Oliver ran through the winding alleys of Smog Hollow, his small frame slipping between crates and rusted pipes as he struggled to keep his breath steady. He was late again.

  Damn it.

  His brother would have scolded him, telling him for the hundredth time to be more careful, to watch his surroundings, to never take the same route twice. Smog Hollow wasn’t kind to kids like him—those without families, without connections, without protection.

  The streets were filled with sharp-eyed thieves, gang-run pickpockets, and shopkeepers who sold more than just goods. Orphaned children formed packs to survive, running schemes and vanishing into the filth between cobbled streets before the Nightwatch could care enough to intervene.

  But everything changed when Mr. Halloway arrived.

  Mr. Halloway wasn’t like the others in Smog Hollow. He wasn’t a thief, a gang leader, or a corrupt merchant.

  Yet, even the worst criminals here feared him.

  Nobody knew how, but he had forced the locals to leave the abandoned children alone. No one dared to extort them, harm them, or use them for their own gain. And instead of letting them fall into crime, he taught them.

  Oliver had been one of those kids.

  His older brother had once studied under Mr. Halloway, insisting Oliver do the same. The man held lessons in an old abandoned building, giving the forgotten children of Smog Hollow something more than just hunger and survival.

  But something about him had always been strange.

  The whispers, the looks of quiet fear from adults, the way people refused to speak of him beyond hushed tones—none of it made sense to Oliver.

  Still, he had been good to them.

  And Oliver trusted him.

  The building was in sight now—a decrepit brick house, its windows broken, its wooden door reinforced with rusted metal bars. But inside, it was alive with whispered conversations, scribbled chalk notes, and the quiet hope of the hopeless.

  He slipped inside, the door creaking behind him.

  Five or six kids were already seated on the floor, their clothes patched and stained, their eyes wary yet eager.

  Jack, his best friend, waved him over with a smirk.

  "You’re late."

  Oliver grimaced, wiping sweat from his forehead.

  "Mr. Halloway here?"

  Jack shook his head, whispering conspiratorially, "Nope. You’re lucky. He’s still in the basement, doing… whatever he does down there."

  That sent a small shiver down Oliver’s spine.

  His eyes flicked toward the basement door—a sturdy, locked wooden hatch, reinforced by iron bolts that didn’t match the rest of the house.

  Mr. Halloway spent a lot of time down there.

  Too much time.

  No one knew why.

  Oliver didn’t like thinking about it.

  He forced his thoughts away as he took a seat beside Lenore, a girl his age with sharp eyes and tangled blonde hair.

  She didn’t look at him, focused on her scribbled notes instead.

  Oliver felt his face heat up. He didn’t know why he liked her—she was mean sometimes, always correcting his reading or pointing out when he was wrong about things. But… she made him want to be better.

  Maybe one day I’ll tell her that.

  A loud thud suddenly echoed through the house.

  Everyone froze.

  The sound had come from the basement.

  Jack tensed beside him, his smirk gone. The others shifted uneasily, looking toward the locked hatch.

  "Mr. Halloway?" Archie, the oldest among them at fourteen, stood hesitantly.

  Another thud.

  Louder.

  Something wet splattered against the door. A drip of something dark seeped from underneath, staining the rotting wood.

  Then—

  BANG.

  The door shook violently, nearly flying off its hinges. An unnatural screech tore through the air, rattling their bones with something so deeply wrong that Oliver felt his stomach twist.

  A cold fear unlike anything he had ever known wrapped around him, squeezing tight.

  And then—

  The door exploded.

  The force threw Oliver backwards, his body slamming into the ground as dust and splinters filled the air. The smell of blood and something rotten invaded his lungs.

  His ears rang, his vision swam, but as his eyes focused—

  He wished he had never seen it.

  Something stepped out from the basement.

  It wasn’t human.

  It was white, like exposed bone, yet its skin pulsed like something alive.

  Its head was grotesquely large, swollen, veined, filled with bulbous growths that should have been eyes—but weren’t.

  It breathed, its ribs stretching and creaking, its long, bony arms dragging as if weighed down by something unseen.

  But the worst part?

  It was chewing.

  Something pale dangled from its jagged maw, something soft, something small, something that twitched uselessly in its grasp.

  A hand.

  And at its feet—

  Oliver’s mind refused to understand.

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  Archie.

  His body was there, but his head wasn’t.

  It was mash, red, bone fragments sticking out where a skull should have been.

