The city felt like it was holding its breath, and frankly, so was I. The few days since Kael's… *departure*… had been a blur of forced smiles, nervous gnces, and the ever-present throb of the brand on my wrist. A constant, damn countdown.

  I was trying to bury myself back in my research, attempting to find some loophole, some forgotten ritual, some *anything* that might offer a shred of hope against the deal with Azazel. But every incantation felt hollow, every scroll seemed to mock my efforts.

  Then, it arrived.

  A knock. Firm, almost impatient. I wasn't expecting anyone. I wasn't expecting *anything*, really, except the inevitable arrival of a certain very powerful and undoubtedly unpleasant demon in just under four weeks..

  I hesitated, peering through the peephole in my door. No one. Just a small, unassuming package sitting on my doorstep. No return address, just a simple, roughly tied twine binding it. My gut clenched. This felt… off.

  Paranoia settled in, thick and unwelcome. Was this some twisted joke? A message from… *them*? A way to taunt me about Kael? Or worse, a sign that Azazel was getting impatient with the speed of kingdom and plot-reted events?

  I cautiously opened the door, keeping one hand on the hilt of the dagger I'd started carrying everywhere these days. I scanned the hallway, finding only the usual peeling wallpaper and the faint scent of Mrs. Abernathy's perpetually overcooked cabbage.

  Scooping up the package like it was a venomous snake, I retreated inside and smmed the door shut, shooting the bolt home.

  I held the package at arm’s length, turning it over in my hands. It was small, no bigger than my palm, wrapped in brown paper that felt rough and cheap. The twine was knotted tightly, almost deliberately so, and sealed with a glob of dark red wax. But it was the symbol pressed into the wax that really caught my attention.

  It wasn't a sigil I recognized. Not from any demon, god, or royal whatever. It was an odd design, all sharp angles and intersecting lines. Uneven too, and more crude than professional. My knowledge of history and lore was vast, after all, and my paranoia ever-present.

  I sniffed the package, a ridiculous move, maybe, but I didn't trust anything anymore. It smelled faintly of… dust. And something else, something almost metallic, like old blood. Great.

  My first impulse was to burn it. Incinerate the damn thing. What good can come of it? Let the world forget about me, and my life, and that damn soul-seal. But curiosity, that old and ever-present curse, gnawed at me. Besides, what was one more bad decision at this point?

  I id a thick bnket on my desk to protect the surface and grabbed a letter opener, carefully slicing through the twine. The paper rustled as I unfolded it, revealing… parchment. Old, yellowed parchment. I definitely didn't like where this was going. The symbol itself was etched into a circle in the center. My heart pounded against my ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the silence of my apartment.

  I threw the package onto the bnket with no hesitation.

  For a solid minute, I just stared at the parchment. It y there, innocent-looking, almost pathetic in its ordinariness. Just a piece of paper. But I knew better. Nothing was just a piece of paper anymore.

  “Damn it, Kael,” I muttered, running a hand through my hair. “What mess did you dragged me into?”

  I tried to rationalize it. Maybe it *was* just a prank. Some idiot trying to get a rise out of the neighborhood mage by sending him a spooky symbol. Maybe it's one of those annoying children, or drunk adults by the tavern. *Maybe it means nothing*.

  I snatched up the parchment, crumpling it in my fist. I was going to toss it into the fire, watch it burn to ash, and forget the whole damn thing. But as I turned towards the firepce, my gaze snagged on the symbol again. And a strange feeling, it was really starting to mess with me.

  It wasn't just the design itself. It was something… deeper. A flicker of recognition, a whisper of forgotten knowledge. It was in my memories.

  I unclenched my fist, smoothing the parchment out on the table. I stared at the symbol, trying to force my mind to focus, to dredge up whatever fragment of memory was trying to surface.

  Days passed since my magic-caused friend's death, I was probably just seeing things.

