Kiyan snapped back to the present, the intimate memory of Neva's first communication having settled his consciousness like a stone finding the bottom of a pond. He understood his task now. The raw power of the Primordial Frost was not a limitless well; it was a devastating weapon whose use must be limited by supreme discipline—the very lesson he had learned in the frozen courtyard.
?He was Kiyan Ren, the swordsman, again. But now he would fight with the finesse worthy of Neva’s protection.
?Before rising, he settled himself, dropping into the posture of the "Lotus ," a technique taught by Lysandra. He took a long, slow breath, attempting to draw the ambient arcana from the surroundings and filter it, replenishing the shared pool of Primordial Frost.
?Immediately, he recoiled. The air in the Underworld Market was not clean energy. It was a noxious soup: sulfurous fumes, stale city arcana, and the dark, corrupt residue of illicit magic. Trying to draw it in was like drinking poison. The pure, clean cold of the Primordial Frost actively rejected the corrupted energy.
?“Pollution, Partner,” Neva’s mental voice resonated, laced with a familiar disappointment. “This market is a graveyard of intentions. We can scavenge a little, but the process is highly inefficient and dangerous. Better to conserve the starlight we have.”
?Kiyan abandoned the deep meditation. He had gained almost nothing. The pollution of the city was costing him dearly, preventing the quick recovery he was accustomed to in the clean air of the wilderness. He would have to rely entirely on his mechanical skill.
?He rose, gripping his long sword. The goal was the to stop the marriage of Thane's perfect mechanics with a whisper of elemental control. He channeled the arcana, focusing only on a single, hair-thin thread of energy, stabilizing the blade’s edge. He repeated the five basic strikes:
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?High Diagonal Cut. The blade whistled. He felt the briefest click of connection—a tiny, controlled surge that settled the arcana onto the cutting edge like a film of oil.
?Thrust. He lunged, driving the point forward. Click. The energy remained localized, focused entirely on the tip, ready to pierce.
?He repeated the sequence dozens of times, the "clicks" becoming more consistent, the energy transfer less explosive and more seamless. He had found the balance: a way to fight efficiently without draining Neva’s reserve.
?Just as the faint sound of boots and metal scraping stone echoed from the tunnel entrance—the sound of the Copper Heads’ Tax Men patrolling—Sera and Elara materialized silently back in the alcove, their expressions grim.
?“We got the Aether Coals,” Sera whispered, holding up a small, heavy pouch wrapped in iron wire. “The Silent Scale took the true-iron, but he also dropped a tip: the Copper Heads have ramped up patrols. They know someone is here with a high-value artifact—the Regulator’s signature is too large. We have to move now, Wolf.”
?“I’m ready,” Kiyan confirmed, sheathing the sword. He had his finesse, and Neva was safely resting.
?“Good,” Sera continued, already looking toward the other side of the alcove. “The Lyra Archives. It’s a death trap, but it’s the only place in this cursed city that might have a structural map of the Aethelian Dominion’s capital. If we are going to find the headquarters of the Hand of the Accord and Sirus Vane, we need to know where the sun doesn’t shine.”
?“A map of the capital,” Kiyan mused. “Val Thorne said they were shipping the captives for dark experiments in the Dominion. I need to find the headquarters, but first I need to find out where the ‘livestock’ are being taken. We need the details of their shipments.”
?Elara nodded, adjusting the Regulator strap. “We use the map to find the shipment’s destination, then we use that intelligence to find Vane’s head. Ready, Wolf? The longer we wait, the closer the Copper Heads and the Tax Men get to collecting their bounty.”
