Eamon moved quickly, faster than his aching legs allowed.
The metal groaned with each step, grinding against bone and muscle, but he ignored it. He couldn't afford to stop. His breathing grew short and sporadic, echoing down the narrowing passage. He knew Prisma like the back of his hand and was sure she wouldn't let him walk away alive, not after what he'd just done. So he had to decide what to do and fast. His best bet was first to release her identity and the rest of the Unbound, then go into hiding.
"This wasn't the damn plan Prisma!" Eamon cursed as his thoughts turned to his family.
Leonara was at home waiting for him to return from his business trip. And their son, Soren , had stormed out a year ago, determined to make a future for himself that didn't involve working in Eamon's mines. Eamon had angrily let him go, thinking time would bring him back. It hadn't. The last he'd heard, Soren was somewhere in the Lower City.
Eamon's chest tightened.
If Prisma decided to use his family against him…No, he had to find Soren first. Get to him and Leonara, and get them both far away from all of this mess. Whatever he did next, they had to be safe. That came before everything.
After what seemed like ages, he reached the rusted metal grate at the end of the tunnel and pushed it open with a grunt. Before going past the gate, he pulled the hood of his robe up over his head, cloaking his face entirely. The fabric itched against his skin, soaking up the sweat that clung to his forehead and brows.
The street was empty and silent. Still, he kept his head down as he walked. Ahead, a yellow street light flickered on and off, but Eamon had used the alley long enough to find his way without it.
The train station was three blocks east. He could catch the midnight rail to the Lower City. That would be his first stop. He needed to find Soren before anyone else did. The more he walked, the more certain he became that his son was the first person Prisma would go after.
Something else was nagging at the back of his mind. Prisma had been too calm when he opposed her. It was not her way, unless…she had a plan already. She would send someone after him, Eamon realised.
As he edged closer to the street light, a sudden crash echoed sharply to his left—something heavy tumbling over, the sharp clatter of wood splintering against stone. He spun, heart lurching in his chest. He slipped on his mask to distort his voice, then said, "Who's there?" Panic bled from his voice even though he tried to keep it menacing.
He was met with silence, then a low hiss, followed by the flash of glowing eyes. A scruffy cat leapt from behind an overturned crate and darted away into the shadows.
Eamon exhaled shakily, pressing a hand to his chest. It had been years since he felt…vulnerable, and to think it was because of Prisma. He almost laughed, if it weren't for the new sound that drifted through the alley.
Heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed behind him. This time, his heart clenched with certainty. Someone was following him. He paused, eyes narrowing into the gloom. Slowly, he slid his hand inside his coat, searching for the familiar hilt of his knife, and came away with empty air. A cold wave of panic washed over him. He'd forgotten it back at home.
He turned toward the sound, backing away one cautious step at a time. "Reveal yourself. Who sent you?" he asked, though in his gut, he already knew.
A figure stepped out of the shadows.
He squinted, trying to make out the face of whoever Prisma had sent to end him. He only caught familiar stitched patterns on the hem of the person's trousers. "A common museum guard?" He laughed through his mask. Then he saw it: the quick glint of a knife, winking in the moonlight. Eamon didn't hesitate. Instinct took over. He turned and ran. The metal in his legs protested, grinding with each step.
Behind him, the footsteps broke into a sprint.
The alley began to slope downhill, becoming slippery and narrow. Eamon staggered once, caught himself, and kept going. Suddenly, the metal in his leg shifted with a loud click. The pain jolted up his spine, and he staggered, his boot skidding on smooth stone. He fell hard onto his side, ribs cracking against the alley floor. He looked up and found himself staring right into the flickering lamppost light. Eamon groaned.
Before he could rise, the footsteps behind him closed in, and his attacker lunged.
Eamon turned just in time to catch the glint of a blade arcing toward his chest. He threw up his hands and caught the attacker's wrist mid-swing, stopping the knife inches from his heart. The impact drove him flat against the ground. His arms trembled with the strain.
The lamppost went off, plunging both of them into darkness again.
The attacker leaned in, weight pressing the blade down just as the lamppost came, and the light caught the attacker's face just enough. Eamon's breath caught. The sharp jawline. Brown eyes just like his. There were things he didn't recognise, like the strained lines on the boy's forehead and mouth, the moustache, the hardness in his eyes. But it was Soren .
His son.
His grip faltered for half a second, just long enough for just long enough for the surprise to cost him. "Wait—" he tried to speak, but the voice that came out was ragged and warped through the mask.
He deftly pushed his son's hand to the side. The knife drove forward, landing between his ribcage.
Pain exploded in Eamon's chest. He gasped, the world tilting wildly as the knife slid between his ribs like a butcher's knife through meat. Warm blood soaked through his robe, pulsing out with every heartbeat. He looked up and watched the outline of his son draw back, blade slick, expression unreadable behind the dim light.
The pain in his chest bloomed wider, hotter, as he gasped for air. His hand fumbled upward, weak fingers tugging at the mask on his face. It came loose with effort, slipping from his head and clattering to the ground.
For a moment, all he could see was the stars, then Soren 's face came into view, hovering above him.
The boy's eyes widened in shock. His mouth parted, but no sound came. The bloodied knife dropped from his hand.
Eamon wanted to speak, to say something—anything—but his mouth wouldn't open.