  I gnced away, trying to clear my head. I needed to focus on the bigger problem: the rapidly approaching date with Azazel. I had weeks left. Maybe even less. Time was now my currency. I can't afford to waste time on dumb parcels.

  I pulled out my notes on demonic contracts, trying to decipher the fine print, searching for any loophole that might save my soul. But the symbol kept intruding. It danced at the edge of my vision, a nagging distraction I couldn't shake.

  I found myself unconsciously sketching the symbol on scraps of paper as I read. On the margins of ancient grimoires, on the back of grocery lists, on the condensation rings left by my wine gss. It was like my hand was moving on its own, compelled by some unseen force. Is Azazel trying to talk with me?

  I caught myself staring bnkly at the wall, my mind tracing the symbol over and over again. My body started shaking, which hadn't happen for a while.

  "Enough," I growled, pushing myself away from the desk. "This is ridiculous."

  I needed fresh air. A distraction. Anything to break free from the symbol's hold.

  I threw on my cloak and headed out into the city, hoping the familiar bustle of the streets would clear my head. But even amidst the crowds and the noise, the symbol persisted. I saw it in the patterns of the cobblestones, in the branches of the trees, in the faces of strangers.

  I was losing it.

  Back in my apartment, hours ter, I was no better. I paced back and forth, my anxiety rising with each step. The apartment felt smaller, the air thicker, the silence more oppressive.

  With a curse, I turned on my heels and marched back to the desk. I couldn't run from it. I had to face it. I had to understand what this symbol meant, even if it killed me.

  I retrieved the crumpled parchment from the trash. It was stained with coffee grounds and reeked of stale ale, but the symbol was still clear. I id it back on the bnket, smoothing it out carefully. And I finally was able to recall where I saw it previously.

  The parchment, was getting to my head.

  Sleep came fitfully that night, a restless jumble of nightmares fueled by cheap wine and growing desperation. Azazel was a prominent feature, of course, a looming figure of shadow and fire, his eyes burning with infernal glee as he reached for my soul. Ironic, thinking of it, that all of it started by me.

  But there was something else in my dreams, something… brighter. A fsh of light, a sense of overwhelming power. A towering figure, vaguely human in shape, bathed in an ethereal glow. A god?

  I was dreaming about deities? That's a new low.

  The figure was indistinct, shrouded in swirling mist, but I could make out a few details. Long, flowing hair the color of spun gold. Eyes like molten silver. And on the figure's chest, embzoned like a badge of honor, was the symbol from the parchment. It was more defined, more intricate, almost like it was alive.

  In the center of this vague being, was the wax-sealed symbol.

  The figure seemed to be speaking, its voice a low hum that resonated deep within my bones. I couldn't make out the words, but I felt their meaning, a sense of comfort and reassurance I hadn't felt in years, a feeling of power, and of being cared for.

  And then, a name. Whispered, almost sighed, on the wind.

  "*Sos…*"

  Suddenly, darkness. A void deeper than anything I'd ever experienced. A sense of being utterly alone, adrift in a sea of nothingness.

  Then, a jolt. I snapped awake, gasping for air, my body drenched in sweat. My heart hammered against my ribs, threatening to break free. The dream clung to me like a shroud, both terrifying and strangely comforting.

  I y there for a long moment, trying to calm my racing heart, trying to make sense of what I'd seen. Sos… the God of Souls? Was that what the dream was trying to tell me? And what did the symbol have to do with it? Maybe a way to avoid the Azazel's cim?

  I tried to grasp the details of the vision, desperately trying to piece together the connection between the symbol and the deity. But the dream was fading fast, like mist in the morning sun.

  All that remained was the name itself, Sos, echoing in the hollows of my mind. And the image of the symbol, burned into my memory with searing crity.

  I swung my legs over the side of the bed, stumbling to my desk. I grabbed a piece of parchment and a quill, my hand shaking as I tried to recreate the symbol from my dream.

