Forged By Falcrest

Atlas crept through the study, his socked feet barely making a sound on the polished wooden floor. The warmth of the room wrapped around him, almost enough to make him forget the cold outside. Almost. He glanced back at the window he'd come through, reassuring himself it was still an escape route if things went south.

Steeling his nerves, he moved to the door, easing it open. The hallway beyond was dimly lit, with small mana lights. He stepped out, keeping close to the wall as he listened for any signs of movement. The house was mostly silent, save for the faint crackle of fire burning in distant rooms.

Atlas pressed on, his breath steady but shallow. Every creak of the floorboards beneath him felt like a thunderclap in the stillness. He passed a doorway to his right and peered in. A dining room, empty. He kept moving.

The next door was slightly ajar, and light spilled out into the hallway. He hesitated for a moment, then pushed it open just enough to see inside.

A boy, about his age, was lying on a large bed with thick blankets pulled up to his chest. His breathing was slow and steady—he was asleep. The room was everything Atlas had imagined a rich kid's life to be. The bed was massive, the kind you could roll over on ten times and still not fall off. A plush rug covered most of the floor, and shelves lined the walls, filled with books and trinkets that gleamed in the firelight.

Atlas's eyes scanned the room, looking for his target. There, hanging on the back of a chair near the fireplace, was the jacket. It was even nicer up close—a deep green with fur lining the collar and cuffs. It looked warm, too warm for someone who probably never had to feel the kind of cold Atlas did.

He glanced back at the boy, who shifted slightly in his sleep but didn't wake. Atlas crept inside, moving as silently as possible. His fingers brushed the jacket, and he carefully lifted it off the chair. It was heavier than he expected, the kind of weight that screamed luxury.

But then his eyes landed on another jacket, draped over the corner of the bedframe. It was smaller, not as nice as the one he'd already grabbed, but still leagues better than anything Ren had. He hesitated for only a moment before reaching for it. Ren deserved something decent, too.

The smaller jacket slipped off the frame easily, but the moment he had it in his hands, the boy stirred. Atlas froze, holding his breath. The boy mumbled something unintelligible and rolled over, pulling the blankets tighter around himself.

Atlas let out a silent sigh of relief and crept back toward the door, both jackets bundled in his arms. He didn't bother looking back as he slipped out into the hallway, closing the door behind him as quietly as he could.

His heart was pounding now, the reality of what he was doing settling in. He didn't stop, though. He retraced his steps to the study, the window still slightly ajar where he'd left it.

Atlas had just turned toward the window when he froze. Footsteps echoed down the hallway, growing louder with each passing second. His stomach dropped. There wasn't enough time to climb out.

He darted toward the side of the room, his eyes landing on a tall wardrobe tucked into the corner. Without thinking, he slipped inside, pressing himself against the back panel. The space smelled faintly of polish and something dusty, like old fabric. It was cramped, and the jackets he'd grabbed were bunched awkwardly against his chest, but he didn't dare move.

The door to the study creaked open, and heavy boots thudded against the wooden floor. Through the narrow crack between the wardrobe doors, Atlas watched as a man strode into the room.

He was tall and broad, his shoulders practically filling the space. Dark hair streaked with gray fell just above a neatly trimmed beard that framed a sharp, angular face. His expression was hard, tired, as if he hadn't slept in days. His coat was simple yet impeccably tailored, and as he moved, the air around him seemed to shift—almost imperceptibly, like a ripple in water.

Atlas couldn't explain it, but he knew immediately, this man was Awakened. There was a weight to him, an invisible presence that pressed against Atlas's chest and made the space inside the wardrobe feel even smaller.

The man walked straight to the desk and sank heavily into the chair, leaning back with a deep sigh. For a moment, he just stared at the firelight flickering across the walls. Then he opened a drawer, pulled out a bottle of something amber-colored, and took a long swig.

Atlas didn't dare move, but his heart pounded painfully against his ribs. He didn't know what he was feeling—fear, maybe? Or awe? He just knew that this man wasn't like anyone he'd ever encountered before.

The man set the bottle down on the desk with a dull thud and rubbed his temples. He looked… distraught. Not angry or commanding like Atlas had expected.

Then the man's voice broke the silence, deep and steady but tinged with irritation. "Come out now. Stop wasting my time."

