Sluyrora, a city unlike any other, pulsed with a vibrant energy that permeated every alley and grand avenue. Its heartbeat resonated through the countless mouths of its inhabitants, manifesting in the clang of steel against steel and the crack of whips in dimly lit backcourts. Amidst this vibrant chaos, the enticing aromas of roasted meat and fresh bread intertwined with the pungent stench of unwashed bodies and foul gutter water. Thick, acrid smoke rose from iron-forged chimneys, casting a hazy veil over the upper walkways where affluent individuals might stroll, oblivious to the squalor beneath. Merchants vociferously displayed their wares, each voice a discordant note in the city's ceaseless symphony—barkers hawking everything from spice bundles cultivated in renowned eastern gardens to half-rusted charms promising feeble protection against the nocturnal dangers. Beggars, their eyes hollow and desperate, rattled tin cups in dusty corners, while masked thieves observed the commotion with knowing smiles, anticipating the opportune moment to strike. Throughout this spectacle, the city itself seemed to observe, an ancient, indifferent entity that devoured coin, hope, and souls in equal measure.
In Sluyrora, wealth and poverty coexisted, a paradox evident in the gleaming alabaster spires of the noble district that rose above a labyrinth of slums. Here, gold served as both an idol and a weapon, capable of purchasing anything from a barrel of fine wine to a person's final moments. Approaching the shimmering mansions, one might encounter a back alley replete with rotting refuse, where children in tattered attire scavenged for any edible items. Street preachers held worn holy symbols, proclaiming the mercy of distant deities in shrill tones that failed to conceal the cruelty that permeated their surroundings. This was a place of perpetual twilight—sin and salvation intertwining in a macabre dance that captivated the hearts of both the jaded and the impoverished. Over everything, an uncertain hush of tension hovered, as if Sluyrora itself teetered on the edge of a knife, simultaneously thriving and decaying. Amidst this intricate tapestry of contradictions, a solitary figure emerged, his presence neither welcomed nor feared, yet acknowledged by the flickers of caution in the eyes of those who were aware of his capabilities.
Amidst the chaotic surroundings, he moved with the grace of a phantom enveloped in flesh—a man of unwavering efficiency and silent demeanor, blending into the shadows until he chose to reveal himself. His boots struck the uneven cobblestones in a steady rhythm, their echoes faintly reverberating against crooked walls where flickering torches unveiled ancient graffiti and crimson smears that remained unexplained. The cloak draped over his shoulders shifted with each step, revealing dark leathers clinging to his lean, muscular frame—practical gear crafted for swift movement and lethal intent. Long, black hair was loosely tied at the nape of his neck, occasionally caught in the night breeze. He wore no sign of allegiance or loyalty, for he was neither a knight nor a noble, and no king commanded his sword. A mercenary by profession, he had embraced the city's harshness as an integral aspect of his trade, adapting to its unforgiving codes of power and survival. He traversed the living without truly belonging, a solitary shadow gliding through the multitude of others.
On that particular evening, he had a business—a contract that awaited him in the shadows beyond the city's festive glow. The main thoroughfare led to a sprawling marketplace, a labyrinth of wooden stalls and weathered stone paths bathed in the flickering light of guttering torches. Merchants hawked exotic spices touted for their medicinal properties, or enchanted steel that glowed with the promise of magic, their voices blending with the lively chatter of hawkers selling grilled meats and candied fruits. Baskets of ripe pomegranates and figs adorned one stall, their sweet aroma filling the air, while a street urchin darted past to snatch a bruised pear, disappearing before the vendor could even protest. On the outskirts of the market, a disheveled nobleman in stained silk robes emerged from a brothel, his gait unsteady, the lipstick of several women vividly contrasting against his collar. Nearby, two soldiers in black-and-gold armor regarded him with disdainful indifference, their expressions as hollow as their sense of duty. This was Sluyrora's nightly performance—a spectacle of excess and desperation—and the mercenary navigated it with practiced ease.
