The midday sun warms the cobblestone streets of Ansmery, intensifying the city's clamour. I keep my focus ahead, drawn by the promise of something extraordinary unfolding in the square—a chance, perhaps, to edge closer to the power I seek. The scents of fried eels and baking cumin bread tease my nose as I dart past bustling vendors, their calls half-lost behind the sharper tang of river-tar still lingering after the last storm. Gulls shriek overhead, circling the statue of old Saint Edvora; her outstretched hand dangles the city's lucky bell, a silent plea for fortune that seems meant for everyone but me. Bodies press close as I force my way through the gathering crowd, dodging those with sashes of every color—guilds on parade for some spectacle. Somewhere, a merchant rings a chime again and again, summoning luck for those about to gamble on blood and steel. My steps quicken, pulse drumming in time with the crowd's anticipation. All eyes fix on the center, where a well-dressed nobleman in a cloak embroidered with the golden seal of the Sweetwater Bankers faces off against a grim city guard captain, his hand tight around the hilt of a bright silver sword.
"Last chance to retract your accusation, Captain Darius!" the nobleman calls out, twirling his blade with practiced flourish. "Or meet me in a proper duel!"
I maneuver to a new gap in the crowd, staking out just enough space to see both men clearly. I focus my gaze on the nobleman, who wears a smirk of arrogant confidence, his rapier glinting in the sunlight. Captain Darius, though older and in worn leather armour, stands firm, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, his gaze unwavering as he faces down his opponent. A tense silence falls over the square as the crowd watches with bated breath.
"Very well, Captain," the nobleman sneers, lowering himself into a traditional duelling stance. "If you insist on defending those lies, you'll do so with steel!"
Captain Darius draws his blade, the sound ringing through the air. "For the good of Ansmery, Lord Marco, I will."
I glance to my left, where a woman stands, arms folded, eyes never leaving the center of the square. "Excuse me, my friend," I murmur, "but what exactly is this all about?"
She sighs, just a flicker of irritation crossing her face. "Lord Marco," she whispers, her voice tight with disdain, "has been shaking down the merchants, claiming they owe him half their earnings as 'import fees.' Captain Darius had the nerve to arrest one of Marco's collectors. Now here we are." She glances back, jaw clenched.
The fight explodes into motion—Marco lunges forward. In one swift motion, flashing his rapier, he aimed directly for Darius' chest. The captain, surprisingly agile for his age, parries the blow with a decisive flick of his sword. Not even the clang of metal is heard—only the soft whisper of smooth steel sliding across the blades. Undeterred, Marco presses his attack: a flurry of thrusts and feints, each met by Darius' steady defence. The crowd collectively holds its breath, their once-drowning murmurs now silenced by the rhythmic clash of blades. Darius, the experienced fighter, remains on defence. He watches his opponent with a shrewd squint, searching for an opening.
In the midst of the action, with the crowd's attention locked on the fight, I slip away, vanishing into the maze of Ansmery's streets. The sounds of combat fade behind me, replaced by the familiar chaos of the market. The scent of fresh bread from the bakeries mingles with the faint aroma of horse dung and distant cooking fires.
My mind, now free from the spectacle of the duel, focuses on more pressing matters. There is business to attend—a lead whispered about in the market, one that could put me back on the trail of the magic I seek, and perhaps a partner reckless enough to help me claim it, and the taverns of Ansmery, full of sharp tongues and looser morals, are the best place to find it. Passing busy market stalls, tailor shops with colourful fabrics, and the occasional blacksmith's forge. Before long, the faint scent of ale begins to guide me. Several taverns line the cobbled thoroughfare, their weathered signs promising respite and drink.
Continuing forward, passing the ostentatious taverns with purposeful strides, ignoring the polished signs and cheerful patrons. Finally, tucked away in a shadowed alley between a fishmonger and a dilapidated warehouse. Strides come to a complete halt below 'The Last Hornet.' The sign—depicting an orc hoisting a tankard of ale—hangs crookedly from a single rusty chain. The windows are grimy, and the building's wood groans under years of neglect. A strong, distinct odour pours from the doorway as I pull it open. The air inside is thick, clinging to clothes and hair. Tables and benches scatter across the uneven wooden floor, many scarred with knife marks or missing chunks.
