The Threshold of the Gaçe Nail
Levin walked with heavy, deliberate steps through the frost-bitten streets of Vellan. The city was a graveyard of stone and silence, but the storm within his mind refused to be quieted. Riven was a name for a dead boy in a burned-out village. He had shed that skin, adopting a new identity that tasted of iron and shadow: Levin.
Yet, names were fragile things. The weight of his history still pressed upon his narrow shoulders, a physical burden he couldn't outrun. And in the dark corners of his consciousness, the Demon's voice vibrated with a sickening, possessive glee:
"You are my masterpiece, Levin… let us see how you wield the authority I have carved into your soul."
Levin squinted against the biting wind as he approached the guild's location. His face was a battlefield of exhaustion and cold resolve. He moved alone through the labyrinthine alleys, the ancient stone buildings looming over him like silent judges, their shadows stretching long and jagged across the cobblestones.
Finally, a narrow passage opened up to a formidable structure—an old, grey-stone building guarded by a massive iron door. Above it, a faded, weather-beaten sign swung on rusted chains:
"THE NAIL OF GAÇE GUILD"
The guard at the threshold didn't move, but his eyes—sharp and predatory—never left Levin's approaching figure. "Halt. What is your name, boy?" his tone was like the snap of a whip.
"Levin," he replied, his voice flat, devoid of the fear the guard expected. "I've come… to join."
The guard scrutinized him for a long, uncomfortable minute. Levin's striking silver hair and the intensity behind his gaze were impossible to ignore—they were the marks of something not quite human. Slowly, the iron door groaned open. "Step inside. But remember this, kid: trust is a death sentence in these halls."
As Levin crossed the threshold, the internal chill hit him instantly. It wasn't just the temperature; it was the atmosphere of the place. Dim lighting, damp stone walls, and dozens of eyes—all fixed on the new arrival. Some watched with blatant disdain, others with a hungry curiosity, and a few with a subtle, predatory menace that made Levin's skin crawl.
"A new piece on the board, I see…"
A woman's voice rose from the gloom. She stepped into the faint light, her eyes sharp as glass, her long black hair cascading over a dark navy cloak.
"I am Eliana," she stated, her presence commanding immediate silence. "I am the trainer here. Tell me, boy—why has fate dragged you to our door?"
Levin lowered his head slightly, his hand unconsciously drifting toward his covered eye. "To learn control… and to find out what I am meant to be."
Eliana narrowed her eyes, her gaze seeming to peel back the layers of his lies. "Or perhaps… you are only here for the blood of your enemies. Know this, Levin: within these walls, revenge does not rule. Discipline does. If you seek only vengeance, you will find only your grave."
Before Levin could respond, a second figure emerged. He was tall, built like a fortress, with a jagged scar bisecting his face. He looked Levin over with a mocking, cruel grin. "If the cub wants to stay… he must survive the initiation first. No free meals here."
Levin's mind flickered to the flames of his past, a surge of familiar anger heating his blood. But he drew a deep, cooling breath, suppressing the Demon's urge to lash out. "Whatever the test… I am ready," he said, his voice ringing with a hard, unbreakable determination.
And deep within the abyss of his soul, the Demon whispered once more, a sound like dry leaves skittering on a tombstone: "Good… the darkness is your only true cloak now. Let us see how long you can dance in its embrace…"