At the very top of the grand spire of Ilis, where the wind howled against the edges of the marble railings and the moonlight bathed the entire rooftop in silver, Serah stood alone. The capital sprawled beneath her like a sea of distant lights—quiet, unaware, indifferent to the storm brewing within her chest. Her cloak billowed softly, the cool night air brushing her tired face. For a long moment, she said nothing. She simply breathed, staring out at the city she was sworn to protect, and wondering if somewhere beneath those same stars, her brother was still alive.

Then, a faint sound—like whispers crawling through the air—broke the silence. Serah turned, her eyes narrowing as tendrils of shadow began to rise from the floor behind her, twisting and writhing like living smoke. The darkness took shape, thickened, and in a heartbeat, solidified into the figure of a man.

The shadows dispersed.

And there he was—Marcus.

He stood a few paces away, his usual easy confidence tempered by something gentler tonight. He wore his familiar off-white long-sleeved shirt, its collar slightly loose, with black pants tucked into scuffed boots. His hair was tied up in that messy bun he never seemed to fix, a few strands falling across his face as his onyx eyes found hers.

The moment their gazes met, he didn't waste a second. Marcus crossed the space between them and reached for her, his touch instinctively protective. Serah opened her mouth, guilt rushing through her before she could stop it.

"I'm sorry," she said quickly, her voice strained. "I shouldn't have called you here. Not to the capital—it's too risky—"

But Marcus didn't let her finish. He brushed his fingers gently against her cheek, his thumb grazing the faint shadow beneath her eye. Up close, he could see the exhaustion carved into her face—the sleepless nights, the constant worry, the pain she tried so hard to mask behind duty.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice steady but firm. "Don't apologize. You did what you had to do. Just tell me what happened."

And so she did.

In the quiet of the rooftop, Serah told him everything—about Galen's mission, his disappearance, the false reports, and her desperate attempts to find him. She spoke fast but clearly, her words sharp with frustration and laced with fear. Marcus didn't interrupt once. He simply listened, his expression serious, eyes flickering faintly with dark myst as he pieced together every fragment of her story.

When she was done, the silence returned, heavy and cold.

Marcus exhaled slowly, his jaw tightening as he took in the weight of it all. He understood—she wasn't just tired. She was breaking. He could see it in the way her shoulders sagged, in the dullness of her fire. And he knew why she'd called him. There was no one else who could do what needed to be done.

"You need someone who can trace through shadow," he said quietly. "Someone who can walk the paths they left behind. Do you have anything that might have Galen's myst on it?"

Serah nodded wordlessly, her hands trembling slightly as she reached inside her cloak and pulled something wrapped in cloth. She held it out to him—a sword. Galen's sword.

Marcus took it carefully, his fingers brushing against hers for a fleeting moment. The blade was cold, but faint traces of energy still lingered on its hilt—remnants of Galen's myst, faint but present.

"Perfect," Marcus murmured, stepping back as his expression shifted into focus.

He lifted one hand, and the air behind him rippled. A second later, the shadows beneath his feet stirred, then stretched outward as if alive. From them emerged another form—tall, fluid, and formless—a living silhouette with eyes that glowed faintly violet.

"Ely," Marcus called quietly.

The creature tilted its head, acknowledging its master before gliding soundlessly toward the sword. The air grew cold for a moment as it sniffed, shadows rippling like a pulse. When it was done, Ely sank back into Marcus, fusing seamlessly into his frame until the air stilled once more.

Marcus looked at Serah then, his eyes steady. "He's got the scent," he said. "No matter where they took him, we'll find him. I promise."

Those words—simple as they were—hit her deeper than anything else could have. Her chest tightened, and for the first time in days, a flicker of warmth returned to her heart.

"Marcus…" she whispered, her voice trembling as the tension she'd been holding finally cracked. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around him. The embrace wasn't planned—it was pure instinct. Relief, gratitude, and desperation. Her face buried against his shoulder, and for a moment, she allowed herself to breathe again.

Marcus held her close, his arms tightening around her in silent reassurance. "You don't need to thank me," he murmured near her ear. "It's my place to be here when you need me most. That's what it means to love someone, Serah."

Her fingers clutched the back of his shirt, and her eyes burned faintly with unshed tears.

