The serene hum of the bar was long behind them. Now it was just the sharp echo of boots on cobblestones, the press of Nytheris closing in around them. John and Ziraya weaved through the winding streets, cloaked in the city’s ambient chaos, doing their best to look like two more aimless wanderers. But every glance over the shoulder, every flick of movement in a shadow, pulled at their nerves like a taut string.
Half an hour of silent pursuit ended when John spotted the trio of fae slipping between two strange, shell-like buildings, their figures melting into a narrow alleyway. “There!” John hissed, gesturing quickly.
Ziraya grabbed his wrist, halting him with surprising force.
“What?” he asked, his brow furrowing, scanning her face for danger.
Her eyes were already on the alley, narrowed and sharp with instinct. “That’s a dead end,” she said in a low growl. “Why would they go there?”
John followed her gaze. The alley was barely wide enough for two people to walk side by side, hemmed in by curved, organic architecture that looked like it had grown rather than been built. At its end stood a warped wall — not bricked or mortared, but fused stone, like melted wax.
No trace of the Glamour. No trace of the fae.
“You’re right,” he muttered, the tension in his jaw tightening. “Did they spot us? Are we walking into an ambush?”
“Probably.” Ziraya’s hand rested on the hilt of her sword. “We’re surrounded by mana. It’s like trying to find a candle in a thunderstorm. I can’t track them through this.”
“So we’re blind,” John muttered, fingers drifting toward the grip of his P50. “Do we still go in?”
“It reeks of a trap.” Her tone was ice. “And if they spring it, I can’t counter their Glamour to fight back.”
John weighed the options, then took a step forward, gun in hand. “Stay here. I’ll check it out.”
Ziraya’s tail snapped around his waist before he could move farther, her grip firm — not restraining, but unmistakably claiming.
“Ziraya,” he started.
She clicked her tongue, reluctant, but after a heartbeat, she loosened the hold. “Fine,” she said, voice tight. “But if anything goes wrong, you scream.”
“I’m not that dramatic,” he said with a dry smile.
She didn’t laugh. She didn’t even blink.
He swallowed hard and stepped into the alley. The light dimmed instantly. The buildings above bent inward, forming a tight canopy of warped stone and bone-like ridges that blocked out the city’s lights. It smelled damp, like old roots. Each step echoed in the hollow space.
Gun raised, he moved inch by inch, clearing corners, checking every crevice. No movement. No sound. Just the thump of his own heartbeat in his ears and the faint pressure of the city’s weight above.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he exhaled.
Clear.
He holstered the P50 and fished for a cigarette. His fingers trembled slightly as he lit it, but before he could take a drag— The cigarette vanished in a wisp of smoke as Ziraya’s outstretched fingers disintegrated it.
John gave her a look. She didn’t even try to look guilty. “They’re not here,” he muttered, turning away. “You picking up anything?”
“Too much background mana,” she said, frustration in her tone. “The city’s saturated with residue. It’s like trying to find a needle in a haystack.”
“So we’ve got nothing.” He crossed his arms.
Ziraya joined him, her own arms folding as her tail slithered back around his waist. This time, she didn’t even seem to notice — it clung to him like instinct, like breath. He didn’t comment, but he felt it. Her nearness. The heat of her skin. The slow, subtle squeeze of her tail like a protective ward. Ziraya didn’t care. Not right now. Being close to him made her feel anchored. She relished the warmth, the way her tail wrapped around him like he belonged there. Like he was hers.
“Nothing on my end,” she muttered, cheeks faintly pink. “People don’t just vanish. That’s impossible.”
“They didn’t use a Catapult,” John said, glancing upward at the dense canopy. “Unless they wanted to get blended against a ceiling.”
He leaned against the far wall, tapping her tail absently as he thought. “What are we missing?”
Then—he fell. No warning. No resistance. Just a sudden absence of solidity, and John disappeared through the wall, bringing Ziraya down with him. She, landed hard on top of him, letting out a grunt pained grunt.
“Ugh…” John groaned from the dirt floor. “What the hell—?”
Ziraya pushed herself up, only to freeze as she realized she was sprawled across his chest, his arms pinned beneath her. A moment passed. Their eyes met. Too close. Too aware. She flushed scarlet and looked away. “You idiot,” she muttered, her voice too soft to carry the bite it was meant to.
