The shop with the red eye sign was tucked away in a narrow alley, its entrance partially concealed by hanging cloths that shifted in the night breeze. No light showed from within, and Ithor might have thought it closed if not for the faint scent of incense and herbs that wafted from behind the concealing fabrics.
He approached cautiously, senses alert for any sign of another trap. But his instincts — and the lingering presence of Faaron's spirit — detected no immediate danger. Still, he kept one hand near his knife as he pushed aside the hanging cloths and entered.
The interior was dimly lit by a single oil lamp that cast more shadows than illumination. Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars, boxes, and bundles of dried plants. The air was thick with the mingled scents of exotic substances, some pleasant, others acrid or musty.
At the center of the small space stood a table covered in a dark cloth, with two chairs positioned on opposite sides.
One of these chairs was occupied by a figure that Ithor initially mistook for a statue — so still and silent was its posture. But as his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he realized it was an elderly Sangor, their dark skin covered in ritual tattoos that seemed to shift and move in the flickering lamplight.
"I have been expecting you, hunter without a tribe," the elder said, their voice surprisingly strong despite their apparent age. "The one who seeks the woman who broke his bond."
Ithor tensed, hand moving to his knife. "How do you know who I am or what I seek?"
The elder smiled, revealing teeth filed to points in the traditional Sangor manner. "Information is my trade, as blood is my magic. I know many things about many people. Especially those who ask questions about matters best left undisturbed."
"Like the true nature of the Dome?" Ithor challenged. "Like the entity called the First?"
"Precisely such matters," the elder agreed, gesturing to the empty chair. "Sit. If you have found your way to me, you have earned at least the courtesy of conversation."
Ithor hesitated, then took the offered seat, though he remained poised for quick movement if necessary. "I was told you possess knowledge about the factions that dispute the Dome's purpose. About the Lady of Shadows and her agents."
"I possess many kinds of knowledge," the elder said, neither confirming nor denying. "The question is, what will you offer in exchange for what you seek?"
"I have little of value," Ithor admitted. "Some coin. Information of my own, perhaps, though I suspect you already know most of what I could tell you."
The elder studied him with eyes that seemed to see beyond physical appearance. "You have something of great value, though you may not realize it. The broken bond that still connects you to your Anirû companion, even beyond death. Such a thing is... unprecedented. Fascinating."
Ithor stiffened. "How could you possibly know about that?"
"As I said, blood is my magic," the elder replied cryptically. "And all magic, at its core, is about connections — between energies, between realms, between souls. Your connection to your wolf is unusual, powerful despite being severed. It marks you as... significant."
"Significant how?" Ithor demanded, uncomfortable with the elder's penetrating gaze and seemingly impossible knowledge.
"That remains to be seen," the elder said. "But I will tell you this: the factions you ask about are ancient, their dispute as old as the Dome itself. Some serve older interests than they know."
"Older interests?"
"The seven races believe themselves to be the original inhabitants of Inhevaen, with perhaps the First predating them. But there are... whispers. Suggestions in the oldest texts that other consciousnesses existed before even the First. Watchers. Observers. Entities that may still take interest in our world and its fate."
Ithor frowned, trying to make sense of this. "Are you saying there's something beyond even the Dome? Beyond the First?"
"I am saying that reality is more complex than most comprehend," the elder replied. "The Lady of Shadows believes she serves the cause of liberation — freeing the First to elevate all races. Her opponents, the Guardians of Balance, believe they protect Inhevaen by maintaining the First's prison. Both may be pawns in a game whose true players remain hidden."
This was a disturbing thought, suggesting layers of manipulation beyond what Ithor had imagined. "And Nora? Where does she fit in this game?"
"Ah, the Weaver," the elder said, using a title Ithor hadn't heard before. "She is the Lady's most effective agent, gifted with unusual abilities even for a Verithil."
"Verithil?" Ithor interrupted, surprised. "She appeared human to me, with no Verithil characteristics."
The elder's smile widened. "That is her gift. The ability to alter her appearance, to seem unremarkable and forgettable. It makes her the perfect infiltrator, manipulator, recruiter. She has many faces, many names. Nora is but one of them."
This explained how she had gained access to Naruun settlements despite the tribe's wariness of outsiders. How she had established herself as a trusted trader over time, building the foundation for her eventual betrayal of Ithor.
"Where can I find her?" Ithor asked, the familiar cold rage building in his chest.
"Currently? I do not know," the elder admitted. "But I know she has been tasked with a mission of great importance to the Lady's cause. She seeks three individuals who are central to the coming changes — the Bearer, the Word, and the Broken Bond."
Ithor frowned. "What does that mean? What are these titles?"
"According to the oldest prophecies, when the Dome begins to fail — as it is now, with Dead Zones proliferating — three individuals will emerge who will determine the outcome of the cycle. The Bearer, who can channel the Dome's energy directly. The Word, who can translate the First's communications. And the Broken Bond, who can bridge the gap between realms."
A chill ran down Ithor's spine at the last title. The Broken Bond. Could that refer to his severed yet persistent connection with Faaron?
