Jack and Caspian lingered just outside the fight pits, the familiar streets reeking of rot and blood.
The air was thick with the stench of sweat and desperation, mingling with the metallic tang of spilled life. The flickering light from the torches cast erratic shadows, making the darkened alleyways seem alive, as if watching and waiting for the next victim.
Caspian had grown accustomed to the grim atmosphere, but tonight felt different. A heaviness hung in the air that gnawed at his senses, pressing down like an invisible weight. Their captain had already entered the pit to confront the members of the Sleeping Forest, leaving Caspian and Jack to patrol the perimeter, their eyes scanning the shifting shadows for any sign of danger.
"You getting that weird feeling?" Jack whispered, his voice barely cutting through the din of the crowd, which roared like a wild beast, punctuated by the occasional sickening thud of flesh meeting flesh.
Caspian nodded, his instincts on high alert. A prickling sensation crawled up the back of his neck. He halted abruptly, raising a hand to signal Jack to stop.
But it was too late.
Two figures lunged at them from the shadows—one aimed at Caspian, the other at Jack.
"Ambush!" Jack yelled, spinning around to unleash a torrent of wind and fire toward their attackers. The flames danced like ravenous spirits, lighting up the darkness and illuminating the panic in Caspian's chest. Caspian dove through the flames before they had time to settle, drawing his blade. But as he prepared to strike, a wave of terror surged through him, like slamming into an invisible wall, forcing him to hesitate.
"Priest! Get back!" Jack shouted, conjuring a fiery eagle that shot through the air, narrowly missing Caspian's head before crashing into an unseen barrier. The impact shattered the center, creating an opening in its defenses.
"NOW!"
Caspian leaped through the breach, locking eyes with their assailants. Clad in black hooded cloaks that billowed like specters, the figures bore the clan's symbol—a barren tree silhouetted against a crescent moon. The symbols seemed to writhe and pulse, as if alive, radiating danger far beyond the twins they had previously faced.
The shorter figure, a woman with raven-black hair that shimmered in the torchlight and piercing blue eyes that glinted with malevolence, smiled mockingly at Caspian. Her lips curled like a serpent preparing to strike.
Her companion, a tall man with gray eyes that reflected the flickering flames like cold steel, chuckled darkly. "Stupid kid."
An icy dread gripped Caspian as he met the man's gaze, his body freezing against his will. The surrounding cacophony faded into a dull roar, the stench of sweat and blood intensifying, mixing with the scent of smoke.
I know fear—this is nothing! He shoved the thought aside and lunged at the man, desperate to buy Jack time. But the man dodged effortlessly, weaving through each of Caspian's attacks as if mocking him, every missed strike echoing in the air like a taunt.
Suddenly, the air crackled with electricity, and the hairs on Caspian's arms stood on end. A flash of light blinded him as Jack unleashed an arc of lightning that struck the woman square in the chest. She collapsed, her body convulsing violently, the jolt lighting up the surrounding darkness with a harsh brightness.
Scribes are... terrifying.
Regaining his composure, Caspian charged toward the tall man, confident Jack would finish off the woman. He unleashed a flurry of strikes, but the man deftly parried each one, countering with a brutal precision that left Caspian disarmed. Switching tactics, Caspian aimed a kick at his opponent's throat, but the man raised a hand with a smirk, blocking it easily.
Cruel déjà vu flooded Caspian's mind. He shut his eyes just as the shock of electricity hit him, sending convulsions through his body. Gritting his teeth, he struggled to rise, only for the man to drive a vicious kick into his ribs. Caspian's world spun as he was thrown across the ground, pain erupting in his chest. The gritty dirt scraped against his skin as he fell, every breath a fresh agony, mingled with the taste of copper in his mouth.
"Why would the Crows send a mundane with them? Filthy pest, you should know your place."
Gasping for air, Caspian rolled onto his back and raised a hand, summoning an ice javelin. He fired it straight at the man's chest, his heart racing as he felt the rush of magic course through him.
"Tch."
With a flick of the wrist, the man conjured an ethereal barrier. The javelin shattered harmlessly against it, fragments scattering like shards of glass in the flickering light.
Caspian's eyes widened as the man summoned a javelin of his own, hurling it with deadly precision. It struck Caspian's leg, the freezing pain spreading instantly, seizing him like a vice. His thoughts became muddled, the shock and blood loss overwhelming him, the world tilting in and out of focus as darkness threatened to pull him under.
"Tell us where the ring is, and we'll let you and your friend live," the man taunted, his voice cold, dripping with sadistic delight. The murmur of the crowd faded into a distant echo, replaced by the thundering of Caspian's heart.
"I'm just a poor slum rat! What the hell would I know about a ring?"
"Oh? So you can talk. Very good."
With a malicious grin, the man summoned the firestorm that Jack had created earlier, the swirling flames and wind hovering ominously in his hand, licking the air hungrily. The heat radiated, causing beads of sweat to form on Caspian's brow.
