ShadowBound: The Need For Power

After sensing Marcus's presence for the first time in four long months, Serah's decision to leave the construction site vanished like smoke in the wind. Her entire body had stilled, instincts flaring. Every fiber of her being screamed recognition. The sensation was faint, woven with subtlety—more ghost than flame—but she knew him. Knew that distinct signature of myst. And if that truly was Marcus, then there was a strong chance he, too, had come for Drosmir.

Which make everything easier or difficult, depending on what he was really after.

Leaning against the side of the wall once more, Serah narrowed her crimson eyes and scanned the construction site again—this time with pinpoint precision, combing every movement, every shadow. She wasn't just looking at workers now. She was hunting. Searching for a young man roughly 6'2", with shoulder-length dark hair—likely tied back in a loose, messy bun. Sharp jawline. Piercing dark eyes. That deceptively relaxed, lean physique that hid how lethal he actually was.

"Where the hell are you, you insufferable bastard?" she muttered under her breath, eyes darting between groups of workers moving timber, shifting bricks, and obeying the barked commands of the site overseer.

She could feel it—the pull of his presence—somewhere within the mess of sweat and stone. But it made no sense.

'It's coming from among the workers… but why the hell would he be working for Drosmir? Unless… he's not. Or worse—I'm sensing it wrong?'

Her jaw clenched at the thought.

With growing suspicion, she shifted her gaze away from the site and toward the nearby buildings. Rows of plain, multi-story structures wrapped the edge of the construction zone like teeth. He could be up there, watching from the shadows, cloaked in myst and smirking to himself while she looked like a damned fool scouring ground level.

'I need higher ground.'

Without hesitation, Serah pushed herself off the wall again and strode into the adjacent alley. With a flare of flame igniting at her boots, she blasted herself upward, the fire roaring quietly as it propelled her body three stories high. She landed on the rooftop with a practiced roll and rose with the fluid grace of a dancer.

Now, the entire construction zone sprawled beneath her, a complete tableau of grit and scaffolding. From up here, she had a commanding view of both the worksite and the buildings surrounding it. But it didn't help. Not really.

If Marcus was observing from one of the windows, he'd be masked. A master of slipping into shadow, bending light like a curtain. Even in broad daylight, he could vanish into the fabric of the world like a ghost.

And yet—

No matter how she adjusted her focus, no matter how she honed her myst-sensitivity to a blade's edge, the presence kept pulling her back to the site itself. Back to the noise and sweat and dirt.

'He's down there,' she thought. 'Among them. Disguised, maybe. Or hiding in that half-built warehouse. He has to be.'

Serah's shoulders tensed with frustration. The proximity was maddening. After four months of following trails that always ended in ash or silence—she was this close. The bastard was practically within arm's reach… and yet invisible. Slipping between her fingers like mist.

'Damn this idiot.' She clenched her fists. 'Why must you make everything so difficult and vexing?'

As she stood there seething quietly atop the roof, her comm-rune bracelet blinked faintly, one of the soft runes pulsing with Myla's signature.

She tapped the rune with a finger.

"Yeah, any leads?" she asked, tone sharp and low.

"Nope," Myla's voice replied casually through the arcane whisper-link. "Just called to ask if you could get me some food on your way back. The rations from yesterday have officially passed the point of edible."

Serah sighed and rolled her eyes. "Yeah… sure. Any preference?"

"Nothing too sweet," Myla replied. "I don't want to lose any more teeth."

"Alright then," Serah muttered, still scanning the site below.

"Thanks, princess. You're the best."

"Myla."

"Yeah?"

"I might be late today. It's not related to Drosmir… but it's important. So if you actually want that food, best ask Kael to grab it for you instead."

"Oh… I see," Myla said, the tone softening on the other end. "Well, I'll buzz him. But still buy it anyway—just in case I get hungry again later."

"No problem," Serah replied. "See you later."

"Alright. Over and out."

The rune dimmed, and silence settled again around her. Serah's eyes went right back to the site. Back to the stacked crates. The workers. The shadows creeping along scaffold beams.

She crouched slightly, wind tousling the edges of her coat.

"I will get my hands on you," she whispered to herself. "And that's a promise."

