The neon-drenched alleys of the Bazaar melted into the background as Jarek trudged into the quieter outskirts, the fight's chaos still buzzing in his blood like a song stuck on repeat. His ribs throbbed where the brute's weapon had connected, a dull ache that flared with every breath, and the sharp tang of adrenaline lingered in his mouth, metallic and bitter. The shard, cradled against his chest, pulsed faintly, less a heartbeat now, more a smug reminder of its power and the price he'd paid for using it.
The district he found himself in seemed like it had resigned from the city proper, preferring decay over the Bazaar's relentless hustle. It was here, tucked between two leaning towers of rust-streaked metal, that he spotted a rundown tavern whose flickering sign valiantly spelled out something illegible. Its vibe screamed enter at your own risk, which ironically felt like a welcome mat to Jarek.
Inside, the air clung to him like a bad memory, thick with the mingling stench of cheap liquor, stale sweat, and smoke that had long overstayed its welcome. Shadows loitered in the corners, whispering in hushed tones, while a warped jukebox in the back struggled to make sense of an old tune. Jarek claimed a seat in the far corner, the kind of spot that made you look paranoid but kept you alive.
It wasn't long before Kael sauntered in, his broad frame taking up far too much space in the dimly lit room. His face, a patchwork of scars and years of survival, wore an expression halfway between amused disbelief and how are you not dead yet? He slid into the chair across from Jarek, leaning back like a man who never rushed unless it was toward trouble.
"You look like hell chewed you up and spat you out," Kael said, his gravelly voice carrying just enough humor to make it sting.
"Glad you noticed," Jarek muttered, shifting uncomfortably as his ribs protested. "Nice of you to show up."
Kael's sharp eyes gave Jarek a once-over, the kind of look that peeled back layers. "Heard there's a bounty floating around with your name on it. High creds for anyone who brings you in, or, you know, brings them it." His hand flicked lazily toward Jarek's chest, where the shard rested beneath his jacket, its faint hum a persistent undercurrent.
Jarek's expression hardened. "What do you know?"
Kael raised an eyebrow, leaning in just enough to lower his voice. "Enough to know you've made yourself a moving target. That thing's got half the city sniffing around, and the Cabal's thrown their hat into the ring, too, if the rumors are right."
Jarek's lips twisted into something that wasn't quite a smile. "Let them come."
Kael snorted, shaking his head. "That's the thing about you, Vayne. Always itching for the next fight like it's going to be the one that finally gets your name in lights, or a gravestone."
"It hasn't yet," Jarek replied, shrugging in a way that made his ribs scream in protest.
Kael leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. "You didn't come out here to discuss your death wish, did you?. What do you need?"
Jarek's gaze didn't waver. "I'm looking for someone. Goes by the name Morrigan, a rogue dream-cultivator."
Kael's face stiffened, his fingers tracing an old scar along his jaw. "You've got a knack for picking dangerous company Jarek. Morrigan's not the kind of person you just look up in a directory."
"Do you know where she is or not?" Jarek's tone cut through Kael's reluctance.
Kael sighed, leaning back as if weighing his next words carefully. "Maybe. But if I did, you'd owe me more than that favor I've been sitting on."
"How much more?"
Kael smirked, the kind of grin that suggested Jarek wasn't going to like the answer. "More than creds. If I give you this lead, I'm putting myself in the Cabal's crosshairs. So if they come knocking, I expect you to return the favor."
"You already know I would," Jarek said, his voice steady.
Kael nodded, satisfied. "Morrigan's holed up in the Driftlands, last I heard. Right on the edge of Hollow incursions. No one goes there unless they're desperate, or suicidal."
Jarek's lips curved into a faint smile, humorless and sharp. "Desperate fits perfectly."
"And the suicidal part?" Kael asked, raising an eyebrow.
"Thats still up for debate."
Kael laughed, the sound rich and unexpected. "You're a piece of work, Vayne. Just try not to get yourself killed before I can collect on that promise."
Jarek pushed back from the table, standing with a grimace as Kael gestured toward the bar with a lazy flick of his hand. "Before you go playing hero in the Driftlands, you'll need supplies. I know a guy, Renner, runs a shop at the edge of the Bazaar. Tell him I sent you, and he'll set you up."
"Appreciate it Kael," Jarek said, sliding a few creds onto the table.
Kael tipped an imaginary hat, his grin returning. "Good luck. You're gonna need it."
As Jarek stepped back into the neon-streaked streets, the shard stirred against his chest, its hum growing louder, insistent. The Driftlands loomed in his mind, a place that chewed up hope and spat out despair. Dangerous, yes. Unforgiving, absolutely.
The shard pulsed again, its silent whisper curling through his thoughts like smoke. Time was running out. And the shard, always enigmatic, always unyielding, seemed to know it better than anyone.