Shadows of Valthera

They walked out of the stairwell into a round, open space. The ceiling drooped with age, crowded by rusted pipes and messy wiring. A few dim lights blinked above, throwing broken shadows across the concrete floor. Some cables lay across the floor, humming faintly. The air was dry and still, thick with dust. A couple of large fans turned slowly overhead, their motors groaning.

Silas stepped forward cautiously. His boots echoed slightly as they touched the concrete. He scanned the corners, alert. Ayla followed close behind, eyes sharp, taking in every detail. Her hand brushed against the shard in her jacket — a quiet reminder of everything they were chasing.

The world above felt distant now, muffled by the quiet and the weight of the place. It didn't feel like part of the same reality.

Soren stood near the center of the room, facing a bank of old monitors. He didn't move much — only his eyes flickered in the glow of the screens. His jacket was worn thin, sleeves rolled up over scarred arms. He watched them closely as they approached, silent, measured.

"Thought you might not make it," he said eventually. His voice was rough. He looked at Silas, then at Ayla. "Didn't expect you to bring someone."

Silas shifted, impatience creeping into his tone. "We don't have time to dance around ghosts. We need what you promised — data, access, anything that can help us tear Wellington's operation apart."

Soren nodded slowly and turned toward a battered terminal. His fingers moved with practiced precision over manual switches and bulky keys, coaxing life from the old machines. Screens flickered, displaying complex maps

of Valthera's underground tunnels, detailed schematics of NexaCore's

labyrinthine infrastructure, and encrypted communication logs that scrolled endlessly across the displays.

A digital map centered on the largest screen — an intricate overlay showing the city's gleaming upper layers shadowed by a network of hidden corridors and off-grid entry points. Soren's finger traced a narrow passage highlighted in red.

"This one here," he said. "An old service node beneath NexaCore, long abandoned. It's off the books — no cameras, no sensors. A perfect blind spot."

Silas leaned in, his voice low. "That's our way in?"

"Close enough," Soren replied. "You'll still need clearance codes to get further, and you'll be in range of internal defense protocols. But it's the quietest, safest route we've found."

Ayla stepped forward. Her voice was calm but firm. "You knew my father, didn't you?"

Soren's jaw shifted. "Yeah," he said. "A long time ago."

She waited. He said nothing else. else.

"You think I haven't tried? Every outlet was either silenced, corrupted, or discredited. Wellington's reach cuts deeper than anyone imagines — surgical and merciless."

For a few seconds, no one said anything. The air felt heavy, almost stale.

"I tried to tell people," Soren said quietly. "Got too many killed doing it." You're not the first to come seeking answers. But you might be the first to survive the fallout."

Ayla's eyes flicked across the screens, absorbing the flood of data — project names, cryptic codenames, surveillance footage, and intercepted transmissions, some audio muted, others scrambled but timestamped.

Her fingers hovered over the keyboard as she prepared to dig deeper.

"Can I?" she asked.

Soren stepped back, nodding. "Be my guest."

She moved closer, scanning through files until one name stopped her cold: A. Saroyan. She clicked.

A grainy video feed opened. Her father stood inside a dimly lit chamber, flanked by a tall man whose face was obscured in shadow. They spoke over a schematic displayed on a flickering screen. The audio was silent, but her father's expression was tense, drawn tight with worry and urgency. The clip ended abruptly.

Her throat tightened. "When was this?"

"Two months before he died," Soren replied. "It wasn't an accident, Ayla."

Her eyes bore into his. "You knew him, and you didn't stop it?"

Soren met her gaze without flinching. "I tried. But by then, it was already set in motion. He stayed inside, knowing the risks — to buy time. Maybe for you. For this."

Silas stepped in, protective. "We're not backing down."

Ayla nodded firmly, her resolve hardening like steel forged in fire.

She glanced back at the map. "What's this node — 'MK-7'?"

Soren's face darkened further. "That's where it gets ugly. Not just a code name — it's where they're running experiments. People who never came out."

The room's atmosphere grew heavier still.

"We have to get to MK-7," Ayla said quietly but with absolute conviction. "That's where the answers lie."

Soren hesitated only a moment, then nodded. "You'll need gear — signal blockers, pulse scramblers, old tech modified to fool the grid. I'll get it ready."

As he gathered equipment from dusty shelves, Silas and Ayla stood side by side, eyes fixed on the flickering monitors.

"You good?" Silas asked quietly.

"I have to be," she said, voice steady despite the storm inside her. "This started with him. I'm finishing it."

Outside, the city carried on, unaware. But in this forgotten chamber beneath the streets, a war was quietly unfolding — and for the first time, Ayla and Silas weren't just fighting to survive. They were preparing to take the fight back.