Chapter 3: Chains of the Abyss

The streets of Kaeltria had never been quiet, not truly. Even in the dead of night, the hiss of steam vents and the distant rumble of factories created a constant mechanical rhythm. But tonight, the city felt different. The usual hum was warped, distorted, like a symphony out of tune.

Eryas stalked through the alleyways, his revolver holstered but his hand twitching near its grip. The events of the Vault played in his mind like a broken reel, each memory sharper than the last. The mask, the tendrils, Karn's lifeless eyes—everything had changed.

He glanced down at his hands. The veins beneath his skin still pulsed faintly, an unnatural hue that seemed to move of its own accord. His reflection in a puddle showed something worse: his irises now glowed faintly, like smouldering embers.

The whispers in his mind hadn't stopped since he'd left the Vault. They spoke in fragmented sentences, sometimes intelligible, often not. Promises of power. Warnings of betrayal. And always, always, the laughter.

He clenched his fists, willing them to be silent, but the voices only grew louder.

An Unwanted Visitor

Eryas reached his hideout, an abandoned workshop on the outskirts of the city. The place was falling apart, its walls stained with rust and soot. It was far enough from The Hierarchy's patrol routes to go unnoticed, but tonight, it felt like a cage.

He pushed through the creaking door and collapsed into a chair, his head in his hands. For a moment, the only sound was his ragged breathing.

"You can't run from it, you know."

Eryas froze. The voice wasn't in his head this time. It came from the corner of the room.

He drew his revolver and spun toward the sound, but there was nothing there—only shadows.

"Who's there?" he demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

The shadows shifted, coalescing into a vaguely humanoid shape. It stepped forward, its form flickering like static. Its face was obscured, but its eyes—two pinpricks of light in the darkness—bored into him.

"Don't bother with the gun," it said. "You couldn't kill me if you tried."

Eryas didn't lower the weapon. "What are you?"

"A friend. Or an enemy. Depends on how you play this." The shadow's voice was calm, almost amused. "You've touched something you don't understand, Eryas Draegon. And now you're caught in its web."

"The mask?"

The shadow tilted its head. "The mask was just a door. A key. You've opened it, and now the Veil is thinner than ever. The Hierarchy will come for you, and so will worse things."

Eryas narrowed his eyes. "If you're here to warn me, you're wasting your time. I'll deal with whatever comes."

The shadow chuckled. "Oh, you'll deal with it, all right. But the question is: will you survive it?"

Before Eryas could respond, the shadow dissolved into nothing, leaving him alone once more.

The Hunt Begins

Hours later, Eryas was jolted awake by the sound of approaching footsteps. He hadn't meant to fall asleep, but exhaustion had overtaken him.

He rose quickly, drawing his revolver. The whispers in his mind were louder now, urging him to flee—or to fight.

The door burst open, and three figures entered. They weren't Wardens. These men were clad in patchwork armour, their faces obscured by crude masks. Scavengers, the dregs of Kaeltria, always hungry for blood or coin.

"Eryas Draegon," one of them said, his voice muffled. "The Hierarchy's got a price on your head, and we're here to collect."

Eryas smirked, though his heart raced. "Brave of you to come here. Stupid, but brave."

The leader raised a makeshift rifle. "Hand over your weapon and come quietly, or we'll drag your corpse out instead."

Eryas didn't reply. Instead, he reached for the shadows.

The tendrils came instinctively this time, bursting from his outstretched hand. They moved like living things, striking faster than the scavengers could react. One was impaled through the chest, another thrown against the wall with bone-crushing force.

The leader fired his rifle, but the bullet veered off course, striking the wall. Eryas moved before the man could reload, closing the distance in an instant. He grabbed the scavenger by the throat, lifting him off the ground.

"What's the Hierarchy offering for me?" Eryas growled, his voice darker than it had ever been.

The man struggled, his eyes wide with terror. "F-fifty marks! Dead or alive!"

Eryas's grip tightened. The whispers urged him to kill, to feed the growing void within him. But something held him back—a flicker of the man he used to be.

He released the scavenger, who collapsed to the floor, gasping for air.

"Tell the Hierarchy," Eryas said, his voice cold, "that I'm coming for them."

The man scrambled to his feet and fled, leaving his dead comrades behind.

The Abyss Beckons

Alone again, Eryas sank into the chair, his hands trembling. The whispers had quieted, but they were still there, lurking beneath the surface.

He looked down at his hands, now stained with blood—both human and not. The tendrils had receded, but he could feel them, coiled and waiting.

"You're stronger now," the voice of the mask said in his mind. "But strength comes with a price."

"What price?" Eryas asked aloud, his voice barely a whisper.

The answer was laughter, cold and unending.

Eryas leaned back, staring at the ceiling. He had no illusions about what he was becoming, but the path ahead was clear. The Hierarchy wanted him dead, and the eldritch forces that had marked him had their own plans.

He didn't care. He would burn them all—the tyrants above and the gods below.

And when the ashes settled, perhaps he'd find peace.

But for now, there was only the hunt.