Zaryab Hunts Your Awe

Your hand closes around the heavy copper latch, and the metal bites back with a sudden, icy sting that needles through your pores. The surface is abrasive, etched with spiraling filigree that mimics the relentless churning of the gears deep within the city’s gut. But it isn't the pain that rattles your nerves—it is the hollow silence that follows it. You cast a wary glance at the rotting floorboards, expecting the rhythmic dance of the lanterns to throw your shadow across the wood. Instead, you find only a pale, grey smudge. It shivers at the edges, translucent as ink spilled into turbulent water. Your shadow is no longer a solid thing; it is losing mass, drifting away like smoke that refuses to settle. Terror doesn't arrive as a scream in your chest. It comes as a slow, numbing frost that starts at the fingertips touching the copper and creeps toward your wrist, turning your perception of the world into a blurred hallucination. 'It’s started, hasn’t it? The Erosion.' The voice is ragged, heavy with a muffled despair, coming from the shadowed corner of the room. You turn slowly, heart hammering against your ribs, to find Talia perched atop a heap of rusted cogs and discarded sc…