Arc II: Veins of Mourndusk
The whispers had faded.
But their echo gnawed at Vrakon's mind like teeth scraping bone.
He stood alone in the dim chamber, soaked from the Pulse pool. Faint green light shimmered across the surface, still rippling from his resonance. His breathing was steady, yet inside, something had shifted. The Spiral Instinct wasn't just reflex anymore—it was remembering. Remembering pain, fire, deaths he had never lived.
Or had he?
He stepped out from the carved stone basin, steam rising from his skin as Genesis energy settled into silence. Somewhere above, a bell chimed—three slow rings. A Mourndusk signal.
"Training complete," muttered the Seer.
Soul-Seer Halek stood near the arched doorway, his face half-hidden beneath a cowl embroidered with ink-black tendrils. A Level 4 Fracta-Wielder, Law-Touched, known for sensing distortions between life and soul.
Halek tilted his head. "You withstood the pool longer than most Ashborn. That's either stupidity... or something not yet named."
"I didn't come here to impress you," Vrakon said, voice even.
The Seer smirked. "Good. Because you haven't."
Halek turned and motioned to a figure behind the veil-curtained entrance. A tall youth, robed in grey-red garb, entered—Riven Dast.
Riven folded his arms. "So this is the ghost everyone's whispering about."
"Vrakon," Halek said. "You'll return to Ashborn quarters. There's a Duel Tier tomorrow. Testing. Mandatory."
Riven snorted. "Finally, something worth watching."
Halek's voice dropped low. "And if either of you dies, make sure it's in public. We have rules, but no martyrs."
---
Mourndusk - Ashborn Quarters, Night
The stone corridors of Mourndusk always felt damp. Like the bones of a sleeping god, the fortress-city breathed with strange air and ancient whispers.
Vrakon returned to his chamber, a low stone alcove shared with three others. Thren and Saelin were gone—likely in orientation or light guard duty. In their place were two unfamiliar faces. One was a gangly boy with sunken eyes and moss-colored robes—Letho Varn, Level 2: Essence Initiate. He barely looked up.
The other sat cross-legged, sketching something on the stone with charcoaled fingers.
A girl. Small, wild-eyed, and silent.
She glanced at Vrakon for half a heartbeat. Then returned to her drawing.
Cryptic swirls. Long tunnels. Fangs.
He spoke. "What's your name?"
The girl said nothing, but Letho answered instead. "That's Yarri. She doesn't talk. Just draws. Been here longer than any of us."
"What's she drawing?"
Letho shrugged. "They call it the Hollowed Map. Don't know if it's real. But she's always right."
Vrakon stepped closer. Yarri's image showed a spiraling tunnel, descending beneath Mourndusk, ending in a black oval with seven jagged mouths.
Pulse-Eater glyphs. Symbols of warning.
He blinked. Yarri was gone.
No sound. Just shadows and the echo of her steps down the corridor.
---
Duel Tier – Next Day
The arena was built into the rock itself. High pillars, fire-torches burning with blue flame, and a circle carved with Fractal runes. Spectators gathered—mostly young Kin, but a few seniors too. Overseer Kerys, a sharp-featured woman with silver cuffs on both arms (Level 4: Law-Touched), stood at the center.
She raised her hand. "First match. Ashborn: Vrakon vs. Riven Dast."
Riven entered the ring with a crooked smile. "Let's see if your haunted eyes come with claws."
Vrakon walked in, spearless, wearing a worn tunic. He didn't speak.
The crowd hushed.
"Begin."
Riven moved fast—his Pulse burned blue, the color of Kinetic Wound, tied to motion, strikes, and pressure. His weapon of choice: a pair of short bone-blades that shimmered as if vibrating.
Vrakon dodged the first sweep. The Spiral Instinct activated subtly—his legs pivoted, his hand snapped to block a thrust.
Clang.
"Not bad!" Riven hissed.
The second blow grazed Vrakon's side. A thin line of blood.
"Still breathing?"
Vrakon narrowed his eyes. Then moved.
No flashy technique. Just a sharp pivot, a shoulder ram, and a knee to the ribs. Riven grunted, forced back.
Then—Pulse surge.
Vrakon's hand flared with faint silver sparks.
Not an attack.
A counter-memory. A motion pulled from somewhere ancient. A shadow of battle.
Riven lunged.
Vrakon stepped into it—his fingers locked onto Riven's wrist, twisted, then threw him clean out of the circle.
Thud.
Gasps.
Kerys stepped forward. "Victor: Vrakon."
Riven groaned on the ground, face flushed red. "He's not just Ashborn…"
Kerys muttered, "He's Hollow-blooded."
---
Later – Mourndusk Infirmary Hall
Saelin found Vrakon near the old iron balcony overlooking the Hollow Nest fog.
"You made a mess," she said, arms crossed.
"He asked for it."
"Still. You made a statement."
Thren joined them, bruised from his own match. "They're already whispering. About your soul. About Spiral echoes."
Vrakon stared outward. "Let them whisper."
Behind them, a torch flickered. Then dimmed. A cold gust passed—unnatural.
And Yarri appeared again, barefoot, eyes wide.
She held out a charcoal sketch.
This time, a symbol glowed faintly—beneath Mourndusk, a new tunnel had opened.
And something was stirring.