanied by another drag and a nervous brush of his hair. Za’ayd thought of what Cipher hadn’t dared to speak—the uncharted path they now stood upon, one that could lead them both to death. There was a precarious balance to their relationship, a delicate dance that neither of them could afford to misstep. Whatever lay ahead, he knew one thing: they would face it together, for better or worse, bound by the same darkness that had always haunted both of them. Za’ayd pushed the Codex over the table back to Cipher.
“It is too much.” Cipher murmured as he hunched over the imperfect surface of the pillage, his posture bent and shoulders rounded forward. His hands resting gently on either side of the tome, fingers brushing the edges as if ready to turn the page at any moment. But he couldn’t. Cipher exhaled heavily, the sound ragged, his exhaustion bleeding into the atmosphere. Finally, he sank into a nearby chair, its creak a quiet protest against his burden. Each movement slow, labored under the intangible weight of a curse. Pierce, Amahd, Ismaihl—even Za’ayd—all seemed to cast a different storm of doubt. Their intentions, their manipulations, swirled around him, feeding the anxiety that gnawed at his psyche. But it wasn’t just them. The hollow absence of Boruk Godak and Declan Ewing was a deeper wound. Every glance at the tome betraying the palpable strain on his psychological health.
“There’s no time for hesitation,” Za’ayd warned, charged with urgency. “In a short time, we will define everything.” His eyes gleamed with a dangerous intensity; their colors seemed to change with his mood. He knew that the path ahead would be fraught with danger, a direct confrontation with the forces that sought to mold their fate.
Cipher stood frozen; his legs felt heavy and uncooperative, shackled by a dark force.
“I’ll beat those fuckers.” There was no doubt in his voice; he was no ordinary seeker of secrets. He was someone who saw beyond the obvious, someone who would never stop digging, even if the truth was as dark as the deepest abyss they came from.
Cipher was struggling to control his movements. His limbs felt disconnected, unresponsive to his will, as if the rising fury of Za’ayd flared, the less he could sense he was in charge of his own body. Avoiding his uncle had become a necessity since the events in Suzanno. The mere thought of facing Ismaihl and the unspoken questions that hung between them was unbearable. The disappearance of his cousin, Declan, was more than just a loss; it left a void, a gaping wound of missing pieces that refused to fit together. Every thought of his cousin sent pangs of guilt and dread through him. And then there was Boruk—friend, confidant, and perhaps the only one who had truly understood him. Or so Cipher had thought. Was Godak responsible for these wounds, or merely a victim of his last breakdown? Cipher could not shake the feeling of foreboding that gripped him, a profound premonition that something was coming, something far worse than anything they had faced before.
“What happened? It has to do with them, huh?” Za’ayd accused with conviction. He gestured aggressively, his movements sharp and forceful.
Cipher’s mind trailed back to that fateful day, a recollection of chaos and desperation. His catastrophic breakdown had left him in a seven-day void, a sleep so deep that he’d woken to a world altered. Ismaihl told him nothing—only that he’d been unconscious, but the truth was far more than disconcerting. Both nephew and uncle had fled in haste to Alternno, aided by Mirra’s father.
Johan, an avid explorer of obliterated and forsaken towns, had not hesitated when Ismaihl sought his help. The man’s loyalty was unquestionable, forged through years of shared dangers and whispered secrets between the broken alleyways of Suzanno. For him, their escape was child’s play; he knew the routes through the skeletal remains of ghost cities. He didn’t demand reasons, knowing all too well that Cipher was everything Ismaihl lived for; he simply acted, the unspoken bond between them stronger than the questions left hanging.
Their friendship had been born in that city six years ago when he arrived, displaced, with Cipher, skinny and scared. Ismaihl, the brilliant scientist, had quickly turned into a trusted colleague, his cunning mind invaluable in Johan’s expeditions to the edges of outlying towns. Together they charted territories, speaking with the candid familiarity of brothers who had faced adversities side by side.
