Rain slicked the cobblestones of Tareth, turning the cramped alleys into rivers of silver under the faint lanternlight. John kept his thin cloak tight as he slipped through the deserted streets, his steps quick and quiet. Thirty winters had made him cautious, but years of scraping by on the city's edge had made him sharper still. Tonight, though, he was stepping into unknown territory.
This was because of Marro — the blind beggar who seemed to see farther than anyone with eyes.The words had echoed in John's mind all day. Now, standing at the edge of the abandoned Old Market Square, they felt less like a riddle and more like a summons. Market stalls, lively with traders just hours ago, stood shuttered and lifeless. The wind was the only voice here.
At the far end loomed the blackened clock tower, its hands forever frozen. Folks in Tareth called it cursed; John called it a lead. He pressed his palm to the damp stone, tracing its rough surface until his fingers found a faint seam. A hidden door swung inward with a low groan, breathing out cold, dusty air.
Inside, darkness closed around him. He struck flint to light the stub of a candle he carried, revealing a narrow spiral staircase falling away into shadow. Each creak of the old steps sent whispers rebounding off the stone walls. The smell of earth deepened as he descended.
At the bottom lay a small chamber. Empty — except for a pedestal of black marble in the center.
Upon it rested a book.
Its leather cover was darker than midnight, patterned with shifting gold runes that seemed to move if he stared too long. He reached out, fingers brushing the surface. Warm — disturbingly so, as though it had been sitting in the sun. When he lifted it, the strangest thing happened: he felt a faint, steady heartbeat pulsing through its weight.
He opened the book.
The candle's glow flared wider, flooding the room with warm light. On the first page, letters formed by themselves in molten gold script:A chill crawled up John's spine.
Then — a sound. The hidden door above slammed hard. Slow, deliberate footsteps began to descend, metal scraping against stone.
John's grip on the book tightened. Whoever it was, they were coming for it.
He scanned the chamber for another way out as the candle sputtered violently… and died. The room fell into perfect darkness, leaving only two sounds: the echo of approaching steps — and the heartbeat of the strange book, now matching his own.