Glancing around for only a moment, careful not to break stride as I walk toward the barman, I examine the patrons. In one corner, a lanky bard strums an off-key tune on a battered lute. My gaze sweeps past huddled figures with suspicious eyes nursing cheap drinks, their faces etched with hard living. A burly man with a scar running across his eyebrow arm-wrestles a wiry, quick-eyed woman. But for a second longer, my eyes settle on a shadowy booth, where two cloaked figures whisper conspiratorially over a stained and crumpled piece of paper. I make my way to the stained and dirty counter, where a burly, balding barkeep with a perpetually unimpressed expression wipes a mug with a damp cloth.
"Three ales, good sir," gesturing vaguely.
With a grunt, the barkeep places three chipped tankards on the counter. Before pouring, he growls, "Your kind don't usually come around here." Then a murky liquid that smells strongly of fermented grains drains from the taps and into the tankards.
I drop three bronze coins onto the counter and grip two tankards in one hand, the third in the other. "Well, barkeep, thanks for the compliment," I say with a sly smirk before I walk off.
They could leave any second. My eyes darted to the cloaked figures—one already shifting restlessly, fingers drumming on the table. If I hesitate, the parchment will vanish with them into Ansmery's labyrinth, lost for good. I cannot afford to wait; I couldn't hunt for help elsewhere. Whoever I found now would have to do. He spotted her, sharp and watchful, she alone could do. It was now or never. A gamble.
Lingering in the shadows near the tavern's cracked window, watching the crowd swirl around the arm wrestlers. A sign of someone with the right mix of nerve and discretion. Ansmery was full of thieves, but most were too loud or too loyal to the wrong people. This woman—sharp-eyed, wary, hands always close to the knife at her belt—moved like someone who knew how to disappear.
I didn't like trusting strangers. Paid the price for that before. But in a city where every friend came with a knife and every favour bore a cost, what choice did I have? No crew, no leverage, and time was running thin. Hungry, maybe, but not desperate enough to be sloppy. It was a risk—maybe a foolish one. But the alternative was going in alone. Sometimes, surviving meant gambling on the unknown.
I took a steadying breath, squared my shoulders, and stepped toward her table. If she were the wrong choice, he'd know soon enough.
With drinks in hand, I navigate the small, crowded room toward the grunting and straining pair. The burly man's face is red with effort, veins bulging in his neck. The woman, though smaller, holds her ground with surprising strength, a cocky smile playing on her lips. I approach the two arm-wrestlers, a smirk gracing my features, three tankards clutched in hand.
"Clearly, the lady's got you beat!" I announce, voice cutting through the tavern's din.
The burly man, grunting with effort and exhaustion, his face contorted, snaps back: "Watch your tongue, pretty boy!" His arm trembles under the woman's steady pressure.
The woman, however, lets out a short, sharp laugh, her eyes showing a hint of amusement as she maintains her grip. With a final, explosive surge of power, she slams the man's hand down onto the table with a resounding thud. A cheer erupts from the handful of onlookers. The man lets out a frustrated roar, now turning to me. Before he can scream—or worse—I offer him one of the three tankards of ale.
Then, I turned my attention to the woman. "Well fought, lass," I say, raising my tankard in salute. "Quite a display of strength. You seem like a capable woman who can handle herself. Allow me the pleasure to introduce myself, I am Leo, of the far countries that lie westward of here."
"Arael." She raises an eyebrow at this, a slow, appraising smirk spreading across her face as she takes a long, deliberate swig from the tankard I offered her. She wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, then eyes me up and down. "What do you want, pretty boy?" Tone half amused, half warning.
