The next dawn came slow and sullen, pale light seeping through the grime-streaked windows of the loft I had rented above a shuttered bakery. The air inside was stale, heavy with the scent of old flour and damp wood, a reminder of the life this place had once held before it fell silent. I had not returned to my old rooms. Whatever fragments of safety they had once offered were gone the moment the guild clerk wrote my name in their ledgers of the condemned—ink drying on parchment like a sentence carved in stone. I was no longer welcome in the world of daylight and honest trade, though the city beyond my window carried on as if nothing had changed.
I watched the street below through the warped glass, its bubbles and flaws distorting the scene into something faintly unreal. Two men haggled over a cartload of firewood, their voices sharp and clipped, rising like sparks against the cold morning air. A stray dog nosed through the slush for scraps, its ribs stark against matted fur, a silent testament to survival in Orison's unforgiving sprawl. Life went on—unconcerned that, somewhere behind the facades of respectable trade, I had become something else. Not a merchant. Not yet an outlaw. Something in between, suspended in a gray space where the rules of guild and law no longer held sway, and the weight of my choices pressed against me like a second skin.
---
At second bell, a knock came—soft, deliberate, cutting through the quiet like a blade. I opened the door to find the narrow-faced man who had first admitted me to the hidden storeroom in Hallowmere. His eyes were cold and unreadable, set deep in a face carved by years of shadow and suspicion. He wore no mark of rank, but the way he stood—still, expectant—spoke of authority earned, not bestowed.
"Come," he said simply. "It's time."
I followed without a word, my boots crunching on the frost that clung to the cobblestones. The route twisted through lanes I had never walked—alleys so tight the eaves nearly met overhead, casting the world into a perpetual dusk. In the daylight, Hallowmere revealed a thousand small industries no guild would acknowledge: dye pits steaming in hidden courtyards, their acrid stench clawing at my throat; makeshift kilns for firing contraband ceramics, the heat shimmering in waves; brewers stirring vats of syrupy liquid that smelled faintly of rot and spice, their faces glistening with sweat in the chill air. It was a world beneath the world, thriving in the cracks of Orison's crumbling order, a shadow economy that fed on the city's hunger and greed.
At last, we reached a low building faced in cracked green tile, its surface streaked with grime and time. The windows were boarded, their edges dark with rot, and the air around it hung heavy, as if it resented intrusion. The man rapped twice on the door and stepped back, his breath misting in the cold. The door creaked open, revealing a storeroom crowded with crates and barrels, their contents cloaked in shadow. Lanterns smoked in iron brackets along the walls, their jaundiced glow lending everything a sickly hue, like a fever dream pressed into reality.
At a long table, a woman in a patched wool coat tallied jars of powdered resin, her fingers stained yellow from the work. She looked up as we entered, her expression bored until her gaze settled on me. Her eyes narrowed, sharp as flint, cutting through the haze of smoke and dim light.
"So this is the one," she said, her voice rough from years of shouting over the din of the underground.
The man at my side inclined his head. "Elinne's mark."
Her eyes flicked to the small ledger in my hand—the only remnant of my old life I'd dared to carry. Its leather was worn smooth from use, its pages filled with debts and promises I could no longer keep, a relic of a man who no longer existed.
"Name?" she demanded.
"Ren Arcanon."
"Not a name I've heard."
"You will," I said quietly, the words slipping out before I could stop them. They hung in the air like a challenge, fragile but defiant, and for a moment, the room seemed to still.
A flicker of amusement crossed her face, though it held no warmth. "Ambitious."
She gestured to a crate at her feet, its wood splintered and stained, marked with the faint scars of rough handling. "This is your first delivery. Twenty flasks of solvent. Licensed only for guild apothecaries."
I crouched, easing the lid back with a creak that echoed faintly in the cramped space. Each flask was sealed in thick wax, the stoppers embossed with the guild's crowned wheel—spokes sharp and precise, a symbol of order and control. The air inside the crate hummed faintly, a vibration that set my teeth on edge, as if the contents were alive and restless.
"If I'm stopped—" I began, my voice low.
"You won't be," she interrupted, her tone as flat as the blade of a knife. "If you are, you were never here."
I looked up, meeting her gaze. "And if I refuse?"
"Then you're just another ruin we can't use." Her words carried no threat—only the cold certainty of someone who had seen too many falter and fall before me.
I straightened, replacing the lid with a dull thud that seemed to settle the matter. "Where?"