  It wasn't easy. The symbol from the dream was far more complex, more detailed than the crudely etched version on the package I'd received. But I forced myself to focus, to channel the memory of the vision, to capture every line, every curve, every angle.

  Hours passed. The first rays of dawn crept through the gap in my curtains, painting the room in a pale, ethereal light. Finally, I was done.

  I stared at the finished drawing, my eyes burning with fatigue. It wasn't perfect, but it was close. A far cry from the original. A more refined and elegant symbol. The holy symbol.

  The god of the souls.

  I threw the parchment down, I have no way to contact it, even if it actually exists. But now I remember, the sign, and name, and purpose. And my first reaction?

  "Dammit."

  Driven by the dream, by the whisper of the name Sos, I threw myself back into my research with renewed vigor. I needed to know everything about this God of Souls. His history, his powers, his followers. And, most importantly, how he could possibly help me wiggle out of a demonic contract. Or, considering my luck, weave myself deeper into this nightmare.

  I raided my personal library, pulling down ancient tomes and forgotten scrolls. I consulted books on theology, mythology, and folklore. I even dusted off some long-neglected texts on demonology, hoping to find a connection between Sos and the infernal realms.

  It was exhaustive, tedious work. Hours melted away as I poured over brittle pages, squinting at faded ink, deciphering archaic nguages. My apartment became a chaotic mess of scattered books and half-empty wine gsses. Mrs. Abernethy even knocked on the door once, peering in with a worried expression.

  "Elias, dear? Is everything alright in there? I heard some… commotion."

  "Just… researching, Mrs. Abernathy,” I replied, forcing a smile. “Nothing to worry about."

  I quickly ushered her away, shutting the door before she could get a good look at the disaster zone that had become my life.

  Despite my efforts, my research proved rgely fruitless. Sos seemed to have been erased from history, shrouded in secrecy. There were fleeting mentions of him in obscure texts, whispers of a powerful deity who watched over the souls of the dead. The mentions were quickly dismissed as heresy, and it seemed the topic was immediately dropped.

  And nothing. No concrete information, no definitive answers. It was like Sos had never existed, or like the King didn't want the common folk to know.

  Frustration gnawed at me. I was running out of time, and every dead end felt like another nail in my coffin.

  I decided to try a different approach. If I couldn't find information about Sos directly, maybe I could find clues about the symbol. I consulted books on symbology, alchemy, and sacred geometry. I searched for simir patterns, for any recurring motifs that might offer a clue to its meaning.

  Again, I came up empty. The symbol appeared to be unique, unlike anything I'd ever seen before.

  Desperate, I turned to magic. I attempted to use divination spells to glean information about the symbol, to peer into the past and uncover its hidden origins. But my efforts were blocked by an unknown force. It was like a veil had been drawn over the symbol, preventing me from accessing its secrets.

  Each failed attempt chipped away at my hope, pushing me closer to despair. Was this a sign? Was Sos rejecting me? Or was something else interfering? This felt all too common in my life.

  As the days dwindled, the brand on my wrist seemed to burn brighter, a constant reminder of my impending doom. I stared at it, a horrifying reminder of my sins. Maybe the dream, the package, and the signs were a waste of time.

  "Damn," it hurt.

  I sank deeper into my chair; how could I let this god save me? So, an opportunity! I sat myself up.

  Desperate for answers, I remember Barnaby, the man at the tavern. He mentioned that dark magic in the room where Kael died. Maybe magic exists between gods and demons? "I need to find a forbidden book that is not in my libraries." What a mage I am...

  I remembered a story I heard in my younger days. A pce whispered about in hushed tones among certain circles. A pce where forbidden knowledge resided.

  A bookstore.

  Not just any bookstore, mind you. This one was rumored to be tucked away in a hidden corner of the city, accessible only to those who knew where to look. It was said to house a collection of ancient tomes, heretical texts, and long-forgotten grimoires. Books that had been banned, burned, and suppressed by the authorities.

