The hall was cold. Stone ribs arched high into blue shadow. The walls, lit by biolume sconces shaped like glassy fungi, flickered with something alive beneath the surface, circuits older than language, twitching like nerves under skin.
Selivar glided ahead of me, a wisp in his frayed grey rags, eyes alight like fevered coals. He moved with that eerie slowness that made you think he might float. Around us, robed followers kept their distance, some chanting under breath, others watching in silence. Their expressions were blank, but not passive, like the calm of knives lying in velvet.
The ring-table surfaced from the gloom. Low, wide, metallic, and old enough to hum in dead languages. A band of etched glyphs circled its outer rim, glowing faintly with that soft, wrong-colored light I’d come to associate with Elder work. Beyond it, the floor was smooth, black stone polished by centuries of sandals and knees.
And then it hit me. Not a light, not even a sound. Geometry.
Something vast etched itself across my mind in ghostlight, like an afterimage behind my eyelids. A domed city, perfectly circular, with radial lines like a spider's web or a clock without numbers. Buildings that looked like bones grown into towers. Streets that spiraled in fever dreams. It burned into me and then vanished like fog.
I must’ve staggered, because Selivar had turned back, one foot just above the next step, his robe frozen mid-sway.
“Does the Ashwarden falter?” he asked. His voice was slow and golden, like honey being poured from a centuries-old urn.
I blinked, heart still hammering against my ribs.
“I… saw something,” I managed. “A city. Domed. Carved in ghostlight. Like it was drawn behind my eyes and then… gone.”
Selivar’s lips twitched. Eyes narrowed like he was hearing more than I said.
“A vision carved in ghostlight,” he echoed, reverent now. “Spirits of stone and signal may yet stir beneath us. But let us not discuss on empty bellies.”
He gestured toward the round table with both hands. “Come. The circle waits.”
I stepped forward, still expecting the image to flash back at any moment. It didn’t. But something in me itched, like the shape was still burned behind the world, not just my vision.
Arvie finally stirred in my head, voice low, lazy, and gleefully wrong.
“Mmm. Psychic bleed or a cross-temporal resonance leak. Either way, your brain’s pulling down pirated content from a library it shouldn’t even know exists. I approve.”
I didn’t answer. I had no idea what to say to that.
The rest of the crew was already seated. Aedan nodded as I took the spot beside him, reading my face like a cipher. Across from me, Vex sat arms-folded, eyes scanning the alien carvings on the table as if memorizing their syntax. Fira lounged sideways with one leg hooked under the bench, clearly uncomfortable with the ceremony.
Above us, part of the ceiling irised open with a soft hiss. Lifts drifted down like stage cues, each carrying robed acolytes in synchronized grace, cradling ceramic dishes and brass kettles. No trays, no servos, just humans in ritual flow. They moved like a living ballet, placing food with soft grace, then vanishing back into the ceiling.
And the smell hit like a freight cart.
Ash-bitter grilled fungi. Spiced roots buried in some kind of pungent green paste. Flatbread folded over something that tasted like citrus had made love to a meat I didn’t want to identify. Modest dishes, sure, but everything smelled illegal in the best way.
No one spoke until the third bite.
Then Selivar leaned forward, fingers tented, voice velvet-wrapped steel.
“Speak, Ashwarden. What shape had the city beneath your mind? What tremor stirred your memory?”
I chewed slow. Every word felt like it needed approval from the thing that had scorched itself into me.
“It looked… planned,” I said. “Old. Not ruined. Radial streets, all perfect like a clock laid flat. The kind of symmetry you don’t get by accident. If it’s a memory, I don’t know if it’s mine or not.”
Selivar’s smile held a flicker of something ancient. “Memory and prophecy often dress in the same cloak,” he said. “And when they whisper, it is not for our comfort. It is for our transformation.”
Vex scoffed. “Yeah? You planning to infiltrate a gang with spatial poetry?”
Fira snorted into her drink, wiping her mouth with the back of a gloved hand. “Jax don’t give half a damn ‘bout ghost cities. But he sure as hell won’t see us comin’ if I time the hit right. He's got routines. I know when his crew’s loaded, when his eyes ain’t on the back door. We hit fast, we hit quiet. They’ll still be chew’n their stim-tabs when we’re halfway out.”
Aedan turned to her, quiet as always but voice edged with steel. “You think you can get close again without raising flags?”
Fira tilted her head, expression carved from street gravel and old bruises. “Long as I ain’t haulin’ prophecy-boy and his doom choir? Yeah. They still think I’m one of ‘em. And Jax ain’t the type to sniff trouble until it’s already stabbin’ him in the ribs.”
Selivar inclined his head in solemn approval. “Then the veil of shadow shall be your mantle. Seek the traitor’s scent, and may the Ashwarden’s fire strike swift and unseen.”
Fira gave him a small nod, respectful, if crooked. “Ain’t poetry, but yeah. I’ll ping you when I’ve got a hole to punch through.”
Arvie oozed into my skull like a smirk made of static.
“Old-school heroes got spirit guides and flaming swords. You’ve got a doomsday preacher, gang politics, and me. I’m the emotional support snark.”
I took another bite and tried to focus. The taste was unreal. The plan… less so.
But beneath it all, the shape still lingered. Like a whisper behind the world. Waiting.
We talked a little more, routes, contact codes, fallback signals. Vex threw in a few comm-scrambler ideas. Aedan laid out timing contingencies like puzzle pieces. I mostly listened, letting the food and tension soak through me in equal measure.
Eventually, Fira stood. “Better I don’t linger. You want me in, I go now.”
A nod from Aedan. “Be careful.”
“Always am,” she said, then smirked. “Just not careful for you.”
And with that, she was gone.
Selivar rose too. “Rest, Ashwarden. The temple guards your breath and your dreams alike.”
He led us past a rusted curtain of chain-beads and down a short corridor etched with faded murals, scenes of robed figures kneeling before a burning throne, a domed city floating over black water, a child with hollow eyes cupping a star.
At the far end was a chamber, a suite, I guessed, if you stretched the definition. A central room with a stone bench and faded rug, and three carved-out alcoves just wide enough for a cot, a folded robe, and your doubts. Every surface was the same cold stone, but time had softened the corners, and someone had hung bits of cloth, woven signs, little charms made of bone and wire.
In the hallway beyond, a handful of children ran laughing past a torch-lit arch. One of them stopped, gawked at me like I was a ghost, then scampered after the rest.
Aedan waited until Selivar left, then slumped into the bench. “Hell of a detour.”
Vex tossed a cushion against the wall and flopped down. “Hell of a promotion. You’re true royalty now.”
“Don’t remind me,” I muttered, rubbing my temple.
Arvie’s voice coiled in smooth.
“Fate’s got fingers, prince. Long, cold ones. And I think one of them’s up your spine.”
“Fitting,” I said aloud. “Considering we’re about to walk into the jaws of a gang war and pull out the Directorate leader like it’s a bar fight.”
Aedan nodded. “Still think it’s worth the risk.”
Vex rolled her eyes. “And if it’s not?”
He didn’t answer.
We drifted into silence. One by one, we peeled off into our chambers. My room was no bigger than a supply closet, but the cot was clean and the shadows felt… tired, not malicious.
I touched the wall. Faint warmth pulsed under my fingers, like a heartbeat deep inside the stone, remembering things long after people had stopped.
And maybe it remembered me too, the way I remembered the city, burned into my mind, etched in the ghostlight.14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡIqx1vIuUQx
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