“That’s all anybody can do right now. Live. Hold out. Survive.”
— Octavia E. Butler
The door sealed behind them with a final click, muffling voices that had clashed like dull blades. Laughter died. Mug scrape, boot scuff—gone beneath the cold click of their steps.
Smooth tile replaced stone—slick with morning damp. Each step echoed a quiet rhythm down the narrow corridor. The hallway curved slightly, as if unsure of its own direction, its walls lined with old notices and nailed-down maps that had faded into beige ghosts.
Soren rolled a shoulder as they walked, eyes flicking between the hanging lanterns overhead and the half-shuttered alcoves they passed. “Hey, I’m all for getting our tags back in good standing… but I thought we were here to investigate, not just sign up for whatever’s on the board.”
Ayola’s cloak whispered behind her. “Some answers don’t show up on paper.”
His brow furrowed. “Yeah? Doesn’t mean we gotta go knockin’ on death’s door to find ‘em.’
The shadows around her seemed to deepen. “I didn’t say we’d knock.”
He sighed, not stopping, but not quite ready to give in either. “Fine. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
Final curve. Light knifed through the cracked door—amber strips cutting across dust.
The room beyond was octagonal—angled corners breaking the flow like an old tactical nest, repurposed and worn by too many seasons. A map table dominated the center, broad and bowed under its own weight, its surface etched with rings from mugs, scratches from blades, and half-erased lines drawn in grease or chalk. A thick pane of window glass—rare, bubbled, and warped from age—let in thin bars of morning light that slanted down like judgment.
No true hearth. Just the glow from a hooded lantern and a long, narrow chalkboard nailed crooked on the far wall—its surface ghosted with faded notations no one had quite dared to erase.
The air shifted.
Cooled.
Gold stripes stretched from slatted windows, breaking across the table and bleeding into sagging maps that hung like tired ghosts.
The chair groaned. A copper-toned smirk owned the seat—lean frame slouched deep, dark twists pulled back with a rust-orange wrap. Bone beads flickered when he moved. A chain jangled as he tipped forward, like the room had only just earned his attention.
The other sat apart near the wall, built like a levee post—broad-backed, all bulk and stillness. Sleeveless armor exposed arms thick with earned strength, each forearm wrapped in weathered leather and copper-charm thread. His skin held the hue of baked cane sugar, the kind that clung warm to the air. Braids coiled into a high bun at his crown, thick and tidy, some drifting loose near his ears—wooden and bone beads stitched between them like muted prayers. A small carved totem hung from his chin-length beard, motionless. He didn’t greet them. Just watched the door. The window. Each shadow, measured in silence.
The booted one whistled low at their entrance, slow and amused, tipping his chair forward until all four legs landed with a dull thump. “Well now,” he drawled, stretchin’ his arms like he was showin’ off the punchline. “Roster just got real damn spicy.”
The other figure—just a glance, then back to stillness. Thumb brushed the carved bead at his chin like a ritual he’d forgotten to stop.
Ayola’s eyes swept the room once, measuring corners, counting shadows. Faint chalk lines crept behind her, remnants of old notes and warnings scrawled in sharp script across the board. Beneath it, a sagging cabinet leaned sideways, drawers labeled in peeling ink—RECON, SUPPLY, SURVIVAL—but only dust and old field tags waited inside.
Soren’s gaze flicked toward the seated pair, lips quirking dry at the greeting, then back toward the maps, the chairs, the quiet waiting between walls.
Footsteps echoed from the corridor.
Talithe entered first. No fanfare. Just boots and shadow.
A man stepped in behind her, tall and straight-backed, coat whispering across tile. Midnight blue hair slicked back from a narrow brow, though swamp air had curled a few strands loose at the temples. His long coat—navy, black-trimmed, and sun-bleached at the shoulders—dragged slightly behind his boots, weighed down by old mud and a dozen too-quiet memories. The brass buttons were still polished.
“Greyblade command core. Two of three present.”
Words cut clean as field orders. War still lived in those syllables. His hand rose—gesture precise, economical. A soldier’s shorthand.????????????????
“Senior Guard, Talithe Delmoire.”
“Recon Lead, Lucien Marveil.” He nodded once, like reading from a ledger.
The door creaked open.