  The Forbidden Bookstore.

  I dismissed it as a fairy tale, a mere rumour spread among foolish mages.

  But now, with my soul hanging in the bance, I was willing to try anything.

  I’ve heard that it was located in a seedy part of town, a maze of narrow alleyways and dimly lit streets where shadows danced and secrets festered. Perfect pce to find it then. I pulled on my cloak, drawing the hood up to conceal my face. I checked that the bde was still around my waist. "I hate this, really."

  The air was thick with the stench of refuse, stale beer, and something else, something vaguely unsettling that made the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I navigated the byrinthine streets, my senses on high alert, scanning for any sign of the bookstore. Or shadow-cloaked assassins.

  I passed by a group of rough-looking men huddled around a barrel fire, their faces etched with desperation and malice. They eyed me warily as I passed, their hands resting on the hilts of their knives. I quickened my pace, hoping to avoid any unwanted attention.

  Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I spotted it. It was the address Kael gave to me.

  Tucked away in a narrow alleyway, almost hidden from view, was a small, unassuming shop. The windows were grimy and covered with dust, obscuring the contents within. A single, flickering candle burned dimly above the door, casting long, dancing shadows on the cobblestones. The door was a strange bck-purple color.

  There was a sign, barely visible in the dim light, that read: "The Curious Quill."

  I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what y ahead. This felt like a one-way ticket to madness I was about to buy for myself.

  I pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  The air within was thick with the scent of old paper, musty ink, and something else, something indefinable that resonated deep within my soul. How does that even works?

  The room was dimly lit, illuminated by a few strategically pced candles that cast long, eerie shadows on the walls. Bookshelves lined every surface, stretching from floor to ceiling, packed tight with dusty tomes and forgotten manuscripts. The library of a madman.

  The pce almost seemed magical in itself.

  Behind a cluttered counter sat an old man. He was hunched over a book, his face obscured by a pair of thick spectacles. His hair was long and white, and his skin was pale and wrinkled. He looked like he hadn't seen the sun in decades.

  His eyes, however, were sharp and piercing, as if he could see straight through me – and into my soul. He looked up, eyes almost bck, even in a pce like this.

  He stared directly at me – the watcher became watched.

  He set aside the book and steepled his fingers, studying me with disconcerting intensity.

  "Can I help you, young… mage?" he croaked, his voice raspy and low.

  I swallowed nervously. "I… I'm looking for some information."

  "Information," he echoed, a hint of amusement in his voice. "A common desire. What sort of information are you seeking?"

  I hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. "I'm… researching a symbol," He slowly nods to my words. "An ancient symbol. And I was told that this bookstore might… have some knowledge of it."

  The old man's eyes narrowed slightly. "A symbol, you say? And who told you to come here?"

  "I can't say," I replied, meeting his gaze. "It's… confidential."

  He chuckled softly, a dry, rustling sound. "Confidential indeed. Very Well."

  He rose slowly from his chair, his movements stiff and deliberate. He walked around the counter and approached me, his eyes never leaving mine.

  "Show me the symbol," he said simply.

  With slightly shaking hands, I reached into my cloak and pulled out the drawing I had made after my dream. I handed it to the old man, watching his face intently.

  He took the parchment and studied it for a long moment, his expression unreadable. The air was so tense that it felt like you use a knife to cut it.

  Finally, he looked up, his eyes glinting with a strange light. “Ah, yes,” he whispered, “the mark of Sos. I have not seen this for ages. God of Souls indeed.”

  My heart leapt with a crazy mix of hope and apprehension. "You know it? You know what it means?"

  He did not answer to my questions. He moved around me again and started climbing one of the massive libraries around us. "Sos..."

  "I do. But knowledge comes to a price. Are you willing to pay it?" He finally reaches his target book and descends as slowly as possible, as if the world around him was trying to crush him.

