Omnixir Awakens

Affair's Bitter Sting

The low town sprawled under the capital's shadow. Huts leaned into each other, walls patched with splintered planks and faded cloth. Roofs sagged, water stains spreading like dark veins. Paths twisted narrow, mud clinging to every bend. Smoke drifted up from small fires, carrying the sharp tang of burning herbs. People shuffled in the dim glow, faces half-hidden under hoods, eyes glinting sharp in the shadows.

Zhilak pushed through the iron gate. Hinges scraped metal on metal as it swung shut behind him. No guard stepped forward to challenge him. He pressed his body against the rough walls, the stone cool through his shirt. His back throbbed where the whip had bitten, cloth sticking to the open cuts. Blood crusted in thick lines. His shoes sank soft into the soil. His chest rose and fell, each breath pulling at the ribs that cracked under Harlan's boot.

A rustle came from a crooked lane ahead. "Stray meat?" A form peeled from the darkness. Broad shoulders under a torn vest. Face twisted with old scars, left eye milky white, right eye black and steady. "Marston thread shows red on your sleeve."

Zhilak's muscles locked. His hand dropped to his hip, fingers brushing empty air where a sword should hang. "Clear the path."

The scarred man let out a short bark of laughter. "Paths cost in low town. Jax collects." He jerked his head. Two more figures melted from the gloom, thin frames hunched, knives catching the faint light from a distant lantern. "Coins or fingers."

Zhilak shifted his weight back. The wall dug into his spine. "No coins."

Jax stepped closer. His breath washed over, sour with stale ale. "Then fingers." He lunged, fingers clamping Zhilak's wrist like a vice. The twist sent fire racing up his arm. Zhilak swung his free fist. Knuckles connected with the jaw, bone jarring under skin. Jax staggered, eyes widening for a split second.

The two rushed in. The first knife sliced the air inches from Zhilak's thigh. He twisted away, foot slamming into the attacker's knee. The man buckled, knee folding wrong, a grunt escaping as he hit the mud. The second grabbed for Zhilak's neck, fingers digging in. Pressure built, vision spotting. Zhilak drove his elbow back into the man's gut. Air whooshed out. The knife clattered to the ground.

Jax shook off the hit, standing tall. "Enough games." He raised a horn to his lips and blew. The shrill note cut the night, echoing off the hut walls. Calls answered from the shadows. More figures emerged, ten in total, closing a loose circle. Blades and clubs gripped tight, faces set hard.

Zhilak's heart hammered against his ribs. The wall trapped him at his back. No gap to slip through. "What do you really want?"

Jax wiped a trickle of blood from his lip. "You. Fresh blood for the Glitch pits." He grabbed the front of Zhilak's shirt, yanking him close. "Or we break you first."

A fist flew from the circle. Zhilak caught it mid-air, shoving the arm back into its owner's chest. The man wheezed, staggering. Jax pressed in, knife flashing. Zhilak blocked the wrist, but the knee to his groin landed solid. Pain exploded white-hot. He doubled over, breath gone. Kicks rained in, boots thudding against ribs. Crack. Blood filled his mouth, metallic on his tongue.

One man pinned his arms behind. Jax loomed over, knife tip pressing into the skin above Zhilak's collarbone. The blade bit shallow. Blood welled warm. "Glitch mark for you."

Zhilak sucked in air through clenched teeth. His heart slammed wild. Heat bloomed in his chest, spreading like spilled oil. His vision sharpened, edges crisp. Strength surged through his limbs. He yanked his arms free, the pin snapping like dry wood. His fist drove into the pinner's nose. Cartilage crunched. The man reeled back. Zhilak surged up, tackling Jax to the dirt. Fists pounded down, each hit landing with bone-jarring force. Jax's face split open under the blows, blood spraying.

The circle broke. Three bolted into the dark. The rest hesitated, then scattered. Zhilak stood, chest heaving. The heat faded, leaving his muscles trembling, knees buckling. He leaned against the wall, the rough stone scraping his palm.