"Merchant's Row. Third building from the end—door painted blue. Ask for Corven. He'll pay you half now, half when the goods prove genuine."
She slid a folded slip of parchment across the table, its edges crisp against the rough wood. "This mark will vouch for you."
I picked it up, turning it over in my hand. The wax seal impressed into it was unfamiliar—a stylized eye ringed with tiny flames, the detail so fine it seemed to flicker in the lantern light. I tucked it into my coat, feeling its weight settle against my chest like a promise—or a warning.
"You'll want to go before the patrols change," she said, her voice already turning back to her tally, dismissing me as if I'd ceased to matter. "The guild's watchers grow bored after third bell."
I nodded, the brittle quiet inside me hardening into something close to resolve. She didn't look up again, her attention fixed on the jars as if they held more value than my presence ever could.
---
Outside, the wind had picked up, scraping dry snow across the paving stones with a sound like a whispered warning. I hefted the crate, surprised by its weight—it pressed into my arms like a living thing, heavy with intent. My hands tingled where they gripped the wood, a subtle vibration pulsing against my skin, as if something inside protested my touch. I shifted my grip, and it faded, leaving only the bite of the cold and the ache in my muscles.
*A trick of fatigue,* I told myself, though the lie tasted bitter on my tongue. *Nothing more.*
The walk to Merchant's Row took longer than I liked, each step measured, deliberate, the crate a constant burden. I passed guild inspectors pacing their appointed routes, their pale green sashes stark against the gray of the city, their eyes scanning the crowd with the dull disinterest of those who had seen too much. None spared me more than a glance, their attention sliding over me like water over stone, but my pulse quickened with every corner I turned. The streets were alive with the hum of trade—vendors calling out wares, carts rattling over uneven stones—but beneath it all, I felt the weight of the unseen, the shadow world I had stepped into.
At the blue door, I paused, the flasks inside the crate feeling heavier with every heartbeat, as if they knew the risk I carried. The paint was chipped at the edges, revealing weathered wood beneath, a faint echo of neglect. I knocked twice, the sound muffled by the wind tearing through the narrow street.
The door opened a hand's breadth, and a narrow eye peered out, shadowed and suspicious, sizing me up in silence.
"Corven?" I asked, my voice steady despite the tremor in my hands.
A grunt. The door swung wider, revealing a man who was squat and barrel-shouldered, his nose crooked from old breaks, his skin weathered like leather left too long in the sun. He wore no insignia, but the way he studied me—with a predator's patience—told me he didn't need one to command respect or fear.
"You have it?" His voice was a low rumble, like distant thunder rolling across the plains.
I set the crate inside, the floorboards cre噬ing under its weight. He pulled a thin knife from his belt and pried the lid up with a practiced flick, examining the seals with a critical eye. His brows lifted, a flicker of surprise crossing his face, quickly masked.
"Well, well." He looked up, and for the first time, there was something like respect in his voice, though it was grudging, hard-earned. "You know what this is worth?"
"I know what it cost me to carry," I said, the words sharper than I intended, edged with the strain of the morning.
He let out a short laugh, the sound rough and humorless, like gravel underfoot. "Fair."
He counted out ten silver drakes into a leather pouch, their edges glinting faintly in the dim light filtering through a cracked window. "Half now."
He shoved it into my hand, the coins still warm from wherever he'd hidden them—his pocket, his belt, some secret place I didn't care to guess. The heat seeped through my glove, grounding me in the moment, a tangible proof of the deal done.
"If you're lying, you won't come here again," he said, his tone casual but laced with steel, a promise of consequences left unspoken.
"I'm not lying."
He studied me for a long moment, his gaze piercing, searching for cracks in my resolve. Then he nodded once, a curt acknowledgment, and closed the door with a dull thud that echoed in the quiet. I stood there, the wind tearing at my coat, feeling the weight of those coins in my palm like a brand—a mark of the path I'd chosen. When I finally turned away, I didn't look back, though the memory of his stare clung to me like damp cloth against skin.
---
The walk back to Hallowmere passed in a kind of numb clarity, the city's noise fading to a distant hum as my thoughts turned inward. For the first time, I felt no guilt. No doubt. I had traded in contraband. Profited from it. And I would do it again. The streets were quieter now, the earlier bustle of the day giving way to the hushed whispers of evening. Shadows stretched long across the cobblestones, and the air grew cooler, carrying the faint scent of woodsmoke and damp earth—a promise of winter's deepening grip.