Atlas's breath hitched. He knows I'm here. His mind raced, panic gripping him. He could feel the jackets in his arms like they were made of lead, each one a reminder of what happened to thieves caught in Uppertown.

He was about to step out, to throw himself at the man's mercy, when a shadow shifted in the corner of the room.

Atlas froze again, his eyes darting toward the movement. From the darkness stepped a woman, her figure sharp and deliberate, like the edge of a blade.

She wore dark leather armor, reinforced with steel plating at the shoulders and forearms. A crimson scarf was wrapped loosely around her neck, the fabric catching the faint light from the fireplace. Her eyes, piercing and cold, locked onto the man at the desk with a calm intensity that made Atlas shiver.

Her dark hair was pulled back into a tight braid, and two short, curved daggers hung at her hips. Every movement she made was controlled, almost unnaturally so, like she was holding back some immense force. There was something dangerous about her, something far more terrifying than the man she'd just approached.

Atlas didn't know who she was, and he didn't want to.

The woman stepped closer, her movements fluid and predatory, like a cat toying with a trapped mouse. The man didn't stand, he stayed seated, his hands gripping the edge of the desk so tightly his knuckles turned white.

She stopped just behind him, her leather boots making almost no sound against the wooden floor. Slowly, she reached out and ran a hand along his shoulder, her touch light and deliberate. The man visibly shuddered, his whole body stiffening as if her presence alone had drained the warmth from the room.

"What's wrong, Darion?" she purred, her voice smooth but laced with venom. "You look like you've seen a ghost."

He didn't reply at first. His head was bowed slightly, his breathing shallow and uneven. When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper, thick with desperation.

"Please. Leave my family out of this."

Her lips curled into a smile—a cruel, mocking thing that sent a chill down Atlas's spine. She tilted her head, circling the man slowly, her fingers trailing over the back of his chair like she was savoring the moment.

"Your family?" she said softly, amusement dripping from her tone. "Oh, Darion. You should have thought about them before you decided to defy us."

Darion flinched but didn't lift his head. "I didn't have a choice. You were asking for too much—those cores… I couldn't—"

"You couldn't?" she interrupted, her voice suddenly sharp. She stopped in front of him now, leaning down so her face was level with his. "No, you wouldn't. And worse, you ran to that man." Her eyes narrowed, a flicker of something cold and deadly crossing her expression. "My boss doesn't like when people talk out of turn, Darion. You should've listened."

Darion's body sagged slightly, his strength draining out of him. "I'll do anything," he said hoarsely, his voice breaking. "Just… just leave them alone. I won't fight. Just let my family go."

Her laughter cut through the room like a blade, light and cruel. "Oh, Darion. They're already dead."

The words hit like a thunderclap. Darion went stock still, the air around him seeming to shift and pulse with an almost tangible energy. The faint shimmer that Atlas had noticed earlier now flared into something far more intense, the temperature in the room rising sharply.

"You're lying," Darion whispered, his voice low and trembling.

Her smirk widened, and she straightened, taking a slow step back. "Am I? Check for yourself."

For a moment, the room was silent, the air charged with something raw and furious. Then, in an instant, Darion erupted. His hands slammed down onto the desk, and flames burst to life around them, licking hungrily at the polished wood.

The air seemed to come alive with heat and power, the firelight casting long, twisting shadows across the walls.

"You'll pay for this!" Darion roared, and with a violent motion, he threw his hands forward. A massive fireball surged across the room, its heat so intense that Atlas felt it even through the crack in the wardrobe door.

Atlas pressed himself further into the back of the wardrobe, his breath shallow and rapid. His heart hammered in his chest, and for a moment, he wondered if they could hear it over the roaring flames. He had imagined power as something awe-inspiring, something amazing. But this? This wasn't what he'd imagined at all.

This was terrifying.

The fireball tore across the room like a living beast, engulfing everything in its path. Atlas couldn't help the small yelp that escaped his throat as the wardrobe grew hotter, the flames licking just outside its doors.

Through the crack, he saw the woman, standing motionless as the fire roared toward her. At the last possible second, she lifted one of her curved blades and swung it in a wide, fluid arc. The fire split apart, rushing to either side of her, the heat scorching the walls but leaving her untouched.