He descended a narrow side alley, leaving behind the commotion of the marketplace for the dimly lit confines of a smaller space. Here, the musty odor of damp stone and urine permeated the air, accompanied by an unmistakable metallic tang that clung to the back of one's throat: blood. Ahead, a man waited beneath a rusted lantern whose feeble glow revealed a leather vest, a curved dagger, and eyes that calculated with the precision of an abacus tallying a debt. "You are tardy," the man said, his voice curt but subdued, a hint of tension lurking beneath. The sellsword—Vexital—merely tilted his head, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "No," he replied quietly, the syllable cold and certain, "You are premature." The other man's nostrils flared in a semblance of laughter, but he merely gestured towards a splintered door leading into a low-ceilinged building.
Within the Iron Maw, a claustrophobic tavern enveloped them—a dimly lit space filled with drifting smoke, spilled liquor, and hushed negotiations. The air was thick with the scent of sweat and ale, while the sticky floor bore witness to broken bottles and brawls that had never truly concluded. Prostitutes in vibrant silk skirts perched on the laps of battle-scarred mercenaries, their painted smiles concealing quick hands adept at stealing coin as they flirtatiously teased. In the corner, a dice game erupted in shouts—one man thrashed the table in frustration, while another, adorned with ostentatious golden rings, raked in his ill-gotten gains. Across the room, two heavily intoxicated men engaged in a half-drunken altercation, cursing in guttural language as they toppled a chair and threatened to demolish another. A woman in tattered attire navigated through the chaos, balancing a tray of inexpensive ale with one hand and holding a small dagger in the other, ever prepared for the unpredictable nature of Sluyrora's underworld. Amidst this tapestry of vice and survival, Vexital walked unperturbed, the pull of his contract guiding him towards a door at the rear.
The back room stood as a separate realm, bathed in a dim light emanating from a single lantern. Its flickering glow revealed none of the revelry taking place beyond. Papers lay scattered across a large table—maps frayed at the edges, letters sealed with wax, and documents written in precise, almost sterile script. Seated at that table was a figure draped in raven-black robes, pale hands adorned with an obsidian ring that cast an ominous glow in the lantern's light. His face was a study in stillness, his dark eyes reflecting nothing, not even the flickering flame. Vexital took a seat without hesitation, the scraping of chair legs against the timber echoing in the hushed atmosphere. The broker spared him a fleeting glance, sliding a parchment across the table as if it were a deadly weapon aimed at his heart. "Your mark," he uttered in a voice as smooth and devoid of emotion as a lifeless sea, "A man who should have already met his demise."
Vexital carefully lifted the parchment, the wax seal having been broken. As he recognized the face etched there, his breath caught in his throat. It was the same face he had seen, distorted in a fragmentary memory of terror, pinned beneath his own bloodied hands in a realm that could have been reality or nightmare. The name scrawled beneath the ink sketch was Kaelith Morhian—a name that tugged at the frayed edges of Vexital's mind like a discordant harp note. He forced himself to remain still, despite an unspoken dread that urged him to depart, to burn this parchment and erase its existence. The broker's thin lips curled into something that could hardly be called a smile, more akin to a mechanical tightening of flesh that suggested knowledge of secrets best kept concealed. "Is there an issue?" the broker inquired, his voice quiet yet sharp, slicing through the tense moment with remarkable ease. Vexital discreetly slipped the parchment into his coat, jaw clenched, and shook his head.
"Good," the broker responded, interlacing his pale fingers on the table. "He is a member of the Grey Lantern. Consuming himself to death, awaiting discovery. Five thousand gold marks—double if he succumbs first." The words reverberated through the stillness, each syllable a chilling promise of violence that caused the lantern's flame to flicker. Vexital stood, the legs of his chair scraping across the wooden surface, but his mind was already far away, drifting like smoke into an older darkness. The solitary lantern hissed, its flame bending unnaturally as if repelled by the broker's presence. A profound sense of dread rippled through the room, causing goosebumps to form along Vexital's arms despite the oppressive atmosphere of the tavern. And then he perceived it: "Vexital," spoken not by the broker, nor by anyone within the Iron Maw, but by something else, a presence lurking beyond the confines of his memory.
