The next morning, at the break of dawn, Lucas and I left the hovel behind.
Moving from the slum’s filth to the “Dias” district was a total sensory shock.
As the stench of rot and packed dirt faded,
the alleys widened into cobblestone streets lined with ashlar stone facades and manicured gardens.
In the Carnic tongue, Dias meant “dance.”
It was a haven of opulence where the air smelled of fresh bread and jasmine—a sickening contrast to the wretched misery rotting just a few hundred yards away.
Draped in our patched, dust-stained rags,
we drew sneers and cold stares from the local bourgeoisie,
who parted in front of us as if we were carrying the plague.
We walked in silence until we reached a grand church at the heart of the district, dedicated to the goddess Duali.
Stained-glass windows caught the morning sun,
casting deep crimson and azure shadows across the courtyard plaza.
Stepping through the heavy oak doors, a solemn silence enveloped us,
broken only by the quiet murmurs of dozens of devotees kneeling along the aisles and the measured footsteps of a few cassock-clad clerics.
Every single one of them prayed for salvation,
completely blind to the criminal filth lining the very foundations of their city.
As we moved down the central aisle, a burly, stern-faced guard abruptly cut us off, barring our path with a massive arm.
“What business do beggars like you have in the House of the Goddess?
” he spat in a low voice.
“Go beg somewhere else.”
Lucas, his face pale and jaw trembling, didn’t flinch.
He stepped forward, locked eyes with the giant, and shattered the sacred quiet,
shouting in a voice that rang beneath the vaulted ceiling:
“Dorga volantis arba fel.”
At those words, spoken in flawless Carnic, the guard froze.
Color drained from his face.
A ripple of unease ran through the congregation.
Right then, a creak of carved wood echoed from our right.
The door of a dark mahogany confessional swung open, and a man stepped out.
He wore immaculate white robes fitted beneath a blood-red velvet coat.
His hair was a striking, rare shade of light blue,
contrasting sharply with his corpse-like pale skin.
But his eyes…
his eyes were completely gray sockets, devoid of pupils.
Looking at him, I knew instantly he wasn’t human.
He was an Astharte—one of the seven races of our world, rumored to be cursed by Duali herself.
The Astharte swept his gaze across the nave.
Without a word, he raised two fingers and made a slow hand gesture.
The reaction was instantaneous.
The clerics cut their prayers short, scrambled to gather their belongings,
and ushered the terrified crowd toward the side exits.
In less than thirty seconds, the church was completely cleared.
Nothing remained except an oppressive silence, smoking candles, and us.
The man glided toward Lucas with a fluid, almost weightless step, speaking in that ancient language foreign to me:
“Dow Lucas, raj qui fel ar sal sev?”
Lucas answered, a look of profound sorrow and exhaustion weighing down his features:
“Non, cal donne dow fel coros.”
I didn’t understand a single word of their jargon, but the tension was so thick it pulled a cold sweat from my skin.
Suddenly, the Astharte locked his gray orbs on me.
A wide, eerie smile—far too perfect to be genuine—split his marble face as he questioned my friend again:
“Dow Lucas, dei marma?”
Lucas went rigid, his throat tight.
He lowered his eyes and whispered:
“…
Oy.”
The man turned to me, instantly adopting the poise of an impeccably polite aristocrat.
“Please forgive the interruption,” he said in a smooth, silky voice.
“My name is Dva Callis.
A pleasure.
Lucas informed me that you are companions, and more importantly,
that you burn with the desire to join our arya.”
In Carnic, arya meant “family.” Misled by his courtesy and warm tone, I dropped my guard and gave a straightforward answer:
“Hello.
I’m Drey.
And yes, I came to join Eresboros.”
The exact second that name crossed my lips, Dva Callis’s mask of benevolence shattered.
With inhuman speed, his hand slashed through the air.
Before my eyes could even track the movement, iron fingers clamped violently around my throat.
He lifted me off the floor with one hand like a piece of straw.
“What did you just say, kid?” he hissed, his voice dripping with icy hatred.
“Who gave you permission to utter that name in this place?”
A foul, heavy, terrifying aura leaked from him, crushing my lungs.
It was raw supernatural energy—the pure pressure of a monster.
Paralyzed by terror, feet dangling in the air, I gathered what little oxygen I had left to croak out:
“Sor…
ry…”
He stopped dead.
The pressure vanished instantly, and he let go.
I hit the marble tiles hard, coughing violently as I gulped down lungfuls of air.
Dva Callis looked down at me with amused curiosity, that fake smile returning to his lips.
“Hmm…
Apology accepted.
Well, since you have good manners after all,
we can move on to your initiation test.
Lucas, give him the picto-card.”
Maintaining a dead silence, Lucas pulled a thin golden plate equipped with a silver needle from his coat.
He carefully avoided my eyes.
