The rain in the mortal city of Veridia was a cold, cleansing drizzle, a stark contrast to the acidic deluges of the Pit. Raguel Depthcaller stood under the flickering neon of a '24-Hour Noodles' sign, water beading on his worn leather coat. He was the anchor, the one who kept their motley crew grounded in this world.
Inside the decrepit safehouse—a former boiler room—Cassiathon Abysswalker argued with a shimmering data-scroll.
"The location is a phantasm! Malphas was last seen in the Grey Markets, but this spectral trace reeks of the Dreadmire canals. It makes no sense."
Lilithiel Morningstar peered over her shoulder, her presence still carrying a faint, aching echo of celestial grace. She pointed a slender finger at a pulsating sigil on the scroll.
"The scroll reads soul-residue, not physical footprints. Malphas is terrified. He's jumping through thin points between planes, leaving a spiritual stain. The canals are a known weak spot."
"So we dive into the mortal sewer on a hunch?" Cassiathon scoffed, crossing her arms.
"Unless you've mastered a more elegant portal to a spectral bog, yes," Lilithiel retorted, her tone dry.
The metal door groaned open. Raguel entered, shaking the damp from his hair. His eyes, the color of a deep lagoon, scanned the room.
"I've made contact with a fence. A nervous little man named Greel. He says Malphas is desperate to buy passage off-world. He needs a specific artifact for the smuggler's fee—a Dusk Shard."
Cassiathon stood up, her crimson eyes narrowing. "A Dusk Shard? That's not just infernal currency. It's a fragment of a collapsed dimension. It's a key. What is he trying to unlock?"
"Or," Lilithiel whispered, her gaze turning distant, "what is he trying to keep locked? Razamon doesn't send hunters after mere traitors. Malphas has something. Or he knows something."
A heavy silence fell, broken only by the drip of water from a rusty pipe. This was their first real clue, their first step off the proverbial ledge.
Raguel unrolled a stained map of the city's underbelly. "The canal entrance is here, near the old refinery. We move at midnight."
As they began checking their weapons—a hellforged short sword, a pair of silvered knives, and a heavy, rune-inscribed pistol—none of them noticed the small, wet creature clinging to the high, grimy window. A familiar with skin like a hairless rat and eyes like polished obsidian watched, before silently slipping away into the rain. Its mistress would be very interested.