Upon departing from the Iron Maw, a growing sense of dislocation enveloped him, each footstep echoing ominously in his mind, as if he traversed two divergent paths simultaneously—one in Sluyrora's present, another in a realm he dreaded to recall. The Grey Lantern, situated on the outskirts of the city, served as a haven for the despondent, offering cheap liquor as a gateway to oblivion. Its sagging roof and cracked wooden sign betrayed a bygone era, and the pervasive odor of mold, unwashed bodies, and regret assaulted his senses. Silence reigned supreme here, punctuated only by the faint clinking of bottles and the raspy exhalations of weary men into the stale air.
With a heavy heart, he pushed open the door, entering a dimly lit establishment bathed in the flickering light of several guttering lamps. A handful of patrons slumped against rickety tables, their gazes fixed on him, their heavy hush unwavering. The entire tavern seemed to have succumbed to apathy, each occupant burdened by secrets and sorrow that tethered them to this forsaken corner of the city.
At a table littered with empty bottles, he found Kaelith Morhian—a man whose past glory still clung to his posture, despite the exhaustion etched upon his face. Once meticulously groomed golden hair now cascaded in tangled clumps over a wine-stained tunic, and a slow tremor ran through his fingers, suggesting either intoxication or profound anguish. Vexital approached, his steps measured, his cloak swaying with a subtle menace that went unnoticed by the other patrons. Yet, no one intervened or even acknowledged him, as if fear or resignation had hollowed them out. Kaelith lifted his gaze, the haunted emptiness in his eyes flickering as he recognized Vexital—or perhaps a fragment of his own soul. A weary laugh escaped his lips, raw and tinged with bitterness. "It has taken you an eternity," he murmured, his voice hoarse from days of indulgence.
Vexital settled across from Kaelith, pressing his fingertips against the pitted wood of the table as if to anchor himself in reality. Outside, he could still discern Sluyrora's pulse—merchants counting their coins, prostitutes soliciting their services, and thieves lurking in the shadows—but within this chamber, time felt devoid of significance. Kaelith's gaze met his, and Vexital experienced a familiar tightening in his chest, a sense of unease tugging at the fringes of his recollections. Neither man uttered a word, the tension stretching taut as the stale air enveloped them like a somber shroud. Finally, Kaelith took a measured sip from his nearly-empty bottle, his lips curling into a smile devoid of warmth or amusement. "You intend to kill me," he uttered, not as a question but a weary assertion of fact. Vexital's own breath felt cold, constricting his throat, for he possessed no response to why he had suddenly felt both executioner and victim bound by the same destiny.
"Do you seek to comprehend the reason?" Kaelith continued in a hushed tone, the words interwoven into the silence like a dirge. "Do you desire to know why I am not already decomposing in some grave, and why your memory evokes a response when you behold my visage?" His voice resonated with a hollow quality, as if he were reciting lines from a play he had performed countless times. The flickering lanterns cast shifting shadows across his features, illuminating the faint traces of tears amidst the grime and perspiration. Vexital's heart pounded, each beat a distressing reminder that he did, in fact, recognize Kaelith from a distant memory. He is presumed to be deceased… or perhaps I am the one who has perished… a fleeting voice whispered in the depths of his mind. Kaelith's fingers drummed against the table—thump, thump, thump—resembling the echo of a failing heartbeat, and a sense of dread rose in Vexital's throat.
"Release your hold," Kaelith whispered, his eyes suddenly intensifying that pierced through the haze of alcohol. The words struck Vexital's chest, reopening partially healed wounds in his memory and conjuring visions of a place where he knelt over a body that defied death. He blinked, and in that moment, he saw it: his own trembling hands drenched in blood, a voice pleading for mercy, the acrid smell of burning flesh. Reality struck—he was not in the Grey Lantern but in some other realm of torment, and Kaelith's presence overlapped with that flickering spectre. His blade lunged out before he could react, slicing through the stale tavern air with a hiss that heralded violence. Kaelith convulsed as cold steel pierced his side, the candlelight capturing the crimson that spread across the scarred floorboards. Silence stretched, brittle and electric, until Kaelith finally gasped in a wet gurgle, both agony and laughter intertwined in his breath.
