Chapter 21 Threads of Fire and Starlight

Lila

The plaza was still humming, not with magic, but with people. With awe. With disbelief. With the overwhelming weight of something too vast for them to comprehend.

I stood at the edge of the cracked fountain, my hands locked tightly on the cold, splintered rim. My breath was shallow, each inhale a sharp effort. My arms ached from the sheer tension of watching. My throat burned with unspoken fear.

Zane was gone.

I hadn’t seen exactly where they took him. One minute he was standing in the center of the square—silver-eyed, battered, bleeding, but standing as a beacon of defiance against chaos. The next, he collapsed, vanishing beneath a sea of medics, buzzing drones, and flashing command glyphs.

Now the crowd around me felt different. They weren’t scared anymore. They were reverent, their faces upturned towards the wreckage, whispering like acolytes.

“Lila,” Jordan whispered again, his voice thin with awe, pulling me from my daze. “Do you get it? That was a Death Knight. A real one. Not a diluted spawn. Full armor. Fully formed, completely developed with Death-aspected mana.”

I offered no immediate answer, my gaze sweeping the still-smoking stone.

“He shouldn’t have been hurtable,” Jordan went on, his voice almost rapturous, a fanboy completely overwhelmed by the impossible. “Zane didn’t use divine-class mana. Or Swordmaster-level intent. Or hyperforged flame-tech. He shouldn’t have been able to touch it.”

I closed my eyes, the image of Zane’s bloodied figure searing behind my eyelids. “I know, Jordan.”

“He did it with sword and technique and what was that energy?” Jordan hesitated, searching for the words, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Dude… our brother is awesome.”

I let the name settle in my chest like a heavy, cold weight. I was still trying to believe it too, the sheer impossibility of what I had witnessed.

And then I saw her.

A woman stood near the triage line—still, composed, and utterly magnetic in her presence. She didn’t look like a healer; her dress was too fancy. Certainly not a soldier; she was too made up.

Honestly, she seemed completely out of place.

Her hair was a deep, almost ink-like violet—so dark it looked black until the harsh flare of a runelight caught it, revealing startling streaks of amethyst. It was pulled back into a high, severe ponytail that added to her formidable aura. Her face was elegant, her features sharp, framed by violet eyes so bright and cold they didn’t look real, like polished jewels.

She wore a tactical bodysuit like it was a second skin. It was ink-dark, arcane-threaded, stitched with mana filaments that ran like faint lightning across her skin, clinging to her form in ways that made people stare—and then quickly look away.

Middle height and build, but with long, lean muscle that was hard without looking masculine. She stood like a threat that hadn’t chosen a target yet, radiating a potent, controlled power. Her long coat, half-unzipped, revealed a holstered mana pistol and rune-plated armor beneath. Every inch of her proclaimed: I do not need backup.

People moved around her as if she carried her own gravity, their trajectories subtly bending to give her space. The guards kept their distance. The officers deferred to her. The entire battlefield adjusted to her presence as if it instinctively knew she hadn’t come to ask for permission.

Jordan finally noticed her too, his fanboy energy momentarily subdued by her overwhelming aura. He leaned in, whispering like the words physically hurt to say too loud. “That’s Agent Sera Valen. Internal Rift Response. She is in charge of the BIG stuff.”

I didn’t respond. The knot in my stomach simply tightened further.

If my brother had not stepped in, it would have been her job to close that Rift and kill that monster.

My eyes drifted back to the center of the square, to the ring of scorched stone and the fresh crater my brother had left behind.

Someone had already sprayed a sigil across the broken flagstone in bold, stark lines: ZANE MYLES – THE EDGEWALKER.

Another vendor, already seizing the opportunity, was printing glowing charm-tags that read: DEATH KNIGHT SLAYER.

The world hadn’t just survived.

It was celebrating.

And my brother was becoming something that might not belong to them anymore.

“Hey,” Jordan said again, his voice softer this time, drawing my attention back. “He’s still Zane, Lila. Your older brother isn’t going anywhere. He is too stubborn for that.”

I looked at the melted edges of the plaza, the place where my brother had stood—and where something new, something more, had taken root, threatening to consume the boy I knew.

I swallowed, the taste of ozone and fear thick on my tongue.

“…I hope so.”

I had just started to breathe again when a voice cut across the plaza—low, polished, and unmistakably predatory.

“Excuse me. You look like you were close to the front. Would either of you mind answering a few questions on what you witnessed?”

I turned slowly.

The woman approaching was clearly a reporter. She stood like a spell mid-cast—poised, charged, and far too composed to be anything but media-trained. Her shimmering blue hair curled down in sculpted waves, catching the glint of every mana-light in the square. Her sleeveless press-weave suit clung tightly to a slim, athletic figure, the fabric laced with micro-engraved glyphs that whispered status without needing to shout.

Her floating rune-mic followed her like a loyal pet, its glow syncing rhythmically with her breath.

