The city felt different now, like a mask had slipped, revealing a hidden face beneath. Every shadow, every whispered word seemed laden with meaning. Raven's instinct hummed steadily—not a warning, but a persistent push, urging him to keep going.
He returned to his apartment, the sigil still fresh in his mind. His space was simple—bare walls, a worn desk, and a single window overlooking the restless city. It was a place of focus, free from distractions.
Raven spread out a collection of notes, photographs, and the crumpled newspaper articles he had taken from the archives. He traced the patterns, his eyes sharp and unrelenting. He was hunting for connections, threads that tied the strange incidents together.
The sigil.
The glowing energy.
The man bending light to his will.
Power existed, and it followed rules—rules Raven needed to learn.
He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping lightly on the desk. There was no manual for this. No guidebook to the hidden world. But that didn't mean it couldn't be decoded.
His instinct nudged him toward a theory—a dangerous one.
Power wasn't just a gift; it was a craft.
Something learned, practiced, and perfected.
The man at the sigil had been performing a ritual, a methodical process. That meant the power was accessible. Attainable.
Raven's pulse quickened. If he could figure out how it worked…
He stood, slipping on his coat, and left the apartment without hesitation. The streets greeted him with their usual indifference, but Raven was no longer a passive observer. He was part of this world now.
His instinct pulled him toward a district he rarely visited—a forgotten corner of the city where time seemed to have slowed. The air was thick with an unspoken tension, and the buildings leaned together like old conspirators.
Here, he found what he was looking for: a small, unmarked shop tucked between two crumbling facades. Its windows were dark, the sign above faded beyond recognition. But his instinct hummed louder with each step he took toward it.
He pushed the door open, a bell jingling softly. The interior was dimly lit, the shelves crammed with objects that defied explanation—ancient books, strange artifacts, and vials of shimmering liquid.
Behind the counter sat an old man with sharp eyes and a quiet presence that felt oddly… familiar.
"You're not here by accident," the man said, his voice low and steady. "Few find this place unless they're meant to."
Raven didn't respond immediately. His instinct didn't scream danger, but it was on edge—watchful.
"I'm looking for answers," Raven said finally.
The old man's eyes narrowed slightly, a knowing smile playing at his lips. "Aren't we all?" He gestured toward the shelves. "Perhaps you'll find what you seek… if you know how to look."
Raven scanned the room, his gaze settling on a worn book with a sigil nearly identical to the one he'd seen in the courtyard. His fingers brushed the cover, and a jolt of recognition shot through him.
"This," he said, holding up the book.
The old man chuckled softly. "Ah, an interesting choice. That's not a book for beginners."
"Good," Raven replied, his eyes gleaming with determination. "I'm not a beginner."
The old man's smile widened. "Then it seems we understand each other."
Without another word, Raven placed the book under his arm and turned toward the door.
"Be careful, boy," the man called after him. "Once you step too far into the dark, it has a way of pulling you deeper."
Raven didn't stop. He didn't need the warning. He was already in too deep.
As he disappeared into the night, his instinct pulsed in quiet approval. The pieces were falling into place.
Power had rules. And soon, Raven would know them all.