Vexital twisted the blade, sensing resistance yield as bone fractured under the pressure, the wet crunch echoing in the hushed atmosphere. A ragged exhale escaped Kaelith's parted lips, tinged with blood that dripped in a twisted path down his chin. He should have screamed, yet the only sound was a choked laugh that sent a shiver down Vexital's spine, engendering a sickening knot of dread in his gut. Kaelith slumped forward, his eyes momentarily losing focus, yet he forced them to meet Vexital's gaze once more, an uncanny spark flickering in their depths. "We have located you," he rasped through bloodied teeth, and Vexital's stomach churned with the sensation of a cosmic trap snapping shut. Then Kaelith's head sagged, heavy and final, leaving him sprawled in a crimson expanse across the table. The blade still trembled in Vexital's hand, but his heart pounded louder, for the final chapter of their confrontation felt anything but conclusive.
The entire tavern held its breath, yet no one intervened, as if paralyzed by the bleak inevitability of the events that had transpired. Vexital slowly withdrew the blade, his breath unsteady, blood dripping from the steel in crimson lines that pattered onto the rough floor. A wave of nausea washed over him, colliding with a perverse sense of relief that he could not comprehend. The whispers within him rose, swirling like caged phantoms—some triumphing in the kill, others lamenting it, each voice tangling in a cacophony that turned his own thoughts to static. Across the threshold of the Grey Lantern's door, Sluyrora remained alive and indifferent, continuing in its ceaseless dance of greed and survival. Yet, in that corner of the tavern, reality shifted, as though something malevolent had awakened beneath the city's skin and began slithering toward him. He felt it even now, a cold presence wrapping around his ribs like an iron band, promising that the past he had attempted to bury would not be so easily silenced.
For a moment, Vexital simply stared at Kaelith's lifeless form, unable to reconcile the hush in the tavern with the thunderous pulse in his ears. The flickering lamplight made the blood on his blade appear to move, as though it were alive and crawling toward his grip. A cold wave of vertigo washed over him, twisting the air until he feared the walls themselves might buckle and dissolve into nothingness. In the cracked mirror behind the bar, he caught a glimpse of his own reflection—eyes wide, knuckles white, expression caught somewhere between triumph and abject horror. Is this real? a voice hissed in his mind, and in that instant, the lines between reality and memory frayed. He inhaled slowly, attempting to steady the tremor in his core, then tore his gaze from Kaelith's bloodied face. Around him, the men in the Grey Lantern sank further into silence, as if they collectively decided it was safer to feign that none of this was occurring.
He sheathed his blade with a muted clang, the wet sound of steel sliding over viscera sending an unwanted shudder through his body. In that moment, the light in the tavern dimmed, or perhaps his vision faltered—it was difficult to discern when everything felt so terribly unreliable. "Move," he whispered to himself, forcing one foot in front of the other. Each step away from Kaelith's corpse seemed to amplify the pounding of his heart, echoing like a drum in a hollow expanse. The quiet patrons parted for him as though he carried the plague, their eyes avoiding his, their breaths held until he passed. The door gave way beneath his push, swinging open to reveal Sluyrora's streets once more, bathed in torchlit gloom and the ceaseless murmur of distant voices. Yet even the city's bawdy chaos felt muted now, as if the world had shifted on its axis and left him stumbling in an unfamiliar reality.
Outside, the night air was surprisingly chilly, a stark contrast to the stale heat of the Grey Lantern's interior. He paused beneath a flickering street torch, wiping the sweat from his brow with an unsteady hand, thoughts crawling like insects through his mind. Had he truly killed Kaelith Morhian—the very man he recalled lying in a pool of blood elsewhere, elsewhen? With every breath, fresh questions gnawed at his mind, and the faintest trace of iron teased his tongue, as though he could taste the blood that stained his hands. The city around him pulsed with distant commotion—bells chiming the hour, rickety carts rattling on uneven cobblestones, drunks staggering home singing off-key hymns—but it felt intangible, like a painted backdrop concealing something vast and malevolent beneath it. He attempted to suppress the rising nausea, reminding himself that he had a task to complete: collecting the bounty. However, as he took his first step, his knees threatened to buckle, memories of the burning temple flickering at the edges of his vision, voices whispering Vexital… Vexital… as though testing his sanity.
