Lucian woke with a jolt, his breath catching as his eyes adjusted to the dim light seeping through the cracks in the ceiling. The dream still lingered, its fragmented echoes clawing at the edges of his mind. Laughter, twisted and shrill, and the oppressive weight of chaos seemed to follow him into consciousness. He pressed the heel of his hand to his chest, feeling the steady thrum of his heart. Another morning, another reminder of the mark that bound him.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed and sat there for a moment, gathering his thoughts. His head throbbed, the remnants of the dream refusing to fade entirely. In the silence of the room, the events of the past few days unraveled like a tangled thread. He went over them in his mind, organizing the chaos into something he could manage.
First, the whispers were growing louder. They were no longer faint echoes but a constant, intrusive presence. Triboulet's suggestions, mocking and cajoling, seemed sharper with each passing day. Over the past few days, Lucian had found himself pausing mid-step, questioning whether the voice in his head was his own or the Joker's. The worst part was that he was beginning to see logic in Triboulet's words, his suggestions no longer sounding like mere taunts but twisted truths. He needed to regain control, to push back before the chaos consumed him entirely.
Second, the authorities were tightening their grip. He felt it in the air, a subtle yet suffocating presence that seemed to press against him from all sides. The disappearance of the corpse collector had drawn attention, and Lucian was certain the Warriors from the House of Ironshade, who managed Rismond, were closing in. Their sharp vigilance around the market, the tense interrogations he overheard, and the way their eyes methodically swept the streets painted a clear and ominous picture. He was running out of time.
Then there was Old Snake. Lucian would meet him later to finalize a job, one that felt more like a trap than an opportunity. Old Snake was using him; that much was obvious. But Lucian couldn't afford to sever that connection yet. He needed the work, the resources, and, most importantly, the experience in card creation. It was the only path he knew that might save him from the madness clawing at his mind or perhaps it was the very thing that would hasten his descent into chaos. He had to risk it. The alternative was to be caught, powerless and unable to even fight back, his fate sealed by his own inaction.
The thought of Chance gave Lucian pause. The barkeep had been casual but wary, dropping hints of his past as if testing Lucian's trust. Chance's mentions of his ties to the black market sparked a faint curiosity in Lucian, though he wasn't desperate to uncover the details. Chance was a good man, serious and steady. Whether he would become an ally or just another obstacle, Lucian couldn't yet decide. For now, he needed to focus on the task ahead.
Lucian's gaze fell to his hands, his fingers twitching slightly as he turned them over. They looked unremarkable, clean and steady, but they felt foreign to him. The mark on his hand pulsed faintly, a steady reminder of the chaos coursing through him. The energy was always there, restless and impatient, stirring just beneath the surface. Card creation was meant to be a precise and deliberate art, yet every time he reached for the chaotic energy, it felt like trying to tame a storm. It surged wildly, defying his control and leaving him on the brink of exhaustion with each attempt.
Triboulet's whispered instructions offered a strange sense of structure, a framework to channel the chaos, but they came with a dangerous edge. Each piece of advice was laced with subtle manipulation, as though every success drew him closer to losing himself. Still, he had no choice but to follow the guidance. The madness wasn't a distant threat; it was an ever-present shadow, creeping closer with every misstep.
If only he could find someone else to help him understand the craft, someone who could fill in the gaps that Triboulet's chaotic teachings left. Perhaps a Spade, a dabbler, might offer insight, though the idea felt like a distant hope. Spades guarded their knowledge closely, and Lucian couldn't risk revealing too much about himself. He would need to approach carefully, without drawing suspicion.
Then there was the mark. Lucian's fingers curled slightly as he stared at the grotesque face etched into his hand. It wasn't just a curse; it was a beacon, an unmistakable brand that marked him as something to be feared, hunted, and destroyed. He needed a way to hide it, to shroud the stain of chaos that clung to him. The thought of asking Triboulet for help made his stomach twist. Every question to the Joker came with a price, and Lucian wasn't sure he could afford another debt. But what choice did he have? If any person saw the mark, it would all be over.
