The city was Veylport, a place where lanterns flickered against foggy cobblestone streets, the smell of salt and smoke lingering from the docks. The chaos of the night had left its mark on the rooftops—cracked tiles, splintered wood, and faint traces of Hollow Strings where Rayon had toyed with the Awakened Circle members.
Rayon walked calmly down a side street, hands in his pockets, coat flowing behind him. Vorthalaxis had shrunk around his arm again, black markings glinting faintly under the street lamps. Erethon's presence was quiet, almost amused.
"Well… that was fun. But I suspect someone else is already watching."
Rayon tilted his head, smirk faint. "Let them watch. I like a bit of attention."
Rayon's steps led him to a dimly lit bar tucked between two crumbling buildings. The sign read: "The Black Lantern."
Inside, the smell of aged whiskey and smoke hung heavy in the air. Shadows danced along the walls, thrown by flickering candles and a low-burning fireplace. Few patrons lingered—drunk, broken, or carefully pretending to be invisible.
Behind the bar stood an old man, hair gray as ash, with a weathered face that looked like it had seen a hundred lifetimes. He was polishing a glass slowly, deliberately, eyes hidden behind round spectacles.
Rayon approached casually, hands still in his pockets. "A drink," he said, voice calm, emotionless.
The old man nodded without looking up. "Coming right up. But… I've not seen you around here before. Traveler?"
Rayon smirked faintly, sliding onto a stool. "Something like that."
As the man poured the amber liquid into a glass, Rayon's sharp eyes noticed subtle movements—small, almost imperceptible distortions in the air around the old man's hands. Shadows seemed to curl unnaturally, energy thrumming faintly.
Rayon raised an eyebrow. "You're… not just an old man, are you?"
The old man's eyes flicked up, revealing faint violet irises that glimmered unnaturally. A ghost of a smirk crossed his weathered face. "Depends on your definition."
Erethon: Interesting… he's… a Forsaken. I knew it. Couldn't tell you before, but… yes. This one's old. Very old.
Rayon's smirk widened faintly. "Forsaken… and still standing behind a bar. That's… amusing."
The old man chuckled, a deep, gravelly sound. "The world thinks strength lies in power alone. But true strength… lies in patience, observation, and knowing when to strike. You, boy… you've got some spark. Dangerous, unpredictable… and very alive."
Rayon didn't flinch. "Flattery won't save you."
The old man leaned slightly forward, eyes glinting. Shadows curled around him subtly, almost playful. "Most people never realize what Forsakens truly are. We aren't just anomalies with power… we have hierarchy, organization, purpose."
Rayon raised a brow, intrigued despite himself. "Hierarchy, purpose… hmm. Sounds… boring."
The old man's smirk deepened. "Perhaps. Or perhaps, understanding it keeps you alive long enough to enjoy the chaos."
He paused, glancing at Rayon carefully. "I'm Malrick, by the way. And yes… I wield something old, very old. A Forsaken power that predates most of the so-called civilized world. You can feel it, can't you?"
Rayon smirked faintly, letting his violet eyes glint. "I do. Strong. Elegant. Not bad for an old man."
Malrick chuckled. "Not many notice. Even fewer survive long enough to interact with someone like me. You… you are a different breed."
Erethon: Ah… now this is interesting. The Forsakens have structure, secrets, and… apparently, a hierarchy that even he hasn't touched yet.
Rayon took a slow sip of the whiskey, tasting it, still calm and composed. "So… tell me about your organization. Or do you want me to figure it out the hard way?"
Malrick leaned back, spinning the glass between his fingers, eyes dark and calculating. "The Forsakens operate in shadows. Not everyone has a rank. Some serve, some hunt, some orchestrate. There are layers… layers you won't understand yet. But the old blood… the elders… they maintain control. And yes… I am one of them."
Rayon's smirk widened faintly, leaning back in his stool. "Layers, elders… hmm. So you're saying there's a game being played, and I just walked into the arena?"
Malrick chuckled, faint amusement flickering in his violet eyes. "Something like that. But unlike most, you… are already a player. One with a deadly hand and teeth sharper than most in this city."
Erethon: He knows too much. Or… I know too little about him. Intriguing. Very intriguing.
Rayon's smirk didn't fade. "Good. I like games. Especially when the rules aren't written and the players don't know what's coming."
Malrick nodded slowly. "You'll understand soon enough. The Forsakens… are more than anomalies. We are centuries of evolution, strategy, and survival. And some… we hunt those who forget their place. Or underestimate what lurks in the shadows."
Rayon finished his drink, placing the glass back on the counter gently, still calm, emotionless, unbothered by the aura of threat around him.
"Interesting," he murmured, voice low and dark. "I like the shadows. But I never play by anyone else's rules."
Malrick's smirk deepened faintly. "And that… is exactly why you may survive longer than most. Or die spectacularly. Either way… entertainment is guaranteed."
Outside the bar, shadows stirred. More eyes had noticed the Forest Ghost in Veylport. Observers whispered among themselves, sensing the stirrings of a predator who had just grown even more dangerous.
Erethon: He's already walking into the teeth of the wolf pack, and he doesn't even know it yet.
Rayon's smirk lingered, hands in his pockets, violet eyes glinting in the dim light. "Good," he murmured softly. "I was getting bored."
Somewhere in the darkness, Malrick's eyes followed him, amused and calculating. He knew the game had just begun—and he also knew… the Forsakens had taken notice of someone they couldn't ignore.