John coughed awkwardly. “Well. That was… new.” Around them, the tunnel stretched like a forgotten artery beneath the city — tight, earthy, and dimly lit. Twisting metal roots coiled through the walls, glowing faintly. Glass orbs, thick with dust, dangled from rusted hooks, casting a pale, flickering light.
Ziraya’s tail didn’t move. In fact, it coiled tighter around him.
“Comfortable?” he asked, glancing down.
She lifted herself up slowly, the thudding in her chest refusing to calm. “You should watch where you walk,” she said, voice low and breathless.
“Right,” he muttered, brushing dirt from his jacket.
She examined the wall they’d fallen through, arms folded, trying to look composed even as her skin buzzed from the contact. “It looks solid. It makes no sense.”
John poked at the wall again. His finger vanished through it.
“Look,” John said, extending his arm forward. His hand slipped cleanly through the stone. “The wall’s not real… some kind of illusion?”
Ziraya’s brow arched. She reached out with practiced wariness, expecting resistance. Her hand glided through the surface like a hot knife through butter—no buzz of a ward, no pulse of mana. Just… nothing.
“How strange,” she murmured, narrowing her eyes as she summoned her sixth sense. Still nothing—no magical hum, no tingling sensation in her skin. The illusion was void of energy. “It doesn’t feel like an illusion. Do you know anything about this sort of thing?”
John only shrugged.
She gave a soft click of her tongue. “I should’ve known.”
John turned back toward the tunnel beyond the illusory wall. A set of rough, uneven stairs spiraled down into the darkness like the throat of a sleeping beast. “So,” he said, his voice quieter now, as if reluctant to disturb the silence. “We know where our mystery guests went. Do we follow?”
Ziraya hesitated only for a breath before giving a silent nod. She let go of his waist, though the loss of contact left a faint sting. Her hand dropped to her blade, thumb resting against the hilt. John unholstered his P50, its matte black barrel steady in his grip as he swept it ahead. They stepped forward in tandem, their every movement careful, deliberate.
The tunnel swallowed them whole. Each step down was a descent into the unknown. The air turned damp and cool, brushing their skin like a breath from deep within the earth. Layers of rock glimmered faintly with veins of unnatural colors—violet streaks, dull gold flecks, and shifting mineral hues that didn’t belong in nature. Their boots tapped softly against the stone, the only sounds the quiet thud of their hearts and the shallow rhythm of their breaths. Shadows danced at the edge of their vision, but nothing moved—yet.
John whispered, almost to himself, “This doesn’t make any sense.”
The stairs finally ended in a crude circular platform, carved hastily into the stone. John scanned the space, gun raised, breath held. Empty. For now.
“Dead end?” he asked, brows furrowed as he turned to Ziraya. “Did we miss something?”
She didn’t respond right away. Her eyes darted across the rough wall, focusing—until they locked onto something imperceptible to John’s eye. Her pupils narrowed.
“Wait.” She motioned toward the wall. “There. Between those two rocks. You see it?”
He squinted. “I see… rocks.”
“A trace of mana,” she said. “Faint. Almost like it’s leaking.” She knelt and placed a palm against the stone. It stayed solid—rough, cold, unyielding. “No illusion,” she muttered.
“Could be a hidden mechanism,” John offered, already sweeping his gaze across the stonework, tapping on outcroppings, listening for clicks or hollow sounds. “Got anything?”
Ziraya tilted her head and smirked. “You think a wall’s going to stop me?”
John blinked. Then realization hit him. “Oh. Right. But… what if there are traps? Wards? Alarms?”
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“Maybe,” she said with a shrug. “But what else can we do? We’re already halfway buried.”
He frowned. “I don’t like walking blind into a hornet’s nest. Let’s at least try to find a way through quietly.”
Ziraya crossed her arms and leaned back, watching with faint amusement as John continued to tap at stones like a hopeful archaeologist. Five minutes of nothing passed.
John sighed and straightened up, defeated. “I give up.” He raised his pistol. “Do your thing. But be ready.”
Ziraya rolled her shoulders and stepped forward. “Always am.” She pressed her hand to the stone and activated her Authority of Bonding.
