The corridor spat them out like unwelcome guests into a courtyard paved in black stone.The slabs were cut with unnerving precision, each one veined with pale lines that didn't stay still—shifting, almost imperceptibly, as though the stone itself was breathing.
A man waited there.
Knight was the only word that fit—not for his armor, but for the sheer weight of his presence. It pressed on the air the way a storm presses on the horizon before lightning strikes.
His armor bore scars from wars long past, yet every plate gleamed as though polished not for vanity, but for ritual. A long, dark-blue cloak hung from one shoulder, moving faintly despite the stillness. At his hip rested a sword with a hilt of steel-blue leather—worn smooth from use, yet cared for like an heirloom.
He stood straight, shoulders squared. His gaze landed on them like the point of a spear—assessing, not welcoming.
"I am Vaelric," he said, voice calm but edged. "Call me Vael."
Nameless inclined his head. "Nameless," he replied, then gestured to his companion. "Ryne."
Vaelric's eyes flicked over them."It is… unusual," he said slowly, "to see humans walk into this place. Much less alive."
His hand brushed the pommel of his sword—habit, not threat."The Grandmaster wishes to meet you," he continued. "That is not an honor given freely. Follow me."
They moved through Araveth's streets—a maze of black arches and walls streaked with bone-white roots. The roots pulsed faintly, in rhythm, like veins feeding something vast and unseen.
The air was muted here. Their steps made sound, but the sound didn't seem to travel. Lanterns floated overhead, each holding pale green fire that did not flicker—it breathed.
Ryne, predictably, broke the silence."Why are the lanterns floating? Why do the roots glow? And is it just me, or is the air heavier here?"
Nameless didn't answer. His thoughts were far from the streets—caught on the shadow of the woman in his dream. Her eyes burned with truths he wasn't ready to face. He doubted he ever would be.
The main hall rose ahead, vast and black, shaped like the ribcage of a colossal beast long dead. Pale roots crawled over its high arches, weaving into patterns that almost formed symbols before shifting away.
Vaelric stopped before the doors."He's waiting inside," he said, then gave Nameless one last unreadable look before stepping aside.
Inside, the air changed—cooler, sharper. The scent was faintly herbal, layered over something older, like rain-soaked stone that hadn't seen the sky in centuries.
At the far end sat a man on a low dais, a cup in hand. The liquid inside shimmered faintly, catching the dim light like something that belonged to another world.
The Grandmaster was carved from dusk and blood.
His long hair spilled in dark, untamed waves, glinting crimson when the light touched it—like embers that refused to die. His face was all sharp lines and quiet defiance,a mouth on the edge of a smirk it never committed to.
And his eyes—pale gold, patient—were neither warm nor cold. They were the kind of eyes that had no need to chase you, because they already knew where you would run.
His robe was deep brown and muted red, its edges frayed with intent, not neglect. Stains marred the hem—faded, but stubborn. His hands, resting on his knees, were scarred and calloused. These were not the hands of a man who merely commanded battles. They were the hands of one who had survived them.
"Greetings, rare guests," the Grandmaster said, rising to his feet.
They bowed. Nameless's was little more than a tilt of the head.
The Grandmaster's gaze moved to Ryne… then stopped on Nameless.
Something flickered there—recognition, as brief as lightning between clouds, gone before it could be named. When he spoke, his tone didn't change, but the choice of words shifted.
"So, you are the ones who crossed the City of Chains and the Valley of Blooms. Few have walked that road in centuries." His gaze stayed on Nameless, pale gold meeting shadow. "The man beside you… looks familiar, yet not. Perhaps I am mistaken. He is more weapon than wanderer—and the kind, yet not the kindest, person I've known."
Nameless didn't speak.
The words lodged in his mind like hooks. Familiar… yet not?
He didn't know this man. He didn't know himself—not truly. His earliest memories were a blur, fractured into moments of power and violence with no thread between them. He remembered the way his hands could tear through steel, the way shadows bent toward his will. He remembered the fear in other people's eyes.
But names, origins… those had always been out of reach.
What does he see when he looks at me? Nameless wondered. A memory? A ghost? Or something I haven't yet become?
The Grandmaster's eyes didn't waver, but Nameless felt an unspoken thing pass between them—something deeper than curiosity, something almost… wary.
"This place," the Grandmaster continued, turning away, "is older than the oldest ruins in the First Realm. When the demon legions came, my ancestors bled for this land. They bound their corruption beneath the stone and wove sigils to keep the survivors hidden."
"Sigils?" Ryne asked.
"Ancient powers," he said, his voice like stone locking into place. "Will made permanent. The ones etched into these streets keep Araveth unseen, and bind what sleeps beneath. We will speak of them later."
"Why are you here?" he asked at last.
Nameless spoke before Ryne could."To find whoever is responsible for her death."
Ryne glanced at him, then cut in quickly. "We're heading for the next realm."
The Grandmaster's gaze sharpened. "Do you think you can stand against corrupted divinities and live?"
"We'll try," Ryne said, her chin lifting. "Help us reach it, and you'll see for yourself."
He studied them both for a long moment, then said,"Maybe I can help you both."
"Do you wish to rest for the night?" he asked.
"Yes!" Ryne answered instantly.
Nameless's voice was cold. "Rest? Is it needed?"
"I may look unbreakable," Ryne replied dryly, "but I'm still alive. And they might have a vault of knowledge we could unravel. That matters more than you think."
Nameless tilted his head slightly, an unspoken question in his eyes. She caught the look, and her shoulders slumped the faintest bit.
Ryne let out a slow, weary sigh—the kind that came from carrying too many burdens for too long. Her gaze drifted away from him, as if the conversation itself was another weight she didn't want to bear.
"Don't start," she murmured, rubbing the side of her temple with two fingers. "Not now."
It wasn't anger, not even frustration—just exhaustion, plain and unadorned. The kind that made her look older than she was, the kind that hinted she'd been fighting battles that didn't leave visible scars.
Nameless said nothing, but the way her eyes briefly met his again was enough to remind him: in this city, survival wasn't just about strength. It was about knowing when to stop fighting, even for a moment.
Nameless's silence was its own agreement.
The Grandmaster's smirk deepened. "Then prepare yourselves. The Araveth you've seen so far is nothing but it's mask. Tomorrow, you'll see it's true face as you explore more."
"I have questions," Nameless said.
"Later," the Grandmaster replied, turning to the far wall. His fingers traced a sigil into the air—a tiger's face, ancient and knowing. Pale light bled from it, and the wall folded inward like space itself was bending to his will.
"Come."
He stepped through. Ryne and Nameless followed.
Beyond the threshold… beauty waited—vast and alive.