The cobbled road to Lameclaire stretched before them, winding between grassy hills and moss-covered rocks. Every step echoed on the damp stone, the sound swallowed by the thick mist blanketing the land. In the distance, the blackened city walls emerged from the shadows, tall, imposing, etched with cracks and scars of age. Torn banners still clung to the battlements, mute remnants of a time when the luminic order likely held sway.
Lameclaire.
A city built around a shard of the Severance. A scar of metal, buried in the earth.
As they drew closer, the city's dual nature revealed itself.
Down below, closest to the Rift, the lower city pulsed with an eerie life despite the late hour. Locals had another name for it: Valombre. Twisting alleys tangled between crumbling buildings, dented tin roofs sagging over graffiti-smeared walls. Flickering red lanterns bathed dubious stalls in a sickly glow, where loud-mouthed merchants, smugglers, and lost souls mingled, seeking to forget misery in cheap drink, fleeting dust, or the bite of Umbrasif liqueur.
Above it all, perched like a predator poised to strike, stood the high city, majestic and cold. Tall spires of dark stone rose toward the sky, their stained glass windows filtering out an artificial glow. Up there lived one of the most powerful Archons of the Lutech on the continent, ruler of the heights, weaving his web of influence with threads of technology and fear. If the lower city stank of grime and vice, the upper city reeked of elegant corruption.
And between the two worlds… lay the Rift. Ever-present. Ever-yawning. A silent reminder that something waited below, lurking, or sleeping.
Brann halted at the massive gate to the lower city.
Two skeletal guards in patchwork armor, eyes glazed and dull, sized them up from head to toe. Not a word was spoken. None was needed. In Valombre, coin or fear spoke louder than words.
Brann tossed a coin into one of their grimy hands.
"We're going in." His voice left no room for argument.
The guard pocketed it, then gave a nod. With a long, creaking groan, the heavy doors swung open.
Gaël immediately felt like he was stepping into another world.
A stifling heat wrapped around him, thick with sweat, cheap liquor, and other scents he preferred not to identify. Merchants' shouts tangled with the laughter of prostitutes, the clinking of lutech weapons hidden beneath ragged coats, and the clash of glasses in taverns whose doors flapped in the wind.
"Welcome to hell, kid," Brann rasped with a crooked grin. "Keep one hand on your bag… and the other on your blade."
Gaël nodded, eyes drinking in every detail. Grimy-faced children darted between passersby, snatching a crust of bread here, an unguarded pouch there. Further down the street, a man lay slumped against a wall, eyes vacant, his face bathed in the eerie blue glow of a shattered vial at his side.
"Where are we going?" Gaël whispered, struggling to keep up with Brann's brisk pace.
"To find someone," the warrior replied flatly. "Joric."
Gaël frowned.
"Who's that?"
Brann didn't slow down.
"An honest merchant, if you pay him enough. And I need him."
They weaved through the crowd, passing stalls where rusted blades sat beside questionable artifacts. A woman with glowing eyes tried to sell them a talisman she claimed was blessed. Brann didn't even glance her way.
Eventually, they stopped in front of an iron door, hidden behind a curtain of grimy beads. The sign above, if it could even be called that, hung crooked, the lettering long since faded by time.
Brann knocked three sharp times.
A peephole slid open. Two sharp eyes scrutinized them.
"Password?" growled the voice behind the door.
Brann smiled, cold and humorless.
"I have the blood it asks for."
Silence. Then the sound of several locks clacking open. The door creaked, long and reluctant. Inside… shadows.
Red lanterns cast a murky glow. The air stank of leather, smoke, and stale beer. Hooded figures played cards atop overturned barrels. Others, darker still, slipped into corridors that led nowhere and everywhere.
At the back, seated behind a counter cluttered with daggers, potions, and stacked coins, a man was waiting.
Joric, Gaël assumed.
Short, wiry, hair slicked back in streaks of black and gray. His eyes, a piercing green, belonged to someone who had seen too much… and survived anyway. He idly spun a dagger between his fingers with infuriating ease.
"Brann the Umbra-drinker…" A smile curled across his thin lips. "I thought you were dead."
Brann stepped forward, unbothered.
"Sorry to disappoint."
"Oh, I never mind ghosts coming back," Joric said, slipping the dagger away. His eyes shifted to Gaël. "And this? Your little brother? Apprentice? I'd have bet you'd die alone with your ghosts."
"The fewer questions you ask, the safer you'll be," Brann growled.
Joric shrugged.
"Maybe so. But you didn't cross the Scar-Gate just for my charming company. You want information, don't you? So… sit. Have a drink. Let's talk business."
Brann didn't sit.
His fist slammed against the wooden counter, making nearby card players flinch.
"My order. Why isn't it already here?"
Joric raised both hands, placating. "Easy, Brann. There were… complications."
"Then the info I want is free."
Joric's eyes narrowed.
"Free, huh?" He grimaced, lips tightening like he'd bitten into something bitter. "You know it doesn't work like that."
Brann tilted his head, just enough for the raw gleam of his blade to catch the lantern light and flash with an ominous glow.
"Don't play games, Joric. You're not in a position to bargain."
A heavy silence fell between them.
The kind that smelled of drawn steel and shadows ready to pounce.
Finally, Joric exhaled, resigned.
"You haven't changed. Still slicing instead of talking."
He pushed aside an empty glass and replaced it with a flask filled with something too dark to be wine.
"What do you want to know?"
"The best umbromancer in Valombre, where is he hiding?"