The streets of Vaelora felt different tonight.
Raine moved through the winding roads, his hood pulled low, his pulse hammering against his ribs. The city was alive, as it always was—merchants calling from their stalls, distant laughter spilling from taverns, the clatter of hooves and wagon wheels echoing off stone. But beneath it, beneath the familiar hum of life, there was something else.
Something watching.
The Arcanum hadn't stopped him when he left.
But they weren't letting him go, either.
They were waiting.
He could feel it—the weight of unseen eyes following his every step. The way the city guards lingered a second too long when he passed, the way merchants in the marketplace glanced at him before looking away, feigning disinterest.
They knew something.
Maybe not the full truth. Maybe not what had happened in that chamber.
But enough.
Enough to make him a target.
He adjusted his stride, forcing himself to walk like nothing was wrong. Not too fast. Not too slow. Just another traveler. Just another nameless soul moving through the city.
His destination was set.
The Red Ember Tavern.
It wasn't much—a run-down place wedged between a butcher's shop and a blacksmith's forge. The kind of establishment where no one asked questions.
And where he had been staying for the past few weeks.
Raine turned down a narrow side street, the scent of smoke and roasting meat filling the air. The market buzzed behind him, the voices of the city blending into a steady hum.
He needed to pack. Needed to disappear.
He was nearly there when—
A hand closed around his wrist.
Raine tensed, instinct kicking in. He twisted, breaking the grip—but the one who had grabbed him moved too fast, too controlled.
Before he could react, he was yanked into the narrow space between two buildings, his back slamming against the cold stone wall.
A figure loomed over him.
Not a guard. Not a common thief.
Someone else.
Someone trained.
Raine's heartbeat pounded in his ears. This wasn't a random mugging.
The man was older than him, lean but strong, with sharp features and dark, calculating eyes. He wore a simple cloak, the kind that blended easily into a crowd.
But his movements—**his grip, his precision—**they were anything but ordinary.
The hand on Raine's arm wasn't meant to hurt.
It was meant to control.
"You're out of time," the man said, voice low. Too calm.
Raine stiffened. "Who the hell are you?"
The man didn't answer. His gaze flicked toward the alley entrance, checking for movement. His grip loosened slightly—but he didn't let go.
"They won't move yet," he murmured. "They'll let you think you have freedom. Let you think you can stay hidden."
Raine swallowed. "And then?"
The man's dark eyes met his.
"Then you stop existing."
A chill ran through Raine's spine.
His fingers twitched, itching to reach for a weapon—not that he had one. His thoughts raced, searching for an escape.
This man wasn't with the Arcanum. His stance, his clothes, the way he spoke—it didn't fit the rigid authority of the officials.
But that didn't mean he wasn't dangerous.
"You're with them," Raine said slowly.
A flicker of amusement crossed the man's face. "Not anymore."
Raine's jaw clenched. "Then why are you here?"
The man finally released him and took a step back.
"Because you don't know what you are yet." His voice was quieter now. Measured. "And I don't want to see what happens if they get to you first."
Raine's breath caught.
What I am?
Before he could ask, the man pulled something from his coat—a small, worn insignia.
He tossed it to Raine.
Raine caught it on reflex, his fingers closing around the smooth surface. Cold. Metallic. Well-worn.
He turned it over in his palm.
A hollow circle, encased in a ring.
Not a noble crest. Not a guild marker.
Something else.
Something old.
"They've been erasing people like you for centuries," the man said.
Raine's stomach twisted.
His grip tightened around the insignia.
Erasing.
Like the Weaving Society. Like the forbidden names and vanished histories—the ones scrubbed from records, leaving nothing but empty spaces where people had once stood.
His blood ran cold.
He looked up.
But the man was already gone.
Raine stood in the alleyway, heart pounding.
The insignia rested in his palm, heavy despite its size.
This wasn't a warning.
It was a death sentence.
He turned, shoving the insignia into his pocket, his stride quickening. The streets of Vaelora felt smaller now, the walls pressing in, the noise of the city suddenly too loud.
He needed to leave.
Tonight.
If the Arcanum was waiting for something—**some confirmation, some excuse—**he wasn't going to give them the chance.
He reached the Red Ember Tavern without incident, shoving the door open and stepping inside. The scent of ale and burnt stew filled the air, mingling with the murmur of tired travelers.
He moved quickly, heading upstairs to his rented room.
His hands were steady as he packed. His mind wasn't.
The insignia burned in his pocket like a brand.
What did the man mean—what I am?
Raine didn't know.
But the Arcanum did.
And that meant he couldn't stay here.
He slung his pack over his shoulder and took one last glance at the room.
Then he slipped out the window, into the night.
The city stretched before him, its streets alive with lantern glow and distant voices.
He exhaled.
Time to disappear.