I let my sight flick to the shadowy booth for just a heartbeat, then back. I keep my voice low. "Opportunity. Well, I offer such, something worth more than a purse of silver. I simply need a partner, someone, say, with a strong arm."
She scoffs, a cynical glint in her eyes. "Last time someone offered me an 'opportunity in this hovel, it involved guarding a wagon of mouldy turnips. And no offense pretty boy, but I don't trust you, nor do I like you. So, unless your mission involves buying another round, I'm not interested. Get lost, nobleman."
"Look there," I nod subtly toward the shadowy booth where the cloaked figures huddle over paper, keeping their voices low. "Those two poring over that worn map." I lean closer. "They're holding something precious—something far more significant than they could ever comprehend. Their eyes are blind to its true power." The woman's keen gaze follows mine, lingering on the cloaked figures for a moment before returning to mine, her expression a mix of skepticism and faint curiosity.
The woman turns fully to me and asks in a sarcastic tone, "What kind of 'power' are we whispering about here, huh stranger? What makes you think I'd be interested in helping you relieve them of their old piece of paper?" she studies me for a long moment, and I can almost see the calculations behind her eyes—the risk assessment of the cloaked men, the debts she owes, the way hope has teeth when you're desperate enough to take a bite.
I lean closer, my voice low and compelling. "Magic far more ancient than this realm itself," I whisper, gesturing subtly toward the cloaked figures. "A name once lost to the mists of time, yet its energy lingers—a silent call to those who truly know what they seek, often overlooked. Those cloaked men? They don't know. But you..." I pause, my gaze intense. "You're a woman often overlooked, aren't you? Judged by fleeting glances and shallow expectations. This ancient magic is the same. Don't you crave to be great? To be known, even feared by some?" Her eyes narrow slightly.
"Hold on, pretty boy," she retorts, her voice dripping with dry sarcasm that cuts through my dramatic tone. "I've heard tales of greatness before. They don't pay for tomorrow's meals. You're talking in riddles and ambition. What's your stake in this 'ancient magic'?" Her eyes dart between me and the shadowy booth, assessing.
Meeting her gaze, my eyes reflected a deep, almost desperate conviction. "Knowledge," I state, my voice losing its theatrical flourish, replaced by raw earnestness. "The ancient magic contains the power to shape and remould the very fabric of the universe. As for my stake… I seek control—the power to remould this kingdom, this country." The final words hang in the air. "I was banished, and I seek to force myself back."
She studies my face for a long moment, then slowly nods. "Ambitious. Or maybe crazy." Her gaze flicks once more to the booth. "If there's even a sliver of truth to what you're saying, then those two fools are sitting on a powder keg. Tell me—what exactly is this item you somehow know so much about, and what's your plan to relieve them of it?"
With subtle urgency, I gesture toward the parchment. "Look closely now! And with intention, if you wish to know what this piece of paper is." I instruct, "and you might see it, the faint, almost imperceptible glow of arcane energy radiating from the paper. This page is inscribed with words of power, far beyond the strength of common cantrips." She leans forward, her eyes narrowing as she focuses on the distant booth. In a smooth motion, I lightly touch her shoulder and pour my arcane energy into her, a soft energy like a whisper someone must be accepting to hear. "I'm forming a bond between us. You'll be able to see what I do." In that instant, slow dawning comprehension spreads across her face.
"By the gods…" she breathes, a hint of awe in her voice. "I… I think I see it. A faint shimmer, like heat rising from parchment, but it's cold, isn't it? Like starlight trapped on paper." Her gaze hardens, now convinced of the target's value. "Alright, you've got my attention. If you're wrong about this, I walk. No questions. No debts. What's the plan?"
"I create a distraction—a big one. So big the town guard will even notice this rotten tavern. That's when you sneak in and, if you must, use some force to snatch the scroll." I flash a sly smile. "After, we meet at the brothel only a block away." My expression shifts. "Fail, and we may never see the scroll again. We have this one chance."
"A big one, you say?" she echoes, a glint of daring in her eyes. "Alright, pretty boy. Just make sure it's worth it." She takes a deep breath, bracing herself.