The air vibrated. The rock didn’t shatter—it dissolved, crumbling into nothingness like dust caught in a breeze. The wall unraveled at her touch, melting away to reveal a dark corridor beyond. She stepped through without hesitation, disappearing like a ghost.
John followed a heartbeat later.
Ziraya had dropped into a crouch behind a jutting boulder. She held up a hand—stop. John knelt beside her, eyes sharp.
“Feel anything?” he whispered.
Ziraya nodded. “A lot. Mana signatures, mixed together. It’s like… the surface.”
John tilted his head, listening. Murmurs echoed faintly up the tunnel—muffled, jumbled, but unmistakable.
“…Two thousand Credits—get it before it’s gone…”
“…Ten thousand for this piece—guaranteed authentic…”
“…Buy two, get one free…”
He blinked.
“Is it just me,” Ziraya whispered, “or does that sound like… a market?”
John stared into the darkness, lips parting in disbelief. “An underground market,” he said slowly. “In every sense of the word.” He gave a low chuckle, more nerves than amusement.
Ziraya didn’t laugh. She only tightened her grip on her sword, eyes sharp. “Let’s move. Carefully.”
John exhaled slowly. “Might as well.”
The final few steps echoed under their boots before the path curved—and the world seemed to drop away. They stopped dead, jaws slack. A city sprawled below them, carved like a festering wound into the cavern’s stone belly. Buildings hunched close together, their walls chiseled directly from the rock. Shabby balconies and crooked chimneys leaned drunkenly into each other over winding alleys. High above, embedded in the cavern’s dome, a massive glowing orb mimicked sunlight—its eerie golden light flickering ever so slightly, as though struggling to hold back the darkness pressing in on all sides.
“What…” Ziraya whispered.
John scanned the crowd below—so many people, too many. His mouth twisted. “That’s not a marketplace. That’s a nest.”
Ziraya nodded grimly. The smell hit them next—an overwhelming wave of must, sweat, and something far worse. Sweet and sharp, like cinnamon rotting in the sun.
Ziraya’s nose crinkled. “That’s vile.” Her pupils thinned to slits. “Pixie Dust.”
John glanced at her. “What is it?”
“A drug,” she said darkly. “Makes people feel invincible and gives them a boost. Until it hollows out their mana pool and bursts their soul like a balloon.” Her voice was distant, hardened. “I used to seize crates of it. Back when I was… someone else.”
John let out a low whistle. “So definitely illegal.”
“Definitely dangerous.” She looked at him. “We shouldn’t stay long.”
“But if the Ash Vigil is using this place, someone here knows something. If we play it right, we might not need to go near the Court at all.”
Ziraya hesitated, then gave a sharp nod. “Let’s move, but keep sharp.”
They descended into the hive, boots clicking softly against uneven stone. The moment they entered the crowd, it was like being swallowed whole. A pair of cloaked mages whispered in a dialect John didn’t recognize. One of them cradled a jar that hissed softly from within. Fishmen in loose rags bartered vials of neon-green fluid beside a stall lit by shifting blue flames. A group of fae—decadent and flushed—snorted pink dust off a cracked tabletop, their laughter high-pitched and unhinged.
“Not exactly the friendly sort,” John muttered, scanning faces for the strange masks they’d been chasing.
“Predators, all of them,” Ziraya said. Her tail twitched behind her in a slow warning rhythm. “Keep your back to a wall.”
A snarl caught their attention—an armored werewolf with half a missing ear shoved past them, his growl low and feral as he stormed into a shadowed alley. A dwarf with a cracked monocle shouted at passersby, rattling tiny cages full of glowing gemstones. The gems writhed, screaming without sound, reacting violently as footsteps passed. They stopped before a crooked stall tucked into a corner like a festering secret. Strange weapons lined its shelves—wicked things that looked more like torture devices than tools of war.
Ziraya grimaced at one: a segmented blade connected by a blood-dark chain, jagged hooks gleaming with malice near the fuller of the bladed sections. Red runes pulsed like a heartbeat along its edge.
John examined a bizarre staff-flail hybrid—its spiked ball enclosed in a thin blue frame, springs coiled with runes near the base, and a rudimentary trigger built into the grip. His lips curled. He didn’t want to imagine what that would do to a human body.