It was during the first late-night conversation while Cipher burned with unconscious fever that Johan had spoken of the abandoned town—a place that had been left to decay after the blight had consumed its borders. Ismaihl nodded in agreement to his proposal: Alternno would be a temporary refuge. They would move to the next town as soon as Cipher woke, for the tendrils of darkness were encroaching, creeping ever closer. It was there, amid the decay and silence of Alternno, that Cipher had begun to unravel further, his sanity frayed and the world around him growing more threatening. The specter of Cal Cassidy’s escape still haunted them, lurking just behind their thoughts.
Watching Cipher lie unconscious, trapped in that unnatural slumber, had nearly broken Za’ayd’s patience. He had struggled with his own demons the day Cipher finally awakened—a day that had felt like it would never come. He’d paced the empty streets, feeling the weight of their perilous situation growing heavier with each passing hour. He’d thought of leaving him behind, abandoning the boy who seemed more liability than partner. He wasn’t sure if Cipher could ever be what he needed him to be or if the risk of waiting would seal all their fates.
In a fit of frustration, he approached the boy, who seemed fragile, and decided to act. He swung his leg over the cold frame of his motorcycle in the middle of the night. The machine roared to life, the vibrations jolting him into a sense of reckless purpose. Without a word to anyone, he sped north, away from the crumbling buildings and empty roads of the city center, his urgency boiling into fury. The engine’s throaty growl tore through the oppressive stillness of the land. Dust kicked behind him, a hazy trail of fleeting escape, as if he could outrun the shadows that tugged at his mind.
Ismaihl awake, his instincts flaring with alarm. A rush of dread swept over him as he stumbled into Cipher’s room, his heart hammering in his chest. He found the makeshift bed on the ground empty. Panic gripped him, and he turned to the open doorway, knowing that he wasn’t alone. In the hallway, Mirra appeared, her eyes wide with disbelief, her face mirroring his shock. They stared at each other, the truth settling heavily between them like the weight of a noose tightening.
Cipher was gone.
“Where are we going?” Cipher’s voice barely rose above a strained whisper, the wind ripping the words from his lips as he clung to Za’ayd’s torso, his fingers digging into the worn leather jacket like a lifeline. But the roar of the motorcycle at 30 miles per hour swallowed his question, leaving it unheard, lost in the rush of speed and the cold, whistling wind that whipped across their faces.
“Don’t move,“ Za’ayd’s shout was carried backward, urgency lacing his tone. “You must see it.” His words were almost a promise and a warning, both at once.
As they crested a barren ridge, the land sloping steeply away before them, Cipher’s breath caught in his throat. Blood stained the ground with mucus.
“I’m okay.” He warned, jumping off the bike.
They had arrived. The sight that awaited them had forever seared itself into Za’ayd’s memory—the blight, ancient and eternal, untouched by the passage of time.
It stretched across the landscape in a vast, shadowy sprawl like a nightmare made real, an incomprehensible force of nature that twisted the very essence of existence. Tendrils of darkness slithered across the earth like malevolent veins, creeping and consuming. The grass was dead, there was no sign of plants or life, the rocks scorched with a dull, sickly sheen. Above, the sky was an alien expanse of deep, unnatural purple, as though the heavens had been stained by some cosmic calamity. The air itself felt alive; it carried a faint, bitter scent—half ozone, half decay—thick with an almost magical energy that seemed to hum with malicious intent, enchanting yet repelling.
For a moment, Cipher couldn’t breathe; honestly he could barely stand. There was a beauty in the horror—a perverse, almost mesmerizing allure that pulled at his senses, making him want to reach out and touch the living darkness, even as he felt an instinctive revulsion coil deep in his gut.