  Something hot and sticky dripped onto Oliver’s shirt.

  Blood.

  His own? No.

  Archie’s?

  …Maybe.

  Beside him, Jack made a small, pitiful noise. The smell of urine filled the air.

  Oliver's gaze frantically searched for Lenore.

  He couldn’t find her among the groaning, half-conscious bodies of the others.

  Then—

  The thing screeched.

  A soul-wrenching, ear-splitting sound, like a thousand voices screaming at once.

  Oliver’s vision turned black.

  Somewhere in the dark basement, amid the mangled remains of a ritual site, a portrait lay forgotten—its edges stained red, its surface dusted with age.

  A drawing of a family of three.

  Beside it, a letter—its ink smudged, its words partially burned.

  Only the name remained untouched:

  ~To Theodore Halloway~

  Silas moved through the shadowed alleys, the dense fog curling around his form as he carefully avoided the watchful eyes of the Nightwatch patrols. His path led him to a narrow alley tucked behind a row of crumbling tenements, where the air hung heavy with damp and the faint stench of rot. Nearby, the dim glow of oil lamps flickered behind cracked windows—homes of the poor who clung to what little life the Outer City offered. Nestled between leaning brick walls stood a rundown textile shop — a place known for selling cheap, worn garments. Its wooden sign hung askew, the lettering faded with age, while the boarded-up windows and peeling paint gave it a dilapidated air.

  Without hesitation, he slipped into the alley beside the shop, making his way to the unmarked back door. He rapped his knuckles against the worn wood in a deliberate pattern. A moment later, a small hatch slid open, revealing a pair of wary eyes.

  “Name?” a muffled voice asked.

  “Shade,” Silas answered evenly.

  The latch clicked, and the door creaked open just enough for him to slip inside. The doorman—face concealed beneath a plain, expressionless mask—locked it behind him without a word.

  The dim glow of gas lamps cast flickering shadows across the cramped interior. Bolts of coarse fabric were stacked haphazardly along the walls, and discarded scraps littered the floor. Beyond them, in the gloom, four figures sat around a rough wooden table—Crimson, Scrivener, Rook, and Wraith.

  Silas gave each a brief nod as they exchanged quiet greetings.

  “We’ll wait for the others,” Crimson murmured.

  Minutes passed before two more arrived—Gildhand and Mourner. As they took their seats, Crimson leaned forward, surprising them all with his next words.

  “We begin now.”

  Scrivener frowned, glancing around the table. “What about Pallid? He isn’t here yet.”

  Crimson exhaled slowly, her gloved fingers tapping against the worn table. “Pallid won’t be coming.”

  A hush fell over the room. Silas noticed the slight shift in the others—Rook’s fingers tightening around the edge of her cloak, Scrivener’s gaze lowering in thought, Gildhand leaning back, arms crossed but rigid. Even Wraith, ever silent, tilted her head slightly as if waiting for an explanation.

  “Why?” Scrivener asked, her voice careful but edged with something unreadable.

  Crimson hesitated for a beat before speaking, her tone measured. “According to my network, a Wielder failed in sublimation near Smog Hollow.”

  Silas felt the weight of those words settle over them like damp fog.

  “A man in his forties,” she continued. “A teacher for the abandoned children in the area.”

  A slow, creeping realization spread through the room, but no one spoke. Crimson didn’t stop.

  “He turned into a two-meter-tall, bony white monster. Killed five children. Three teens. Nightwatch Wielders finally put him down.” She paused, eyes scanning their faces. “He was suspected to be a First-Order Resonator Chronicle Wielder. "And the chance of him being Pallid… is very high."

  The silence this time was different—heavy, oppressive.

  Mourner let out a long breath, staring at the tabletop. “So he failed.”

  No one corrected him.

  Pallid had been the one who knew the most about sublimation, about distortion—about surviving it. He was the one who studied it obsessively, the one who claimed to understand the risks better than anyone else.

  And yet, he had failed.

  Scrivener muttered something under her breath before shaking her head. “If even he couldn’t—” She stopped herself, jaw tightening.

  Rook, usually quick with a quip, said nothing.

  Silas felt the same unease coil in his gut. Sublimation was a path to greater power, but it came with risks. Risks they all understood in theory.

  But Pallid had been proof that theory meant nothing when reality came crashing down.

  Crimson tapped the table twice, a quiet signal. “Let’s begin the transaction.”

