Isilyn

  Nethraven had finally swallowed me whole. What had once been a distant, flickering promise of light was now a brutal sensory assault—flickering streetlamps clashing with the oppressive darkness, alleys choked with refuse and desperation, and an unyielding clamor that hammered at my skull. I’d slipped into this godforsaken place under the cover of night, hood pulled low, dagger gripped tightly in my hand like a lifeline. Every step along these streets was a battle against the creeping dread that every shadow might hide some bastard waiting to strike.

  The stench was relentless—damp wood, stale ale, rotting garbage, and the occasional whiff of spiced meat from vendors hustling for a sale. I cursed under my breath, my muscles screaming from hours of running. "I’m so fucking done with this," I muttered, but still, I pressed forward, my legs refusing to let me stop. Nethraven was a maze of decay, its corners whispered with secrets better left forgotten.

  I ducked into a cramped alley, reeking of piss and decay, leaning against cold brick to catch my breath. The words the guard had left me with still echoed in my skull—“Nethraven’s the kind of place you either get lost in, or you never leave at all.” The thought gnawed at me. Was I lost, or just walking the fine line between surviving and being swallowed whole?

  A sudden clatter broke the silence, a tin can rolling across the street or something heavier falling. My skin prickled. I gripped my dagger tighter, peering into the dark. For a split second, I thought I saw eyes—glimmering, hungry—before they disappeared into the black. "Shit," I hissed, heart pounding in my chest. I wasn’t about to let some unseen bastard catch me off guard.

  Steeling myself, I straightened up and resumed walking, my pace faster, more cautious. The twisting alleys and sidestreets felt like living things, like the city itself was testing me. It was alive in its own way—its crumbling walls and flickering lanterns promising both salvation and doom. I had to stay sharp, because Nethraven? It didn’t let you forget its grip. And I wasn’t about to let it have me, not yet.

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  Zarek

  The rattle of the carriage faded into nothingness as we crossed through Nethraven's weathered gates. The city loomed before me—a towering, scarred beast, ancient and unforgiving. I stepped onto slick, dew-soaked cobblestones, their grime a testament to countless failed rebellions and forgotten struggles. The air was thick with the smell of mildew and the weight of history, and I couldn't help but curse under my breath as I took it all in.

  In the dim pre-dawn light, my men gathered in the cramped space behind the city’s outer ramparts, their faces a mix of fear, grit, and stubborn resolve. Korrin’s jaw was set, his eyes blazing with a determination that spoke louder than any words. I fumbled with the crumpled map in my hands—ink smudged by sweat and nerves. Every line, every direction, felt like a reminder of the lives hanging in the balance, the burden of leadership pressing down harder with each passing second.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  I pushed through the narrow passageway, flanked by towering stone walls draped in moss, etched with scars from battles long past. Every footstep echoed in the cold air, reverberating off the stones like the ghosts of old conflicts. The city felt like a weight on my chest, a reminder of every sacrifice made in the dead of night, and yet the feeling of dread I couldn’t shake from my mind gnawed at me. A fleeting image—a spectral figure—had chilled me to the bone, a warning I couldn't ignore.

  "Fuck," I spat, the taste of dread sharp in my mouth. Was I a pawn in some twisted game, or had fate simply dealt me the worst hand possible?

  But hesitation wasn’t an option. Too many lives depended on the next move. With a deep breath, I gripped my dagger tighter, muttering under my breath, “Time to fuck shit up,” before plunging forward into Nethraven's belly. We wound through narrow lanes, twisting corridors where flickering lanterns painted fleeting shadows, each turn a new threat to our resolve. Every inch of this city had its own story, and most of those stories were stained with blood.

  There were whispers among my men, exchanged glances heavy with doubt. But we couldn’t afford to falter. Not here. Not now. Lives were on the line, and I’d be damned if we let Nethraven break us before we could even strike.

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  Dravena

  The barren wilds I’d crossed for what felt like an eternity had finally given way to Nethraven’s twisted sprawl—a city that loomed like some dark, ancient beast. The clearing I emerged into was bathed in the pale light of dawn, but it only served to highlight the city’s decay. Its towering spires and crumbling walls bled shadows, the jagged edges of the cityscape like the fangs of some mythical creature, poised to tear into anything foolish enough to wander too close.

  I felt the pulse of the artifact at my side, a relentless, steady beat that matched the thrum of my own heartbeat. It had cost me everything, but it was mine now—and I wasn’t about to let it slip from my grasp. The weight of the power, the promises it held, was more than a simple burden. It was an unyielding call, one that thrummed beneath my skin with every step toward the city.

  The gate loomed before me—massive ironwork twisted into cruel, barbed designs, a testament to centuries of violence and rebellion. It was as though the city itself were a living, breathing thing—its pulse dark, its intentions unknowable.

  Every step toward it was a step deeper into the heart of whatever madness awaited me. The sharp bite of the wind couldn’t cool the fire that burned within me, nor could it erase the image of villages burned to the ground, lives reduced to ash. Power was no gift; it was a cage. But the cage was mine, and I would shape it into something unbreakable.

  “Fuck,” I muttered under my breath as I passed through the rusted gates. The marketplace beyond was a mess of chaotic noise—rough-hewn vendors yelling their wares, carts clattering across cobblestones, and drunken men cursing their misfortune. It was a world where desperation ran as deep as the city’s ancient veins.

  But amid the madness, I felt it—those invisible eyes watching, the sense that I wasn’t alone in my pursuit. Something here knew what I carried. Knew what I had become.

  With the weight of the artifact against my side, I stepped deeper into the heart of Nethraven, and in that moment, I knew one thing: everything I had fought for, everything I had become, was about to collide with whatever destiny awaited in the shadows.

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  As the first true light of dawn cast its weak glow over Nethraven, the city’s grimy streets, crumbling buildings, and bloodstained walls bore witness to three souls—each scarred, defiant, and driven by inner fire—whose paths were about to converge. The city’s secrets, its promises, and its threats had drawn us together, and nothing, nothing, was ever going to be the same again.