  "What kind of price?"

  He gave me a sharp look, this time stopping to get to my eyes. "The truth. Are you willing to accept it?"

  I hesitated again. What truth was he talking about? The truth about Sos? More importantly, was this one going to lead me, once again, into my own demise?

  "I… I don't know," I admitted. "But I need to know more about the brand.”

  The old man sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "Then that's your main goal. But I would not ask for something if it was not of use for both of us." I didn't liked this at all. “Very well,” he said, “I will tell you what I know. But you must listen carefully. For what I am about to tell you could change everything.” He handed me the book, and I had no idea what I was supposed to do with all of it.

  He paused, his gaze sweeping over my face, as if searching for any sign of weakness or deceit.

  "The mark of Sos," he began, his voice dropping to a near whisper. "Is not merely a symbol. It is a key. A key to unlocking a power that has been hidden for centuries. A power that could save you but destroy those in this kingdom.”

  "And who is Sos?" I asked. I was already regretting this. Too little time and way too much information.

  But it mattered not. He simply continued his monologue.

  “Someone that I can't describe."

  I frowned.

  "I can't, no, truly," he started ughing, but he immediately composed himself. The guy really needed a doctor, if not a whole mental asylum. “He is the God is Souls, and the magic of weaving, of soul-sharing, all of it. Some call this heresy, some call this pure magic. Some just call this lies.”

  "And how can he help me?"

  “By accepting him and leaving the Demon.” The old man looks with pity at the demonbrand on my wrist. “Or he could not do much. It all depends on how much of a pawn you are.”

  "What does that mean? How would he benefit from all of this?" He got closer to me.

  "Have you ever heard of the myth? The realm of humanity, the realm of gods, and the realm of demons? What if what separates these realms isn't what we thing?"

  I was speechless. I have been here for merely a few minutes, and this old had had me questioning my whole reality.

  "But there is more, there are others, other people for Sos to appear,” he continued, ignoring my protests. “People who have the same mark. The God is looking for other champions. They'll aid you, or be dragged like you, closer to the fme. Whether they like it or not.”

  I felt a shiver run down my spine. "Who are they? Where can I find them?"

  The old man smiled, a knowing, almost predatory expression on his face.

  "That," he said, "is something you must discover for yourself." He walks away again.

  With shaking hands, I picked put up the book. In the first page, there was some writing. "Seek the guardians of the forgotten." Guardians of the forgotten? Guardians. More like, pawns, as that thing put it.

  And with that, I heard a loud noise, and the door closed with a thud. Before I could turn to ask anything, much less a question, all that I had was an old book and a new world to discover. I ran to the door and tried to push it open, but it was locked.

  "Hey! Open the door! We are not done here!" No answer from the man.

  I tried bsting it open with a fire spell, but nothing happened. It was like the door was immune to magic.

  I kicked the door once more, before giving up. I was locked in. "Are you serious?"

  The shop was a byrinth now, full of books in strange formations, hard to get to a door, not to mention my main goal of getting out.

  I was alone. I cursed my recklessness and idiocy, the desire of revenge that got me in so much trouble. I have no idea what to do.

  And with that, I went through the whole store with the intention to find another exit and, by miracle or destiny, I found it. I was outside the shop again.

  I looked back at the shop and saw the door was open again. This time I didn't hesitate.

  The interior had completely changed. The counter was gone, only dusty shelves.

  But everything was quiet. It was as if he had just vanished. Magic? If so, what kind?I had heard enough for tonight.

  Then, I decided that I should go. I'll think about this situation as a whole, the book, Sos, everything.But everything will have to be done tomorrow.

  I turned to leave, a profound sense of unease permeating the air. I wasn’t sure if I would ever find the answer to all of these signs, or the symbol. I definitely wasn’t sure if I could save myself. But that sign... I had to understand that one. However, I could use as a test.

  "Well... I hope tomorrow will be better."