A girl stood framed in the light—small, but built from hard corners and held breath. Curls clung damp to her brow, twisted back into a high, heavy bun bound with a wooden ring. Bangs framed her face in tight coils, the strands threaded with scavenged beads and charms that clicked faintly when she moved. One glove sagged past her wrist, patch-stitched from scrap leather and canvas, while the other clung tight, tied off with a bit of twine. A shawl hung uneven over one shoulder. Her tunic was plain, loose-fitting, half-tucked into patched green coverall pants—frayed at the knees, rolled high at the ankle, one pant leg still crusted with dried river mud.
Boots mismatched. One buckled, one tied with old cord. Both looked like they’d seen more swamp than road.
A satchel hung from her chest—stitched with faded orange cloth, layered with hand-sewn patches and clipped charms. It looked too heavy for her frame. She held it close like a shield.
“Sorry. Had to find someone t’watch my brothers,” she blurted. “Ain’t happenin’ again.”
Talithe turned. “Glad ya made it, Ysanne.”
Remi tilted his chair back with a dry snort. “Yeah, ain’t gonna happen again ‘cause odds are we don’t get another after this.”
Heads turned. The girl gave a tight nod and slid into an empty chair, clutching the strap of her satchel as if afraid it might slide out of place.
The chair let out a low whine as she sat—wood swollen by damp air. Around her, notes had been nailed up in clusters—bounty listings, directives, half-torn rotation charts. None looked newer than a month. The kind of room meant for decisions no one wanted to sign.
He grinned without warmth. “Hell of a welcome, huh?”
Lucien continued. “Briefing will be thorough. For now, understand this—this is not a contract. It is a line. One you are assigned to hold.”
Palm hit map—flat, hard. Fingers traced worn edges. The map’s surface was uneven—pinned cloth over cracked wood. A line of bone-carved weights held the corners down against the draft. Someone had scrawled markers into the fabric in old chalk, color-coded and flaking. Every line told a story already gone to rot.
“Last week, patrol didn’t come back. Five tagged mercs. No word. No bodies. No gear recovered.” Her thumb struck the map. Once. Twice. A faint ink mark smudged. “Last check-in was near the silo runoff. After that—nothin’ but silence.”
Talithes weight shifted. Eyes swept the room. “Guild’s stampin’ this as a sweep. I ain’t callin’ it that.”
Dry laughter rattled. Hip found table edge. “Ain’t never been ‘standard’ when they start draggin’ out old maps.” He flicked a calloused finger toward a faded quadrant marked in faint chalk. “South line’s been slippin’ for months. You clear one stretch, somethin’ else pushes in. Fast. Mean.” His smile bent sharper. “Smart, too.”
“This is not reconnaissance. This is target elimination. Restraint is preferred. History says otherwise,” Lucien leaned forward.
He let the silence hold. “You are not here to recover remains. You are here to ensure we don’t send another team into a grave. Detain if possible. Terminate if not.”
His gaze swept the room. “This team was selected for a reason. Most of you were pulled. Three of you volunteered.”
His eyes lingered on Talithe, Ayola, and finally Soren.
“The rest of you—consider yourselves conscripted. The guild offered no alternatives.”
“Original roster ain’t hold.” Talithe’s words—cut glass over gravel. “One ran. Two got pulled under on the last sweep. Ain’t leave us much choice.”???????????????? Teeth clicked once behind closed lips.
A shadow passed between Ayola and Soren.
Remi whistled low. “So we gettin’ drafted now? Like that?”
Eyes didn’t so much as flicker. Gold-brown, nearly amber in the light—focused like a rifle barrel, steady and unreadable. He didn’t blink until the silence dragged long enough to settle the weight of it.
Lucien didn’t flinch. “They volunteered to carry this weight. You were not given the choice.”
Ysanne’s knuckles whitened on her satchel.
Ayola’s fingers curled around the table edge. Soren shifted—left foot to right. Window. Door. Her face.
“This feels like it all over again,” Words barely stirring the air between them.
Weight pressing down.
Ayola kept her eyes on the wood grain. “Nykelos.” Quiet. Certain. A wound, not a name.
They both felt the echo.
Talithe gestured with her chin. “Call out. Names. Roles.”
