The two figures moved with purpose now, no longer lingering or whispering. Their path cut away from the brighter streets and into narrower lanes where lantern light thinned and foot traffic faded. Eis recognized the route almost immediately.
The broken archway.
She had been warned about it her first night in Lumaire—by a woman who lived close enough to the edge of the slums to know when not to ask questions. Don’t go past the broken arch, she’d said then.
Eis didn’t.
She kept her pace steady as the stonework around her grew older, rougher. The air cooled. Sounds changed—less laughter, more echo. Ahead, the arch rose from the street like a cracked rib, its upper stones fractured and dark with age.
The two figures slowed, glanced once over their shoulders, then slipped behind it.
Eis stopped short of following.
She waited.
Counted breaths. Counted heartbeats.
When they didn’t reemerge, she turned away from the arch and crossed the street instead, stopping in front of a narrow house pressed between two leaning structures. The windows were shuttered. A faint light glowed from within.
She knocked once.
Then again.
After a pause, the door opened just enough for a woman’s face to appear—older than Eis by a decade or two, dark hair streaked with gray, eyes sharp despite the fatigue etched around them.
Recognition flickered there.
“…You,” the woman said quietly. “I never expected you to come back here.”
“I know,” Eis replied. “May I come in?”
The woman hesitated, eyes flicking past Eis toward the broken archway in the distance. Her jaw tightened.
“…Quickly,” she said at last, pulling the door wider.
Inside, the house was small but orderly. A single table. Shelves lined with jars and folded cloth. The door shut behind them with a soft, deliberate sound.
The woman crossed her arms. “This isn’t a good place to wander at night.”
“I won’t wander,” Eis said. “I need a favor.”
That earned her a look—skeptical, wary, but not unkind.
“I need a cloak,” Eis continued. “Something that blends into the dark.” She paused, then added, “And a place to leave my weapons.”
The woman’s eyes dropped briefly to Eis’s sides, as if confirming what she already suspected. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
Silence stretched between them.
“Whatever you’re chasing,” the woman said slowly, “it’s past the arch, isn’t it?”
Eis nodded.
“There’s a passage,” the woman went on, voice lower now. “Just beyond it. Old access tunnels—older than the canal. Most people don’t make it far.”
“I need to,” Eis said.
The woman shook her head. “It would be smarter to forget you ever heard about it.”
“I can’t,” Eis replied. Not defiantly. Simply stating fact.
She reached into her pouch and placed a small stack of coins on the table.
Twenty silver.
The woman stared at them.
“I know what I’m asking,” Eis said. “If I come back, I’ll bring more.”
The room was quiet except for the faint sounds of the city pressing in through the walls.
Finally, the woman exhaled and turned away. She crossed to a chest near the wall and pulled out a dark cloak—worn, soft, the fabric absorbing light rather than reflecting it.
“Put it on,” she said. “You can leave your things in the chest.”
Eis did as told, unstrapping her twin swords and setting them carefully aside.
The woman watched her for a long moment, then nodded once. “Name’s Sarah.”
Eis froze for a fraction of a second when she heard that name.
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She blinked hard, refocusing her mind on the now.
“Eis,” she replied.
Sarah sighed. “You pick bad nights to do brave things, Eis.”
“Thank you,” Eis said, meeting her gaze. “I won’t forget this.”
Serah didn’t answer right away. She only opened the door and stepped aside.
“Then don’t,” she said quietly.
Eis pulled the cloak up around her shoulders and slipped back into the night, the broken archway waiting just ahead. She found the passage Sarah mentioned.
Just before entering, Eis closed her eyes and let the familiar warmth rise — that small pulse beneath her chest, brimming with potential. She pictured what she needed: the knife she had trusted countless times back home.
Light folded inward, shaping reality around her palm.
When it faded, the knife was there.
Black matte blade. Curved edge. Perfect weight.
With the crossbow and quiver at her back and the knife and spellcard pouch attached to her belt. She was finally ready.
She stepped down corroded stone, each step threatening to make a sound.
The chamber at the bottom widened abruptly, opening into a cavern of shadows and half-buried beams. Rusted chains hung from the rafters like skeletal vines. A single lantern burned from a hook near the center, its soft yellow cone of light illuminating a makeshift underground market.
Eis stepped silently into the gloom.