***

After keeping watch over the site for an hour or two, the sun had crept high into the sky, nearing its peak—noon was fast approaching, and Serah's body was beginning to remind her quite loudly of its need for food.

"I'm starting to think I might've read all this wrong," she muttered to herself, brows furrowing slightly. "Maybe I've just been wasting my time sitting up here."

With an exasperated sigh, she added, "I should probably just get going before this hunger turns me into a corpse."

Turning away, she began heading toward the building's edge, preparing to descend and abandon her watch. However, just as she did, a sudden stir from the construction site below caught her attention.

Pausing mid-step, she turned her head back. A commotion had erupted near the center of the site. Her eyes narrowed as she walked back into position to get a clearer look.

Down below, one of the workers appeared to be in a heated argument with Hendel, the site's operation supervisor. The voices were muffled by distance, but the tension between the two was unmistakable.

And then, as her gaze locked onto the arguing worker, Serah's eyes widened faintly in subtle recognition.

The man who stood toe-to-toe with Hendel matched Marcus's build—uncannily so. He was about 6'2", with dark hair pulled into a messy bun that allowed several loose strands to fall around his face, wild and unbothered. His eyes were dark, sharp with intensity, and his lean frame moved with a quiet alertness. He wore a sleeveless, off-white tunic that clung to his torso, paired with black pants and weather-worn boots. His right arm bore a black leather bracer, strapped tight over a fingerless glove, and a makeshift mask—a simple rug wrapped around the lower half of his face—concealed everything below the eyes, likely to keep from inhaling the swirling dust of the site.

Serah stared, her smile creeping in uninvited, her instincts confirmed with silent pride as her gaze settled firmly on the man.

"So I wasn't wrong after all," she murmured with a soft edge of triumph. "It was you."

***

Below at the construction site, a young man—likely in his early twenties—stood squarely in front of Hendel, the infamously obnoxious, round-bellied overseer.

"Hey, meatball," the young man growled, voice sharp with frustration, "you said I'd be paid ten gold coins. The hell am I supposed to do with four? Huh?"

Hendel's nostrils flared as he snapped back, "Watch your tongue, boy!" His voice cracked with forced authority. "You're lucky you're getting four at all. Should be grateful you're being paid for that sloppy excuse of labor."

"Sloppy?" the man echoed with a slow tilt of the head. His tone turned venomous. "I reinforced the entire northern structure of that warehouse so well, even a damn troll couldn't knock it down—and you're calling that sloppy? What, is the fat in your gut starting to cloud your eyes?"

Hendel flushed crimson, jowls quivering as he jabbed his scroll toward the man like a blade. "How dare you mock me?! I've had enough of this insolence—get off my site before I make you!"

But before Hendel could so much as blink, the young man had already seized him by the collar, hoisting him a few inches off the ground. His dark eyes bored into Hendel's like pits of coal—calm, cold, and utterly done.

"Listen closely," the man said in a low voice that carried deadly promise, "you're gonna pay me what we agreed on. Or things are gonna get real messy, real fast."

Hendel's eyes flickered—not with fear, but with smug amusement. "Seems you've forgotten who I am," he sneered, lips peeling back. "And who I work for."

Suddenly, a blur. A crack. A fist connected with the side of the man's jaw, sending him sprawling into the dirt like a sack of bricks.

Groaning, the young man rolled onto his side and looked up to find two towering guards flanking Hendel. Both were built like stone walls, their armor glinting dully under the sun.

"You see?" Hendel said, his tone thick with mockery as he brushed imaginary dust from his robe. "None of you have the right to complain about what you're paid. Especially not gutter-born rats from the outskirts like you. Or any of you, for that matter." He turned to glance at the nearby workers, his voice rising. "So let this disrespectful bastard serve as a lesson to all of you."

The man climbed to his feet, slow and steady, spitting blood into the dirt. He looked at the guard who'd struck him, then gave a short, humorless laugh.

"That was your punch?" he scoffed. "Cute. My dead grandma hit harder. And she's been buried for years."

The guard's jaw clenched. His partner's eye twitched. Both turned to Hendel with a wordless look, awaiting approval.

"Teach him a lesson," Hendel said with a twisted grin.

The guards dropped their weapons without hesitation and advanced on the man—ready to make him regret every word.