Chapter 89 : Under the Same Moon

The city of Arkwyn sprawled beneath the moon — a patchwork of slate rooftops, oil-lit streets, and drifting fog that coiled through the alleys like restless ghosts. The hour was deep, the streets nearly silent save for the distant hum of river trade and the faint clatter of metal from the dockyards.


Across the rooftops, two shadows darted in motion — Neon and Radon — their cloaks billowing behind them as they leapt from one rooftop to the next. Their pace was swift but uneven, their boots striking the tiles with faint, betraying echoes. The rhythm of their movement — hurried, raw — carried through the night air like heartbeat against stillness.


“Too exposed,” Neon muttered, glancing toward the streets below. “We should’ve taken the northern ridge—”


“Too slow,” Radon cut in. “They’ll move the captives by dawn. We don’t have that kind of time.”


Their voices were low, but the night carried every whisper. The faintest clang of Radon’s landing cracked through the stillness.


And then — silence.


A third presence appeared beside them.


No sound. No shift in wind. No warning.


Just Aren, walking calmly across the same rooftop they had just leapt onto, as though the shadows themselves had carried him there. His expression was unreadable, eyes reflecting faint threads of moonlight.


“Your footing gives you away,” he said evenly.


Both Neon and Radon froze mid-step, eyes wide. The air seemed to tighten around them, heavy with unspoken awe — or fear.


Aren’s tone remained calm, instructive, but it cut through their tension like a blade. “Channel your aura to your soles — not enough to hover, but to soften impact.” His gaze drifted toward their feet, then back to their eyes. “Silence is control.”


Neon frowned, catching her breath. “You can use aura like that? For sound?”


“Everything is sound,” Aren replied, stepping forward. “Every breath, every step, every hesitation. You control what you let the world hear.”


He moved again — a blur of motion, yet each step made no sound. Even the wind seemed to hesitate before touching him. The way his weight shifted, the faint twist of his ankle, the precision in his balance — it was effortless, frighteningly precise.


Then he stopped beside them, as if the demonstration itself had been part of his breath.


“Try again,” he said quietly.


Neon and Radon exchanged a glance. Their aura flared faintly — clumsy at first — before they began channeling energy downward. The next leap they took landed softer than before; the echo was thinner, shorter-lived.


Radon’s eyes widened. “It worked,” he whispered.


Aren’s response was a single nod. “Control isn’t about power,” he said. “It’s about awareness.”


“Now,” he continued, his voice dropping lower, colder, “move as shadows. No noise. No mistakes.”


The two nodded sharply, determination settling over them. Their next movements were smoother — steps silent, rhythm steady, their forms blending into the darkness that cloaked the city.


As they vanished into the night, Aren followed wordlessly — his presence almost unreal, as though he were less a person and more an extension of the shadows themselves.


Above them, the moonlight caught the faint glimmer of aura flowing around his boots — invisible to all but the trained eye — a perfect balance between gravity and silence.


And from that moment on, Arkwyn’s rooftops knew no sound but the whisper of moving air.
--------


The rooftops gave way to narrow alleys — and beneath one such alley, half-buried under layers of mist and soot, stood a forgotten townhouse. Its shutters were sealed from the outside, its doors bolted, its windows dark. To the world, it was just another ruin swallowed by Arkwyn’s decay. But beneath that crumbling shell, life stirred — quiet, deliberate, and hidden.


Neon and Radon slipped through a concealed gap between two stone slabs, descending into the dimly lit interior. The scent of oil lamps mixed with parchment and steel. Maps lined the walls — outlines of Arkwyn’s sectors, rooftops, guard routes, and dockyard schematics.


At the center of the room sat Helium, her long hair tied into a loose braid, a faint blue gleam from her eyes reflecting off the glass she was polishing. She looked up the moment they entered.


“You’re late.” Her tone wasn’t sharp, just factual — like someone noting the time.


Radon exhaled, half in irritation, half in exhaustion. “We had… a visitor.”


Helium’s eyes narrowed. “Visitor?”


Before either could explain, the air shifted — a quiet disturbance, colder than shadow.


A voice spoke behind them, calm and detached.
“Don’t blame them.”


All three turned.


Aren stood near the far end of the room, half-veiled by the dim light of a single flickering lamp. He hadn’t entered through the door — he had simply appeared, his presence fitting into the silence as though it had always belonged there.


