The air in the Mayor's study was thick enough to choke on.
Victor Marlowe’s eyes betrayed a momentary, frantic waver before his mask of political composure snapped back into place. Across from him, his wife clutched her chest, the despair that had hollowed her out for hours suddenly giving way to a frantic, desperate hope.
She recognized Felix Grayson. She knew he was their daughter’s friend, but more than that, she saw the subtle differences in his gear. His harness was tighter, his sigils sharper—he wasn't some common Duskwarden beat-cop. He had arrived with an urgency that could only mean one thing: a lifeline.
And she desperately, pitifully needed one.
"Petra... Petra spoke of you," Victor said, stepping forward with his hands outstretched. "I had no idea Northridge hosted a—"
"Save the pleasantries, Mayor Marlowe," Felix said. He didn't take the man's hand. His voice was a flat sheet of ice. "My presence here is strictly to resolve the Nightbound abduction of Miss Marlowe."
Victor's hands remained suspended in the empty air. A flush of embarrassment touched his collar, but the sheer weight of Felix's words quickly pushed the insult aside.
"Right," Victor said, slowly retracting his hands. He cleared his throat. "Then let me ask clearly. Are you taking charge of this because of your history with Petra? Or is this..."
"I represent the Lampbearers." Felix didn't blink. "As of this moment, I am assuming total tactical and operational command of the Northridge City Duskwarden."
The words hit Victor like a physical blow. He froze. By law and charter, the local wardens were his tool, the military arm of his office. With a single sentence, this young man had stripped him of his teeth. The Mayor of Northridge was suddenly nothing more than a hollow title.
"But Felix—"
"Mayor Marlowe," Felix cut him off, his tone sharp enough to draw blood. "If you intend to contest my jurisdiction, don't waste your breath. You know the charters. The moment a Lampbearer designates an area as a high-risk sector for a large-scale Voidfall, local command is forfeited. I am acting under direct Lampbearer authority. I suggest you cooperate."
Beads of sweat broke out along Victor’s hairline. He knew the protocol, yes. But knowing the law and feeling the cold, absolute boot of a Lampbearer on his neck were two very different things.
"Felix..." Mrs. Marlowe stepped forward, her fingers clawing at the young man’s sleeve. Tears tracked through her ruined makeup. "You’re Petra's friend. You'll bring her home. Tell me you'll bring her home."
Felix looked down at her hands, then up to her face. "Not necessarily."
The woman flinched as if struck.
"If the Nightbound use Miss Marlowe as a human shield during our breach, there is a high probability of collateral damage," Felix said, his voice entirely devoid of comfort. "I apologize, but Miss Marlowe’s survival is not a primary objective of this operation."
Meanwhile, miles away in the cramped dark of the basement, a sound like a small engine firing up shattered the silence.
Grumble...
Petra Marlowe's face burned hot in the dim light.
Ethan Kane didn't even open his eyes. He remained propped against the cold concrete wall, his breathing slow and measured, entirely ignoring her. The Half-Masked One and Flint Voss were equally occupied with their own distractions. The Half-Masked One sat on an overturned crate, lazily flipping his combat knife, while Flint had uncarted a battered deck of cards and was silently laying out a game of solitaire on the dusty floorboards.
Petra stared at the wooden crate of rations. She wanted to reach out, to demand what was hers by right of basic humanity, but the words caught in her throat. She couldn't beg. Not to these lowlifes. Not even if her stomach felt like it was digesting itself.
The last traces of twilight bled out of the high, dirt-streaked window. The transition was coming.
Ethan wasn't asleep. He couldn't afford to be. The vivid, bone-chilling realities of his dream-walks were still fresh, and he knew that if those nightmares bled into his physical body while he slept, Flint and the Half-Masked One would notice. But he couldn't stay awake forever. He glanced at the pile of Lumcores stacked in the corner. If they were hoarding this much light, they were planning for a long siege.
The world outside went black.
With a soft, hummed resonance, the Lumcores in the corner flickered to life, casting long, amber shadows across the concrete.
