Lance's pulse steadied as he exhaled, his breath visible in the cool night air. His instincts screamed at him—whoever that figure was, they weren't ordinary.
He moved quickly, slipping into the alley where the watcher had stood. The scent of damp stone and old parchment filled the air, and the only sounds were the distant echoes of the city's nightlife. No footprints. No lingering presence. Just emptiness.
But he knew better.
Reaching for the book at his hip, he let his fingers brush its worn cover. A faint hum vibrated through his bones, as if the tome recognized the presence that had just vanished. The whispers in his mind, ever-present since the dungeon, grew sharper.
"You are being tested."
Lance tensed. "Tested by who?"
No answer. Just silence.
Then, a voice—low, smooth, almost playful—cut through the quiet.
"You've changed, Lance Valtheron."
Lance spun around, his hand already raised, magic pooling at his fingertips.
A woman stood at the alley's entrance.
She was clad in a deep crimson cloak, her face half-hidden beneath the hood. Silver hair spilled over her shoulders, and her golden eyes gleamed with knowing amusement. Unlike the figure he had chased, she wasn't trying to hide.
She was waiting for him.
"Who are you?" Lance demanded. His stance was firm, but he kept his movements subtle, ready for anything.
The woman chuckled. "No 'it's been a while, Celica'? I'm hurt."
Lance's breath caught. That name—
Celica Ravenshade. A rogue spellcaster. An information broker. And once, a fleeting ally in his days as a Dungeon Cleaner.
She took a step closer. "I heard a rumor," she said, eyes flickering toward the book at his side. "A lone adventurer crawled out of Blackthorn Dungeon, alive when he shouldn't have been. A dead man, breathing again."
Lance remained silent.
Celica's smile grew. "And I heard something else. That same adventurer walked into a tavern tonight, and for the first time, Orin—Ravencross's most arrogant sellsword—looked like he'd seen a ghost."
She leaned in, voice barely above a whisper.
"So tell me, Lance—what did you find in that dungeon?"
Lance clenched his jaw. He could lie. He could walk away. But Celica was dangerous because she was useful. If anyone could help him uncover the secrets of this book, it was her.
The question was—what was her price?
And in that moment, he realized something else.
The figure from earlier… the one who had vanished.
Had they been watching him?
Or had they been watching her.
Lance studied Celica carefully. She was clever, always had been. Information was her currency, and he knew that the only way to get answers was to offer something in return.
He weighed his options. If she had already figured out this much, there was no point in denying it. But how much should he reveal?
He exhaled, meeting her golden gaze. "I found something in the dungeon," he admitted. "Or maybe… it found me."
Celica arched an eyebrow, intrigued. "Go on."
Lance hesitated before unfastening the book from his belt. He held it up, the worn leather cover pulsing faintly, almost like it was breathing. The moment it was exposed, the alley seemed to grow colder.
Celica's expression didn't change—but he caught the brief flicker of recognition in her eyes.
"You've seen something like this before," Lance said, watching her closely.
She let out a soft laugh. "I hear things, Lance. And things like that?" She gestured at the book. "They don't just appear. They always come with a price."
Lance's grip tightened. "I'm aware."
Celica took a step forward, lowering her voice. "Have you heard it yet? The voice?"
Lance's breath hitched.
Celica smiled knowingly. "Ah. So you have."
Lance didn't respond. The whispers in his mind—the ones that had been growing stronger ever since he opened the book—seemed to stir, as if aware they were being spoken about.
Celica sighed. "You should get rid of it."
Lance frowned. "Not an option."
"Of course not." She shook her head. "Because power like that? It doesn't let go."
Lance remained silent. He had suspected as much. But hearing it from Celica only confirmed the weight of what he had done.
She tilted her head, watching him. "So what do you need from me?"
Lance met her gaze. "Information. What is this book? Where did it come from? And why… why does it feel like it's alive?"
Celica exhaled, glancing toward the empty alley where the figure had vanished earlier. "Alright," she said. "I'll help you. But my help isn't free."
Lance expected that. "Name your price."
Celica smirked. "There's a name circulating in the underground. A man who deals in forbidden relics. If you want answers, you'll find him in the Ashen District. But…" Her smile faded. "Be careful, Lance. You're stepping into something far bigger than you realize."
Lance nodded. He had already accepted that much.
As he turned to leave, Celica spoke again, her voice quieter this time.
"And, Lance?"
He glanced back.
"That book?" Her expression was unreadable. "You're not the only one looking for it."