  No one spoke. The weight of Pallid’s absence still lingered in the air, settling over them like a damp shroud. Silas—Shade—let the silence stretch for a moment before breaking it.

  “I’m looking for information,” he said, his tone even. “Artifacts, tools, relics—anything related to Wielders.”

  Gildhand, ever the merchant, leaned forward with a slow smile. “That knowledge will cost you. One Tower Gild.”

  Silas scanned the room, checking if anyone else showed interest. But the others remained quiet, uninterested—or simply unwilling to pay.

  Scrivener, sitting with her arms crossed, gave a small shrug. “Basic knowledge. But necessary.”

  Necessary, but still costly.

  Silas reached into his coat and pulled out a single Tower Gild, sliding the coin across the table. It gleamed under the dim gaslight before stopping in front of Gildhand’s waiting fingers. The man scooped it up smoothly, weighing it between his knuckles before speaking.

  “Relics, artifacts, and tools follow the same order system as Wielders,” Gildhand began, his voice steady and practiced. “Their classification mirrors the hierarchy of abilities.” He met Silas’s gaze. “A First-Order tool possesses a First-Order ability, tied to the First Astral Layer. The same applies to higher orders.”

  Silas nodded, absorbing the information.

  “The difference,” Gildhand continued, “lies in their origin.” He tapped a finger against the table. “Tools and artifacts are artificially engraved—created by some Wielders, infused with specific abilities. Their functions are deliberate, designed.”

  He leaned back slightly. “Relics, however, are different. They’re naturally occurring. Found in the Fallen Lands. They form over time, shaped by prolonged exposure to the Astral Layers. No one crafts them—they simply… emerge.”

  Silas frowned slightly. The distinction was important. Tools and artifacts had purpose; relics were shaped by something beyond human hands. The Fallen Lands had their own way of making things—things that were unpredictable, dangerous, and valuable.

  Gildhand studied him for a moment. “That answer your question, Shade?”

  “For now.” Silas leaned back, his mind already turning over possibilities.

  The meeting moved on, each masked figure handling their own transactions.

  Wraith, with a sharp, predatory presence, leaned forward slightly. "I'm looking for a tool—something that enhances agility." Her voice was smooth but expectant, the kind of tone that suggested she rarely heard ‘no’ for an answer.

  But no one responded. The silence stretched, thick with unspoken disappointment.

  Silas remained still, masking his thoughts as easily as he masked his face. He had the ability to engrave, to create exactly what Wraith wanted—but revealing that here would be a mistake. Better to let them assume he had nothing to offer.

  Scrivener, spoke next, her voice clipped and businesslike. "Any notes? Secret documents?"

  Again, nothing.

  Silas noted the pattern. This group, for all their secrecy and experience, severely lacked resources related to Wielders. No tools, no notes, no artifacts. Whatever their individual skills were, none of them had access to high-value Wielder-related materials.

  Before the silence could settle too deeply, Crimson cut through it. She leaned forward, fingers drumming lightly on the table. “I have something different. An opportunity.”

  That got their attention. Everyone focused on her, their masked faces unreadable, but their body language betraying interest.

  “A crypt,” Crimson continued. "Unexplored."

  Silas felt the shift in the room. Even with their faces hidden, he could sense it—the sharp pull of curiosity, the weight of possibilities.

  “For those unfamiliar,” she went on, “crypts are places where reality overlaps with the Astral Realm. They become... twisted, unstable. Inside, the rules of the world don’t always apply. They’re usually infested with beings from higher Astral Layers—dangerous, unpredictable. But they also hold knowledge, relics, artifacts, tools—things you won’t find anywhere else.”

  A pause. Then Wraith’s voice, skeptical. “And your information is reliable?”

  “It is.”

  “Explorable crypts don’t stay unclaimed,” Wraith pressed. “Nobles snatch them up before anyone else gets a chance.”

  Crimson’s posture remained relaxed, but there was an edge of certainty in her voice. “I have my ways.”

  No one pushed further. She had a reputation, and she wasn’t the type to speak carelessly.

  She exhaled softly. “If this isn’t for you, leave now.”

  No one moved.

  A slow nod. “Good.” She glanced at each of them. “I plan to explore it. If you’re interested, you can come with me. We’ll split whatever we find.”

  A heavy silence followed—but one by one, they nodded. Agreement settled over the room like a quiet pact.