Soren fell to his knees beside him. His hands, still trembling, pressed against Eamon's wound, desperate and frantic. "No…" he heard his boy whisper. "No, no, dad…please…"
Eamon's vision blurred. The pressure of Soren 's hands did nothing. The warmth kept spilling out of him, pooling around his back, soaking through his robes. His bones felt hollow, his breath shallow.
But strangely, the pain was fading away.
He lifted a trembling hand and touched Soren 's face lightly. Just for a moment. His son. Grown, hardened, and still so young. Caught in a war he didn't even understand.
Eamon gave a tight, rasping laugh that ended in a cough. "Not how I hoped we'd reunite, son." He winced. "But... still glad to see you."
Soren dropped to his knees, pressing his hands to the wound. "No. No, no—stay with me. I didn't know. I didn't know it was you."
"It's not your fault. I should never have let you go. " Eamon breathed. "It was my duty to protect you, and I failed."
Blood surged past Soren 's hands. Eamon could feel himself slipping away. There wasn't much time. A drop of water landed on the bridge of his nose. He blinked up at the sky and felt another drop trace a cold line down his cheek. Then another. Rain, soft and sparse at first, began to drizzle across the alley, dimpling the blood-slicked ground.
His chest burned, but he focused on his son's face, pale and frozen in shock. "Listen to me," he said urgently. "Take the knife back to her. My mask too."
Soren shook his head. "No—I can get help. I can—"
"No." Eamon's fingers caught Soren 's sleeve. "It's too late for me. You hear? She's never going to leave me alive anyway, not with everything I know. I don't know how she found you or what you've done for her, but listen to me carefully, you have to leave Sinai by tomorrow."
Soren went still.
"Go back with the knife. You must act like nothing is amiss. They mustn't suspect a thing. Leave as soon as you can, not a second later. There's a stash of precious stones…" Eamon rasped. "...locked in the floor panel beneath my old desk. You'll need them. Take your mother and run."
Soren blinked. "What—where do I take her?"
"Redemere," Eamon said. "Find a man named Ragus. Smuggler. Owes me a debt." He coughed again. "He'll keep you hidden. He won't ask questions."
Soren was trembling. "You're not going to die. You—"
"You can't ever return to Sinai, not as long as they live. You'll have to be strong now," Eamon whispered. "For her." His grip loosened, slipping from Soren 's arm.
A new set of footsteps Echoed down the alley. Eamon's head jerked up. "Someone's coming."
But the rhythm was off. Not the steady cadence of a pursuer or the frantic patter of a passerby. These footsteps wavered—halting, unsure. A few steps forward, then a pause. A shuffle to the side. Then more silence. Whoever it was didn't know exactly where to go.
His heart stuttered, cold panic flooding what strength he had left. "You mustn't be seen here, Soren . Go," he hissed, clutching Soren 's coat. "Now. Run!"
Soren looked up, frozen.
"Run, dammit!" Eamon barked.
Soren hesitated for a heartbeat more, then bolted back into the alley's mouth, disappearing into the dark.
Eamon slumped back, gasping. His vision blurred. He turned his head to the side, gasping and saw a rusted sewer grate hanging open, crooked in its frame, like someone had forced it off long ago and no one had bothered to fix it. A gap, barely wide enough.
He gritted his teeth. If his body were discovered too soon, it could lead back to Soren . Not yet. He had to buy the boy enough time, at least a day. With the last scraps of strength, Eamon dug his fingers into the rough stones, dragging himself inch by inch toward the opening. Fire lanced up his side with every movement.
He reached the edge, twisted, and shoved himself inside. The drop was short, but unforgiving. He hit the wet tunnel floor hard, the stink of rot and metal rushing into his lungs. He groaned, arm curling around his ribs, blood soaking into the grime beneath him.
He propped himself up on the wall, chest rising and falling in shallow, ragged bursts. In and out. In and out, waiting for death to take him.
His mind drifted backwards, to the beginning. The Goldenfields and the first time he met Prisma.
He'd been no more than a starving thief then, sneaking into homes to steal food and eating leftovers from dumpsters when he couldn't. He'd slipped through a cracked window one night, hoping for bread—anything—when he found her instead. A girl, no older than twelve, curled up on the floor beside a narrow cot. Skin stretched too tight over bones. Welts like vines wrapped around her back. Eyes hollow, too tired to flinch when he entered.
He remembered how her fingers trembled when he handed her the half-melted chocolate he'd pulled from a trash bin earlier that day. She devoured it in seconds.
"Who did this to you?" he asked.
She didn't hesitate. "My father."
"Why?"
"Because I failed to bond with an Echo."
He'd never forgotten the way she said it. Not with shame. With quiet fury. He should have known then. Should have seen Prisma's madness coming. But he hadn't. He was too young. Too hopeful. He took her hand that night and told her they'd build something better. A world where no child suffered just because of an Echo.
He should never have given her the idea. The Unbound had been his seed, one he'd planned to nurture carefully. But Prisma had taken it, twisted it, and fed it with blood and ambition. And he'd watched. Silently. Let her call it necessary. Let her do what he didn't have the stomach to.
And now…
Eamon coughed, breath shaking, the pain screaming in his ribs. He closed his eyes, listening to the drip of water. Somewhere above, footsteps still approached.
He just lay there, shivering against the cold stone. So this was how it ended.
Eamon Wynstros, the boy who dreamed.
