The horizon bled gold and crimson, the sun sinking behind jagged towers. Shadows stretched over the streets, weaving patterns of light and dark that flickered like restless ghosts. Less than an hour remained until the sun fully vanished, surrendering the world to twilight.
Ithri trudged home, his steps steady but weighed down by exhaustion. The air carried a faint chill a warning of the colder night ahead. As he approached the creaking door, unease prickled at the back of his neck.
The door groaned open under his hand, spilling faint lantern light into the dim interior. The stout owner stood waiting inside, arms crossed, eyes sharp with accusation. His scowl dug deep into his weathered face.
"You've got guts showing up here," the man growled, voice low and dangerous. "Breaking that window last night and thinking I'd just forget?"
Ithri froze in the doorway, gripping his satchel tighter. "It was an accident," he said evenly, keeping his voice calm. "I told you I'd—"
"Fix it?" The owner's bitter laugh sliced through the room. "Glass doesn't fix itself, boy. And good intentions don't pay for damages."
The man's heavy boots thudded against the floor as he stepped closer, lamplight sharpening the anger in his eyes. "You're lucky I don't throw you out tonight. But I've decided to be generous. You'll pay me one way or another."
The words hung heavy in the air. Ithri's chest tightened, the day's weight pressing down harder. Fighting would get him nowhere, and the streets outside weren't safe.
He exhaled shallowly, pulled a few coins from his satchel, and handed them over. The metallic clink broke the tense silence. The owner snatched the coins, muttering about "teaching respect," but Ithri had already turned away.
He climbed the narrow stairs to his room and shut the door softly behind him. The last streaks of the city's dying sunset slipped through the cracks in the shutters, painting streaks of red and gold across the walls.
Dropping his satchel to the floor with a dull thud, Ithri sat on the edge of the creaky bed. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, rubbing his temples.
One problem down. A hundred more to go.
-----
The last 48 hours had been chaos. Ithri's mind reeled, each step barely ahead of the storm he'd stirred.
After the fight, when the jeering crowd finally scattered, Ithri sought out the black-market manager a wiry man with sharp eyes. The two stood in the dim glow of lanterns, voices low. They struck a deal on how to offer the book and keep things discreet. Ithri pressed one question harder than the rest: if any of the ultra-wealthy families showed interest, could he meet them first?
That was the crux of his plan.
The next morning, Ithri wound through the city's lower district, a maze of noise and soot. The shipmaker's workshop stood crooked but bustling. Not his kind of place. But the manager had picked it for updates, and Ithri didn't argue.
The news was good Cyria Midas had taken the bait. One of the most powerful names in the city. Ithri forced his face to stay calm, though his chest buzzed triumphantly.
"I'll meet her," he said. "But not here. Somewhere quiet."
The northern forest came to mind, sharp and immediate. Perfect.
'Far from prying eyes,' Ithri thought, leaning back against the wall, his grin widening as the plan unfolded in his mind.
Earlier, he had walked the forest paths alone, taking note of the clearing's layout. Not just for the meeting, but to ensure every piece of the puzzle fit. Mickey would be the other half of this deal, His mouth as sharp as Ithri's mind, ready to steer the deal where it needed to go.
-------
At that time, Elra moved through the forest with practiced precision, a short blade glinting in her hand as she sliced through the vines that dared block her path. She was the maid and the left hand of Cyria, her demeanor as sharp and unyielding as her weapon.
She led without hesitation, her expression calm, almost mechanical, as though the oppressive shadows of the forest meant nothing to her. In her other hand, she carried a neatly folded bundle of Cyria's cloak careful not to soil its fine embroidery.
Behind her, Cyria Midas followed at a measured pace, stepping carefully to avoid the mud and roots Elra had cleared. She carried herself with the poise of a monarch, chin high, gaze sharp. Even here, in this untamed wilderness, she seemed out of place, as though the very trees ought to bow to her presence.