I snatched the object from his hand and, guessing the ritual,
pricked the tip of my thumb without hesitation.
As soon as a drop of blood welled up and soaked into the golden surface, the card magically expanded,
revealing a regional map glowing with four scarlet red dots.
“Your mission is childishly simple,” Dva explained in a detached tone.
“This map marks four establishments to which we provide certain ‘services.’
Your job is to collect the money they owe us.
You have exactly one week.
You will do this alone.
And if you fail…
you die.”
Too numb to tremble at the threat, I dragged myself up, swallowed the sharp pain in my throat, and met his hollow gaze.
“Fine.
In seven days, you’ll have your money.”
“Perfect.
Oh, a quick word of friendly advice: show no mercy, or you’ll end up in a body bag.”
With those words,
Dva and Lucas turned their backs on me and walked toward the rear of the church,
leaving me alone among the flickering candles.
Back in my slum hovel, I studied the picto-card by candle light.
The four locations were clear:
the first was a shop named “Crossfield,” specializing in hunter artifacts; the second marked an orphanage;
the third pointed to a Black Merchant Guild warehouse;
and the last targeted a small farm on the outskirts of the Dias district.
The next morning, I set out toward my first target: Crossfield.
The shopkeeper was a burly hybrid with a neck like a tree trunk and pronounced pig-like facial features.
I walked up to the heavy wooden counter, reciting the code Lucas had taught me:
“Good day.
I come on behalf of the shadows.
They sent me because they aren’t satisfied.”
The hybrid loomed over me, scanning my filthy clothes with a sneer full of contempt.
“And what do these lovely shadows want from me?”
“You forgot to pay their cut,” I replied coldly.
“They want what’s theirs.”
The man feigned surprise, tapping his greasy forehead.
“Ah…
Right.
Time flies.
Wait here, kid.
I’ll grab the chest from the back room.”
He walked submissively into the back.
Seeing him comply without an argument, I naively dropped my guard, thinking a collector’s job was child’s play.
BANG!
The air shattered.
The hybrid burst from the shadows, swinging a massive two-handed executioner’s sword.
The blade slammed into the counter, exploding it into a storm of splinters.
Driven by pure panic, I dived backward, narrowly dodging being cleaved in two.
It was the first time in my life I had faced a real blade wielded with intent to kill.
The man chained wild, furious swings, smashing display cases and glass shelves.
The shop was too cramped, the floor littered with debris that snagged my movements.
But within seconds, the weight of his weapon and his heavy build caught up to him.
He began to gasp for air.
His swings slowed down.
Thinking I saw an opening, I lunged forward to plant a hard kick straight into his collarbone.
Beginner’s mistake.
The moment I came within reach, his free hand—broad as a vise—clamped onto my collar.
With a brutal jerk, he slammed me hard onto the floorboards.
The impact knocked the breath right out of my lungs, making stars dance across my vision.
A second later, the hybrid stood over me, raising his sword with both hands,
ready to drive it through my heart, a sadistic grin twisting his snouted face.
Right then, pinned under the steel, I felt the absolute coldness of death.
As the blade plummeted, my body reacted on instinct.
I threw myself to the side in a desperate roll.
Steel bit into the wood two inches from my ear.
Ignoring the agonizing pain in my back, I tried to crawl away, but the hybrid was faster.
He caught up to me near the shattered counter, grabbed me by the neck, and hauled me off the ground again.
“You’re dead, you little rat,” he growled, his breath foul and heavy.
At those words, an image flashed in my mind with the violence of lightning: the man with the dragon tattoo.
Something snapped inside me.
The panic evaporated, replaced by an icy calm.
My body went limp.
Feigning unconsciousness to make him relax his guard, I waited for his grip to loosen just a fraction—then I exploded.
I rammed my fingers straight into his eyes.
The hybrid shrieked in agony and dropped me.
Hitting the floor, my hand swept through the debris and closed around a long steel shiv lying in the dust.
Without a second of hesitation, driven by pure feral instinct,
I lunged up and drove the blade with all my strength right into the hollow of his throat.
The monster froze.
A wet, bloody gurgle escaped his mouth, and then his massive body collapsed onto the floorboards like dead weight.
Absolute silence descended over the wrecked shop.
I stood up slowly, wiping the blood splatter from my face.
Strangely, I felt no guilt.
No trembling.
My mind was crystal clear.
I headed into the back room and found a safe already sitting wide open.
Next to it was a leather pouch stuffed with coins and jewelry.
The man had already prepared everything.
He planned to murder me and flee the city with the stash…
I realized instantly.
I grabbed the bag and walked past the corpse soaking in its own blood.
One final thought crossed my mind before I stepped out the door and vanished into the alleyway:
If he had survived, he would have run, and I would have failed…
I did what needed to be done.
No regrets.
This is the path I chose.