Back in Dravenloch city.....
The city was still ravaged by the beasts....
Infact that had just quell a Wormhole'
The ground bore long scars where reality itself had split open, jagged fissures blackened by residual energy. The air smelled of scorched stone and iron-rich blood, thick enough to cling to the lungs.
Broken structures leaned at awkward angles, their foundations weakened by the violent emergence of the Wormhole....
While Bodies littered the battlefield.
The Maker's Curse Beasts—twisted abominations shaped from warped flesh and unstable essence—lay scattered across the place. Some had been cleaved cleanly in half, others crushed into grotesque heaps. Dark ichor seeped into the stone streets, steaming faintly before evaporating into nothingness.
Dravenloch warriors stood amid the carnage.
They were exhausted.
Many leaned on spears or swords, their armor cracked, cloaks torn, and faces smeared with blood—some their own, some not. A few healers - people with little knowledge about medicine....moved frantically among them, pressing glowing palms against wounds, muttering stabilizing incantations under their breath.
At the center of the chaos stood Mabel Maverick.
She was bent slightly forward, her hands resting on her knees as she struggled to regulate her breathing. Sweat dampened her hair, strands clinging to her temples. Her chest rose and fell sharply, each breath a reminder of how close the battle had pushed her to the edge.
Around her feet lay several slain beasts—the ones she had slayed.
Not far from her position stood a stark contrast.
Young Master Ban of the Skull Family observed the scene calmly, his posture straight, his breathing steady. Behind him were his Experts, standing in disciplined formation. Their armor was marred, their weapons stained with the blood of beasts, but their expressions was composed.
Where Dravenloch's warriors bore the signs of prolonged struggle, Ban's men looked as though they had just arrived from training grounds. Their movements during the fight had been precise, economical, and brutally effective.
It spoke volumes of their experience.
If one looked closely at Mabel—very closely—they would notice something strange.
At the back of her neck, partially hidden by her hair, faint black vein-like patterns pulsed beneath her skin. The markings stretched downward, branching subtly toward her upper back, as though something inside her was slowly reaching outward.
Mabel herself was completely unaware of it.
Her mind was elsewhere.
For days now, she had been plagued by the same dream.
A masked figure.
Tall.... Silent. Watching her from the shadows.
On his mask was a number—99.
The dream always unfolded differently, yet always ended the same way: with her heart racing, her body frozen, and his voice echoing in her mind.
Last night's dream had been the worst. They had a fight. And....
The masked man had moved with terrifying ease, overwhelming her defenses as though she were nothing. She remembered the cold certainty in his movements—the inevitability of defeat.
And then, just before she was struck down, he had spoken his name.
"Sanè."
The name still lingered in her thoughts, heavy and unsettling..... making her think about the Masked One's she let escape the last time.
She did not understand why her mind had conjured him.
It made no sense.
So she buried it.
Young Master Ban approached her, stepping carefully over broken stone and carcasses. His expression was one of practiced concern.
"Lady Mabel," he said smoothly, "are you injured?"
She did not look at him.
She straightened slowly and gave a brief nod.
"I'm fine."
That was all.
Ban paused, a flicker of something dark crossing his eyes before it vanished behind his usual composed demeanor. For weeks now, he had endured her cold responses—her indifference, her lack of acknowledgment.
It irritated him.
Yet he smiled faintly.
He had been acting unusually kind since his arrival in Dravenloch—offering assistance, coordinating defenses, even risking his men in battle. To an outsider, it would seem admirable.
Mabel, however, felt uneasy.
She could not understand his sudden goodwill. The Skull Family was known for its ambition, not charity. She was certain there was an ulterior motive—she simply did not know what it was yet.
As they stood amid the aftermath, hurried footsteps approached.
A messenger, clad in the Maverick household colors, bowed quickly and presented Mabel with a sealed letter.
Her brow furrowed as she broke the seal.
As she read, her expression darkened.
The words were brief—but heavy.
Her father, Lord Alaric Maverick, and her uncle, Lord Fen, had left Dravenloch.
They had departed for the High Council's domain.
The reason was clear.
The city's seal—the ancient barrier that protected Dravenloch from spatial instability—had weakened. Cracks had formed within it, invisible to most, but catastrophic in consequence.
That weakness was the reason Wormholes had begun opening so frequently.....or atleast that's what they taught. What they didn't know what that....it was because someone summoned the beasts that's why the seal had weakened greatly.
Her father and uncle were appealing for an artifact. But they didn't tell her that In the letter she had received.
Cause apparently the knowledge of artifacts were only known to the Family heads....and some group of people. The knowledge of it was not allowed to be known by anyone.
Cause Artifacts were not mere tools.
They were singular constructs forged through a fusion of rare materials, forbidden techniques, and vast amounts of refined essence. Each artifact carried a specific authority—over space, time, elements, or even conceptual forces.
Only the High Council was permitted to own artifacts.
Only the High Council had the right to commission or craft them.
Such power could not be trusted to families or cities—not without risking imbalance.
If the seal was to be reinforced, only an artifact sanctioned by the Council could accomplish it.
Mabel clenched the letter.
Until their return—
She was the acting leader of the Maverick household.
Young Master Ban leaned closer. "May I ask what troubles you?" he said lightly. "Perhaps the Skull Family can assist—"
She folded the letter and turned away.
Silence.
Ban's jaw tightened.
For a moment, anger flared hot beneath his skin. He had tolerated her disregard long enough. But he forced it down, schooling his features into calm once more.
There was no need to rush.
He could feel it.
The faint resonance beneath her skin.
The pattern.
The same subtle energy he had sensed earlier now pulsed more clearly. The black vein-like markings were still forming, still incomplete—but undeniable.
His plan was working.
Dravenloch was destabilizing.
The seal was failing.
And Mabel Maverick—She was changing.
Ban's lips curved slightly.
Let her ignore him.
Soon enough, she would not have the luxury.