"Last chance, Maple. Where is it?"
The man's smug confidence faltered as the air shifted—a sudden, primal fear surged through him.
I need to run! The thought clung to his mind, but before he could act, Caspian struck.
His body felt fractured—not broken, not yet. But he could fix that later.
The man stood over him, smug and pathetic, clutching a storm of fire and wind as if he knew what to do with it. Blood pooled in his mouth, thick and warm; he coughed, splattering the ground. The faint glow from nearby torches flickered across his adversary's face, casting ominous shadows that deepened his fear. He noticed the man's hand trembling—clearly terrified. How pathetic. Fear rolled off him in waves, almost laughable. But it wasn't time for that. Not yet.
The storm exploded from the man's hand, hurtling toward him. He waited, letting the man believe he had control. Then, at the last second, he sent three ice javelins into the flames. The first shattered, erupting into a cloud of steam, scalding droplets scattering through the air. The second javelin pushed through the fire but barely made an impact. The third was the real gift; it tore through the barrier like wet paper, slamming into the man's chest.
The fire died in the man's hand, snuffed out as quickly as it had appeared—forgotten, like him.
Did he honestly believe there would be a fair fight? That they would face each other head-on? Idiot.
Before the man could react, he was behind him, and his knife had already buried deep in the man's shoulder, slicing through muscle and tendon. The blade ground against bone with a sickening crunch, sending a thrill up his spine that he barely restrained. The man's face contorted, his eyes wide with pain, disbelief, and a flash of pure terror.
The man gasped, trying to scream, but he silenced him with a fist to the throat. A choking gurgle was all the man could muster, his eyes bulging as he struggled for air that refused to come.
He twisted the knife, feeling the joint dislocate under pressure as the man's body jerked violently. Blood gushed from the wound, staining his cloak, but he didn't stop. The knife plunged again, this time lower, straight into the ribs. The blade sank deep, slicing through flesh and bone. The man's raw, desperate screams barely escaped his mouth, lost in the crowd's roar.
He leaned closer, savoring the heat of the man's blood on his hands. His fingers grew slick with it, but he didn't care. He pulled the knife out, the wet, sucking sound filling the air as the flesh tore.
Another stab. Another. Each time, the blade sank deeper, and the man's body convulsed harder, life seeping onto the filthy ground. But he wasn't done. Not yet. The knife plunged once more, finding the liver, slicing through it like butter. The man's body twitched in agony, which only fueled him.
The world faded around him, leaving only the sound of tearing, the feel of flesh giving way under the blade, the rhythm of a body breaking. He drove the knife in again, harder, feeling the tip hit the spine. The man was barely conscious now, but he didn't stop. Blow after blow, he drove the knife into his side until the man was nothing but a broken, bloody heap.
The man lay unmoving, yet he kept going.
Blood pooled beneath, thick with the scent of iron and death. The man's eyes stared up, glassy, lifeless. But that wasn't enough.
He tore the ice javelin from the chest, the flesh tearing with a sickening squelch. Blood gushed from the wound, but he didn't care. He slammed the javelin back down, cracking ribs with the force, burying it deeper each time. His hands were covered in blood, sticky and hot, the feeling... calming.
The man's body had gone still, utterly lifeless, but he plunged the javelin one last time, twisting it with brutal force. There was no need—he was long gone. But the sound of flesh tearing was like music.
Finally, he stopped, breath heavy, hands trembling with exertion. He stood over the body, his chest rising and falling as adrenaline pulsed through him.
That's when he noticed it—a faint glow coming from the man's chest. Something... pulsing. He crouched down, ignoring the mess he'd made. There was an object embedded in the man, glowing faintly under layers of torn skin and broken bones.
Reaching out, he brushed his fingers against it. Cold. Smooth. Almost... alive. Without hesitation, he tore it free, pocketing it without a second thought.
Just then, Jack approached, glancing at the corpse with a look of frustration. "At least you got yours," he muttered, nudging the body with his foot. "That witch slipped away. Where the bloody hell is Captain when you need him?"
Jack seemed unharmed, though visibly pissed. Rummaging through the dead man's pockets, he eventually pulled out a wallet stuffed with Menthil banknotes and a handful of candy.
"Not exactly what I had in mind," he grumbled, tossing the candy aside.
"That man... he used your powers against me," he said, almost wistful.
"A Jester, then," Jack mused with mild surprise. "They can mimic the abilities around them. Must've picked up that barrier from a Priest. In some ways, you were lucky—once he ran out of stored powers, it became an even fight."
Jack offered him a cigarette, lighting it with a snap of his fingers. He inhaled deeply, the smoke calming his frayed nerves.
"Go find the Captain. I'll handle the cleanup and meet you back at the office. Good work, Maple."
He nodded, still feeling the weight of the strange object in his pocket as he slipped into the dingy gambling den. Something about it felt important—too important to ignore. He intended to find out why.