The night in Ashveil was no night at all—only an illusion cast in smoke and flickering lamps. Shadows danced wildly along crumbling walls as the city's true face came alive after dusk.
Inside The Maw, Marcel and his group tried to rest. But sleep, in a place like this, was a luxury afforded only to the ignorant or the damned.
The thin wooden walls of their rooms were little more than noise filters. Muffled cries of ecstasy, grunts, bedposts thumping against walls, and loud moaning drifted from the adjacent chambers, where brothel workers plied their trade with drunk mercenaries and bored smugglers.
Out in the street below, chaos reigned.
A man screamed for help—then fell silent with a sickening crunch. Drunken laughter followed by crashing bottles erupted just past the window. Somewhere deeper in the city, a horn blew—then a burst of gunfire or mana discharge echoed against the walls, followed by roaring cheers.
Tarin sat upright on the floor, blade unsheathed and eyes fixed on the door. His shoulders were tense, every muscle ready to snap into motion.
"We're not going to get any rest," he muttered.
"No," Marcel agreed, back pressed against the wall. The shard in his palm pulsed in quiet warning, sensing the sheer aggression saturating the air.
Lira had barricaded the door with a chair and placed a dagger under her pillow, her eyes darting to the shadows every time heavy footsteps passed their room.
Veyla stood by the small, dust-smeared window, watching the street with narrowed eyes. Her voice was a soft whisper, "This city… it feeds on fear and vice. We are prey here."
And it was true.
Downstairs, the bar of The Maw throbbed with life. Discussions were loud and unfiltered. A burly man bragged about a bloodsport match where he gouged an opponent's eye out with his bare fingers. Another whispered about a woman who seduced and poisoned a dozen nobles over the span of a week—selling their secrets before the corpses were even cold.
Soldiers, mercenaries, thugs, and hunters drank shoulder-to-shoulder with prostitutes, assassins, and gamblers. The inn's staff—mostly ex-cons and half-souled war survivors—didn't bother to break up fights or prevent thefts. The unspoken rule was simple: if you got caught slipping, you paid for it in blood.
The Maw had a history soaked in blood and pleasure. Once a weapons warehouse during the War of Fractures, it was converted into a brothel, then a black-market den, and finally, the twisted hybrid of an inn it was now—where a man could sleep, hire company, wager his life, and get stabbed all under one roof.
Even as Marcel's group tried to rest, the bar below boomed with raucous toasts to fallen comrades and crude songs about legendary lovers.
A fight broke out near the bar over cheating dice. A man was thrown through a window. No one cleaned it up.
---
By the second hour past midnight, Marcel found himself pacing the room in silence, the shard in his grip oddly calm, as if savoring the tension in the air. He looked over at Lira and Veyla—both lying still, but clearly awake. Veyla's eyes were open, fixed on the ceiling, her brows creased.
Outside their door, voices whispered, then paused.
Tarin stood, sword raised, ready.
But the voices moved on, followed by drunken footsteps descending the stairs.
"They were scouting rooms," Veyla whispered. "Looking for easy targets."
The group didn't sleep.
Their first night in Ashveil was a test of patience, restraint, and nerves.
---
By morning, the city was no quieter—just more sunlit. Blood stained the steps of The Maw. Two corpses had been dumped in an alley beside it. One missing fingers. The other had been stripped clean of valuables.
Marcel stepped outside, rubbing at his gritty eyes. His jaw clenched tight.
They needed to move carefully. This wasn't Mireholt.
This was Avastin—and Ashveil was only its beginning.
-----------
Morning in Ashveil dawned not with sunlight, but with bloodstained mist and the sound of steel on steel.
Marcel and his team stepped cautiously through the smoky haze, the stench of urine and burnt oil rising from the gutters. A group of cutthroats leaning against a broken archway locked eyes with them, their hands twitching toward weapons—but a low growl from Emberjaw made them think twice.
Ashveil moved to its own brutal rhythm.
They needed information. But in this city, knowledge came with a price.