Remi leaned forward first, boots sliding off the table with a deliberate thump. “Remi Marchenne. Runner line. Pressure, misdirect, charm. Rope, blades—anythin’ that messes with the beat. Ain’t here to tank, sure as hell ain’t leadin’—just here to make ‘em flinch.”
One boot tapped the ground in time with his words—scuffed leather, metal toe catching the light. His vest hung loose over a sleeveless henley, seams threadbare, edges stitched with faint symbols that looked like they’d once meant protection. A whipblade coiled at his hip, bone segments polished and quiet like a weapon built from ghosts.
“SLIVER Type?” someone called from the back—half curious, half sarcastic.
Blade spun lazy between his fingers. “Exor, maybe. Energy just moves. Through me, through the tools. Whole thing’s guesswork—ghost charts an’ gut feelin’.”
Ayola glanced his way. “You believe in that?”
“Believe?” Grin cut sharp. “Nah. But superstition’s cheaper than bleedin’.”
Chinoke stood like a landslide waiting to happen—slow, steady, heavy with something deeper than weight. Shoulders rolled, thick arms flexing under the patterned leather of his gear, his voice low and solid. “Chinoke. Tank. Close quarter. Hook hammer. I take hits. Give worse.” His thumb brushed the wood bead tied into his beard. “SLIVER? Reckon its Ignis.”
“Ysanne. Support. Resonant.”
Words like flint—sharp, struck with purpose. She held still when speaking, only her chin lifting slightly. Not defiance, not quite pride—a declaration that this seat, this table was hers by right.??????????????? “Ain’t built for fightin’, but I’ll keep y’all standin’. Long as I can.”
“Glad to hear it,” Talithe said, with a nod. “We’ll need that.”
Soren stepped up next, arms folded. “Soren. Assault type. Close quarters to mid—wherever they need me. I don’t miss when it matters,”
Pause. “SLIVER? Don’t know, don’t care.
Remi leaned forward—eyes bright as struck flint. “Oooh, you one o’ them mystery flavors. Dangerous kinda spice.”
Ayola followed, tone crisp. “Ayola. Strategist line. Dual class.”
Lucien’s eyes narrowed slightly at the tag beneath her cloak. “Dual tag, is it.” A slow nod followed. “Rare…”
Remi tilted his head, eyes narrowing with mock scrutiny. “You movin’ like you got strategist bones. What’s your SLIVER, huh?”
On his wrist, a padded glove wrapped bulky around the bone, cuff flaring out like it was built from scraps and prayer. The other hand rested loose—calloused fingers brushing the bone charm tied to his belt beside a coiled rope, small tools, and what might’ve once been a brooch. He didn’t move much, but when he did, it was all lean readiness, like a trap half-sprung.
Then, leaning back in again, blade twirling between his fingers, he tossed another glance at Ayola. “That a Lucid tag I see peekin’ out, or you got somethin’ stranger cookin’?”
Ayola didn’t answer. Her silence landed like a blade across stone—sharp, deliberate.
Lucien smirked faintly but didn’t push.
“I don’t think I have one,” Ayola murmured, voice caught somewhere between defiance and doubt. “Or not one I understand yet.”
Lucien's scar creased. Not a smile.
He turned to the map.
Copper wiring glinted from his coat’s inner lining—scrap-forged, swamppunk. Adapted.
Soren looked at her, fingers tracing the edge of a compass. His hand stilled. “Right.”
Talithe circled the silo marker. “Gods be merciful, if they even remember how. We’re goin’ out soon. An hour to prep, stock, and get what you ain’t already carryin’. South gate.”
No one moved. Talithe’s sigh was low, tired.
“Dismissed.”
She didn’t follow. Just stood by the table a moment longer, hands resting flat on the worn map. Let the others move first. She’d catch up when the room was empty again.
Her nod hadn’t cooled before chairs scraped back—stone grinding, gear clinking, the weight of a decision made. Maps fluttered under a stray breeze from the open window. Steel buckles clinked faintly as gear was adjusted, belts tightened, blades checked.
Remi rose slow, spine cracking like someone limbering for trouble. The grin followed—tilted, worn in. “Well damn—guess that’s our name on the song sheet.”
Chinoke’s head shifted—deliberate, heavy, like swampwater remembering how to flow. “Don’t go namin’ the dead ‘fore they drop.”