He closed his eyes and focused inward, reaching for Triboulet's presence with a reluctance that bordered on dread. "Is there a way to hide it?" Lucian's voice was steady, though the knot in his chest betrayed his apprehension. "The mark... can it be concealed?"
Triboulet's laughter slithered into his mind, sharp and mocking, like broken glass grinding against itself. "Oh, my dear wildcard," the voice purred, thick with amusement. "Of course, it can be hidden. But the question isn't whether it's possible. It's whether you're willing to pay the cost. Hiding something like that is no simple task, Lucian. It requires more than just intent; it demands a sacrifice. Are you ready for that?"
Lucian clenched his fists, forcing himself to remain calm. "What kind of sacrifice?" he asked, his tone edged with frustration and unease.
Triboulet's laughter grew louder, more jagged, before it softened into a sinister chuckle. "Ah, always so eager for answers. Let's just say the price will be... uniquely yours. But don't worry, Lucian. I'll let you ponder it. For now, keep the mark covered and your head down. You'll need far more than tricks to survive what's coming."
Lucian let out a slow breath, his mind churning with the weight of his situation. He needed to refine his skills, to practice until the chaotic energy bent to his will. He needed answers, answers about hiding the mark, about controlling the madness, about surviving in a world that saw him as a threat. The path ahead was shrouded in uncertainty, but standing still wasn't an option. Time was slipping away, and he would need every moment he could steal.
He pushed himself to his feet, the chill of the room biting through his thin shirt. The common room below beckoned, and with it, a routine that grounded him, however briefly. Chance was there, as he often was, tending to the bar with a methodical precision that contrasted with the chaos of the patrons. Lucian greeted him casually, masking the unease that had become his constant companion.
"How's the bar holding up?" Lucian asked, settling onto a stool. His tone was light, but his eyes scanned the room, noting every face and movement.
Chance shrugged, his broad shoulders shifting beneath the worn fabric of his shirt. "Same as always. Drunks in the evening, regrets in the morning. You'd think they'd learn."
Lucian chuckled softly, though the laughter felt hollow even to him. "Saw those Ironshade warriors yesterday," he said, leaning in slightly. "What were they asking about?"
Chance's expression darkened, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face, though his voice stayed even. "The usual. Wildcards, troublemakers, anyone who doesn't fit the mold. They're sniffing around for anything out of place. They even brought up the Innocence Parade and asked a few pointed questions about it."
Lucian's jaw tightened, but he kept his expression neutral. "What kind of questions?"
"About Wildcards, mostly," Chance replied, his tone growing quieter. "Who's been talking about them, who might know more than they should. They're looking for something or someone."
Lucian nodded slowly, filing the information away. He glanced at Chance, his curiosity getting the better of him. "You seem to know a lot about the people in the black market," he said after a pause.
Chance's gaze sharpened, though his hands continued wiping down the counter. "I used to be part of that life," he said simply. "Had to be, to survive. Did some trading, worked with a few groups. Nothing glamorous, but it kept me alive. Things changed when my daughter was born. I saved enough to buy this place, and I've kept to it since."
Lucian hesitated before asking, "And your wife?"
Chance's hand paused briefly, his grip tightening on the rag before he resumed cleaning. "She died a few years ago. Illness. Left me and Miya to figure things out on our own."
"I'm sorry," Lucian said softly, unsure of what else to offer.
Chance nodded, his expression unreadable. "Life moves on. What about you? Where are you from?"
"Vaelridge," Lucian replied, forcing a faint smile. "My family were artisans, mostly Spades. I wanted to follow in their footsteps, become a Dabbler, and maybe even join the Gilded Shovel like most of my family."
Chance studied him for a moment, his sharp gaze weighing Lucian's words. "Stick to your craft," he said finally. "It's a better life than most of what you'll find around here."