"We're far enough from the city," Cyria said, her smooth voice carrying an edge of distaste. Her gloved fingers brushed against the rough bark of a tree, and she withdrew them immediately, frowning. "But this..." She gestured vaguely at the tangled, overgrown path. "This is why people build estates. To keep this out."
Ahead of her, Elra continued her work with unwavering focus, slicing through low-hanging branches without sparing a glance back. Her voice, calm and cutting, drifted over her shoulder. "Indeed, my lady."
Cyria's lips twitched, a flicker of either amusement or irritation crossing her face. "When you were young, didn't you live in a place like this, Elra?"
Elra paused mid-swing, her blade poised in the air before she cut cleanly through another branch. "Yes, my lady," she said simply, her tone revealing nothing.
Cyria waited for more, but the silence lingered. At last, she sighed. "Poetic," she remarked, brushing specks of dust from her pristine glove. "But we're not here for idle chatter."
"Yes, my lady," Elra replied, stepping into a small clearing. Her cold gaze swept the surroundings with the sharpness of a hawk. "We're here because you insist on meeting the Savage Hunter."
Cyria slowed as she entered the clearing, her gaze following Elra's. The forest seemed to press closer around them, the ancient trees looming like sentinels.
"Insist?" Cyria repeated, her tone mild but edged with sharpness. "You make it sound as if I was the one who suggested this."
Elra turned her head slightly, her expression as blank as ever. "I don't question your choices, my lady. I only make note of the risks."
Cyria's faint smile returned. She reached up, adjusting the brooch at her collar as she cast one last glance at the trees.
"The Savage Hunter, the forest, and this book... Risks, yes. But risks make fortunes. That's why you're here, Elra. To cut through them."
Elra inclined her head but said nothing, turning her attention back to the path, blade at the ready. The clearing was eerily still, the silence almost alive. Far from the estates Cyria adored, the forest seemed reluctant to forget its unwelcome guests.
Suddenly, a strange creature dropped lightly in front of Cyria—a mouse-like figure with shimmering, ethereal features.
It stood upright, its translucent fur glowing faintly in the dim light. Cyria froze, her breath catching as the creature's glimmering eyes fixed on her.
"Hello, ladies," it said in a voice both high-pitched and unnervingly clear.
Cyria gasped, stepping back as if burned. Elra moved without hesitation. Her blade flashed, slicing cleanly through the creature before it could move.
But instead of falling, the creature shimmered and reformed, its body rippling like water before settling back into shape.
Cyria's eyes widened. "What... What are you?"
The creature's tiny paws brushed against its glimmering chest as though brushing off Elra's attack. " I'm a spectral pet," it said matter-of-factly. "And killing me won't do you any good."
Elra's blade remained raised, but her stance shifted—cautious now, measured.
The creature tilted its head, its glowing eyes fixing on Cyria. "I came to talk."
Cyria straightened, her voice sharp but steady. "You're the Savage Hunter?"
The creature gave a squeaky laugh, its shimmering form vibrating with amusement. "Me? No, no. But I am the one who speaks for him."
Far away, Ithri sat cross-legged in the dim glow of his chamber. His pale, almost colorless eyes gleamed unnaturally, the whites swallowing the black, leaving no visible pupils unsettling mark of the ritual's hold.
The faint glow of salt traced a simple rune on the floor around him, its jagged lines forming a barrier as well as a tether. The air within the room felt heavy, dense with unseen currents that rippled outward from the markings.
Ithri's breathing was steady, but his focus ran deep, far beyond the confines of his chamber.
He saw what Mikey saw. Heard what Mikey heard. But he couldn't speak through the creature, nor could he command its physical form. Instead, his thoughts flowed like whispers in the dark, threading themselves into the tiny spectral being—guiding it, shaping its responses.
It was an old method. Ancient. Even among scholars and mystics, the practice of using spiritual conduits had faded into obscurity. Most believed such bonds were myths, fragments of forgotten rituals lost to time.
But Cyria and Elra, for all their knowledge, had never encountered anything like it. A creature both ethereal and bound a servant and an echo of its master's will. Spirits existed, yes, but not like this.