With a wild, guttural roar that rips through the smoky air of the Last Hornet, I launch a chair high into the air, following it with a carefully aimed kick to one of the rickety tables. Splinters fly as the table collapses and the chair hits its random target. Drinks, patrons, and half-eaten food scatter everywhere. Before anyone can fully react, I hit the man standing nearest behind me, then duck fast enough to redirect his attention to another patron. In the growing cacophony of chaos, Arael slips effortlessly through the crowd as if swimming through a steady stream. The lanky bard yelps as his lute is swatted from his hands. The entire tavern erupts into a proper brawl, people shouting and cursing as fists fly in every direction. Amidst the pandemonium, I spot Arael sprinting toward the table. I scramble and shove my way through the crowd, dodging between yelling faces and wild punches. A stray elbow catches my side, but I use the momentum to propel myself through the sagging door of the Last Hornet.
··
The brawl erupted, chaos blooming in every corner of the tavern. Leo's voice was lost in the uproar, and for a heartbeat, Arael hesitated at the edge of the fray. This was madness. She'd pulled dozens of jobs, but none alongside a silver-tongued stranger chasing after old magic. Her instincts screamed to walk away, to let the city swallow up Leo's reckless dreams. But the promise of what was hidden in that scroll—power, perhaps a way out—pressed her forward.
A fist whistled past her cheek, knuckles grazing her skin. She ducked, weaving through the swirling tangle of bodies. The air was thick with sweat, ale, and fear. At any moment, someone could grab her, pin her, unmask her as the thief she was. Arael's breath came fast, her heart hammering against her ribs. What if Leo was wrong about the parchment? What if this was nothing but a fool's errand—one that would end with her broken and forgotten in a gutter?
She clenched her jaw, forcing herself to move. The two cloaked figures were still at their table, trying to melt into the shadows. She watched their hands—one clutching the scroll, the other searching beneath a cloak for a weapon. Timing was everything. She feinted left, nearly colliding with a staggering sailor, then spun right, dropping low to avoid a flying mug. She felt the thrum of danger at her back, each step a gamble.
Arael's doubts flickered again. She'd relied on herself for years; trusting Leo, even for a moment, felt like tempting fate. But the scroll was there, within reach, and the city's chaos was a cover she might never get again.
She lunged, swift and silent. Her hand darted beneath the cloak, closing around the parchment. The figure snarled, twisting to grab her, but she wrenched free, driving her elbow hard into his ribs. A table overturned, sending coins and cards scattering. She ducked beneath swinging arms, pulse roaring in her ears. The parchment was hers now.
A roar behind her stopped her cold. One of the cloaked figures staggered upright, arm raised. Words poured from his lips, guttural and sharp, as fire flickered to life in his palm. The heat washed over the room, casting wild shadows across the chaos. For one breathless moment, Arael locked eyes with the sorcerer—fear and fury burning in his gaze.
She dove beneath a swinging fist as the spell flared, flames licking across the tabletop where she'd just stood. The crowd howled and scattered. Clutching the stolen scroll, Arael dashed for the exit, the heat at her back and the taste of danger sharp in her mouth. She didn't look back. Slipping through a gap in the crowd, the noise of the fight fading behind her. As she left the tavern's smoky haze for the cool night air, doubt still trailed her like a shadow—but in her hand, the scroll was solid and real, proof that sometimes, you had to leap before you looked.
··
Bursting through, I find the street relatively calm—only a muffled roar echoes from within the tavern. I quickly make my way onto the main street. The air here is clearer, though the distant clamour of my chaos draws odd glances from passersby. I navigate the winding, cobbled streets with purpose.
A block away, as promised, stands the more reputable Velvet Embrace. Pushing through the doors, the scent of lavender and cheap perfume sharply strikes my nose. A plump woman with an overly painted smile—presumably the madam—greets me.
"I wish for a simple room, madam," I request, trying to sound composed.
