The cathedral's broken roof groaned in the weight of a coming storm. Rainwater dripped from the mouths of shattered saints.At the altar, where no prayers had been answered for a century, a figure knelt.Cassiel traced a fingertip over the cracked marble, whispering words in a language even the dead seemed reluctant to remember. The air thickened; the candles sputtered out one by one.Behind him, a group of cloaked men approached, weapons drawn, silent.Cassiel did not turn.The stone beneath him shivered — and one by one, the intruders collapsed, clutching their own shadows as if strangled from within.
Only then did he rise, face blank, dark blue eyes reflecting the empty heavens.
The tavern door slammed open with a gust of bitter wind.Elior stepped inside, his boots leaving wet prints across the floor. The patrons — mercenaries, slavers, sell-swords — glanced up and away again, their instincts screaming even before recognition caught up.He walked to the bar, ordered nothing, said nothing.In the mirror behind the barkeep, his reflection smiled faintly, though Elior himself remained impassive.A desperate man — young, too skinny for his sword — stumbled forward, thinking himself brave."You're Elior the Oathbreaker," he slurred. "Ain't you supposed to be dead?"Elior didn't reply.When he finally moved, it was with the cold finality of a closing tomb.The man never saw it coming.
The carnival's lanterns flickered as Mirae weaved through the throng, scarves trailing like comets.At her folding table — three-legged, charmed to remain upright — she laid out cards etched with shifting, ink-dripping images.A noblewoman leaned forward, trembling. "Will my husband return?"Mirae flipped a card. A blade crossed by lilies. She smiled sweetly."No," she said. "But you won't miss him after tonight."Before the woman could demand more, Mirae was already gone, vanishing into the crowd.Behind her, the noblewoman's guards found only smoke — and a single red feather pinned to the wall with a hair-thin dagger.The bells above the city chimed the hour, and the world turned slightly darker.
The city's lowest quarter stank of rot and salt.Bastion crouched atop a crumbling bridge, watching two thieves argue over the split of a purse far below.He whistled — one soft note — and the shadows around the thieves twisted unnaturally.When they finally noticed him, it was too late: the stolen purse slipped from their fingers, floating up toward Bastion's waiting hand as if buoyed by invisible strings.He caught it, flashing a grin full of broken teeth."Finders keepers," he called, saluting mockingly.The shadows rippled once more, swallowing his small form into the ruins beyond — leaving only the thieves' angry curses swirling in the damp mist.