The shockwave hit him like a hammer, caused the boulders crushing the demon.
The force was immense, a wall of water that drove him through the abyss like a leaf in a storm. His arms flailed, trying to find something, anything to hold onto. His fingers scraped against stone, caught nothing, slipped. The shards on his back scraped against rocks, sending sparks of white light into the darkness.
He tried to orient himself, but the current was too strong, the darkness too complete. He was spinning, tumbling, falling deeper into the city.
As he hurtled past a cluster of rocks, he caught a glimpse of the demon's corpse—or what was left of it. The rocks had crushed its body, but the blood was already spreading, clouding the water in thick, dark plumes. The scent of it must have traveled far, because even as he watched, shapes began to emerge from the darkness.
Sharks.
Dozens of them, drawn by the blood. They moved through the water like shadows, their bodies sleek and silent, their eyes cold and empty. They converged on the demon's corpse, tearing into it with savage efficiency.
Aurelion had no time to watch. He was still moving, still tumbling, still falling deeper into the abyss.
The buildings blurred past him—spires and pyramids, streets and plazas, all of it dark and silent and waiting. He crashed into a wall, bounced off, spun through a plaza. His shoulder slammed into a stone column. His head cracked against a step. The shards on his back scraped against the stone, sending vibrations through his spine.
His leg screamed. His side burned. The wound on his arm had reopened, blood trailing behind him like a ribbon in the dark.
He couldn't stop.
He couldn't slow down.
He could only hold on.
Think, he commanded himself. Think.
He forced his body to turn, to twist, to orient himself. He reached out with his good arm, trying to grab onto something—a ledge, a column, anything. His fingers brushed stone, scraped against it, caught—
He held on.
His arm screamed, the muscles straining against the current. His body swung, slammed against the wall, but he held on. The water rushed past him, furious and hungry, but he held on.
He hung there for a long moment, gasping, bleeding, alive.
The current began to ease.
Slowly, painfully, Aurelion pulled himself around the corner and into a narrow passage. The water here was calmer, the current weaker. He let himself float, his body limp, his breath ragged.
The shards on his back hummed softly, a constant presence, a constant weight.
He looked around. The passage led deeper into the city, away from the surface, away from the platform, away from them.
No, he thought. Not again.
He started to swim upward, fighting against the current, pushing himself toward the distant glow of the surface.
But the city was not done with him.
The passage twisted, turned, led him in circles. He passed familiar buildings, familiar plazas, familiar symbols. The spiral was everywhere—on the walls, on the ground, on the very stones themselves.
He was being led.
Guided, he realized. The city is guiding me.
He stopped fighting and let the current carry him.
The passage opened into a familiar chamber.
The Hall of Kings.
The mural loomed above him—the figures, the gate, the white-haired figure standing alone. He had come full circle. He was back where he started.
Azrathor.
The name carved into the stone. His name. His old name.
He pushed himself up, his arms trembling, his leg screaming. He looked around the chamber. The others weren't here. He was alone.
They had been looking for him, he knew. They must have been searching the city, calling his name, hoping to find him alive.
And he had been carried back to where he started.
He limped toward the mural, his hand reaching out to touch the name carved into the stone. The letters were cold, worn smooth by time.
Why? he thought. Why is my name here?
Why am I here?
The shards on his back pulsed once, twice, then settled.
He heard a sound in the distance—voices, muffled, distorted by the water. They were getting closer.
They're coming, he thought. They found me.
He turned toward the sound, his heart pounding.
Ami appeared in the entrance, her blade drawn, her eyes scanning the darkness. Corrin and Kael were behind her, their faces pale, their weapons ready.
"Aurelion?" she called.
He stepped forward. "I'm here."
She ran toward him, her arms wrapping around him, her voice muffled against his chest. "You're alive."
"I'm alive."
"You scared us."
"I know."
She pulled back, her eyes searching his face. "What happened?"
He looked at the mural. At the name carved into the stone. At the figures standing before the gate.
"I found something," he said. "Something I need to show you."
The expedition left the Hall of Kings an hour later.
Aurelion limped toward the exit, his arm around Ami's shoulder, the shards on his back humming softly.
The city is not done with me, he thought. It will pull me back again.
But I'll be ready.
He looked back at the mural. At the white-haired figure. At the name carved into the stone.
Azrathor.
The First King.
Why?