At least a dozen figures moved through the space, each with the practiced ease of people who relied on anonymity to survive.
- Traders in hooded coats displayed relics and vials that pulsed faintly with mana—illegal enchantments, stolen artifacts, forbidden tools.
- Buyers in fine cloaks hid their faces behind masks of lacquer or bone.
- Beyond the lantern’s reach, figures in rags sat huddled in iron pens, their eyes hollow and unfocused.
Her gaze found a familiar figure across the room, a man standing near the far wall, hood low, shoulders squared in familiar posture.
The same build. Same stance.
The same man who had disappeared under the broken arch.
He spoke quietly to another figure wrapped in a dark, long coat. Their gestures pointed toward one of the cages.
Eis moved closer, matching her steps to the steady drip of water falling from the ceiling. No one looked her way; the market hummed with the soft, chaotic noise of illicit business—perfect cover.
Fragments of conversation cut through the murmuring.
“Shipment from the eastern ruins. Two mages, a young girl, and the artifact you wanted.”
“Payment will be in platinum seals. Delivery after inspection. The Guild’s getting cautious—use your shadows better.”
“Relax. Their patrols never reach the Shallows.”
A small wooden box passed between them—rune-sealed, layered with mana. Even from several paces away, Eis felt the mana it exuded.. The air shimmered faintly around the artifact.
Her eyes narrowed.
Eis held her position, still as the stone behind her. The shadows pressed close around her cloak, turning her into another shape among many.
The marked trader tapped the box, pride dripping from his tone.
“They’ll move the next shipment tomorrow night. Same route, same buyer. But this—” He patted the box. “—this one’s worth ten times the others. Pulled from the ruins before the Guild even smelled the site. Reacts to mana flow—hummed when we cracked the chest.”
The buyer’s voice dropped.
“You’re certain it’s stable?”
“As long as nobody channels it. Last fool who tried couldn’t stop screaming until his body turned to glass.”
The buyer removed a metallic seal etched with a sun entangled in chains. The trader pocketed it and motioned to two nearby men.
“Take her,” he ordered.
The guards opened a cage and hauled a young woman out—barely conscious, mana flickering around her like dying embers. Manacles clamped around her wrists.
“She’s proof the relic works,” the trader said.
Eis’s gaze sharpened.
- The box: tome-sized, rune-layered, humming with mana.
- The buyer: gloves marked with runic channels—protection for handling unstable artifacts.
- Guards: three stationed near the cages, two more by the tunnel leading deeper underground.
- The marked trader: staying behind, the marketplace’s overseer.
- The buyer and two guards: preparing to move the relic and the captive immediately.
Her presence remained unnoticed. The scene unfolded like a carefully rehearsed play—everyone hitting their marks, unaware an unseen audience watched.
The buyer led the way into the tunnel, guards dragging the captive behind him. Their lantern cast distorted shadows along the jagged walls.
Eis counted ten heartbeats.
Then followed.
The tunnel smelled of wet stone and rust. Water dripped rhythmically from the ceiling, masking her movements. She stayed close to the darkest edge of the passage, her steps silent on uneven ground.
Every so often, another corridor branched off—maintenance shafts, root-choked stairwells, collapsed rooms swallowed by darkness. Eis marked each in her memory: escape routes, ambush points, or dead ends.
Ahead, the captive stumbled. One guard cursed and yanked the chain.
“Careful,” the buyer snapped. “If she dies before we reach the vault, the demonstration is pointless.”
Vault.
The word struck a chord of curiosity—and threat.
After several minutes, the tunnel opened into a large room half-eaten by time. One side was collapsed, but the other had been reinforced: thick beams, new supports, glowing blue runes etched along patched stone.
A broken statue dominated the center, its reflection shimmering in a shallow pool that ringed its base.
On the far side stood a set of massive iron doors—freshly repaired, reinforced with layered wards. They hummed in the air like a heartbeat.
The relic inside the wooden box reacted again, sending a vibration through Eis’s bones.
The buyer gestured sharply.
“We rest here. The contact is late.”
The box was placed on a stone plinth beside the statue. The captive was forced to her knees. The guards shifted their weight, settling in.
None of them noticed the silent figure watching from the outer edge of the chamber—eyes cold, posture still, patience sharper than a blade.