With clenched teeth, he concentrated on the task at hand: returning to the broker who had offered the contract and substantiating the death of Kaelith Morhian. The path led him through winding lanes and narrow alleys, each one shrouded in flickering shadows just beyond his reach. Occasionally, a drunken figure passed by or a furtive shape vanished down a side street, but no one approached him or dared to meet his gaze. They sensed it on you, the voices seemed to convey—the blood, the madness. At one point, he saw a reflection of himself in a murky puddle beneath the flicker of a torch: the face staring back could have been his own or a stranger wearing his flesh. Shaking off the dread that coiled in his gut, he pressed on until a tall, windowless structure loomed ahead, its black timbers glistening with night's moisture. A solitary lantern hung by the entrance, its flame wavering in the chilly breeze, and he almost mistook it for a dying signal urging him to retreat.
Inside, the building was barely warmer, illuminated by sparse candles that cast shifting shadows across a hallway reeking of mildew and secrets. At the end of the corridor, he reached a door guarded by two men whose eyes flickered to the blood on his attire with a mixture of curiosity and unease. Neither challenged him, which indicated to Vexital that the broker had anticipated his return, whether successful or not. He rapped once on the door and entered, his heart pounding despite his efforts to maintain composure. In the dimly lit chamber, the same broker from earlier sat behind a weathered wooden desk, a small ledger and an ink quill resting beside a black candle. The broker's obsidian ring glimmered as he steepled his fingers, his gaze cold and appraising. Without preamble, Vexital placed a stained cloth—cut from Kaelith's tunic—on the desk, the fabric stiff with partially dried blood.
A fleeting glimmer of something passed through the broker's eyes—interest, recognition, perhaps satisfaction—but his features remained an impenetrable mask. "It appears you possess considerable aptitude," he remarked, his voice as smooth and chilling as ever. Vexital remained silent, too cognizant of the profound sense of emptiness in his chest and the tempestuous turmoil within his mind. The broker retrieved a small pouch from a drawer, its contents clinking with the unmistakable weight of currency, and extended it forward. "Double the payment if he succumbs first," the broker had stipulated; the sum now received did not disappoint. As Vexital grasped the pouch, a peculiar, static-like hum crawled up his spine, and the lantern in the corner flickered erratically. He exhaled, endeavoring to suppress a shudder, and contemplated whether anyone else could perceive the distortion in the air, that pervasive sense of unreality that tugged at him like an undertow.
Pocketing the coins, he turned to depart, but the broker spoke once more, halting him at the threshold. "If you are troubled by what you witnessed," he intoned, "regard it as an inherent risk of your profession, no more." The words conveyed an air of dismissal, as if any moral qualms were mere trifles in a world governed by gold and death. Vexital's jaw clenched, the memory of Kaelith's final laugh lingering behind his eyelids. You relinquished… We discovered you… struck against his thoughts, and for a moment, he felt the walls of the room contract as if poised to crush him. "I am not troubled," he feigned, his voice tense, turning away before the broker could press further. The corridor beyond now felt even colder, and the candle flames trembled, as though the entire structure sensed the encroaching darkness.
As he stepped into the night, the weight of the clinking pouch on his belt served as a constant reminder of his recent actions. Sluyrora, despite its nocturnal rhythms, continued to buzz with activity. Drunken songs carried on the wind, watchmen patrolled with lifeless gazes, and distant lanterns flickered in alleys where clandestine deals were made. However, Vexital perceived the city differently, as if he traversed the ghostly image of a place that no longer truly existed. Each breath he took carried the lingering echo of Kaelith's final laugh, a haunting reminder that would not leave him alone. His mind reeled, conjuring vivid images of the burning temple once more: suffocating stone corridors, a nameless corpse trembling beneath his grasp, and the rasp of a voice uttering something he could not bear to recall. His steps faltered, and he sought respite against a graffitied wall, his breathing ragged, his pulse thundering in his ears. In the dimly lit embrace of a city that had already forgotten his deed, he felt the boundaries of his reality slipping like a thread pulled too taut, threatening to unravel everything he believed he knew.
