“”

  The words hung in the dim light of her flat, and their inked script trembled ever so slightly in her grip. The weight of exhaustion pressed against her head, dull and unrelenting, yet sleep no longer came quickly.

  Closing the book with a gentle thud, she hesitated with her fingers hovering over the worn cover as though hoping the words would transform into something more palatable. She exhaled, slow and measured—practiced, controlled, but still unsteady. The room felt like it was closing in on her, with scattered books and parchment piles drawing nearer, whispering their incomplete thoughts and lingering questions. Somewhere beyond the window, the city stirred—a distant hum of life, of people moving, speaking, laughing. Living.

  She set the book aside, rising from the worn couch with practiced patience, ignoring the sluggish pull of her limbs. The hearth lay empty, its embers long since faded, yet a lingering chill clung to the air. This chill was not the same as the one that accompanied Aeloria's Grace or the gentle onset of autumn, but rather a deeper feeling that lingered in her bones. Steadying herself, she moved toward the window, pulling the curtains aside just enough to see the streets below.

  Ciarisca was brimming with life. It always was.

  With its labyrinth of merchant stalls, the Grand Plaza stretched beyond her view. However, she could still hear its heartbeat—the clatter of boots on cobblestone, the sharp ring of hammers against steel, and the occasional burst of laughter from a passing group of adventurers. The city was alive, vibrant, and energetic, a stark contrast to Celestia's inner turmoil. The aroma of spiced cider and roasted chestnuts wafted through the fresh air, blending with the distant smell of forges.

  For a brief moment, she let herself remember.

  Not long ago, she and Ellynn strolled through those streets, their arms linked as they navigated the bustling crowd. The scent of cinnamon had been thick in the air, mingling with the heat of the forges, and Ellynn had laughed—a bright, full sound, teasing Celestia about something ridiculous. Was it a poor choice she made at the tavern? Was it a misguided decision at the tavern or an unsuccessful attempt at cooking? The memory slipped away like smoke, eluding her grasp as the present tightened its grip.

  Celestia’s grip on the curtain tightened. That was before the tenth level; before she clawed her way back out, something unnatural lay buried deep in her soul. Her gaze dropped to her hands. They trembled. A phantom heat coiled beneath her skin—slow, insidious. It felt as if molten iron was slowly cooling beneath her skin, never solidifying and never fading. She turned her hand over, flexing her fingers—half-expecting to see the blackened tendrils creep up her arm, like they had the last time she tried to heal herself. But nothing happened. Not yet.

  She let the curtain fall shut, casting the room into shadows again.

  The whispers would start soon. They always did.

  The morning air carried the crisp bite of early autumn, a fleeting reminder that Sol’s Embrace had ended, yielding to Aeloria’s Grace. The city of Ciarisca moved in its familiar rhythm—footsteps on cobblestone, the distant hum of conversation, the scent of spice and forge-smoke curling through the streets. Celestia moved through it like a phantom.

  The Grand Plaza stretched before her, a living, breathing thing—too bright, too full of life for how hollow she felt inside. Dwarves worked the forges, their hammers singing against steel. Street vendors called out their wares, filling the air with offers of enchanted trinkets, spell-infused fabrics, and dungeon-gathered herbs. Magic pulsed faintly everywhere, from the sigils woven into banners to the subtle hum of protective enchantments lining the merchant stalls.

  And people—so many people.

  There were Elves with flowing hair, their sharp features almost blending with the afternoon light. They were warriors, scholars, and seers, guardians of balance. Their solemn faces betrayed the weight of their responsibility to protect the world’s magic. These elves did not look down upon other races—many had welcomed human archmages, beastkin, and spirits into their lands, understanding the importance of unity in safeguarding what was most precious. The city served as a hub for diverse cultures, reflecting the richness of its history and the diversity of its inhabitants.

  Beastkin—fox, feline, wolf, and more—moved alongside humans and half-elves, their eyes glinting with quiet power. The occasional Fae drifted through, their ethereal beauty amplified by their shimmering wings, tucked beneath protective cloaks to shield the fragile life force they held within. Spirits—whispering and unseen—shifted with the crowd, their forms only detectable by the cold trail they left in the air.

  Celestia used to love this place—its energy, diversity, and ceaseless motion. It felt like watching a play she had no longer participated in.

  Then—a familiar name reached her ears.

  “The Legend came back from the lower levels last night.”

  Celestia’s steps slowed.

  “Again? That’s the fifth time this month!”

  "Fifth this month, twentieth this year," another voice muttered. "He’s been doing this for decades."

  A short laugh. "What, you think he’s guarding the dungeon?"

  "Something is being held back by him, in my opinion."

  Celestia turned away, fingers tightening around her cloak. She had never met him, but she knew of him. Everyone in Ciarisca did. People whispered about him with equal parts admiration and unease—a noble who wielded power far beyond wealth and titles. A silhouette near the periphery of the city. A knife in the shadows. A guy spoken of in conjunction with peril and redemption—inaccessible, enigmatic, yet perpetually observant. She forced herself to move before she could dwell on it further.