Their conversation shifted back to lighter topics, bar gossip, the antics of regular patrons, and the steady pulse of Rismond's underbelly. Lucian found himself relaxing slightly, the weight on his chest lifting, if only for a moment. He finished his meal and stood, offering Chance a faint smile.
"I'm heading to Old Snake's," he said. "Time to see if I can keep up with his demands."
Chance's expression hardened, his voice dropping slightly. "Be careful with him. Do the job, but don't let him pull you in deeper. That man's got his own agenda, and I doubt it includes your well-being."
Lucian nodded, the weight of the warning settling heavily on his shoulders. As he stepped out into the streets, the air felt heavier, charged with an unspoken tension. The path to Old Snake's shop was familiar, but Lucian moved carefully, his eyes scanning for any signs of trouble. The Ironshade warriors were still a looming presence, their patrols more frequent, their watchful eyes sharper than ever.
Old Snake greeted him with a sharp grin, his hands busy sorting through the clutter of his shop. Lucian waited as the man dealt with another customer, his gaze drifting to the shelves. The cards on display were a mix of the mundane and the dangerous, their descriptions promising everything from enhanced strength to deadly precision. Lucian's fingers hovered over the edge of a card, its faint aura a reminder of the power locked within such small objects.
When the customer left, Old Snake motioned for Lucian to follow him to the back of the shop. The air was heavier here, the scent of ink and burnt wood mingling with something faintly metallic. Old Snake leaned against a cluttered workbench, his sharp eyes fixed on Lucian.
"In the past few months, the Diamond Fangs and the Black Hand have been tearing this side of Rismond apart," Old Snake began, his tone flat but laced with tension. "They're evenly matched for now, but the Fangs wants leverage. They've asked me to procure a card that'll give them the edge. Maybe something like the one I bought off you."
Lucian's stomach tightened, but he kept his expression steady. Before he could respond, Triboulet's mocking voice coiled through his mind. "Your little creations, Lucian. Tools for murder. Isn't it charming?"
Lucian gritted his teeth, keeping his gaze locked on Old Snake. "It's just scum killing scum," he muttered under his breath, his tone low and resolute. "They deserve it." He took a measured breath and addressed Old Snake. "I can make what they need, but I'll need more time. The process isn't easy even though the materials are common. Two to three weeks, at least."
The excuse was flimsy, but it served its purpose. He couldn't let Old Snake know how quickly he could create cards or how much it cost him in sanity to do so. Old Snake studied him for a moment before nodding.
"Fine," he said. "Two to three weeks. I'll need five cards. If you pull it off, there'll be more work for you."
Lucian hesitated for a beat. "Do you know any Dabblers I can work with? Someone who could help refine the process?"
Old Snake snorted, his laugh sharp and humorless. "If I had someone like that, I wouldn't be wasting my time on you. But there's a place you can try. West side of Rismond, a spot they call the River. Dabblers and artisans gather there. Might find what you're looking for, or you might get yourself in trouble. Either way, it's your problem."
Lucian nodded, the weight of the deal pressing down on him. As he left the shop, his mind churned with plans and doubts. He would need to gather the initial ingredients and experiment with the process before committing to full production. His focus narrowed to survival, one step at a time.
On his way back, Lucian turned his thoughts inward, addressing Triboulet directly. "What do I need to conceal the mark?"
Triboulet's laughter echoed in his mind, sharp and gleeful. "Oh, Lucian, always in such a rush. To mask the mark, you'll need to climb higher. Rank up, embrace what you are, and then maybe then you'll have the strength to hide it. Until then, I'm afraid you're stuck with it."
Lucian clenched his jaw, his grip tightening on his cloak as the faint hum of the Wildcard mark pulsed beneath his skin. The path ahead was treacherous, but hesitation wasn't an option. Time was running out, and he needed every advantage he could find.