The smoke above Velith hadn't cleared. It had simply learned to stay.
A pale orange light broke through the cracks in the sky — not dawn, not warmth, just the reflection of a city trying to remember its own shape. The ruins still hummed with the shard's afterpulse, metal warping in slow waves, glass whispering when touched by the wind.
Deep within that quiet wreckage, the Guild's trackers moved like clockwork ghosts.
Mirra conductors strapped to their armor blinked every few seconds, scanning for residual Null-class resonance. Each time the light pulsed, it painted the streets in blue and silver. And each time, the readings came back the same — one signal, steady, deliberate.
The man they hunted wasn't running. He was waiting.
---
I — The Guild's Dogs
Arven knelt over a cracked pavement, his hand pressed to the trembling ground. His scythe, collapsed to half its size, buzzed faintly against his back. The air here was different — thicker, heavier, alive with leftover Mirra.
"He's close," Elira said from behind him. Her voice was quiet, precise. "The readings don't move. He's within this district. Probably within view."
Arven rose slowly, eyes narrowing beneath his helm.
"He's not fleeing."
"No," Elira replied. "He's watching."
He turned toward the far end of the avenue — an old tram line cut clean through by the shard's collapse. The rails floated half a second late, vibrating against themselves. At its center, framed by orange haze, stood a figure in a dark coat.
Motionless.
Waiting.
---
II — The Silence Before
Mael stood on the broken track, hands in his pockets, eyes fixed on the empty cityscape.
When Arven and Elira stepped into view, their boots cracked glass with mechanical rhythm — step, echo, step, echo.
He didn't move until they stopped twenty meters away. Then he smiled faintly.
"Two for one," he said. "The Guild must be getting generous."
Arven's grip tightened on his scythe. "Mael, Null-Class designation. You're under Guild detainment protocol."
"Containment," Mael repeated softly. "You speak of people like chemicals. Efficient."
"Efficiency keeps the world from collapsing again," Elira said.
"Then maybe it deserves to," Mael replied.
> A breeze passed between them — carrying the faint hum of Mirra currents. The metal around them shivered like a plucked string.
"You're just another variable that thinks chaos is freedom," Arven said.
"No," Mael answered. "I'm the silence between your commands."
He tilted his head.
"You hear it, don't you? The city's heartbeat. It's slower now. Learning from us."
Elira's hand twitched over her spear. "You sound insane."
Mael's grin widened. "Not insane. In sync."
---
III — When Sound Breaks
They moved first — as he knew they would.
Arven's scythe spun from his shoulder with a hiss, splitting the air in a wave of compressed pressure.
Elira's spear followed, threads unfurling like lightning — sharp, perfect, mathematical.
Mael's boots slid half an inch across the broken tram rail. His coat fluttered once. Then, just before the first impact—
He vanished.
Not gone. Just late.
The scythe ripped through his afterimage, splitting the track behind him. Elira's spear impaled nothing but echo.
When they turned, he was already standing behind them, dust swirling around his feet.
"There's rhythm," Mael said quietly. "You just can't hear silence."
Arven swung again — faster, angrier. Mael sidestepped, hands still in pockets.
"Your weapon hums louder than your thoughts," he murmured, almost gently. "Maybe that's why it drowns them out."
Elira adjusted instantly, reading the angles, calculating.
"You delay your motion by fractions," she said. "Deliberate desync."
"The world isn't constant," Mael said. "Why should I be?"
Arven charged again, ground shattering under each step. Mael flicked two fingers.
Edge Pulse.
The air cracked.
A ripple of distorted vibration cut through Arven's charge, slicing a shallow wound across his armor.
He staggered but didn't fall.
Mael's voice was calm: "You're forcing rhythm on chaos. You can't conduct a storm."
---
IV — The Realization
For the first time, Elira frowned.
He wasn't dodging their attacks; he was playing them.
Every swing, every thrust — he let them happen just early or late enough to collapse their harmony. They fought as one rhythm; he fought as the silence between beats.
Arven wiped blood from his mouth. "Blood means you still break."
Mael smiled faintly. "Good. Reminds me I'm not the city."
Elira threw her spear again — it split into mirrored strands, each one vibrating a moment behind the other.
Mael flickered again, reappearing a few feet away.
"You counted every variable except me," he said. "Don't worry—most people forget the human part when they do math."
She clenched her jaw. "You talk too much."
"I'd apologize," Mael said, stepping forward, "but talking's the only way I let you keep up."
The air around them grew heavier.
The hum of the city joined in.
The rhythm was building.
And Mael was smiling.
---