The ink was disgusting.It was a thick, viscous sludge that smelled of linseed oil and the acidic, metallic tang of Slimey’s distilled secretions.Kaelen Yunis stared at his hands, his long, aristocratic fingers stained a permanent, bruised black that reached up to his mid-forearms.No matter how much he scrubbed with the harsh lye soap, the shadow of the press remained, etched into his skin like a brand.‘Anatomy of a lie,’ he thought, his mind drifting even as sound of the iron rollers vibrated through his boots. ‘It’s funny. We spend our lives dressing up the truth in silk and perfume, but the truth is usually just a pile of bones in the mud. A lie, though... a lie needs maintenance. It needs ink. It needs blood to keep the pages turning.’"Kaelen. You're staring again."The voice was like the rasp of a whetstone against steel. Kaelen blinked, his spectacles slipping down his nose as he looked toward the archway.Pyralis Cinderfall was there, leaning against the damp granite, his s

Hunger was not a sharp pain.Seraph Ignis had once believed it was—the jagged, stinging bite of an empty stomach during a long march or a missed meal in the barracks.Pyralis Cinderfall was learning the truth.Real hunger was a heavy, rhythmic beat. It was a dull ache in the marrow of the bones, a slow-acting poison that turned the blood to lead and the thoughts to grey, drifting smoke.It had been four days since the granaries burned.Deep in the vaulted chill of the Old Siphon, the air felt thicker, as if the very atoms were becoming sluggish.Pyralis sat on the edge of the granite reservoir, his silver hair dull and tangled.He was staring at his metal hand.The enchanted joints whirred with a sound that felt deafening in the oppressive quiet of the cavern.Pyralis thought, his mind spinning in the slow, dizzying circles of the underfed. ‘Iron does not need to eat. Iron does not feel the atrophy of the mus

The hunger in the Common Lands was an innate, quiet, but the hunger inside Commander Erebus was visceral. It demanded to be fed.Deep within the requisitioned basement of a burnt-out cathedral in the Fourth Ward, the Dark Elf paced the perimeter of a ritual circle chalked onto the flagstones.His obsidian armour clicked softly against the stone, a metronome counting down to a disaster he was all too willing to unleash.The room was lit by black candles that burned with cold, inverted flames, casting long shadows that seemed to writhe independently of the light, while the air smelled thick with copper and the static charge of ozone."Report," Erebus commanded, his voice a melodic shiver that made the shadows deepen.A Second Knight lieutenant, his face hidden behind a featureless visor, stepped forward holding a silver tray with trembling hands.On it lay a single, bloody bandage—scavenged from the site where Elara had fought Vex days a

Thirst was louder than hunger.Hunger was a dull ache that you could sleep through, a slow erosion of the spirit.Thirst was a panic. It was a dry, scratching claw in the throat that woke you up screaming.It had been three days since Commander Erebus seized the Water Treatment Plant in Sector 4.The public wells in the Common Lands were dry. The rain cisterns were empty.People were drinking from the stagnant, polluted puddles in the gutters, and the sickness was spreading faster than the Shadows ever could.Pyralis Cinderfall stood on a rooftop overlooking the plant.It was a fortress of industrial brick and iron, surrounded by a moat of churning, filtered water that the people were forbidden to touch."They look thirsty," Elara whispered beside him.She was looking down at a crowd of civilians pressing against the Second Knight barricades, holding out empty buckets and cups.The Knights ignored them, standing like obsidian statues."They're dying," Pyralis corrected. His voice was

"So," Pyralis said, swirling a tin cup of what looked like pond scum but was apparently nutrient broth. "Good news… we're hydrated. Bad news… we're all going to die of dysentery if we don't eat something solid in the next twenty-four hours."He leaned back in his chair, his boots propped up on the strategy table in the Deep Lair.The cavern smelled of damp stone, unwashed bodies, and the lingering, acidic tang of Slimey, who was currently trying to dissolve a loose rock in the corner out of sheer, mindless boredom.Kaelen Yunis didn't look up from his microscope.The alchemist’s pristine white coat was a memory, now a roadmap of stains—dried blood, engine oil, and something purple that glowed faintly in the dark.He looked like a man holding onto his sanity by his fingernails."It's not dysentery," Kaelen sighed, his voice raspy with exhaustion. "It's malnutrition-induced organ failure. But yes, the sentiment is accurate. Erebus poisoned the