He pulled back just enough to meet her gaze. "But you need rest. If you keep going like this, you'll burn yourself out. And I can't have that. Not when your brother still needs you."

Serah exhaled shakily, then nodded, her body finally relenting under the weight of exhaustion. "Alright," she whispered.

Marcus smiled faintly, a trace of warmth breaking through the seriousness in his eyes. He leaned forward, pressing a gentle kiss against her forehead—a wordless promise.

"Sleep," he said softly. "When you wake, I'll have something for you."

And with that, the shadows rose around him once more. The air shimmered, and in the blink of an eye, Marcus was gone—leaving nothing behind but the faint whisper of his magic and the soft flutter of Serah's cloak in the wind.

For the first time in days, Serah's heart felt a little lighter.

***

At the borders between Darenville and Qeren—the very place where Galen had vanished—night draped the land in silence. The moon hung high above, pale and distant, spilling its light over empty streets and the dim glow of lanterns that flickered against the stone walls.

Then, without sound or sign, the air above a rooftop rippled as tendrils of shadow rose and curled into existence. They spiraled upward like smoke before collapsing inward, and from them emerged Marcus. His figure solidified as the last of the shadows retreated beneath his boots. He crouched low, eyes narrowing as he looked down over the alleyway Serah had spoken of. The same one where her brother had last been seen.

The scent of faint myst filled his lungs as he took a deep breath, his sharp eyes glinting with a cold, focused gleam. "Just from here, I can pick up his scent," he muttered, voice barely above a whisper. "Kid's got a strong myst signature… even if it were anyone else, I doubt I'd be able to track them this quick." A faint smirk pulled at his lips as he rose slowly to his feet, his gaze sweeping the streets.

From his perch, he noticed movement—Solaran Knights patrolling nearby, their polished armor gleaming faintly under the moonlight as they searched through the narrow streets and corners of the district. "Guess they're still at it," he murmured, his tone edged with quiet amusement. "Persistent… but they won't find him this way."

With one last glance at the knights, Marcus stepped off the roof. His descent was silent—like falling mist. He landed softly in the shadow of the alley, his boots barely stirring the dust on the cobblestones. Straightening, he let his senses stretch outward, tracing the faint pulse of myst still clinging to the walls, the air, and the ground.

He walked deeper into the narrow space, his steps unhurried but precise, until he reached the far end where the scent was strongest. The shadows there were thickest—crawling along the barrels stacked against the wall. Kneeling down, Marcus reached out and brushed his fingers lightly along them. For a few seconds, his eyes gleamed faintly, reading the traces of energy woven into the darkness itself. Then he let out a quiet chuckle.

"Quite an amateur, I see," he muttered with a small smirk tugging at his lips. "Sloppy work, leaving residue behind like this." Straightening, he rolled his shoulders and let his expression harden once more. His irises shimmered, turning from onyx to a gleaming silver as a faint hum of myst rippled through the air.

"Phantom. Ely," he called, his voice low but commanding.

At once, the shadows at his feet stirred. Ely—his loyal formless companion—emerged first, unfolding from the darkness like a tide of living smoke. A second shadow soon followed, peeling itself away from Marcus's form until it stood beside him—a perfect, darker reflection. Phantom.

Both figures bowed their heads slightly, awaiting their master's command.

Marcus didn't waste words. "Find him," he ordered quietly, his tone calm but edged with purpose. "Follow the trail until it ends—and if it doesn't, make one."

The two shadows responded instantly. Without a sound, they darted forward, slipping into the darkness that clung to the barrels, melting seamlessly into the walls. Within moments, they were gone—vanished into the deeper folds of shadow that threaded through the city.

Now alone, Marcus exhaled softly, his gaze drifting upward to the night sky. The moon reflected faintly in his silver eyes, its glow casting pale highlights across his face. "Don't worry, kid," he murmured, his tone quieter now, almost fond. "Your sister's losing sleep over you. I'll bring you back."

The faint sound of armored boots reached his ears from the far end of the alley—the patrol was approaching fast.

Marcus tilted his head slightly, listening to their voices grow nearer. "Guess that's my cue to leave," he said under his breath, amusement flashing in his tone once more.

He took a step backward into the wall's shadow, and as the darkness swallowed him whole, his figure dissolved completely—gone before the knights turned into the alleyway.