That night, as I sat by the guttering lamp in my loft, I emptied the pouch onto the table. Ten silver drakes clattered against the scarred wood, their edges worn but gleaming faintly in the flickering light. More than I had earned in a month of honest trade, a sum that once would have meant stability, survival—now a symbol of something darker. I picked one up, turning it over in my hand. A thin shimmer of warding glowed along the stamped edge—some small enchantment to deter counterfeiters, a trace of the guild's meticulous craft.
As my thumb brushed the rune, the glow sputtered and went out, like a flame snuffed by an unseen breath. I set the coin down, my pulse suddenly loud in my ears, a drumbeat of unease. Slowly, I picked up another. Watched it dim at my touch. One by one, I tested them all, the air growing thick with the weight of what I was seeing. None retained their magic.
I stared at the pile, something cold and sharp tightening in my chest. *You are marked now,* I thought, the words echoing in the hollow space where certainty had once lived. *And not only by the guild.*
A chill ran through me, not from the draft creeping through the loft's cracks but from the realization dawning in my mind. I had always known I was different, but this—this was something else entirely. Memories flickered at the edge of my consciousness, elusive as smoke: a childhood spent in the shadow of the guild halls, watching enchanters weave spells into metal and stone, their hands steady with power I could never touch. I had always been fascinated by magic, yet it had always seemed just out of reach, a talent I lacked. Or so I thought.
But now, staring at the inert coins, I wondered if my connection to magic was not one of creation but of negation. There was the time, years ago, when I had brushed a merchant's enchanted lock, and it sprang open without resistance—dismissed as a fluke, a faulty charm. And the incident with the ward stones at the city gates, which failed to glow in my presence, their silence chalked up to chance. But now, the pattern was becoming clear: I was not merely immune to magic; I was its undoing.
As I sat there, lost in thought, a soft knock at the door jolted me back to reality. I tensed, my hand instinctively reaching for the small knife I kept hidden in my boot, its hilt worn smooth from years of habit. "Who is it?" I called out, my voice steady despite the unease creeping up my spine.
The door creaked open, revealing a figure cloaked in shadow. "Ren Arcanon," a familiar voice said, low and measured, cutting through the stillness. "We need to talk."
It was the man in the dark blue coat, the one who had watched me in the marketplace days before, his presence a shadow I couldn't shake. His silver sigil gleamed ominously in the dim light—an eye ringed with flames, identical to the seal in my pocket—seeming to follow me as he stepped into the room.
I stood, knife at the ready, its weight a small comfort against the unknown. He raised a hand in a gesture of peace, his expression calm, almost weary beneath the sharp edges of his features. "I'm not here to harm you," he said, his tone steady. "In fact, I believe we can help each other."
His eyes flicked to the pile of coins on the table, and a knowing smile played at the corners of his mouth, faint but deliberate. "It seems you've discovered something about yourself, haven't you?"
I narrowed my eyes, suspicion warring with curiosity, my grip tightening on the knife. "What do you know about it?" I demanded, my voice low, edged with the tension coiling inside me.
He chuckled softly, the sound like dry leaves underfoot, brittle and fleeting. "More than you might think. But this is not the place to discuss such matters. Come with me, and I will explain everything."
I hesitated, weighing my options. Trust was a rare commodity in Orison, a city built on secrets and betrayal, and this man was a stranger—yet the promise of answers burned brighter than my caution. With a nod, I sheathed my knife and followed him into the night, the weight of the coins and the mystery of my newfound ability heavy on my mind.
The streets of Hallowmere were silent now, the wind carrying only the distant toll of a bell and the faint hum of the city's underbelly stirring in the dark. As we walked, he spoke in low tones, his words a riddle wrapped in shadow. "There are forces at work in Orison that even the guild cannot control," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "And you, Ren Arcanon, are a key they do not yet understand."
I glanced at him, my pulse quickening, a mix of dread and anticipation tightening my chest. "A key to what?"
He smiled, though it held no warmth, only the glint of something ancient and unyielding. "To the undoing of all they hold dear."
The words hung in the air like a curse, sharp and irrevocable, and as we turned down a darkened alley, I realized that my path—once a desperate bid for survival—had become something far more dangerous. The guild's ledgers had marked me as condemned, but now, with every step, I was walking toward a fate I could not yet name, a shadow cast by a power I did not yet understand.