Iron in those words. Not sharp. Not playful. Final. Fingers found the charm loop at his waist—brushed once like a ritual, then let go.Eyes swept the room. One exit, three strangers, two known. Categorized. Memorized.??
“Didn’t think you was the charm-clutchin’ type. Then again… bet there’s a lucky coin hid in them braids, huh” Remi said, trailing him.
Chinoke didn’t look back. Just grunted, low in his throat—answer enough.
Ysanne lingered by the map table, fingers ghosting the chalk lines Talithe had left behind. One hand tugged at a loose charm on her satchel—wooden, chipped, barely held by a fraying knot. Not fear, not prayer. Just habit. Talithe watched in silence. She recognized the motion. Had done it herself too many times to call it comfort anymore.
“Talithe?” she asked softly.
The big woman paused mid-step, glancing back. “Mm?”
“If… if we don’t…” Ysanne’s throat worked. Once. Twice.
Her fingers knotted into fists. Released. Knotted again.“If I don’t make it…” Breath hitched, then steadied. “My brothers—?”
A hand landed—gentle, weighty “You’re comin’ back, Ysanne. Don’t start settin’ your goodbyes yet.” A beat. “But yeah. I got ‘em. You have my word.”
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That seemed enough. Ysanne nodded, a flicker of fragile resolve hardening her mouth, and turned to gather her satchel.
Soren watched quietly from the side, arms folded, as the others moved in their smaller orbits. A furrow caught his eye—faint worry lines as she studied the fading map one last time.
“Well,” he said at last, voice pitched low so only she could hear, “Hell of an indoc.”
Her eyes didn’t leave the map. “It’s not a party.”
“Could’ve fooled me. We’ve got a roster, an audience, and an open invitation to die ugly.” His smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Real festive.”
That earned him the faintest exhale through her nose. “We’ll make it back.”
“Yeah.” His gaze shifted past her, catching Remi’s grin flashing from across the room as the younger merc nudged Chinoke again. “But I’m betting not everyone will.”
Ayola’s reply was soft. “That’s always the bet.”
The last footsteps faded. Only then did Talithe move. One breath, then another. A hand brushed the charm at her collar.
“South gate,” she muttered to no one. “No stragglin’.”
And then she left.
The room began to empty. Chinoke was the next to leave, his broad shoulders slipping through the door without fanfare. Remi trailed after, flicking a mock salute mid-step—lazy as always, but still watching. “Catch y’all out there, fresh meat.”
Ysanne slid past, small frame woven tight with tension, the charm-belt around her waist swinging with every step. Most of it looked handmade—twine loops, clipped tools, a bent spoon, what might’ve once been a piece of jewelry. The kind of gear you built when no one gave you better. “If I fall back… don’t wait.” Chin lifted—not quite defiance, not quite fear. Something harder between. “I’ll catch up. Swear.”
Soren’s brow hitched. Path cleared. “Let’s just hope you don’t gotta.”
And then they were left alone in the quiet room, lantern light bleeding paler as the sun climbed outside.
Ayola turned last, cloak brushing quiet as breath. “We should check our gear.”
“Yeah.” Sorens lingered once more on the faded map. “Don't want to be caught lacking out there.”
They stepped into the hall together, footsteps folding with the quiet murmur of the guild beyond.
Ahead, the south gate waited.
And beyond it, the swamp held its secrets.
REMI MARCHENNE
Age: 20
Height: 5’11”
Rank: Hollow
Role: Runner
SLIVER Type : ( E ) Exor
Catalyst Name: Hollow Rush
Codename: Second Skin
Weapon of Choice: Modular whipblade (spined coils with redirect nodes)
Known For: Talking too much. Bleeding just enough.
Notes: Streetborn and stitched together. Loyal to none—except the ones that count. Moves like a rumor. Smiles like he’s already gone.
The Crooked Lantern was quieter in the daylight. Sun pooled through the crooked windows in broken shafts, catching dust midair like drifting ghosts. The usual crowd was gone—only a few workers moved through the back, prepping for the evening rush, wiping counters, refilling kegs. The clatter and bark of the night crowd had been replaced by quiet conversation and the scrape of wood against wood.
Remi leaned against the bar, forearms crossed, eyes flicking toward the kitchen before settling on the bartender—a wiry man with burn scars down one arm and a gaze sharp as cut glass.
