The guild hall thrummed with life, a chaotic symphony of voices, clinking mugs, and the occasional burst of raucous laughter. Morning light filtered through grimy windows, casting hazy beams across scarred wooden tables where adventurers huddled over maps and tankards. The air was thick—layers of sour ale, unwashed bodies, roasted meat from the kitchen, and the faint metallic tang of oiled weapons. Smoke from the massive hearth curled lazily toward the rafters, carrying the sharp bite of burning pine logs.
Riven stood near the quest board, a towering slab of cork pinned with yellowed parchments. His cloak draped around him like living shadow, hood drawn low over the voidstone mask. The crimson veins pulsed faintly in the dim light, a subtle heartbeat only he could feel against his skin. He scanned the postings with deliberate slowness, amber eyes narrowing behind the sockets.
Low-rank errands dominated the board: herb gathering, escort duties, minor monster culls. Nothing worthy of his skills yet. But he needed to start small—test the waters, hone the edge without drawing too much attention. His aura already did enough of that. Conversations nearby dipped in volume as adventurers glanced his way, an instinctive deference settling over them like fog. No one approached. Good.
He reached for a parchment near the bottom: *Imp infestation in the old sewer burrows beneath the east district. Reward: 50 silver. Party recommended.*
Simple. Contained. A chance to move, to kill without questions.
"Newcomer?" A voice piped up from behind the counter—a young guild aide, barely out of boyhood, with freckles and a mop of unruly brown hair. He leaned forward, quill poised, eyes wide behind smudged spectacles. From his vantage, the hall's bustle seemed distant; up close, Riven's presence loomed, the mask's hollow gaze pinning him in place.
Riven turned slightly. "Accepting this one," he said, voice low and firm, sliding the parchment across the tacky wood.
The aide swallowed, nodding quickly. "R-Right. Bronze rank approved. You can take up to three temp allies from the lounge if needed. Sign here." His hand trembled as he pushed the logbook forward. Ink splattered faintly from the quill tip, a black droplet blooming on the page like blood.
Riven signed with a gloved finger—*Riven* in sharp, economical strokes. No flourish. No hesitation.
As he stepped away, the lounge area caught his eye: clusters of lower-rank adventurers nursing hangovers or boasting about minor feats. A few looked up, hope flickering—joining a masked stranger might mean easy coin. Three approached tentatively: a burly axeman with a scarred beard, a lanky archer fiddling with her bowstring, and a nervous healer clutching a staff topped with a glowing crystal.
"You're taking the imp quest?" the axeman rumbled, voice gravelly from too much smoke. "Mind if we tag along? Split the reward even?"
Riven assessed them in silence. Competent enough for fodder. "Fine," he said quietly. The word carried weight; they straightened instinctively.
They set out within the hour, descending into the east district's underbelly through a rusted grate hidden in an alley. The air changed immediately—cooler, damper, laced with the fetid rot of stagnant water and waste. Torchlight danced across slick brick walls veined with slime, and the distant drip-drip of moisture echoed like a slow heartbeat.
The burrows were a maze of forgotten tunnels, remnants of an older city buried beneath the new. Imps had nested here, drawn by the dark and the scraps of refuse. Their chittering grew louder as the party advanced, high-pitched and mocking.
Riven took point without asking. His steps were silent, boots barely disturbing the shallow puddles that reflected the torch flames in oily ripples. "Stay close," he murmured. "Archers high, healer back. Axe forward with me."
They obeyed without question. His voice—soft, commanding—wrapped around them like invisible chains.
The first ambush came fast: a swarm of imps pouring from side vents, leathery wings buzzing like angry hornets, claws glinting in the low light. Their eyes glowed red, teeth needle-sharp. The stench hit next—sour milk and sulfur, choking the narrow space.
The axeman roared, swinging wide. The archer loosed arrows that whistled past. Chaos threatened.
"Left group—three incoming low," Riven said calmly. "Axe, block high. Archer, pin the flyers. Healer, shield the front."
Precision. They moved as one.
Riven flowed into the fray. His longsword—salvaged and reforged in the forest, runes etched by his own hand—sang as it cleaved air. The first imp lunged; he sidestepped, blade arcing in a fluid slash. Gore sprayed warm and viscous across his mask, the hot splatter carrying the acrid burn of demonic ichor. It slid down the voidstone in thick rivulets, stinging faintly where it touched exposed skin.