Lance's pulse quickened.
Somebody else was hunting the book.
And if they knew he had it—
The city of Ravencross had just become far more dangerous.
Lance walked through the twisting streets of Ravencross, his cloak drawn tight against the biting wind. The city never truly slept, but the deeper he ventured, the quieter it became. Here, in the outskirts of the Ashen District, the air smelled of damp stone, burnt incense, and something else—something wrong.
Celica's words echoed in his mind.
"You're not the only one looking for it."
That meant trouble. The kind that didn't ask questions before drawing steel.
Lance reached the district's heart—a maze of decrepit buildings and underground markets where merchants traded in things that weren't meant to be sold. Artifacts.
Lance walked through the twisting streets of Ravencross, his cloak drawn tight against the biting wind. The city never truly slept, but the deeper he ventured, the quieter it became. Here, in the outskirts of the Ashen District, the air smelled of damp stone, burnt incense, and something else—something wrong.
Celica's words echoed in his mind.
"You're not the only one looking for it."
That meant trouble. The kind that didn't ask questions before drawing steel.
Lance reached the district's heart—a maze of decrepit buildings and underground markets where merchants traded in things that weren't meant to be sold. Artifacts with cursed pasts, forbidden knowledge, contracts inked in something darker than blood.
He pulled his hood lower and kept moving.
At a glance, the people here looked like ordinary traders and mercenaries, but Lance knew better. Many of them were outlaws, ex-adventurers who had found profit in selling secrets instead of chasing glory. If someone in this city had knowledge of his book, they would be here.
He approached an old, lantern-lit shop wedged between two crumbling buildings. The symbol above the door—a faded, three-eyed serpent—told him he was in the right place.
Pushing the door open, he stepped inside.
The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and dried herbs. Shelves lined with ancient scrolls and bizarre trinkets surrounded him, their auras heavy with forgotten magic.
A hunched man behind the counter looked up, his beady eyes narrowing. "You don't belong here, stranger."
Lance reached into his cloak, producing a single silver coin. He placed it on the counter and slid it forward. "I'm looking for someone."
The shopkeeper didn't touch the coin. "Lots of people come looking."
Lance's expression remained calm. "I was told to find a man who deals in forbidden relics. I need answers."
The shopkeeper finally took the coin, rubbing it between his fingers. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, without a word, he turned and disappeared into the back room.
Lance waited. His fingers twitched at his side, ready to summon his power if needed.
After what felt like minutes, a different voice spoke from the shadows.
"So… you're the one carrying the book."
Lance's blood turned cold.
Slowly, he turned toward the voice.
A man leaned against the far wall, half-shrouded in the dim lantern light. His dark coat bore intricate silver embroidery, and a pair of piercing violet eyes studied Lance with an unsettling intensity.
Lance tensed. How did he know?
The man smirked. "Don't look so surprised. That thing in your possession? It has a presence. A whisper. You think you can carry a shadow like that and go unnoticed?"
Lance didn't answer.
The man stepped forward, his boots silent against the wooden floor. "The real question is…" He tilted his head. "Do you even know what you've taken?"
The book at Lance's side pulsed, as if in response.
Something about the man's presence set every instinct on edge.
Lance forced himself to stay steady. "And I suppose you do?"
The man smiled. "I know enough to tell you this—whoever left that book for you didn't give you a gift." His eyes gleamed. "They left you a curse."
Lance exhaled slowly. "And you'd like to take it off my hands?"
The man chuckled. "Oh, I'm afraid it's far too late for that."
Lance frowned. "What do you mean?"
The man stepped closer, lowering his voice. "Tell me, Cleaner—"
Lance stiffened. That title. How did he—
"—have you started hearing it yet?"
The book pulsed again.
Lance's breath hitched.
The whispers.
The voice.
It wasn't just in his head.
The man's smile widened, as if he had just confirmed something. "Ah. So you have."
Lance's fingers twitched toward his weapon. He was being played, but he didn't know how.
The man chuckled. "Easy, now. I'm not your enemy… yet."
Lance narrowed his eyes. "Yet?"
The man turned, heading toward the door. "A word of advice, Lance Valtheron." His voice was almost amused. "If you want to survive what comes next, you might want to start running."
He stepped into the night, disappearing into the mist.
Lance stood frozen, his heart hammering in his chest.
He didn't know who that man was.
He didn't know what he wanted.
But he did know one thing.
That warning? It wasn't a threat.
It was a promise.
[To Be Continued…]