“Headin’ out,” Remi said.
The bartender looked up. Didn’t ask where. Didn’t need to. Just nodded once and wiped his hands on a cloth already stained with polish and age.
“You tellin’ me this time in case you don’t come back?” he asked.
Remi shrugged, a slow tilt of the shoulders. “Just figured someone should know.”
A beat passed. Then the man reached beneath the bar and slid over a plain metal flask. “Take it. Yours anyway.”
Remi accepted it with a small nod. “Appreciate it.”
Voices murmured somewhere in the back. One of the barmaids poked her head around the corner, gave Remi a subtle wave. He offered a wink, easy as ever.
Then he stepped away from the bar and disappeared through the narrow door behind the stairs—past the dry storage, through a hallway that hadn’t seen new paint in years.
The back office wasn’t locked. It never had been. Just quiet. Dust hung in the warm midday air, stirred by the breeze coming through the half-cracked window. A small desk sat pressed against the wall, ink blotched into its grain. Maps. Receipts. Loose nails. And tucked under a rusted tin box, a photo.
Remi sat slowly. Pulled the photo free.
Four faces. All younger. One with his grin half-formed. The others—two boys and a girl—were frozen mid-laugh, someone’s arm slung over someone else’s shoulder. A moment that didn’t make it out of the year it was taken.
He studied it in silence.
Then uncapped the flask. Poured a single mouthful into the chipped mug on the desk.
Held it up.
“To the ones who stayed too long. And the one who left too early.”
The drink went down fast. Burned clean. No theatrics.
He left the mug on the desk, the photo folded and pocketed again—right beside the bone charm he never explained.
By the time he stepped back into the hall, the bar had returned to its low hum. No one watched him leave. But one of the cooks muttered, just loud enough to reach his back, “Come back whole, Marchenne.”
He raised a hand in answer. Didn’t look back.
And the door creaked shut behind him.
CHINOKE DONBRE
Age: 22
Height: 6’1”
Rank: Thread
Role: Tank
SLIVER Type:( I ) - Ignis
Catalyst Name: Kolòn Dèyè
Codename: Graveweight
Weapon of Choice: Double-ended Hook-Hammer
Known For: Saying little. Standing last. Breaking what won’t bend.
Notes: Tank-built from bayou blood and bone. Carries family in every charm. Quiet faith, quiet fury. Moves like a levee—slow, until it breaks.
His grandmother knelt by the hearth, hands trembling over a bowl of water gone still. Lips moved in a whisper—half chant, half plea—as the smoke from her prayer bundle twisted upward like a spirit trying to rise.
“Spirits of mud and storm, of riverbone and sky… keep my boy safe.”
Chinoke sat at the table behind her, too large for the crooked chair, arms resting heavy on his thighs. Sweat clung to his neck. Bloodshot eyes drifted past the warped glass, seeing nothing.
“You’ll walk with the gods,” she said again, voice hoarse. “They’ll follow your step. They’ll carry your weight when it gets too heavy. They will, baby.”
“Yeah.” The word came flat, barely more than breath. “Sure.”
She turned then, just enough for him to see the sheen in her eyes. “You keep the charm close. You keep your head down, and you don’t be brave. You hear me? Don’t be brave. Be safe.”
He nodded once. Slowly. Like moving through sand. “Ain’t lookin’ to be brave.”
A pause. Then she pressed a hand against his chest, just above the ribs, where the first bead he ever wore sat tied into his undershirt lacing. “Then you come back,” she said. “Don’t leave me here talkin’ to ghosts.”
Chinoke didn’t answer. Just stood, kissed her forehead without a word, and turned to go.
The latch clicked behind him—a sound too soft for what it meant.
YSANNE BELLEROSE
Age: 14
Height: 5’1”
Rank: Hollow
Role: Support
SLIVER Type: ( R ) Resonant
Catalyst Name: Threadkin
Codename: Patchling
Weapon of Choice: Scrap-forged ward dolls, improvised tools, charm-loaded belt
Known For: Seeing what others miss. Surviving what others don’t.
Notes: Youngest in the group. Hides her power behind salvaged trinkets and stitched-up hope. Her defenses aren’t perfect—but they hold when it counts.