Ethan opened his eyes and looked toward the older miner. "Hey."
Flint paused his game, looking up. He appreciated the boy's quick study. Ethan had deliberately avoided using his name, keeping the air clear of any identifying markers.
"Yeah?"
"If the Duskwardens are pulling every man they have to hunt us, what happens to the Nightharvest?"
Flint stretched his arms over his head, a crack popping in his spine. He looked like a man glad for the distraction. "It’s off. Dead in the water. You think anyone's thinking about digging rocks with this storm blowing over?"
"They suspended it?" Ethan's voice dropped. "What about the people who can't afford Lumcores? The ones who rely on the daily yield just to keep their lights on?"
Flint gave a dry, humorless chuckle and turned back to his cards.
The silence was answer enough.
"Then they just sit in the dark and wait to die," Ethan murmured, his eyes locking onto the glowing amber crystals.
Wait to die?
Petra watched them, her brows furrowed in genuine confusion. Weren't Lumcores cheap? A few hundred credits at most. How could anyone be so destitute that they couldn't afford to keep their house lit? In her world, a few hundred credits was pocket change.
Grumble...
Her stomach betrayed her again.
Ethan's gaze shifted to her. Petra stared back, her chin trembling with a mix of hunger and pride. Is he seriously waiting for me to beg? It's just packaged rations. How can anyone be this pathetic?
She opened her mouth, trying to find a way to demand food without sounding like a captive pleading for mercy.
"No," Ethan said.
Petra's jaw snapped shut. He hadn't even let her finish the thought. The sheer, petty arrogance of the boy made her blood boil. He was worse than the two kidnappers. At least the kidnappers had the decency to ignore her.
The Half-Masked One let out a bark of laughter, slapping his thigh. "Kid, I like you. You’ve got a spine."
"It's not about spine," Ethan said, his voice flat. "Every ounce she eats is an ounce I don't get. Simple math."
Flint looked at Ethan, a subtle frown creasing his brow. The boy was hardening. Just a few days ago, during his first run into the dark, Ethan had gone out of his way to warn total strangers of danger. Now, he was calculating survival down to the ounce.
Before the Half-Masked One could egg Ethan on further, the burner phone resting on the stained mattress began to buzz.
"We're green over here, don't sweat it," the Half-Masked One answered, his voice instantly slipping into that mock-easy tone. "Is the corridor clear for transit?"
Then he froze.
The easy smirk vanished from his face. His posture stiffened, the lazy slouch replaced by a coiled tension.
"The Lampbearers are here?"
"Well, princess," the Half-Masked One said, tossing the phone onto the crate. His voice had lost every shred of its playful cadence. "It looks like your father doesn't value your life nearly as much as you thought."
He reached up and unclipped the white half-mask, letting it clatter to the floor.
Without the porcelain cover, he looked incredibly young—Dean Brennan was barely into his twenties. He had a sharp, plain face, ruined by a jagged, pale scar that ran from his temple down to his cheekbone.
But Petra wasn't looking at the scar. She was staring at his eyes. They were cold, murderous, and entirely bare.
She knew what it meant when a kidnapper showed his face. The thin veneer of her safety had just shattered.
She squeezed her eyes shut, frantically shaking her hands in front of her. "I didn't see! I didn't see anything! I have face blindness, I swear, I won't remember your face, please—"
The temperature in the basement seemed to drop ten degrees.
Ethan watched the shift with a cold, calculating eye. Lampbearers.
It was a new word. From the sound of it, they were an elite force, far above the Duskwardens. Flint hadn't flinched at the prospect of the entire city's guard hunting them, but the mention of a single Lampbearer had turned Dean's blood to ice.
"Where's the secondary spot?" Dean asked, his voice tight as he turned to Flint.
Flint let out a slow, heavy breath and unmasked himself. "No. 37 Old Market Gate, Southgate. QuickCut Salon."
"Good." Dean nodded sharply. "Pack the cores. Leave the food. We move light."