Helium immediately rose from her seat and bowed her head slightly, the motion graceful and fluid.
“Lord Aren.”


The title carried weight — reverence laced with discipline. Even Neon and Radon straightened subconsciously, the tension in their shoulders vanishing into trained composure.


Aren’s gaze swept across the room once — maps, notes, blades, and their worn hands — before settling on Helium.
“I see your coordination’s improved.”


“We’re trying,” she replied with a faint, composed smile. “Still imperfect.”


Aren tilted his head slightly, a trace of dry amusement in his eyes — cold, subtle, but unmistakable.
“Perfection is just control without hesitation. You’ll learn that soon.”


For a heartbeat, silence lingered — steady, heavy, but not uncomfortable. Then Aren’s attention drifted toward Neon and Radon.


Radon cleared his throat, hesitant. “My lord, we discovered something at the dockyards— the city guards, they’re planning a—”


But before she could finish, Helium interjected swiftly, her voice smooth and steady.
“We’re following your training schedule, my lord. As instructed.”


Her interruption was seamless — polite but absolute, like the flick of a blade cutting through an unwanted thread.


Radon blinked, confused, but one glance at her told him enough. He closed his mouth.


Aren’s golden eyes flicked to Helium — sharp, unreadable — then softened slightly.
“Good,” he said. “Keep progressing. Don’t disappoint me.”


His words were quiet, but they carried the same weight as a verdict.


He turned toward the doorway. For a moment, as the faint breeze stirred his cloak, the lamplight dimmed — as though the room itself bowed to his departure. Then he was gone. No sound. No trace.


The three stood in silence for several seconds. Only the faint hum of aura from the lamps filled the air.


Neon exhaled slowly. “He knew.”


Helium didn’t look up. She continued to adjust the papers on the desk, her movements measured. “He always does.”


Radon frowned. “Then why—”


“Because,” Helium interrupted softly, “this is our first mission under his shadow. We don’t need to trouble him with details.”


Her tone was calm, but her eyes gleamed — not out of fear, but conviction.


“We act quietly,” she continued. “If we succeed, he’ll see. If we fail…” A small, cold smile touched her lips. “Then we were never worthy to serve him.”


The room fell into a deeper silence.


Neon and Radon exchanged a glance, then nodded. They began preparing — checking blades, aura resonance, and concealment seals — every motion disciplined, efficient. The lamplight flickered against their faces, catching a strange gleam in their eyes: pride mixed with fanatic devotion.


Helium’s hand brushed across the map once more, her gaze fixed on the dockyard’s sector.
Beneath her breath, she murmured, “We move before dawn.”




---


The night of Arkwyn deepened — two paths unfolding under the same moon.


On one side of the city, Narissa crouched in the shadow of a half-sunken barge, the scent of iron and salt sharp in the air. Slyvie and Ian knelt beside her, sketching quick marks on the dirt — pathways, guard rotations, escape routes. Lio watched from behind, his eyes burning with determination and grief.


“We’ll strike before the ship leaves,” Narissa said, her tone low, steady. “Dockyard east side — the cargo hold beneath the third mast. That’s where they’re keeping them.”


Slyvie tightened her gloves. “And if the captain’s there?”


Narissa’s lips barely curved. “Then he’ll regret being punctual.”


Their breath steamed faintly in the cold air. Torches flickered in the distance — patrols, unaware of the storm quietly forming against them.


Meanwhile, far above — beyond the smoke, above the rooftops — Helium, Neon, and Radon watched from a distant tower.


The same docks stretched below them, glowing faintly under the moonlight.


Radon adjusted his lens. “She’s there — Narissa.”


Helium didn’t reply. Her gaze was cool, assessing.


“Do we interfere?” Neon asked quietly.


Helium’s eyes narrowed. “No. Our objective lies beneath the same ground, but our orders differ.”


From the shadows behind them, the faint sigil of the Shadow Periodics pulsed briefly — a mark unseen by all but those sworn to it.


The team dispersed into the mist.


Down below, Narissa and her allies tightened their grips, ready to face the impossible.
Above, the Shadow Periodics vanished from sight, their mission hidden — their loyalties bound not to justice, but to the silent will of the one they called Lord Aren.


And somewhere between those two paths, unseen by both sides, Aren walked alone across the rooftops — his gaze distant, his presence absorbed into the night.


The moon watched over Arkwyn, pale and cold — reflecting three stories that were about to collide beneath its light.


Tomorrow, only one truth would remain.