Syrina D’Vale.

I recognized her from broadcasts. Prime Channel. Infamous. Ambitious. Beautiful.

And dangerous. A different kind of dangerous from Sera Valen, but just as potent.

“Hi,” Syrina said, her voice a practiced melody, as smooth as polished ice. “Syrina D’Vale, live from the aftermath of the Verge Wild Rift Event. I am standing here with two witnesses who have agreed to talk to us. I know it’s been a chaotic hour, but you both look like you were here when it started. Would you mind sharing what you felt? What you saw?”

Jordan blinked like he’d just been hit with a spell of pure awe. “You’re—you’re Syrina D’Vale. Hi, I am Jordan. It’s an honor,” he stammered, his voice hushed with reverence. “I’ve seen every broadcast. The Leviathan breach. The Echofall Investigation. You did that three-part exposé on the Phantom Core cult—”

Syrina smiled. Just a little, a practiced curve of her lips. “I’m flattered.”

Then she turned the full focus of her attention on him, her eyes sharp and assessing. “Tell me, Jordan—what was it like, seeing the boy step forward to face a Death Knight alone?”

Jordan lit up, his eyes wide with excitement. “It was unreal,” he said. “He didn’t hesitate. But he is always like that. Trying to take on the world. He saw people in need, and that is how he rolls. Which was stupid, mind you. That thing should have killed him in two seconds flat. It was amazing that he won.”

Syrina’s smile widened, a calculating gleam in her eyes. “And what was going through your mind when he summoned the blade?”

Jordan opened his mouth—then stopped.

Just a blink of hesitation, but I saw it.

I saw him wilt. Saw the strength drain from his frame like a spell unraveling. His hand drifted to his head, clutching his temple.

“Jordan?” I said quietly, my alarm spiking.

“I—” he blinked rapidly, trying to clear his head. “Sorry. I think I just got dizzy. That’s all.”

Syrina’s expression shifted, not into concern, but sharp calculation. But she was too good to press. She simply pivoted.

She turned to me. “And you? You were walking just before the breach opened. Where were you headed when the sky cracked?”

I didn’t answer. My gaze remained fixed on Jordan, my mind racing.

Syrina stepped in—half a step closer, her smile softening like she was offering warmth, a practiced warmth that felt cold. “You saw him fight. We’re trying to understand who he is. Where he trained. No one has his name on record. No guild, no crest. Some are saying he is unfound, Unbound.”

Then, her voice dropped, a subtle, probing question. “Do you know him?”

Before I could speak, a voice behind them said it for me.

“She should,” said a girl. Copper braids. District prep crest. Wide-eyed, her words tumbling out. “That’s her brother.”

Syrina’s gaze sharpened, a predatory glint entering her eyes. Slowly, she turned to the girl who had spoken.

“Oh,” she said, the word soft and slow, filled with dawning realization. “Oh, that does change things.”

But she didn’t back off. Her gaze returned to us, her smile unwavering.

She turned to Jordan again. “And you, Jordan—his younger brother, then?”

He didn’t respond.

Because he was swaying again, a sickening wobble. The color had drained completely from his face, leaving it ashen. His wristband pulsed amber-red, a frantic, desperate beat. I saw it—

[Core Fluctuation. System Instability. Mana Field Sync Error. You need to get Jordan home.]

System Flu.

No.

Not now.

Not with the world still watching. Not with this vulture in heels and a mana mic hanging on every precious word.

I stepped between them, my body a shield. My hand went around Jordan’s shoulder, holding him steady. The other I raised, steady, a silent, absolute demand.

“No more questions.”

Syrina blinked.

Just once.

Her smile didn’t fade. But it froze, becoming a brittle mask.

“Of course,” she said, her voice losing its practiced warmth, turning cool. “Thank you both for your time. If you ever change your mind…”

She tapped her mic, a final, chilling gesture.

“…you know where to find me.”

Then she turned, her heels clicking against the broken stone, her voice already rising into her next take, reporting live from the scene.

I focused solely on my brother.

“Jordan?” I said again, quieter now, urgency a tight knot in my chest. “Talk to me.”

“I’m fine,” he whispered, his voice weak. “Just… tired. Think I pushed too hard.”

I held him tighter, pulling his weight against me. His weight had shifted. His steps were off. I could feel the tremor under his skin, the soft wheeze in his breath, the frantic pulse of his mana trying to stabilize.

He wasn’t fine.

He was breaking.

The System Flu had started again.

And no one else noticed.

Not the media. Not the medics. Not the crowd still whispering Zane’s name like it was holy writ.

Just me.

Just his sister.

I adjusted my grip, pulling Jordan’s arm further over my shoulder. The crowd parted—barely—still fixated on the hero’s stage.

Behind them, the square still echoed with cheers and flashing runes and playback footage.

Zane’s sword. Zane’s fight.

Zane, standing alone against the impossible.

But I didn’t look back.

Not once.