"These three," the elder continued, "will either strengthen the prison, ensuring the First remains contained for another cycle, or they will break it completely, freeing what lies beyond. The choice will be theirs to make, when they come together."
"And Nora — the Weaver — is hunting these individuals?" Ithor asked.
"Hunting, recruiting, manipulating — whatever serves her purpose," the elder confirmed. "The Lady of Shadows believes that if she can control these three, she can ensure the outcome favors liberation rather than continued imprisonment."
Ithor absorbed this information slowly, its implications unfolding in his mind. If he was indeed the Broken Bond mentioned in these prophecies, then Nora's interest in him three years ago took on new significance. Perhaps she hadn't simply been using him as a convenient guide through Naruun territory. Perhaps she had recognized something in him — some potential connection to these greater events.
"You believe I am this Broken Bond," he said, making it a statement rather than a question.
The elder inclined their head slightly. "The signs suggest it. Your bond with your Anirû companion was severed, yet something remains — a connection that transcends normal understanding. And you have been drawn into these events, despite your best efforts to remain focused solely on personal vengeance."
"If that's true," Ithor said slowly, "then who are the other two? The Bearer and the Word?"
"That I cannot say with certainty," the elder replied. "But there are rumors. Whispers of an Olkhar prince who manifested all seven gifts during his Awakening ceremony — an unprecedented event that suggests a direct connection to the Dome itself. And of a Sylarei researcher who can hear and interpret corrupted runic patterns in Dead Zones — communications that may originate from the First."
"Where would I find them?" Ithor pressed, sensing that these individuals might be key not just to understanding the greater conflict, but to his personal quest for justice.
The elder reached beneath the table and withdrew a small object — a crystal amulet that glowed with a faint blue light similar to the fragment Nora had used to manipulate Ithor years ago. Seeing his wary expression, the elder chuckled.
"Fear not. This is not meant to control you, but to guide you. It will resonate with the energies of the other two when you are near them." They placed the amulet on the table between them. "Consider it payment for the fascinating opportunity to observe your broken bond."
Ithor eyed the crystal suspiciously. "Why would you help me? What do you gain?"
"I serve older interests," the elder said enigmatically, echoing their earlier statement. "Interests that favor balance and choice over predetermined outcomes. The three must meet, must face the truth together, and must make their choice freely — not manipulated by the Lady of Shadows or anyone else."
It wasn't a complete answer, but Ithor sensed it was all he would get. He reached for the crystal amulet, half-expecting to feel the same compulsion that had overwhelmed him when exposed to Nora's fragment. But this crystal felt different—cool to the touch, with a gentle vibration that was almost soothing rather than controlling.
"There is one more thing you should know," the elder said as Ithor tucked the amulet into a secure pocket. "The cycle is accelerating. Dead Zones are forming more frequently, in places they never appeared before. The Dome's song is changing, becoming more urgent. Whatever choice awaits the three of you, it may come sooner than anyone expects."
"How soon?" Ithor asked.
The elder's expression grew grave. "Days, perhaps. Weeks at most. The signs are clear to those who know how to read them. The Dome fractures. The silence ends. The three shall meet where shadows fall."
The phrasing sent another chill through Ithor. It sounded like a prophecy or prediction, yet it was delivered with the certainty of established fact.
"Where should I go?" he asked, feeling suddenly that his years of aimless hunting were about to give way to a more directed purpose. "Where do I begin looking for these others?"
"Follow the crystal's guidance," the elder advised. "And perhaps begin in Olkaris, the capital of the Olkhar. If the rumors of the Bearer are true, that is where you will find the first of your companions."
Ithor nodded, rising from his chair. He had much to consider, much to plan. Olkaris was several days' journey from Esh-Tahar, through territories he had never explored. And as an exile, a man without tribe or official standing, he would face challenges simply entering the Olkhar capital.
But for the first time in three years, he felt something beyond rage and grief driving him forward. A purpose, a direction, a sense that his suffering might have meaning beyond personal tragedy.
"Thank you for the information," he said formally. "And for the crystal."
The elder inclined their head again. "We serve different masters, hunter without a tribe, but in this moment, our purposes align. Go with awareness. The path ahead holds both danger and possibility."
As Ithor turned to leave, the elder spoke once more: "And remember — the bond may be broken, but it is not gone. In the days to come, that connection may prove more important than you can imagine."
With those cryptic words echoing in his mind, Ithor stepped back into the night-shrouded streets of Esh-Tahar. He touched the crystal amulet in his pocket, then the broken fang around his neck, feeling the faint warmth of Faaron's lingering presence.
"We have a new hunt, brother-soul," he murmured. "And this time, we're not just the hunters. We're also the quarry."
There was no verbal response, but Ithor felt a surge of determination and readiness that mirrored his own. Whatever lay ahead — whatever role he was meant to play as the Broken Bond — he would face it as he had faced everything since that night three years ago: with the memory of Faaron beside him, driving him forward.
The wolf without a pack had found a new purpose. And perhaps, just perhaps, a path to redemption.