In the gritty streets of Kallzara, a small wayside town where light barely touches the alleys, Revan Sorna survives by his wits—and by magic long forbidden. With the help of a shadowy tome found in forgotten ruins beneath the city, Revan can summon shadows to deceive and distract, but such power comes with a price: shadows cannot be created from nothing, and his own is lazy and stubborn, testing his patience at every turn.

Revan’s partner in crime, Cassie, is a clever con artist with a talent for ice magic and a convincing lost-girl act. Together, they make a perfect team, surviving by picking pockets, pulling cons, and running from those who would see their kind dead or worse.

Tonight’s target is an easy mark: a drunken sailor leaving The Golden Pig tavern. But when Revan’s swift theft is interrupted by a brutal punch, the simple job spirals into something far more dangerous—and far more personal.

As dark secrets from the ruins threaten to surface and enemies close in, Revan and Cassie must rely on their skills, their magic, and each other to survive. But in a town where shadow magic is heresy and trust is a currency rarer than gold, survival might just mean losing everything.

Location: Archives of Iskarra — Level VII, The Veiled SanctumTime: Deep night, when even whispers hold their breath


The scholar moved swiftly but silently between endless rows of ancient tomes, their gloves tracing runes on cracked spines. The faint glow of ley-silk thread wound around their fingers like a living thing.


Above, the city slept — or pretended to. Below, the archives breathed with centuries of secrets, many better left forgotten.


Footsteps echoed far behind — soft, measured. Not the patrols, but something else. Something patient.


The scholar's eyes flicked toward a shadow slipping between pillars — impossibly thin, impossibly still.


They pressed forward, clutching the recovered pages of Thaleon's journal close to their chest.


At last, they reached a sealed vault door — black glass, etched with faded glyphs of binding.


The scholar produced a slender key of twisted ley-thread — a relic stolen long ago from a forgotten trust.


The glyphs burned blue and then vanished.


Inside: a chamber lined with mirrors — not ordinary glass, but arcane lenses that reflected not just light, but memory and intent.


The scholar set the journals on a pedestal at the chamber's center.


They began the ritual — voice low, precise — weaving ley-silk threads between the books, binding past to present.


The mirrors shimmered, revealing flickers of history:


Thaleon's final days, agony, and whispered secrets.


The traitor's fractured face, half-shadowed, eyes gleaming with cunning.


The map of the leyline, twisting and pulsing as if alive.


From the shadows, a figure emerged — a keeper of the Accord, cloaked in black and silver.


"You meddle in things beyond your reach," the figure said, voice cold.


"If we do not know the truth, how can we stop what's coming?"


"Truth has a price.And knowledge without power is a curse."


The chamber pulsed with raw magic as the mirrors ignited.


Chapter 32 - Shadows Among the Stacks