The weight of gold pressed upon Vexital as he traversed Sluyrora's winding streets in the deepening night. Ten thousand marks—a king's ransom—jingled in his leather pouch, yet each clink reminded him of Kaelith's final laugh and the unsettling feeling that his victory had been premature. Beneath the torchlit eaves and shuttered windows, he moved with a feline grace, the hushed silence of darkened alleys pressing in on him. His nerves prickled with the certainty that his back was being watched, too many shadows shifting at the edges of sight. A pungent drizzle began to fall, dampening the cobblestones and transforming the city's stench into a putrid amalgamation of wet refuse, smoldering ash, and lingering blood. The voices in his head were now discordant: some reprimanded him for allowing the city's gloom to unsettle him, while others insisted that each shadow harbored an adversary. He attempted to dismiss his paranoia, reminding himself that he had survived numerous contracts, but this night felt different—as if something malevolent and patient was hunting him in retaliation.
Following a less-frequented path to his rented quarters, Vexital navigated the backstreets to evade unwanted attention. The drizzle intensified, pattering against rooftops in a relentless downpour that rendered everything slippery and perilous beneathfoot. As he rounded a corner, a faint orange glow emanating from a distant lamp cast a wavering light upon the soaked cobblestones, illuminating a solitary figure slumped against a wall. Initially, Vexital mistook it for another intoxicated individual or mendicant, but a closer examination unveiled the glint of a drawn blade and eyes wide with fear—or perhaps malice—fixed upon him. He froze, his instincts surging, the hush of rain momentarily overshadowed by the thundering of his own heartbeat. Something about the figure's posture screamed trap, and as if on cue, a second form detached itself from a doorframe further ahead, while a third emerged from behind a stack of overturned crates. They dispersed in a semicircle, the hiss of steel against leather heralding their deadly intent.
One of the attackers rasped, "You've been a busy man tonight," his voice muffled by the rain and a scarf that concealed half his face. Another laughed, a guttural sound that hinted at sadistic confidence. Vexital felt his grip tighten on the hilt beneath his cloak, the swirling fear within him tempered by a cold, practiced calm. Ambush whispered the voices in his mind—an echo that was both confirmation and amusement. He glanced at the nearest attacker, noting the tarnished insignia on the man's pauldron: a stylized hawk belonging to a lesser noble house. So, they sent their dogs already, Vexital thought grimly, recalling Kaelith's lineage and the significance of a noble's blood.
"I have no quarrel with you," he lied, his voice steady as he shifted his stance for the inevitable clash, water dripping from the tips of his hair in rhythmic plinks.
The man with the scarf spat on the ground, blade at the ready. "Any fool who cuts down a Morhian in broad daylight makes quarrels with half the city," he sneered. Vexital bit back a retort; logic meant little now that vengeance had been set in motion. Tension crackled between them, the damp air thrumming with unspoken threats, until at last one attacker lunged. Vexital sidestepped, cloak rippling, and in a smooth arc drew his own sword, steel reflecting the lantern's glow in a bright, lethal flash. His blade sliced the man's forearm, drawing a pained yelp, blood mingling with rain in a dark smear against the cobbles. The other two rushed in with a savage cry, the courtyard suddenly alive with echoing footfalls and the clang of colliding metal.
As adrenaline surged, time seemed to slow down. Each heartbeat resounded in his ears like a distant drum. The next blade struck in high, and he parried it with sufficient force to jolt the man's weapon-hand, sending vibrations that rattled up the attacker's arm. Strike lower—go for the leg, a voice in his head instructed, and he did so without pausing, his sword slicing into flesh with a sickening crunch. The man shrieked, toppling in a gruesome sprawl on the rain-soaked stones, raw agony etched on his twisted features. The last assailant, realizing that his comrades were either crippled or retreating, wavered for an instant too long, and Vexital seized that advantage. A brutal kick sent the attacker staggering backward into a puddle, water splashing around him in a foul arc. With merciless efficiency, Vexital pressed the tip of his blade against the man's throat, causing him to breathe heavily.
