The shimmer of the portal faded, and salt wind washed over them.
Valtherion and Elarwen blinked against the sudden glow of a city carved into the cliffs, its towers like black spears against the pale morning sky.
Slate roofs glistened with dew, cobblestone streets wound like veins, and below, the sea roared against the rock, its voice endless and sovereign.
Eryndor.
The city where everything lived in harmony with everything else.
It was unlike anything the children had ever seen.
Not chaotic, not loud, not weighed by suspicion or war.
There were voices and footsteps, yes, but they moved like a tide in rhythm — a quiet, unhurried pulse that belonged to a place that had nothing to prove.
But everyone knows that there's something dark, deep, beneath the surface of happiness.
The two kids took a look around the place.
They scanned every corner.
And then they saw them.
Not humans.
A cat-eared fisherman dragged a crate of silver fish across the square, his twin tails swaying lazily.
A centaur baker laughed with a human woman as they traded trays of bread.
Farther down, a satyr spread his wares on a stall — leather necklaces, pendants with black iron crosses that clinked against one another like coins.
"Blessed charms! Black-sea crosses! Keep the evil monsters away!" the satyr called cheerfully, shaking a pendant in the air.
Valtherion's breath caught in his throat.
The horns — twisted and heavy — looked like weapons ready to gore him.
Elarwen's grip on his hand trembled so hard her knuckles turned white.
As one, they darted behind the safety of Freya's cloak, clinging to it like frightened birds.
Azrael didn't flinch.
He didn't stare either — he sensed.
His gaze moved over rooftops, down alleys, across shadows.
He was tasting the air for corruption, for the scent of ash and rot.
Vampires.
Even if he knew that the city was "safe" in some ways, he couldn't lower his guard, not even for a second.
Luckily was no particular scent.
The sea itself acted as a wall, its salt and spray cutting through lingering curses like a blade through wax.
Only then Azrael lowered his guard by a little.
He rolled his shoulders, stretched his arms with a quiet crack of joints, then finally turned.
"Are you well?" His voice was low, steady.
The children didn't answer.
Their small faces were still hidden behind Freya's back, eyes peeking out only in quick flashes.
Freya exhaled sharply. "I think we should get them to the Guild as soon as possible. They're probably experiencing too many thi-" Freya stopped talking when she saw a scene she really didn't want to see at all-
That was when Sonisen slid against Azrael's arm like a lover long accustomed to that place.
Her perfume — thickened by spiced liquor — clung to the air.
She traced a finger along his chest, just below his collarbone, her voice a velvet whisper:
"Don't you think it's time you thanked me… properly? You know that travelling make me lose a lot of energies..."
Freya froze.
Valtherion and Elarwen with her.
The elf's violet eyes blazed with sudden fire.
"That's not something to do in front of children, you filthy old hag!" she snapped, her voice sharp enough to cut steel.
Sonisen laughed softly, without shame, a husky ripple of amusement that carried no true malice.
Her eyes softened a fraction as they flicked over the children.
Azrael didn't change.
His breathing never wavered.
"We don't have time. They need safety. And don't touch me — you reek of alcohol." He sighed, shaking her off with a motion so slight it could have been mistaken for dusting away dirt.
Sonisen arched an eyebrow, mock-bowing with theatrical grace. "As you command, hunter." Then she turned and led the way, but not before licking her lips in a predatory mode.
Freya sighed in annoyance.
"I hate that bitch..." She kept thinking.
They then walked deeper into the city.
The first streets were filled with color — strings of painted paper fish overhead, lanterns in green and blue glass that shimmered like stolen ocean-light, merchants offering fruit and songs alike.
Humans and non-humans mingled without fear.
A minotaur luthier plucked strings with thick fingers that moved with impossible delicacy; children — human and neko alike — darted through stalls chasing hoops.
But as the group pressed onward, the city's skin began to change.
The lanterns grew fewer.
The colors dimmed.
Voices thinned to murmurs, then echoes, then silence.
The cobblestones were darker here, slick with damp, and the walls leaned closer.
It was as though they were being swallowed.
Valtherion and Elarwen clung tighter to Freya, feeling a strange sense of anxiety wrapping around their pure and little hearts.
This time she responded, one hand smoothing their hair in turn, a rare gesture of quiet comfort.
She had managed to calm them down, even if it was just a little.
After twenty minutes of winding descent, the street ended at a blackened wooden sign.
Carved into it: The Burning Night Inn.
By day, a tavern. By night… its sign, with the twin cups and scarlet drape above the door, suggested something else entirely.
Inside, the scent of beer, sweat, and smoke pressed against them.
The innkeeper — broad-shouldered, mustached, his vest once fine but long since stained — froze as soon as his eyes landed on the group. His gaze ticked from Sonisen, to Freya, to Azrael, then lingered too long on the children.
"Everything… all right?" he asked carefully.
"Shut up, old man, just give me a switterbeat elfic supreme liquor." Freya replied, flat.
The password.
At once, the innkeeper nodded.
He shoved his knee against the bar, pressed twice beneath the counter.
The wall of casks behind him groaned and split, a seam forming where there had been only wood. Light from runes glimmered like eyes opening.
A black door appeared. Iron hinges, ancient seals glowing briefly before dimming again.
"Quickly," Sonisen muttered, stepping inside.
Valtherion swallowed.
Elarwen squeezed his hand hard.
Freya nudged them both gently forward, and Azrael followed as the silent rear-guard.
The stairwell was narrow, cut deep into stone.
The smell of damp earth and old iron grew stronger the farther they descended.
Sigils carved in the walls lit faintly as they passed, fireflies awakening to recognize friend from foe.
Downward.
Downward still.
Spirals, straight halls, passages so tight Azrael's cloak brushed both walls at once.
They had descended into the unofficial catacombs.
The place where nobody could go since it belonged to the guild.
After nearly ten minutes, the space widened into a vast archway.
Half natural cavern, half carved gateway, inscribed with deep dwarven runes that pulsed faintly with age.
"Identify yourselves."
The voice was deep, metallic, coming from no clear direction.
Freya rolled her eyes. "Don't waste our time, Miza. We're in a hurry."
There was a pause, then a low exhale — a sound that might have been a chuckle.
"Freya. Sonisen. Azrael. Two small, unregistered signatures." The voice sniffed the air somehow. "No curse detected. Open."
The arch ignited with lines of pale light. The door rotated, stone grinding against stone.
And the Guild revealed itself...