“Don’t!” Cipher’s voice cracked, his plea lost in the emptiness of the night, but Za’ayd did not stop. His feet moved forward with a purpose driven by something deeper than fear—an insatiable hunger for the unknown. Cipher couldn’t follow him. Za’ayd descended the ridge, each step crunching softly against the coarse, cracked earth. The pull of the blight was stronger than any instinct urging him to turn back, and the icy air seemed to thrum with a rhythm that quickened his pulse. Kilometers slipped by, the desert’s chill gnawing at his skin as he pressed on. In the distance, the mist loomed like a veil, a swirling vortex that distorted the horizon, and then—he saw it. A figure stood against the blurred backdrop of the blight, caught between the world of the living and the corrupted veil that lay beyond. At first, it was nothing more than a vague silhouette, shapeless and undefined in the low light of some kind of machine, but then recognition slammed into Za’ayd with the force of a hammer blow.
It was Boruk.
The man was on his knees, his head bowed, and his long, dark hair hung in tangled strands against the grime on his face. The strength that had always defined him seemingly drained away, leaving him a hollow, crumpled shell. His motorcycle lay in the distance, the engine still sputtering, its headlights casting a weak, trembling glow on the uneven ground. The skidding trail marked a desperate, erratic path—one that spoke of a struggle and a sudden stop. Boruk had tried to flee from something, or perhaps someone, but the miasma had drawn him back.
Za’ayd’s heart hammered as he crouched low, careful not to draw the attention of whatever lurked within the mist. A shadow moved, slipping through the edge of the blight—a dark, serpentine shape that rippled with an unnatural grace. It glided soundlessly across the poisoned earth, a specter born of death, its presence unmistakable and unholy.
Za’ayd’s blood turned to ice as the shadow paused, hovering over Boruk like a judge passing a silent sentence. Godak didn’t move; he didn’t even flinch. His face was slack, his eyes vacant as if all that made him human had been siphoned away. A brutal kick—precise and merciless—drove Boruk to the ground, the motion snapping Za’ayd out of his stupor. In the next instant, a writhing tendril, moving as if possessed by a malignant will of its own, reached out towards the sprawling body, who instead of recoiling, raised his face to meet it. His eyes were wide, his pupils dilated—captivated, entranced. His hand trembling, stretched out to touch the sentient sucker, a motion so slow it seemed like time itself had bent to watch the fatal moment unfold. Then the figure raised a thick, squat column to his lips—a cigar, Za’ayd’s mind registered, in a haze of disbelief. A spark flared, casting a brief, flickering light across the intruder’s face, before he aimed and fired. The bullet tore through the air and struck Boruk’s shoulder. Blood sprayed across the sand, a vivid splash of crimson against the ashen landscape, but Boruk didn’t wince—he felt nothing.
The darkness responded; the tendril made contact with his outstretched finger. In an instant, an electric surge of energy raced through him, a blinding flash that made the desert night tremble with an unnatural celestial brightness. His body convulsed violently, then shimmered, his form wavering like a mirage under the weight of the blight’s corrupting power. In a heartbeat, Godak was gone. Not dead—vanished. His very essence seemed to fracture and dissolve, torn apart by an invisible force that devoured everything it touched. Only the outline of his body remained, an empty imprint on the sand.
Za’ayd’s breath hitched in his throat as the intruder turned away, his face obscured in shadow. The tendril of smoke trailing from his cigar twisted lazily in the stagnant air, a mocking signature left behind as if to taunt any who would dare follow. He strode away from the site of the unholy transformation without so much as a backward glance, leaving nothing but a silence that rang like the aftermath of a bell.
Za’ayd’s disbelief morphed into a roiling storm of anger, fear, and fascination. What kind of power could obliterate a man as solid, as unyielding, as Boruk? Who was this phantom he had witnessed that could reach into the blight and not be consumed but wield its madness like a weapon and emerge unscathed? He couldn’t be sure if what he’d seen was real or mere product of the mist—the blight’s corruption of the mind that made him hallucinate.
From that night, Za’ayd became obsessed. The blight was no mere force of destruction—it was something greater, a raw power that could reshape the world. Perhaps it was the weapon he had always sought, the key to achieving his ambitions. It was no longer a threat; it was an opportunity, a dark promise whispered through the tendrils of destruction that crept across the land.