Flint didn't argue. He pulled a heavy, grease-stained sheet off the cot and began sweeping the glowing Lumcores into it, tying the corners into a rough sack.
Dean snatched the phone back up and walked over to Petra.
"Make another sound, and I'll end you right here," he said, his voice a low, vibrating whisper. "I don't make promises I can't keep."
Petra's sobbing cut off instantly. She bit her lower lip so hard it bled, her chest heaving as she tried to stifle the terrified whimpers.
Dean thrust the phone into her face. "Call your father."
Her hands shook so violently she almost dropped the plastic burner. But the prospect of hearing her father's voice—the one man who had solved every crisis in her pampered life—gave her a sudden, desperate surge of strength.
She dialed. The line didn't even ring twice before it picked up.
"Dad! Dad, it's me!" she shrieked. "Please, you have to save me! I'm so scared, they have me in this basement, I'm starving, it's—"
The phone was ripped from her grasp.
"Mayor Marlowe," Dean said into the receiver. "We gave you more credit than you deserved. We thought you actually cared about your blood."
"Petra? Petra!" Victor's voice crackled through the cheap speaker, raspy and desperate. "Let me talk to her. Just let me hear her voice."
Petra opened her mouth to scream, but the cold bite of Dean's steel blade pressed firmly against her throat. She froze, the scream dying in her throat.
"We've been more than patient with Miss Marlowe," Dean said, his eyes locked on her trembling form. "But we're simple men, Mayor. We can't provide the luxury she's accustomed to. We don't have your deep pockets. And yet, our hospitality has bought us nothing but trouble."
Dean took a step back, the knife still hovering. "I hear the Lampbearers are in play. So I'll keep this simple. Two days. If the Nightveil Passage isn't opened, your daughter's life is forfeit."
He paused, listening.
"We know what Lampbearers can do," Dean continued, a dark, vicious smile spreading across his face. "We know they'll probably catch us. But I promise you this: if they take us down, they'll be doing it over your daughter's fresh corpse."
He pulled the phone away to hang up, but a new voice cut through the speaker. It was younger, steadier, and completely devoid of panic.
"Hello, Mr. Nightbound."
Dean's brow furrowed.
Beside him, Petra's eyes went wide.
Felix!
It was him. Her friends had always swooned over Felix's deep, resonant voice. He was a Lampbearer now. He was coming for her. Even in the damp, terrifying dark of the basement, a flush of warmth rose to her cheeks. She was the damsel in distress, and her knight was on his way. Surely, once this was over...
"The Nightveil Passage will not open," Felix said.
The flush vanished from Petra's face.
Dean stared at the phone, stunned by the sheer, unyielding dismissal in the young Lampbearer's voice.
"Endless night has come; the fierce take up the lamp," Felix chanted, his voice suddenly dropping into a low, resonant register that vibrated through the cheap microphone.
Then, a command: "SUMMON!"
The word roared from the receiver with physical force, making the speaker rattle.
Ethan felt a sudden, violent spike in his chest. A raw, primal instinct slammed into his consciousness, making his blood run hot. His pupils dilated, his knuckles turning white as he clenched his fists, fighting a desperate, sudden urge to lash out.
Flint glanced at him, but in the dim light, he only saw a kid tense from the hostage negotiation.
Then, the world outside the basement went mad.
Through the thick wooden door, the dark erupted. Shrieks, high-pitched wails, and a sound like a chorus of weeping and manic laughter echoed down the corridor.
The Voidstriders.
They were reacting.
"Lampbearer!" Dean snarled, the veins in his neck bulging as his grip on his knife tightened. "You think I won't open her throat right now?!"
"The Nightbound are men of their word," Felix replied, his tone as flat and clinical as a coroner's report. "You said we have two days. I will find you within those two days."
Dean let out a harsh, mocking laugh. "And if you don't?"
There was a brief, heavy silence on the line.
"Then once I have executed you," Felix said, "I will personally visit Miss Marlowe's grave and offer her my sincerest apologies."