Pots clanked. A spoon scraped. Too much noise for a goodbye. The floor held a scatter of shoes, books, half-mended clothes. Life, frozen in mid-motion.
Ysanne knelt before her younger brothers, fingers brushing crumbs from their hair, her smile stretched tight beneath the weight in her chest. A single mother—their neighbor, more auntie than stranger—stood at the doorway with arms crossed, eyes rimmed with quiet knowing.
“You’ll watch them?”
“You know I will,” the woman replied. “Just like I promised your mama.”
Ysanne gave a tight nod, then turned back to the boys.
“Be good. No fighting. And if you’re hungry—”
“We know,” the older one said, too quickly.
But the youngest lingered, face starting to tremble. His lip quivered, voice a whisper barely brave enough to ask,
“Do you have to go?”
Her breath caught—just for a second. Then she placed her hands on his shoulders, steady and sure.
“I do,” she said gently. “But I’ll come back. You hold it down for me ‘til then, yeah?”
He nodded, tears slipping free even as he clenched his jaw. She pulled him into a hug so tight it blocked out the rest of the world.
The door didn’t slam when she left. But it didn’t need to.
The silence she carried out with her said enough.
TALITHE DELMOIRE
Age: 40
Height: 6’1”
Rank: Thread
Role: Strategist / Midline Anchor
SLIVER Type: ( I ) Ignis
Catalyst Name: Burden Wake
Codename: Lèvè
Weapon of Choice: Broad machete-style sword, sidearm knife, concealed palm blade
Known For: Holding the line when others fall. Making the hard calls no one else will.
Notes: Final moral pillar of the Greyblade Guild. Respected by all, trusted by few. Walks like the levee—built to hold until there’s nothing left to save.
The morning clung to stillness. Not silence—just stillness, like the air itself was holding its breath.
Talithe sat alone on the edge of a broken bench tucked beneath a rusted prayer arch near the south wall. No shrine left, no names etched. Just a stone basin where water used to collect, now dry and filled with brittle leaves. One hand rested in her lap, the other turning something small over in her fingers—light catching on its worn edges.
A charm. No bigger than a coin. Bone carved into the shape of a swallow mid-flight, wings outstretched. One wing chipped. The cord nearly rotted through. It looked like something a child might’ve carved, or clutched. She held it with care, but not reverence. Just… memory.
A faint breeze stirred. Prayer slips flapped above like tired lungs, worn paper muttering to gods long deaf.
Her gaze stayed fixed on the little charm.
They’d been in one of the early zones. She never told the others. Didn’t need to. You could see it in the way she scanned a room before speaking. The way she carried weight in her shoulders like she’d long stopped waiting for someone to help her set it down.
The Broken Hour hadn’t torn her home apart.
It had taken the whole damn sky.
She rubbed the charm between finger and thumb once more, then tucked it inside her coat, near the heart. Close enough to count.
Her boots hit stone. Steady rise. Another breath.
Time to move.
“Won’t lose another,” barely a whisper.
South Gate — An Hour Later
Their rhythm found the stone—leather creaked, metal clinked. Sun painted the courtyard pale. Shadows stretched from overhangs. Banners hung limp.
Swamp air hit their faces. Notices peeled from rotting timbers. South gate loomed—hinges rusted, beams blackened by rain and rot. Beyond, the marshes shimmered like a restless sea of green and gray.
Talithe stood alone, leaning against the gate post, one boot braced high against the stone ledge, arms folded beneath her coat. Morning sun caught the edge of a charm tucked into her collar—faded string, a carved tooth smoothed by years of finger passes. She didn’t touch it. Just let it rest there, hidden in the crook of her throat.
Lucien arrived quiet.
No click of heels. Just coat dragging mud and that familiar weight of someone who never truly left the battlefield behind.
“You always show early,” she muttered without looking.
He paused beside her, kept one pace of space between them. “Early means less mess. Fewer witnesses.”
Her brow twitched. “That why you volunteered t’oversee this one?”
Lucien didn’t answer. Instead, his gaze found the crooked branches beyond the wall, where fog pulled between trees like old gauze. “The Council doesn’t assign anymore. They hint. I follow.”
“And they hinted this one was worth watchin’?”
“They hinted it was worth burying. I chose to watch.”
Talithe snorted, just once. “Same old dance, then.”