  The exhaustion was profound in her bones. It wasn’t just physical—it wove into her, a weight she couldn’t shake. The curse consumed her energy, depleted her magic, and obscured her vision at its edges. Her skin became black at the fingertips during her last attempt to heal herself; dark tendrils grew up her arm, and her veins burned as if they were immersed in molten iron. The memory was enough to keep her from trying again. That was why she was here.

  The apothecary’s stall stood between a runework merchant and a spice vendor. Wooden shelves line the walls and are filled with vials and parchment-labelled pouches. The scent of dried herbs mixed with something sharper: warding incense, designed to keep away malevolent energy. Celestia hesitated.

  The herbalist—a fox Beastkin in his forties with greying fur along his ears and tail—looked up as she approached. His gaze flicked over her quickly, and she knew he saw her once-vibrant hair's paleness, dark circles, and brittle quality.

  "You look like you need something strong," he remarked, voice edged with concern.

  Celestia managed a half-smile. "Just something for exhaustion." The man’s brow furrowed. He didn’t question her, but she saw how he hesitated before turning to his shelves. He pulled down a small pouch, fingers deftly moving as he untied the string.

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  "Mornroot blend," he said. "Not a cure, but it’ll help keep you on your feet. Brew it strong."

  She reached into her coin pouch, but before she could speak, he added, "And don’t push yourself too hard."

  Celestia paused, caught in a fleeting moment of silence, as shadows danced around her like whispers of forgotten secrets. The hour had grown too late for such notions. With a subtle nod, she let the coins slip into his waiting palm, the weight of their exchange lingering in the air, before she concealed the fragrant herbs within the folds of her cloak, shrouded in shadows and secrets. Turning away, she stepped back into the crowd, the city’s noise pressing on all sides.

  She was consumed by an insatiable desire to escape, her mind adrift in a tempest of shadows, oblivious to the figure weaving through the crowd with a sinister grace. Clad in subdued tones of brown and black, he was ordinary at first, yet something about him stood out—like a shadow blending with the afternoon's fading light. The intent shrouded his movements, making them nearly undetectable, as if he seamlessly blended into the surrounding air. The leather harness clung to his chest like a second skin, bracers encasing his forearms with a promise of protection, while the fingerless gloves whispered of a bond with shadows, each piece a testament to a life entwined with peril and the dark embrace of fate. A battered sword hung from his hip, a vital part of his being, as instinctive and essential as the very air that filled his lungs.

  Then—impact.

  She collided with someone. It wasn't enough to knock her over, but it was enough to jar her senses—broad shoulders, a firm grip steadying her before she could fall. A flicker of heat penetrated the layers of her exhaustion.

  "My apologies," she murmured hastily, not looking up, pulse quickening as she fled the interaction.

  She didn’t see how a gloved hand lingered in the space where she had touched him or how his senses tingled, picking up on something beneath the surface.

  He felt it.

  There was a faint disturbance in the mana, as if something was shifting unnoticed beneath the intricate web of magic holding the plaza together. His honey-golden eye narrowed slightly as the mana rippled faintly through him. His gaze followed the figure that had brushed past. Something was off. But before he could pinpoint it, she vanished.

  Celestia didn’t slow her pace until the crowd swallowed her entirely. Even then, her breath came shallow, her hands curling beneath the fabric of her cloak as the lingering sensation of touch burnt beneath her skin—heat, even in the dead of winter. It was always there. Always waiting.

  She let out a sharp breath, steeling herself to concentrate on her surroundings. The marketplace bustled around her, but her movements carried no direction. She wandered by the same stalls twice—maybe three times—before realising she had stopped walking. Her eyes settled on a distant sight—the dungeon entrance.

  From where she stood, she had a clear view of the massive stone archway, the deep abyss beyond its threshold seeming to devour the sunlight. The city had long since fortified it, guards stationed at its entrance, ensuring that nothing—no one—slipped past unnoticed. Yet even from this distance, Celestia sensed it—a haunting allure that beckoned her closer. The weight on her chest, suffocating like the dungeon itself, was still keeping her.

  A crushing ache pierced through the inside of her head. She winced, pressing her fingertips into her temples. Excessive in its duration. Celestia had been standing here too long. Swallowing back her unease, she turned abruptly and approached the familiar scent of warm food and spices.

  The elf running the food stall glanced up from where she was plating a fresh portion of seasoned rice and spiced meat, her green eyes sharp with recognition. “Ah, Celestia,” she greeted, setting aside a second plate before Celestia even spoke. “Haven’t seen you in a few days. Thought you might’ve finally grown sick of my cooking.”

  Celestia allowed herself a small, fleeting smile. “Never.”