The madam nods and turns away, studying the rack of keys behind her. Without turning back, she says, "A man like yourself deserves something bigger, maybe more extravagant." She spins elegantly to face me. "Would you like me to send you company?" She winks. "We have a great variety—anything for a man of finer tastes."
"Not for tonight, maybe another. But I will be expecting a guest. A burly woman with stark red hair. Send her to my room, will you?"
"There's no outside food allowed here, Hun." An unimpressed expression crosses her face.
"A companion from long travels, but believe me—we'll both order from your services later in the night." A sly, convincing smirk crosses my lips as I hold the keeper's gaze.
She slides the key across the counter. "I'll send the next woman who stumbles in." My hand grips the heavy brass key, and I follow a woman wearing thinly laced clothes to my newly rented chambers.
The small room is dimly lit by a row of candles surrounding the bedding on the floor, casting dancing shadows across the floral wallpaper. The air is warm, thick with sweat and perfume. I lower myself to my knees, adjusting onto the surprisingly comfortable bedding. As I settle, my gaze fixes on the closed door. Minutes stretch into an agonizing eternity. My mind races, replaying the tavern scene. Was the distraction enough? Did she succeed or rob me? Was trusting this random woman worth the risk? Did I convince her to partner with me, or simply give her a new target? The thought of the ancient page being within my grasp feels so close yet so far, completely relying on the barwoman, Arael.
My mind focuses again on the scroll—knowledge that could unravel the very mysteries of life and death. It gnaws at me. The power to reclaim what was lost, to defy the finality of the grave. A soft click of the door latch breaks the silence and my thoughts, followed by the faint rustle of fabric. The door creaks open, revealing the silhouette of a woman. Arael. She steps inside, her eyes gleaming in lamplight, a triumphant, almost feral grin spreading across her face. In one hand, she holds a familiar, rolled-up bundle of yellowed, aged parchment.
My eyes sweep over her. Her wild, dark red hair is slightly dishevelled, a smudge of soot near her temple suggesting a close encounter. Her leather jerkin, though scuffed, still clings to her wiry, muscular frame. A triumphant, almost mischievous glint dances in her sharp green eyes, and the corners of her mouth are still upturned in that predatory grin. She looks exhilarated, a flush high on her cheeks.
I smile, replacing the earlier intensity, and extend an arm to her, inviting her further into the room where I lie on the bed below. Arael examines the space, taking in each detail of the small, intimate room. Then her gaze falls onto me, lying on my side atop a rose-colored sheet. She laughs and chuckles at the image of me sprawled on the bed.
With the cast of judgment, I feel coming off her, I stretch my arm out. "And those pages, if you please."
She assesses my outstretched hand. Then, with a flick of her wrist, she tosses the rolled parchment into my waiting palm. It feels cold to the touch. Though old and surprisingly soft, the paper holds itself resiliently. A humming—faint, subtle—sings silently from within, small amounts of arcane energy emanating from the bound scroll. Arael, arms crossed, watches, a knowing smile playing on her lips. "Well, ancient power?" she questions. "Show me, pretty boy." A soft demand.
Carefully, I unroll the parchment, fingers trembling slightly with anticipation. Arael flinches, as if expecting a blinding flash or a surge of raw power, but instead the ancient paper seems to absorb the dim candlelit light.
"Death, Arael, is a cruel god. They steal and rob the souls of all that is living. They would not make obtaining this power any easier." I murmur, my voice thick with an ancient rage, my eyes still fixated on the script. "How did you fare acquiring this?"
"Oh, it was glorious, pretty! The whole tavern turned into a maelstrom. Those two fools got so caught up in the brawl and securing the scroll that they didn't see me rushing them. The scroll was simply liberated." She pointed toward her jaw and the cut mark that lined it. "The taller one landed a quick shot on me, though—a knee from the other. But I brushed those off easily. The only scary moment was when one started drawing circles of flames in the air. Once I noticed that, I was gone. And we all know mages—they lack stamina. I lost them half a block from here." A satisfied smirk spread across her face.