“My fine customers!” a voice oozed out like oil over water. A dwarf emerged from the shadows behind the stall, his greasy hair slicked back so far it looked like a second scalp. His yellow shirt strained against his paunch, and when he smiled, it was a jigsaw puzzle of teeth and gaps. “I see you’re admiring my wares!” he said, rubbing his stubby hands together until the rings on his fingers clinked. “This beauty here—ah, the Blade of Thorns! Mithril-tipped hooks, rune-bound to pierce even the thickest hide! A few nicks and it can drink all the blood of even the sturdiest werewolf!”
John forced a smile. “Charming.”
“Or perhaps,” the dwarf continued, undeterred, “the Spring Flail! Newest from our finest workshop—spell-catalyst, and oh!—an emergency sidearm. Pull the trigger, and boom! That spiked beauty launches like thunder. Shreds plate mail like parchment.” He leaned in, breath rancid. “I sense discerning tastes. Come inside. I've got items you won’t find on the shelf.”
“We’re here to purchase something,” John said, his tone hardening. “But not weapons you carry.”
The dwarf blinked. “Ah... well, I'm not sure I understand—”
John slid a Credit Gem across the stall. Five thousand.
The dwarf snatched it with the reflex of a starving rat. “Right this way.” Inside, the shop was darker, cramped. The air was thick with mildew and old magic. Rusted weapon racks leaned against cracked stone. A few crates were cracked open, revealing half-assembled enchantments and cores still glowing with latent energy. The dwarf dropped into a chair, planting his filthy boots on the table and folding his arms. “Let’s not waste time. Five thousand buys you one answer.”
John didn’t hesitate. “The Dance of Whispers. And the Ash Vigil. What do you know?”
The dwarf froze. His entire demeanor shifted. The smirk died. He looked to the shadows, then back at the door, then down at the gem. With a grunt, he tossed it back like it had burned him. “I don’t tangle with the masks.”
“You just—”
“Don’t make me say it again.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Get out. I’m not dying today.”
John and Ziraya locked eyes. Her expression was unreadable, but the stiffness in her posture said enough. John slid the gem back into his pocket.
The dwarf was already glancing over his shoulder. “Go,” he hissed. “Before someone sees you here.”
“So, what now?” Ziraya murmured once they stepped back into the alley, her breath rising in the cold, oil-slicked air of the underground market.
“We keep trying,” John said grimly, adjusting the collar of his coat. His eyes scanned the foot traffic—twitchy merchants, masked figures, and creatures draped in patchwork cloaks. “There are always information brokers. One of them has to talk.”
Ziraya’s gaze landed on a nearby storefront: plain, windowless, and slouched between two crumbling archways. Its entrance was guarded by two hulking fishmen, their slick gray skin gleaming under lamplight. They wore mismatched leather armor and each held a rusted Spring Flail. Above them, a crooked sign had been carved into the stone in jagged letters: Information Broker.
“What about that one?” she asked, nodding toward it, her voice low.
John eyed the guards. One of them blinked sideways. His fingers twitched toward his revolver on reflex.
Then it happened.
A voice, fragile as moth wings, threaded into their ears.
“The answers you seek won’t be found there.”
They froze.
John’s hand hovered at his holster. Ziraya’s fingers slid to her sword. The voice had come from nowhere—nowhere and everywhere. They spun, scanning the thinning crowd. Nothing.
“I am not near,” the voice continued, like the dry rustle of leaves. “But I am watching. In my humble practice, far from prying eyes.”
John narrowed his eyes. “And why the hell should we trust a whisper in the wind?”
“I speak not of trust,” the voice chuckled softly, hollow and cold. “But of transaction. You do not belong here—your flame burns too strangely. The board shifts. And I see every piece.”
Ziraya hissed under her breath and turned a full circle. “Show yourself.”
“I would not be so careless,” the voice replied. “But if you wish to find me, follow the agent.”
As if summoned by the words, a tall figure emerged from the throng—silent as a shadow. A werewolf, cloaked in heavy black, his snout hidden beneath a lowered hood. His amber eyes flicked between them.
“Come,” he said simply. His voice was flat, almost mechanical. “Mother Candle is waiting.”
