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The room above The Maw's tavern was filled with silence, a rare lull after the chaotic whirlwind of the past days. Marcel sat near the window, watching the flickering lights of Ashveil's night—the shadows of lanterns swaying in brothel balconies, the drunken howls from alleyways, and the distant clatter of death rings.
They hadn't slept well the night before. Between the rhythmic pounding of beds in adjacent rooms, screams of robbery victims in the streets, and raucous shouting over drinks and violent brawls, rest had been a fleeting ghost. Even now, the inn thrummed with life, loud and unpredictable.
But in this moment, with the fire low and Emberjaw curled in a corner like a mountain of heat, a quiet reflection settled over them.
Tarin leaned against the door, arms crossed, eyes distant. "I wonder how Mireholt is faring."
Lira sat at the edge of her bed, sharpening one of her daggers. Her movements slowed. "We don't know for sure, but... if that many warriors vanished from the battlefield, someone would've noticed. Nearby cities might see it as a chance to press them."
Veyla's expression was unreadable, her fingers absentmindedly stroking Emberjaw's fur. "There are rumors in the undercurrents—whispers of instability. Cities close to Burnscar Gully might be making moves."
"They'll try to push Mireholt's borders," Tarin said, his voice low. "Test how far they can go without retaliation."
Marcel's brows drew together. "Our village is under their rule. If things turn worse, the ripple will reach there too. Families are probably already uneasy."
Veyla nodded. "And with the trading hub—Night's Domain—reopening trade, they're treading carefully. Increased crime, rising merchant complaints about bandits... it's a volatile environment."
Lira exhaled slowly. "I imagine parents of those who died at Burnscar are looking for someone to blame. If they think the city sent them to die in vain, the unrest inside could be worse than what's outside."
Tarin's jaw tightened. "Mireholt didn't raise us... but it was home, in a way. If it falls, everything connected to it cracks too."
The fire popped quietly.
Marcel looked at the shard embedded in his hand. For once, it was quiet. Dormant.
"We're not strong enough to help yet," he said, barely above a whisper. "But we will be."
They all nodded.
Determination burned low in their chests, a fire yet to be stoked.
Outside, Ashveil raged on. But inside that quiet room above the chaos, a vow had been made.
They would survive. They would grow. And one day, they would return—strong enough to tip the scales.
Just as the silence settled, a sharp knock echoed against their inn room door.
Tarin was the first to move, blade in hand, his instincts taut.
Marcel approached carefully and cracked the door open.
A hooded courier stood in the dim hallway, breathing hard—his cloak stained with travel dust and the copper scent of blood.
He handed Marcel a sealed envelope marked with an unfamiliar crest—an open eye surrounded by ash.
"No words," the courier muttered before vanishing down the corridor.
Marcel turned the envelope in his hand. The seal pulsed faintly with mana—old, restrained, and watching.
Lira stepped beside him. "That… isn't from Krell."
"No," Marcel said quietly. "This is something else."
And for the first time in hours, the air in the room felt heavier again.
The envelope weighed more than it should have. Not in mass, but in presence. Marcel held it as though it might bite. A wax seal, black as ink and pressed with the mark of a slit-shaped eye, gleamed faintly under the dim light of their inn room.
Tarin stepped forward, tension in his shoulders. "You think it's from Krell?"
"No," Marcel said. "He doesn't strike me as the poetic type."
They exchanged glances. Doubt lingered in the air. The city of Ashveil had already proven unpredictable, and they were beginning to understand just how deep the underworld ran.
Marcel broke the seal.
A thin slip of parchment slid out. The handwriting was elegant—too careful to be casual, too practiced to be common.
> To the Survivors of Burnscar Gully,
You've stepped into Avastin like lambs among starving wolves.
Yet you survived the uncharted stretch.
That alone is enough to warrant interest.
If you're seeking power, purpose, or truth—seek the Eye.
Ask no questions at the door.
Come alone, or come prepared to be seen.
— The Ashveil Chapter of the Black Eye
The words sent a shiver through them all.
Tarin broke the silence first. "Seek the Eye? That sounds like the beginning of a long death."
Lira took the note, reading it again under her breath. "The Black Eye... I remember overhearing something back in Mireholt. Whispers of them watching from the shadows. They don't deal in gold or glory. Just... secrets."
Veyla nodded. "They're older than most kingdoms. Some say they pass judgment on the world in silence. Others say they're chaos cloaked in civility. Either way—they don't make contact unless they want something."
Marcel leaned back, exhaling. His instincts screamed against blind trust. But there was a pull, an itch beneath the skin. They were strangers in a hostile land, surrounded by monsters in human skin. Could they afford to ignore such a connection?
Tarin glanced toward the window, where the dull orange glow of the city stretched endlessly. "We don't even know who sent it. Or how they knew where to find us."
"That's what makes it worse," Lira muttered.
Marcel stared at the letter. "And what makes it worth considering."
---
That Night
The walls of their room were thin—insultingly so. No matter how they tried to rest, the city refused to sleep. Every hour brought new sounds: bodies slamming against walls in heated lust, guttural moans leaking through thin wood, violent cries from drunken fights in the street. Somewhere nearby, a death ring roared as the crowd demanded blood.
Glass shattered. A scream of pain. Then laughter.
Marcel lay on the floor beside the bed, eyes open, hand on the hilt of his weapon. Even in exhaustion, his senses refused to dull.
At one point, someone tried the door handle. Tarin nearly drew his sword. They didn't sleep after that.
Downstairs at the inn's bar, war stories twisted with sexual boasts. Mercenaries traded tales of bloody skirmishes while sitting beside courtesans in sheer silks. A dwarf laughed about slicing a man's throat while his companion moaned under the table.
This city…
It was a rot disguised as civilization.
---
The Next Day — A Decision in Shadow
Marcel sat by the window at dawn, watching smoke curl from the city's chimneys. The letter sat on the table beside him, unchanged, yet heavy as ever.
Tarin entered, bleary-eyed. "You're still thinking about it?"
Marcel didn't respond.
Lira joined them, a cup of cold tea in her hands. "Do we go?"
"I don't know," Marcel said quietly. "This feels like a trap."
"Or a door," Veyla offered from the doorway. "Sometimes they're the same."
Krell's warnings echoed in Marcel's mind: "Ashveil has rules. None of them protect you."
They had come here to find strength. And here it was, cloaked in riddles and watching them from the dark.
Marcel rose slowly. "We go. But if it's a trap—we burn it down."
---
Beneath Ashveil
The directions scrawled by Krell led them past crumbling districts where time had forgotten the stone. Into alleys too narrow for light, through doors hidden behind ruined shrines, and into stairwells that twisted like a snake's spine.
They reached it: a black door with no handle, only a carved eye at its center.
Marcel stepped forward and placed his palm against it.
A hiss. A click.
The door creaked inward, revealing only darkness.
From within, a voice whispered:
"You've been seen."
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A/N
The system works when the shard is active.