Atlas gawked in disbelief. The air around her shimmered as water coiled down her arms, twisting unnaturally like snakes. The liquid solidified, taking on her form until another version of her stood at her side, armed and deadly, both blades gleaming in the firelight.

"You made a mistake," the woman said, her voice calm but sharp as a dagger. Then she moved.

Darion bellowed in rage, the flames around him intensifying, casting his silhouette into a monstrous, fiery form. He thrust his arms forward, and another blast of fire shot out, searing the air. Atlas could feel the heat even as he cowered inside the wardrobe, his sweat mixing with the blood on his scraped arms.

The two women moved as one. The original darted to the side, her movements unnaturally fast, while the duplicate surged forward, meeting the fire head-on. The fire struck the water figure, and steam exploded in all directions, hissing and clouding the room.

Atlas choked as the room filled with scalding mist. His lungs burned, and his vision blurred, but through the haze, he saw the original woman reappear behind Darion. Her blade flashed, aiming for his neck.

Darion spun, his hand blazing as he formed a fiery shield just in time to block the strike. The clash of blade and flame sent sparks flying, igniting the desk and bookshelves. The study was becoming a warzone.

'I need to get out of here.'

The thought screamed through Atlas's mind, but his body wouldn't move. He was frozen, his back pressed against the wardrobe, his instincts at war with his will. Then he thought of Ren. Where was he? Was he still outside? Did he know what was happening?

A deafening crash jolted Atlas back to reality. Darion had slammed his fist into the ground, and fiery cracks spiderwebbed across the floor. The flames erupted upward, devouring everything in their path. The ceiling groaned as beams began to fall, sending ash and embers scattering like stars.

Atlas scrambled out of the wardrobe, coughing as smoke filled his lungs. He had to get out of here. The room was chaos—flames licking the walls, the air thick with ash, and the sounds of clashing steel and roaring fire drowning out his thoughts.

"Ren!" Atlas croaked, his voice barely audible over the destruction.

He stumbled forward, his legs shaking beneath him. The woman spared him a glance and he swears he saw her smirk.

Her and her water double were relentless, their movements precise and deadly. One blade struck high, the other low, forcing Darion back with every swing. He retaliated with blasts of fire and bursts of heat so intense they warped the very air, but the woman seemed untouchable. Every attack he launched was deflected or dodged, her duplicate taking the brunt of the hits as she circled him like a predator.

Atlas ducked as a piece of the ceiling crashed down beside him, splintering into shards that nicked his arms and legs. He winced, the pain was sharp and immediate, as his flesh began to burn but he pushed forward, crawling over debris and broken furniture.

"Ren!" he called. His voice cracked with desperation.

A sudden explosion shook the house, and Atlas was thrown off his feet, landing hard on the splintered remains of a table. His head throbbed, and warm blood trickled down his temple. Through blurry eyes, he saw the woman standing over Darion, her blade raised high.

Darion was on his knees, blood dripping from his mouth, the fire around him sputtering and dying. He looked up at her, his face a mask of fury and defeat. The flames in his hands flickered one last time before extinguishing completely.

Atlas tried to turned away as the blade came down. But he was too late, both the woman's blades angled down and stabbed into either side of his neck. Blood sprayed out as she removed the daggers. He dropped to the floor, a pool of crimson slowly surrounding him.

The crash of the ceiling giving way roared through the house, and Atlas barely registered the burning wreckage around him as he crawled forward. His hands and knees scraped against jagged wood and hot embers, but he didn't care.

"Ren!" he shouted again, his throat raw.

Finally, he saw a small figure buried beneath debris near the far wall. Ren's jacket was torn and bloodied, his face pale and motionless.

Atlas's breath hitched. "No, no, no," he muttered, dragging himself toward the boy. His arms trembled as he began pulling debris away, ignoring the blood dripping from his own hands and the searing pain in his ribs.

"Ren, come on," Atlas whispered, his voice breaking. "Wake up."

Smoke filled his lungs, the heat unbearable, but he didn't stop. He couldn't stop.

Searing heat raced up his legs as he felt his foot be pinned to the burning wooden floor.

He turned around in shock, only to see a dagger sticking out of his leg and going into the floorboard.

The woman was standing above him, her smile most would think was pretty, Atlas only saw as the devil.

"Enjoy the show?" She purred.