He could discern the terror in those eyes—an animal dread that erased any trace of loyalty or purpose. Rainwater cascaded down Vexital's cheek, mingling with the faint copper tinge of blood still staining his lips, and for a moment, he felt another memory resurface: the temple, the unstoppable inferno, a pitiful voice choking out his name. Vexital… you relinquish… The words clashed with the reality before him, leaving him suspended on the blade's edge between the past and the present. "Depart," he rasped to the assailant, pressing just enough to prick the skin, allowing the thin trickle of crimson to confirm that he was devoid of mercy. A hush, brimming with possibility, settled in the alley, interrupted only by the labored breathing of those still conscious. Then Vexital withdrew his weapon, turning away before the man could muster a response—one final act of compassion in a world that rarely afforded second chances.
He abandoned them to their fate, bleeding on the stones without a backward glance, his heart pounding, each breath a testament to his vulnerability in the face of lingering nightmares. Voices in his mind sputtered, some mocking him for not completing the task, others whispering of an impending greater threat. An involuntary shiver rippled through him, though not solely from the chilling rain that had soaked him to the bone. Every alleyway now seemed like the maw of a beast poised to devour him, each shadow potentially harboring another wave of vengeance. Forcing air into his lungs, he finally reached the creaking stair of a dilapidated boarding house—a place he discreetly rented under a pseudonym. The wooden planks groaned as he ascended, water dripping from his gear in soft, rhythmic splatters that seemed to countdown the seconds to another crisis. With unsteady fingers, he unlatched the door to the small room he called home, half expecting to encounter another ambush within.
Empty silence greeted him, yet he could not discern whether that was a sign of relief or a harbinger of something more ominous. Lightning flickered beyond the shuttered window, illuminating the cramped space: a low cot, a rickety table, and an oil lamp that cast flickering shadows across the peeling walls. He exhaled, pressing his forehead against the door once it was securely fastened, feeling his muscles quiver with pent-up tension. Was Kaelith the harbinger of this or merely a symptom? he pondered, his mind reeling with an abundance of unanswered questions. With the lamp illuminated, he could discern the reflection of his own gaunt face in a cracked mirror positioned against the corner—a man who bore death like a second skin and carried illusions that refused to cease. Wearily, he settled onto the cot, allowing the sword to rest against the wall as he endeavored to ignore the pungent odor of wet leather and the faint trace of mold lingering in the air. Sleep seemed impossible, yet his body ached with exhaustion, the day's horrors anchoring him into restless oblivion.
Vexital placed his coin pouch on the table, the metallic clink reverberating more profoundly than it should in the confined silence, each coin serving as a poignant reminder that he had purchased his safety—and his torments—at an exorbitant cost. Removing his damp leathers, he laid them across a rickety chair, wincing at the pungent mixture of blood and rain permeating the air. The small window's shutters rattled in a sudden gust, sending a chilling draft across the room that prickled his skin. For a fleeting moment, he closed his eyes, as if anticipating the roar of a distant crowd or the hushed ambiance of temple flames, but only the squeak of mice within the walls greeted him. I eliminated him, I collected my compensation… yet, why does it feel as though I have lost? a voice within whispered, laced with bitter disillusionment. Thunder rumbled somewhere beyond Sluyrora's rooftops, and a flicker of lightning illuminated his reflection in the chipped mirror—a weary figure bearing hollow eyes and a faint tremor in his hands. With a resolute exhalation, he extinguished the lamp, allowing darkness to envelop the space, fervently hoping that it would also encompass his guilt and bewilderment.
Sleep found him in sporadic intervals, fragments of memory and vivid dreams intertwining until he could no longer discern where the horrors concluded and his own thoughts commenced. He witnessed a temple engulfed in flames, its once-sacred walls adorned with blood and ash, and amidst that inferno, a nameless figure extended a plea for salvation he could not provide. The image fragmented into twisting corridors where faceless entities chanted in Ellywe, their voices resonating with the rhythm of an excessively close heartbeat. "Release yourself… We discovered you…" reverberated from every direction, a whisper that gnawed at his sanity, compelling his heart to thump against his ribs. Startled awake by the sound of his own labored breathing, he realized dawn had yet to arrive, the gloom outside his shuttered window unaltered. A singular conclusion solidified in his mind like iron cooled in black water: he was no longer secure in Sluyrora. Pushing himself upright, his chest constricted by dread and resolve, Vexital gathered his equipment and the tarnished remnants of his determination, stepping into the somber hush of pre-dawn with the grim certainty that this city would consume him if he lingered for a single moment longer.