A new group stepped from a side hut. A woman led, cropped hair framing a face with a thin scar along her jaw. Her eyes scanned the fallen bodies, taking in the blood and broken forms. "Jax's handiwork," she said, voice flat as the mud. "You the Marston cast-off?"

Zhilak nodded, wiping blood from his split lip. "Zhilak."

She crossed her arms. "Kaelin. You handle yourself for high town stock." To her group. "Bind the trash. Drag to the hold."

Two men hauled Jax up, ropes looping his wrists. He spat curses, struggling until a knee to his gut quieted him. Kaelin turned back to Zhilak. "Fire's this way. Sit. The circle listens."

The group led him to a yard ringed by stones. A pit held dying flames, logs charred at the edges. Crates and stumps served as seats. Zhilak lowered onto a crate, the wood creaking under his weight. A man passed a hunk of flat bread, crust tough but warm. Zhilak tore into it, teeth grinding the grains, hunger gnawing after the festival's empty hours.

Kaelin sat across, poking the embers with a stick. Sparks lifted lazy. "Word flew down from the orbs. Blank for you. Harlan's lash sealed it."

Zhilak swallowed a mouthful. "The lash landed true."

She nodded. "Down here, systems warp. Mine was Adept once. Strikes flowed clean. Now it twists, pulls like a bad thread." She flexed her hand. A faint glow sparked in her palm, then sputtered out, leaving her fingers twitching.

The circle leaned in. A thin woman with braided hair spoke. "Jax snatches the new. Runs them through the pits. Breaks them or spits them out stronger."

An old man with a limp added. "He lost his Novice to bad Aether. Traps fizzle half the time."

Stories unspooled around the fire. One man described a brother dragged off by high town enforcers, chains rattling as they hauled him away. Another recalled a raid where a friend fell, body left in the dust to cover the escape. Zhilak listened, the inner beat a quiet thrum against the words. It quickened when Kaelin recounted her last clean use, a shield that held back a collapsing wall, saving her crew from tons of stone.

"Join the circle or fade alone," she said when the tales died. "Low town chews loners whole."

Zhilak met her steady gaze. "I join."

Nods rippled through the group. Kaelin stood, brushing dirt from her pants. "Dawn brings the work. Straw pallets line the hut wall."

The shelter stood simple, reed walls woven tight, floor packed earth. Sacks stuffed with dry grass bordered one side. Zhilak took the far pallet, body sinking into the lumpy fill. Sleep wrestled the pain, coming in fits broken by flashes of the plaza: Harlan's rope whistling, Calanthor's cold turn.

Light crept through the reed gaps as Kaelin shook his shoulder. "Up. Yard's ready for forms."

Crates shoved to the sides. Sticks cut even for sword practice. Kaelin demonstrated the thrust, arm straight, weight forward on the balls of her feet. Zhilak mirrored the motion, his body resisting the pull on his back. Sweat beaded on his forehead, wounds weeping fresh under the shirt. But the form clicked, old high town drills resurfacing in his muscles.

Mid-morning, a boy panted into the yard, a folded scrap in his fist. "From the maids up high. For the Marston outcast." He thrust it forward.

Zhilak snatched the paper, unfolding it with fingers that trembled slight. Ink smudged in spots, but the words stood clear. "Calanthor shares bed with Kayrwin. Bodies locked in night. Trust cut to bone. Alara."

The lines landed like a knife twist. His fist closed around the paper, knuckles whitening. Rage climbed hot, vision narrowing to the crumpled note. He paced the yard, boots kicking up dust, the words echoing in his head.

Kaelin approached, eyes on the balled paper. "Kin venom?"

"Backstab from blood."

She placed a hand on his shoulder, steady pressure. "Forge it into your edge. Hate tempers the blade."