Imps shrieked—piercing, like nails dragged across slate. One latched onto the axeman's arm, claws raking flesh. Blood welled, dark and swift.
Riven was there in an instant. "Hold." A single word. The axeman froze. Riven's blade flashed, severing the creature's wing. It tumbled, screeching. He stomped down—crunch of bone under boot, wet and final.
More came. Dozens. The tunnel filled with flapping wings and the slap of clawed feet on stone.
Riven's mind raced ahead, mapping patterns in the chaos. "Choke point ahead—ten paces. Funnel them. Archer, volley on my mark."
They retreated in order, his hushed commands cutting through the din like a blade through silk. The healer's spells lit the dark—soft blue glows mending gashes, the scent of ozone mixing with blood.
At the choke, Riven positioned them perfectly. "Now."
Arrows flew. Axe cleaved. His sword danced—graceful, lethal. Bodies piled, twitching. The final imp queen—a larger specimen, bloated and hissing—charged. Riven met it head-on, dodging venomous spit that sizzled on stone. His blade found its throat. Hot black blood gushed, soaking his cloak in sticky warmth.
Silence returned, broken only by heavy breathing and the drip of fluids from corpses.
The party stared at him, awe in their eyes. The axeman clutched his bandaged arm. "Gods... never seen moves like that."
Riven wiped his blade on a corpse, the scrape of metal on hide sharp in the quiet. "Quest complete." Low. Firm.
They harvested proofs—horns, tails—and emerged into daylight hours later, richer and rattled.
Back at the guild, the aide processed the reward with wide eyes, muttering about "record time." The temp party dispersed with grateful nods, spreading whispers already: *The masked one—commands like a general, fights like a demon.*
Riven collected his share—coins clinking coldly into his pouch—and turned to leave.
That's when he noticed her.
She sat alone at a corner table, shrouded in shadow despite the hall's bustle. Long obsidian hair cascaded like midnight silk down her back, framing a face of ethereal porcelain—skin so pale it seemed to glow faintly under the lanterns. Amethyst eyes, hooded by thick lashes, watched the room with quiet intensity. Her lips—plush and scarlet—curved in a subtle, knowing smirk.
Her gown was black velvet, gothic and elaborate: a deep plunging neckline that revealed the generous swell of her E-cup cleavage, the fabric clinging like liquid night to her voluptuous curves. A corset cinched her waist impossibly narrow before flaring to wide hips and plush thighs hidden beneath layers of lace and fishnet stockings that whispered with every shift of her legs.
She exuded mystery. Incense—myrrh and midnight blooms—wafted from her, cutting through the hall's coarser smells like a spell.
Their eyes met. Hers locked on his mask, intrigue flickering.
She rose gracefully, gown rustling softly, and approached. The hall seemed to quiet around her path.
"Darkness beckons its kin," she intoned, voice poetic and low, laced with dark wit. Up close, her scent enveloped him—heady, intoxicating. Her cheeks held the faintest tint, breath quickening almost imperceptibly.
Riven tilted his head slightly. "Mission specs?" he replied, voice a quiet rumble—firm, brief.
She blinked, amethyst eyes widening a fraction. Then, unexpectedly, her hand fumbled for a vial at her belt—an alchemist's pouch. It slipped. Shattered on the floor with a crystalline crash.
Effervescent vapor erupted—lavender haze, fizzing and sparkling, stinging the eyes and tickling the nose with sweet floral sharpness. She stammered, cheeks flushing deeper crimson against her porcelain skin. "Oh—shadows take it—"
Comedy in the gloom. Her dramatic poise cracked, revealing awkward vulnerability.
Riven didn't move, but his aura softened imperceptibly. "Imp quest," he said simply. "Cleared."
Her eyes lit with curiosity. "Alone? With temps?" She recovered quickly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear, fingers trembling faintly.
"Details irrelevant."
She smiled—sly, genuine. "I am Nyxara. Alchemist. Enchanter of the arcane and... occasional breaker of vials." A self-deprecating lilt.
"Riven."
No more. But she lingered, shadowing him as he moved toward the door. Her soft footsteps echoed his heavier ones, incense aura trailing like a promise.
The veiled intruder had found something worth following.
And Riven, for the first time since the eclipse, felt the faintest crack in his resolve.