A silence settled. Not sharp. Not angry. Just tired. Familiar.
Her fingers tapped once at her side. “You still keep that knife in your boot?”
“Replaced the handle. Got soft in the rain.”
“Shame,” she said. “That handle used to be sharp enough to keep you honest.”
He looked at her then, truly looked—creased lines and storm-beaten calm. “You ever wonder what would’ve happened if we’d walked away?”
Talithe didn’t flinch. “Every damn day.”
Wordless, he unwrapped the bundle—revealing a flare tube: tarnished brass, no trigger, no powder trail. Just vein-like ridges etched into the casing, like heat lines frozen mid-burn.
“Signal device,” he murmured. “Prototype. Modeled after an old Pre-Fall flare rig. Doesn’t use powder—draws from Catalyst flow.”
Talithe eyed it, one brow raised. “Then how’s it fire?”
“Catalyst-charged.” He turned it in his palm, careful. “Needs a direct flow. Will take a moment. Pulls from the user—essence, stamina, both. Not intuitive.”
She didn’t reach for it. “That mean I can’t fire it?”
“Only once.”
Talithe turned it over in her hand—slow, measuring weight and design. Her thumb traced the etchings, pausing at a faint indentation where the old energy lines converged. For a moment, the device hummed faintly—warmth coiling through her wrist. Then it faded.
“What a gamble.” she muttered.
Lucien nodded once. “The light won’t travel far. But it’ll be seen. By me.”
Her gaze cut toward him. “And if it doesn’t light?”
He met her eyes, even. “Then I was too late anyway.”
“The Council raised bounty clearance three hours past. From Level Two emergency to provisional Level Three. Two prior teams lost. No bodies. No data. No noise.”
“And they still think throwin’ bodies at it’ll plug the hole?”
“Not until intel improves. Hence the composition—volunteers and conscripts. Half-chaos. Half-hope.”
She glanced toward the others in the courtyard. “Always was better at wranglin’ chaos than writin’ plans.” Talithe’s eyes narrowed.
“Showtime,” she muttered, and pushed off the gate with a grunt. Her hand brushed the charm at her collar—just once—before falling back into the silence.
The others had already gathered.
Remi’s fingers played the whipblade like a memory—flick, arc, coil—bone links whispering with each shift.
The whipblade coiled home—bone and hide folding to familiar grip. Amber eyes scanned the horizon like he was already mapping exits.
Chinoke crouched beside a crate, adjusting the hook-hammer strapped to his back with slow, methodical hands.
Yasanne sat near, fingers sorting with the quiet focus of someone clinging to what little she could control.
Talithe leaned back, shadow stretching long across stone. The duo approached, Ayola gave the group a once-over. “Looks like they’re ready,” she murmured.
Soren sighed. “Ready enough.”
The post creaked as weight left it. A touch here. A word there. No orders needed. Her hand ruffled near Remi’s head. He ducked. “Hey—watch the ‘do!” She crouched beside Yasanne, hand steady on her shoulder. Words too soft to catch—but Yasanne’s chin lifted.
Remi clicked the whipblade home. His sigh? Pure theater. “Let’s roll before the swamp grows teeth.”
“Or ours,” Chinoke rumbled, voice like floodwater rollin’ low.
The gate groaned open on old hinges. Sunlight struck the standing water beyond, casting molten gold across the path. Heat slammed into them. Thick. Wet
Shoulders flexed. Old aches stirred beneath layered gear and grit. “Guess this is it.”
Citrine eyes stayed forward, focused. “Let’s make it count.”
They crossed the threshold. Soles hit mud-worn stone. The gate thudded shut—low, final, full of things unsaid. The swamp answered—shade, heat, the hush-hiss of unseen watchers. Behind them, the guild vanished like breath in fog.
SLIVER
An Unofficial Classification of Catalyst Manifestations
As collected by field mercs, archivists, and the desperate.
A Note on SLIVER
If Tracing marks your rank—how far you’ve walked and what weight you’re trusted to carry—
then SLIVER is the shape your power takes. The nature behind the Catalyst that chose you.
It doesn’t measure strength. Not exactly. It names what flows through you. What it hungers for. What it breaks.
Some think of it like a language your soul starts to speak once the bond takes hold. Others say it’s instinct—pure, primal, dangerous if misunderstood.