"They didn't follow you here, did they? Arcane users can be tricky when it comes to cloaking themselves."
"Not possible," she replied sharply.
"I hope so." Through the entire conversation, my eyes never left the scroll's page. The power hidden behind those complex runes—each more complicated than the last—was a tantalizing riddle. I extended my hands in the air, a crazed thought taking hold, and began weaving intricate patterns. Faint, almost ethereal wisps of arcane energy coalesced between my fingertips. "The old magic works like a puzzle, Arael," I explained, my voice strained with concentration. "To unlock it, one must possess a deep understanding of the arcane and take a little risk."
"And how does one become so wise as yourself?" she joked.
"You see, I'm from a faraway land across the sea, where magic is commonplace compared to this muscle-powered, barbaric place. I studied the old texts at the most ancient school there." With a sly smirk, I looked at her. "Some would say I was a prodigy. Hated me for it."
Focusing back on the floating runes between my hands, the air crackles around them. A low hum vibrates through the floorboards. I steel my focus harder despite the rising build-up of magical energy. Lightning strikes of pure arcane energy bolt across me as I attempt to pull at the runes and fix them into the puzzle before me. But instead of the solid click of a puzzle falling into place, the ethereal wisps and energy flicker violently, contracting and expanding like an erratic heartbeat. The faint glow from the page intensifies for a brief, blinding moment, then sputters, plunging the room into a deeper gloom than before—though no light source was changed. A sharp, rotten smell briefly fills the air. A cold draft sweeps through the room, even with the window closed. Whispers surround me, not speaking the language of the common tongue, but something ancient. They mock me. I freeze, a knot of frustration and unease tightening in my gut.
Arael watches, her brow furrowed. For her, the room remained the same—she'd only seen the disappearance of the runes in the air. "Well, I assume that's not how it's supposed to go. Didn't go to plan, did it, pretty boy?" she remarks dryly. Thinking carefully whether this is a con or not, she slowly moves to put her hand on the hilt of her dagger.
I let out an exhausted breath, but before I can answer Arael's blunt assessment, a horrifying chill races up my right arm. I watch, mesmerized and horrified, as the flesh on my outstretched hand shrivels and peels away—not with pain, but with an unsettling absence. A sudden rush of terror and shame stabs through my mind: Am I losing myself already? Is this the price for reaching too far? In seconds, my hand becomes bleached bone, perfectly articulated yet devoid of life. It remains connected, however, moving as if the muscles were phantoms, a macabre puppet of my will.
Turning my skeletal hand slowly, I say, "I heard it," unsure if Arael heard the same. "The whispers of death, warnings of spirits, mocking me." I turn to Arael, skeleton hand presented toward her. "They say the more I seek to decipher, the more I will lose with each failed attempt."
A fierce determination hardens my gaze, my eyes burning with resolve. "I will not surrender to the forces of God."
I raise both hands—one living, one bone—and with renewed focus, begin to trace the intricate patterns of magic once more. This time, the mystical energies and wisps follow the command of my thought, forming glowing halos around my hands. The arcane script on the parchment flares with a soft internal light, and the air grows heavy, charged with ancient power. A chorus of faint, ethereal whispers fills the room, a cacophony of ancient voices.
A profound surge of understanding floods my consciousness, threatening to overwhelm me. The room, already dim, recedes further into shadow. The glow emanating from the parchment casts my skeletal hand in sharp, eerie relief. Ancient words unfurl themselves. A torrent of raw experiences rushes into my being, intelligence and wisdom expanding within me, almost bursting my very skull.
My body, no longer bound by earthly weight, lifts from the ground, suspended by arcane energy emanating from within. The small room dissolves around me, its walls and furniture fading into an infinite expanse. Before me stretches a dimension of swirling stars and nascent galaxies, a cosmic river where souls, like glittering motes of light, flow toward the center—an ocean. I stand amidst this sublime, terrifying panorama, a solitary witness, the judge of the cosmos.