---
"Who are we meeting?" Tarin asked quietly, blade hidden beneath his cloak.
Veyla didn't break stride. "Krell Varn. Underboss of the Red Coil Syndicate. He trades secrets, sells stolen spells, and runs half the black-market relic trade in Ashveil."
Lira frowned. "And we trust him?"
"No," Veyla said coldly. "But we don't have a choice."
---
They were led through winding alleys and into a charred temple ruin. A woman with mismatched eyes and a chain wrapped around her bare arm barred the path. Veyla whispered a coded phrase in a long-forgotten dialect.
The guard's lips curled into a mocking grin. "Krell's awake. You're either brave or desperate."
She let them in.
They descended into darkness.
---
The tunnels beneath Ashveil were tight, humid, and lined with rune traps. Muffled screams echoed through the walls—torture, or pleasure, or both. Twisted glyphs glowed faintly with blood mana. Rooms passed in flickers: gamblers tossing hexed dice, a man tattooing a soul brand into a drugged prisoner, a massive pit beast in chains gnawing on fresh meat.
They reached a door—thick iron reinforced with mana-bone rods.
It opened slowly with a hiss of cold air.
Inside was Krell Varn.
He sat upon a low chair carved from demonwood, draped in a stitched cloak of scaled beast-hide. His face was narrow and fox-like, pierced from brow to jaw with silver rings. Two masked guards flanked him, their aether-sabers drawn—not idle threats.
On the table before him: a soulweight scale, blackroot wine, and an obsidian ledger.
"Ah," Krell said smoothly. "The rats of Mireholt... clawing their way into my den. I do admire survivors."
Marcel stepped forward cautiously. "We need information."
Krell's smile didn't fade. "Everyone does. Let's discuss the price, shall we?"
---
The conversation turned tense quickly.
Krell demanded coin. They had little.
He asked for relics. They had only broken gear and a corrupted shard.
Then his eyes flicked to Veyla. "Ah. You, flame-binder. Your beast is rare. I could offer quite a trade for its blood—"
Before he could finish, Emberjaw growled low, the stone beneath his claws starting to smoke.
Krell raised his hands, amused. "A jest. Mostly."
Lira's hand hovered near her blade. Tarin stepped forward half an inch.
In response, Krell's guards moved. Not obviously—but enough.
Magic shimmered faintly around the walls. Traps. Poison needles? Binding glyphs? Something worse?
"Let's not make this a short meeting," Krell murmured.
Marcel took a breath. "What do you want?"
Krell tapped the ledger. "Information… is a currency. But perhaps we can strike a deal."
---
He laid it out:
"Ashveil has more than filth and death. It has opportunity. You want to survive, maybe even thrive? Then earn your keep."
He slid a sigil-stamped parchment across the table.
> [Ashveil Guild Charter – Shadow Tier Missions Available]
"There's a guild operating under sanction from one of the lesser empires. Dirty work. High risk. Good pay. Bounties, relic hunts, assassinations, monster culls, territory seizures."
He leaned forward.
"You take my missions. Bring me what I want. In return, I feed you what you need—intel, maps, contacts."
Marcel narrowed his eyes. "And what if we say no?"
Krell's smile never faded.
"Then your options shrink fast. You're not Mireholt's golden heirs anymore. You're ghosts in a city of wolves. No coin. No allies. No future."
Silence stretched long.
Lira leaned in, whispering to Marcel, "We can't trust him."
"I know," Marcel replied. "But if we don't take a step, we're stuck."
They hesitated. Weighed risk against desperation.
Marcel finally nodded. "One mission."
Krell's grin widened. "Excellent. I'll send a runner when it's ready."
As they turned to leave, Krell added, "And one more thing—word of your survival's spreading. Other players are... interested."
He paused, voice low and sharp.
"Make your next move wisely. Ashveil devours the careless."
---
Back on the streets, the city's heat smothered them like a warning.
Krell Varn had opened a door—but walking through might be the beginning of a darker path.
Yet in Avastin, survival demanded sacrifice.
And Marcel knew... they were already in too deep to stop now.