What matters is this: SLIVER is how your Catalyst manifests. What you do with it? That’s on you.
You don’t rise through it. You live with it. Or you don’t.
SOLIS (S) – Elemental Forces
“To command nature is to wield the oldest power of all.”
Core Concept: Control over the fundamental forces of the natural world.
Themes & Abilities:
- Manipulation of fire, water, earth, & air
- Environmental awareness—some sens e elemental shifts or predict changes.
- Advanced users shape terrain, create barriers, or restore natural balance.
Strengths:
- Destructive force and environmental dominance.
- Defensive and offensive adaptability.
- Strong utility in diverse conditions.
General Weaknesses:
- High energy demands.
- Can be countered by opposing elements.
LUCID (L) – Perception & Mind
“Reality bends in the hands of those who dare to reshape it.”
Core Concept: Manipulation of perception, consciousness, and sensory experience.
Themes & Abilities:
- Illusions, hallucinations, dreamcasting.
- Foresight, hyperawareness, sensory expansion.
- Altered time perception.
- Invisibility and presence-masking.
Strengths:
- Tactical superiority without lethal force.
- Excellent for recon and infiltration.
- Bypasses physical defenses.
General Weaknesses:
- Minimal direct damage.
- Can backfire—user may lose grip on reality with overuse.
IGNIS (I) – Life & Augmentation
“The body is a temple—but a temple can be reforged.”
Core Concept: Enhancing the body through internalized Essolis.
Themes & Abilities:
- Superhuman strength, speed, regeneration, and endurance.
- Adaptive transformation (armored skin, beast traits, rapid healing).
- Biological reconfiguration—evolutionary leaps mid-combat.
Strengths:
- Physically overwhelming in close quarters.
- Resilient and hard to kill.
- Doesn’t rely on environment or gear.
General Weaknesses:
- No ranged or elemental capabilities.
- Body condition directly impacts performance.
VASTOR (V) – Spatial & Dimensional
“Distance and gravity are mere suggestions.”
Core Concept: Manipulation of space, gravity, and movement.
Themes & Abilities:
- Teleportation, levitation, etc.
- Gravity shift, density control, weight manipulation.
- Spatial folding, reality tears, pocket dimensions.
Strengths:
- Unmatched mobility and battlefield control.
- Escape, reposition, and manipulate terrain.
- Nullifies traditional movement constraints.
General Weaknesses:
- Difficult to master—mistakes can be fatal.
- Precision and timing are critical for success.
EXOR (E) – Energy & Force
“Everything is energy. Control it, and you control all.”
Core Concept: Absorbing, redirecting, and projecting force or energy.
Themes & Abilities:
- Kinetic redirection, impact absorption.
- Vibration, sound, or shockwave attacks.
- Electricity, plasma, energy constructs.
- Defensive energy fields.
Strengths:
- Highly versatile in any combat range.
- Counters other SLIVER types by draining or redirecting energy.
- Can amplify physical combat styles.
General Weaknesses:
- High stamina drain.
- Vulnerable to rapid or overwhelming multi-source attacks.
RESONANT (R) – Entropy & Absorption
“To decay is to return to nothing. And nothing is absolute”
Core Concept: Negation, decay, and the consumption of matter or energy.
Themes & Abilities:
- Rot, disintegration, and erosion of physical or magical matter.
- Null fields—zones of anti-energy that erase effects.
- Energy feeding—consumes and converts opposing abilities.
- Black void constructs, silence fields, entropy halos.
Strengths:
- Counters nearly all types when properly applied.
- Capable of disabling powers, weapons, or armor.
- Feared for its ability to erase and unravel.
General Weaknesses:
- Difficult to master—may harm user if control lapses.
- Social stigma—often seen as unnatural or taboo.
NOTES ON SLIVER CLASSIFICATION
- The SLIVER system is unofficial, built from years of incomplete guild records, battlefield experience, and survivor reports.
- Not all Catalysts fit cleanly into a category. Some blend types. Others are entirely unique.
- Weaknesses listed above are general trends, not rules. Every user has their own limitations, shaped by biology, training, and will.
- SLIVER is as much superstition as science—but in a world like this, that’s more than enough to get you killed or saved.
Power always comes with a cost.