  The elf chuckled, gesturing for her to sit. “Good. Because I’d take it personally.” Celestia hesitated momentarily before lowering herself onto one of the small wooden stools. The warmth from the nearby stove chased away the lingering chill in her limbs—not that it ever lasted.

  “Busy morning?” the elf asked, sliding the plate toward her.

  “Something like that.”

  The elf tilted her head slightly, studying her with a knowing gaze. “Still not sleeping?”

  Celestia’s grip tightened around the spoon. She didn't respond, but her silence was Answer enough.

  The elf sighed, shaking her head as she leaned against the counter. “You’re going to collapse at this rate. You should at least let me pack extra food for you—something to help.” Celestia exhaled slowly, focusing on the steam rising from her meal. “You worry too much.”

  “Someone has to,” the elf muttered before turning to prepare something behind the stall. “Here,” she said a moment later, wrapping a bundle of food in parchment. “Take this for later. No arguments.” Celestia took it wordlessly, a quiet gratitude settling in her chest. She finished her meal and rose to leave, but her feet hesitated at the plaza's edge. Her gaze drifted toward the darker part of the market—where the cobblestones were cracked, and the shadows stretched too far.

  The bookshop was there. A week ago, she overheard whispers. The text, buried in dust and hidden in a collection of forgotten works, spoke of curses and remnants of dark magic. She didn’t know if it would help. But she was running out of time. Celestia stepped into the dimly lit doorway before she could talk herself out of it.

  Celestia’s heart raced as she crossed the threshold of the bookshop, her footsteps echoing in the silence of the cluttered space. Rumours of this place had reached her ears in hushed conversations, whispers that promised forgotten knowledge—ancient texts hidden away, bound by time and dust, containing secrets of dark magic. With every passing day, the urgency of her quest grew. The power that lurked within these pages might be her only chance to combat the threat closing in, but she couldn’t ignore the weight of the risks. Each word, each incantation, could unravel not just her future but her very soul. Was it worth it? She didn’t know, but time was slipping away, and the looming danger felt closer with every breath. She could almost feel the shadow creeping up behind her, its dark fingers brushing her spine.

  Her hand hovered over a particularly worn leather-bound volume on a dust-covered shelf. After a long pause, she took a deep breath and pulled it free from the dust, the weight of the decision settling into her chest. The old woman behind the counter eyed her as Celestia handed over the few coins she had left. She didn’t ask questions, nor did Celestia offer any explanations. With the book now in her possession, Celestia stepped out into the fading light, the door creaking behind her.

  By the time Celestia reached her flat, the afternoon sun had begun its slow descent, casting warm amber hues on the buildings. The three-story house stood between two more significant structures, its simple wooden exterior softened by creeping ivy along its edges. Despite its modest size, the place felt welcoming—lived in—a warmth that had long since faded from anywhere she had once called home.

  Ten years. It had been ten years since Celestia had first climbed these steps, weighed down by exhaustion and a past she refused to speak of. It had been ten years since Granny Eleanor had given her a key and told her, "" She asked no questions.

  Celestia stepped inside, the familiar scent of herbs and old wood greeting her. The small entrance hall remained silent, except for the faint laughter drifting from the communal room on her left. The other tenants had gathered again, their voices mingling in cheerful conversation. She didn’t linger. Celestia ascended the staircase to the first floor, her fingers brushing the worn railing as she reached her door on the left. The lock clicked softly as she stepped inside, sealing herself within the only space that was hers.

  As evening settled in, fading light bathed the small flat. She set the parchment-wrapped meal on the counter and moved to the kitchen, methodically preparing a teapot. She crushed the herbs she had bought earlier, hoping the blend would dull the exhaustion clawing at the edges of her mind.

  As the tea steeped, she sat by the window, the untouched book from the plaza resting on the small table beside her. The city beyond continued its hum of life, but the silence pressed inside. She brought the tea to her lips. The bitter taste lingered, but she forced herself to drink—anything to ease the heaviness in her limbs.

  And then—pain.

  It started as a sharp pulse beneath her skin, coiling around her ribs before spreading outward in a hot, crawling sensation. Her breath hitched. The cup slipped from her grasp, clattering against the table.

  The curse flared violently, an invisible force pressing against her lungs, her limbs burning as if lava had settled into her bones. She gasped, forcing herself upright, her fingers trembling as she pushed toward the washroom.

  The icy water hit her skin in a shock, dragging her back from the abyss. Her breathing slowed, the pain receding into a dull ache. By the time she stepped out, her body felt hollow. She barely had the strength to change before collapsing onto her bed. The blanket on her bed provided little comfort, a weak defence against the unyielding turmoil inside her. Celestia desired sleep, the rest she desperately needed. But the ever-present voices were there. The whispers, sharp and cruel, slithered through the corners of her mind.

  Celestia clenched her fists, squeezing her eyes shut. She felt the wetness on her cheeks before she realised she was crying. Her last thought, before exhaustion claimed her, was a desperate, silent wish—

  But she already knew the nightmares would come.

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