Emergence of Elra Voss

The stench of rust and wet stone clings to the damp air as Morrow eases the corroded door shut behind them. A rusted sign, the words long lost as flaking paint, nearly swallowed by the creeping filth. The room is squat and the curved ceiling drips softly from the weight of the city above.
 
He stands still, looking for the bricks. "Extinguish the light."
 
His gloved fingers trace three bricks near the bottom of the left wall. They do not resist him. With a practiced rhythm, he pulls them free, revealing a narrow hollow carved into the wall’s guts. Inside: a faded cotton dress, wrapped tightly into a spiral. Next, the thin, grime-colored strips of cloth once used to tie back hair, old surgical wraps. Nestled in the folds of the dress — a small iron bowl, dented and soot-stained, its inner ring slick with old tallow.
 
Morrow sets it down before him on the pitted floor.
 
From his coat pocket comes his lighter, battered but the outer casing holds true, hiding the sigil within. He strikes it, but no spark is produced. The charred cloth wick hisses, and the flame takes.
 
What emerges is not orange, not yellow. Not any natural flame.
 
It is black fire — fire that devours darkness instead of casting it. The room dims, but in reverse — shadows are banished, they are consumed. Corners lose their depth. The crevices behind the rusted pipework dissolve. The room is not lit. It is cleansed of darkness, but not by light, buy otherworldly intent.
 
Behind him, a mural emerges and begins to glow.
 
Powdered bone and soot — nearly invisible in normal light— now glow coldly on the brick. A mural takes form: the image of a woman with tightly bound hair and a faint, solemn gaze. Elra Voss. Her body is sketched in vague, suggestion-like lines, as if memory itself has been scorched into place. Black chains of soot spread from her shoulders to either side — not drawn, but painted as shadow, anchoring her in place.
 
Morrow stares at her image, and the black fire’s pulse grows stronger. The air grows heavy.
 
He closes his eyes.
 
His shoulders roll forward, then pull back as his body begins to change. His spine stretches. Bones creak softly beneath his skin. The lines of his jaw soften. His neck lengthens. Hair spills downward across his face, darkening, then lightening again into strands of gold-flecked copper. His armor grows loose as his waist narrows and limbs become sinewy, lithe.
 
Within moments, Morrow is gone.
 
She opens her eyes.
 
The glow of the mural fades behind her. Elra turns to face the exhausted audience, chin held high. Her features are unmistakable now — the same as the bone-and-soot portrait behind her.
 
But when she speaks, her voice is not yet hers.
 
It is Morrow’s — deeper, resolute, strained through the transformation.
 
“Morrow is gone… for now.”
 
“Meet Elra Voss.”
 
A breath. A beat. The flicker of chain shadows behind her seem to tighten, like muscles coiling.
 
“Morrow is gone. Dead, for now… but not forgotten.”
 
“He still has a purpose.”