Practice resumed, thrusts turning sharper. Sticks clacked loud, Zhilak's form pressing harder. The inner beat synced to the rhythm, lending a surge that made his strikes land true. But it ebbed, breath coming ragged, body slumping as fatigue clawed in.

Jax's crew watched from the yard's fringe, eyes burning like embers. He rubbed his bruised jaw, fingers tracing the swelling, mind turning over the defeat.

Sun climbed high. The circle broke for stew. Pot bubbled over the rekindled fire, roots and scraps of meat floating in thin broth. Bowls passed hand to hand, spoons scraping tin. Talk shifted to the warehouse. "Marston's border hold. Coin and grain ripe for the taking. Moon rise marks the go."

Zhilak spoke up. "I scout the front."

Kaelin nodded. "Group moves when the dark peaks."

The raid party made five, empty sacks slung over shoulders. They ghosted the gate, the river's rush masking their steps. Walls rose sheer, guards slouching at their posts. Hooks sailed silent, biting into stone. Climbs strained muscle, ropes taut against weight.

Inside the yard, crates towered in the moonlight. Grain sacks bulged heavy, coin chests locked with basic latches. Fingers pried lids, contents spilling into sacks: metal clinking soft, spice pouches rustling, cloth bolts folding tight.

The bell tolled sharp. Lanterns flared to life. Guards swarmed, shouts cutting the night. "Thieves in the hold!"

Steel rang against wood. Zhilak's stick cracked a guard's helm, the man crumpling with a thud. Kaelin wove her Aura, enemies stumbling as if wading through thick mud. A blade nicked her arm, blood welling, but she drove forward, fist slamming into a jaw. The group pushed back, sacks secured tight.

The wall drop came fast, feet pounding the outer path. Jax's ambush lay in wait among the brush, six strong with real blades drawn.

"Give back the take," Jax growled, his knife leading the charge.

Zhilak met the rush head-on, stick deflecting the thrust. Sparks flew in the dark. Jax twisted, the cut grazing Zhilak's arm. Blood welled warm. The beat ignited, heat coursing through veins like wildfire. Strength held firm, Zhilak wrenching the knife free, pommel smashing into Jax's temple. The man slumped, eyes rolling.

The others clashed, Kaelin's group holding the line. One Glitch went down, boot to the head, but the ambush shattered, survivors scattering into the night.

The base met them with shouts. Shares divided under the firelight: coins to pouches, grain to storage pots. Zhilak pocketed his portion, the weight solid in his hand, a first taste of something his own.

But Jax's final glare across the yard burned with unspoken promise.

Embers glowed low that night. Zhilak sat apart, Alara's note unfolded in his lap. The words stared back: Calanthor and Kayrwin, bodies tangled in the dark. Nights stolen, trust carved out. Vengeance took root, twisting deep in his gut.

Kaelin sat beside him. "Sleep pulls. Tomorrow digs deeper."

Rest came uneasy, the pallet shifting under his weight. Dreams wove whips and cold stares, the beat a distant drum in the black.

Dawn brought the hunt for Jax. Fresh tracks led through the lanes to a boarded-up den. Boot to the door splintered wood. Jax inside, knife bared, backed into the corner like a trapped animal.

Zhilak stepped through the threshold. "Why the chase?"

"My ground." Jax lunged, blade arcing wild.

Zhilak sidestepped, sweep of the leg sending Jax sprawling. Ropes cinched wrists tight.

Kaelin surveyed the scene. "Lock him or end it?"

Zhilak decided. "Lock him. Pull the truth out."

Cheers rose from the group. Bonds grew tighter in the low town light.

But the beat pulled back sharp. Exhaustion hit like a wave, body crumpling under the weight. Zhilak buckled to his knees, the world tilting to black.

In the void, a voice slithered close. "Omnixir calls. The price... blood for the crown." A form took shape. Veyra's smile stretched wide, her hand clutching a crown of writhing Aether, fingers inching toward his throat, the metal humming with trapped screams.