John glanced at Ziraya. “Thoughts?”
Ziraya’s tail looped once around his waist and she clicked her tongue, softly. “It’s probably a trap,” she said. Then, drawing her blade an inch from its sheath, she added, “Let’s go anyway.”
They followed.
The werewolf guided them through narrowing alleys and half-lit corridors that smelled of sulfur and mold. Stalls gave way to closed doors, and soon, the buzz of the market faded behind them. They stopped before a squat building tucked beneath a collapsed archway—windowless, silent, and dusted with forgotten glyphs.
Without a word, the werewolf opened the door and stepped aside.
John hesitated, then crossed the threshold. The air hit him like a wave—thick incense, pungent and spiced, curling in golden tendrils. Ziraya gagged softly beside him, her eyes watering. Hundreds of candles lined the walls—some as thin as fingers, others fat and melted into pools. Their flames danced and flickered, casting warped shadows.
A chair creaked from the back.
“So. You’ve come.” The voice was no longer a whisper, but it still carried that unnatural, crumbling softness. A hunched fae woman stood among the candles. Her skin hung like fabric over her bones, etched with time. She wore a yellowed linen shift, crusted with wax. Her hair—long, silver, and stringy—dragged behind her like a funeral shroud. In her gnarled hands, she held a crooked staff crowned with a flickering candle. “Two strangers,” she rasped, leaning forward. “Two untended flames.”
“We’re looking for—” John started.
“Patience, child.” She raised one bony finger, and the flame on her staff flared. “You seek the truth, yes. But truth flickers, and too much wind snuffs it out.” She cupped her hand over a nearby candle—and darkness swallowed a corner of the room. “You are that wind.”
Ziraya’s tail lashed the floor. “We’re not here for riddles,” she said tightly.
“Yet riddles protect knowledge,” Mother Candle murmured. “And I guard many flames. But every candle needs wax, or else it dies.”
“How much?” John asked, fighting the urge to cough.
Mother Candle’s eyes gleamed in the shifting light. “Mother Candle does not trade in Credits.”
Ziraya’s fingers curled tighter around her sword. “Then what?”
“A favor,” she said with a dry smile. “A flicker for a flame. Have you heard of the Echo Mist?”
John raised a brow. “What is it?”
“An artifact,” she explained. “Forged in silence, used in shadow. It hears everything said within a room—and remembers.” She stepped closer, the candle on her staff dripping wax onto the stone floor. “There are whispers even I cannot reach. The Echo Mist would change that.”
“You want us to fetch it for you,” Ziraya said flatly. “Before that—proof. The Ash Vigil. The Dance of Whispers. What do you know?”
Mother Candle’s lips parted in a near-toothless grin. “The Dance is sacred,” she murmured. “A rite of masks, of secrets traded in silence. Your blood—ancient and cracked—has threads tangled in that web. The Vigil watches. And waits.”
“You’re repeating what we said.” Ziraya’s voice sharpened. “You’re giving us nothing.”
A breath escaped Mother Candle’s lips, twisting like smoke. It spiraled upward—then coiled around a candle beside Ziraya and snuffed it out. “The Dance is the only doorway. If you want truth, you must wear a mask. I can give you one. An identity. A place at the ball.”
John stepped forward. “Let’s say we don’t give a damn about the Dance. We need facts—strength, numbers, defenses. Real information about the Ash Vigil.”
“Then go blind,” Mother Candle whispered. “For only the masked see the flame beneath the ash.”
Ziraya’s eyes narrowed, amber and cold. “So we’re playing dress-up in hopes they show up.”
“They will,” Mother Candle rasped. “They must. The ancient fire needs kindling.”
John glanced at Ziraya. “So… should we get that Echo Mist?”
She didn’t answer right away. Her eyes remained fixed on Mother Candle, unblinking. “I don’t like her,” she muttered, voice low and edged with warning. “She speaks in riddles and smells like death. This could be a trap.”
Mother Candle let out a wheezing chuckle, as if she'd heard every word. “Many doors remain closed to those who linger in the threshold,” she whispered.
Ziraya’s grip tightened on the hilt of her blade. “Then maybe we knock… but not without one hand on our sword.”
