Dusk wrapped the alleys of ValOmbre in a shroud of gathering darkness, cloaking the lower city in an oppressive atmosphere where each footstep echoed heavier than it would by day. Oil lamps, perched on iron stands, cast flickering halos over uneven cobblestones, revealing the hurried shadows of passersby rushing home before nightfall.
Brann walked ahead with a steady, purposeful stride, leading the way, while Gaël followed in silence, absorbed by the city's peculiar aura. This frontier city, teetering between chaos and order, carried the weight of conflicts etched deep into its walls.
As they crossed a soot-darkened street, a wavering light suddenly caught Gaël's attention. Behind a dusty shop window, leaking a faint violet glow, a crumbling storefront revealed ancient relics displayed on misshapen mannequins, silent remnants from the world before the Great Fracture.
His gaze locked onto a weathered tricorn hat, its edges frayed yet still exuding an undeniable elegance despite the years.
Brann, noticing the young man's halt, slowed and turned, his steely gray eyes inquisitive.
"Why'd you stop?" he asked, a hint of impatience lacing his voice.
Gaël slowly raised his arm, pointing at the object without taking his eyes off the hat.
"That tricorn… How can I get it?"
Brann raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"Got any Denars on you?"
Gaël shook his head slowly, puzzled.
"Denars?"
"The local currency," Brann replied, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "Unless they're taking Solari or Luminous Crowns…"
Gaël's face darkened further.
"I have nothing."
Brann narrowed his eyes, curious.
"Why do you care so much about that old piece of leather?"
Gaël took a deep breath, hesitating.
"It's… a memory. It reminds me of someone."
With a resigned sigh, Brann reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of dark coins, dropping them into the young man's outstretched palm.
"Black Obols," Brann explained. "We're in the lower city. Down here, it's not just the black market that takes this kind of coin. Should be enough."
Gaël nodded his thanks and pushed open the creaking door of the shop, a shiver of apprehension running down his spine as he stepped into the dusty den.
Inside, an old man with hollowed features slowly lifted his gaze, revealing dull eyes like aged gray stones cracked by time. His face, as wrinkled as parched earth, lit up with a smile as thin as a blade, as false as the shadiest wares in his store.
His voice, cold and creaking like the door's hinges, echoed among shelves crowded with moth-eaten garments and bottles that likely held nothing more than cheap, burning liquor.
"A customer, at this late hour? Now that's rare… and valuable."
Gaël stepped forward slowly, awkwardly setting the black obols onto the dusty counter.
"I'd like the tricorn displayed in the window."
The old man let out a smile that never reached his eyes.
"Ah… that old thing?" he said, eyeing Gaël with a scrutinizing gaze. "An interesting choice, young man."
He picked up the coins, examined them briefly, then made them vanish into his sleeve with a smooth, practiced motion.
"The price is paid. The tricorn is yours."
Taking the hat carefully in his hands, Gaël was struck by a strange sensation, like a silent echo slipping into his very core. As he placed it on his head, he felt an intangible thread pulling taut, a quiet affirmation that he was stepping into the legacy of the swordbrother, accepting the burden and sealing his choice to follow in his footsteps.
Brann, who had remained silent by the doorway, watched him intently, sensing the subtle shift in the young man's aura.
"Good. We've wasted enough time," he said.
They left the shop without another word, each lost in their own thoughts.
Soon, they reached a modest yet sturdy building, where a weathered wooden sign swung gently in the breeze:
At the Iron's Shadow: Shelter and Rest for Travelers.
The inn stood at the very edge of ValOmbre and Lameclaire, mere steps from a fortified wall reinforced with the latest Lutech weaponry. That wall wasn't just a physical barrier, it was a border between two worlds: one of exiles, mercenaries, and outlaws in ValOmbre, and one of lawmen and absolute control in Lameclaire.
The inn itself seemed almost pressed against the wall of metal and stone. Its three stories, typical of the local architecture, made it a respectable refuge without tipping into ostentation. It was a haven for those who didn't want to be found, yet refused to fall into disgrace.
Through the windows, a warm glow contrasted with the chill of the evening air.
Brann entered without hesitation, Gaël close behind.
Inside, the inn was welcoming without being luxurious. A wide common room stretched across the ground floor, filled with the scent of grilled meat and strong spirits. Mercenaries, smugglers, and a few travelers of more respectable appearance occupied the tables, murmuring among themselves or sharing low, rough laughter, always wary of unseen ears.
Gaël expected Brann to seek out a quiet, secluded corner.
But to his surprise, Brann strode straight toward a table already occupied.
Two men sat there, their meals barely touched. The dim light of the Iron's Shadow stretched long shadows across their faces, sharpening their distinct features.
The first greeted Brann and Gaël's arrival with an easy smile, an expression hovering somewhere between amusement and calculation. He was the man who had called out to Brann from the arena stands. He wore a long coat, its fabric shifting between luminous embroidery and darker patterns. At his side hung a dual-edged blade, a unique weapon that mirrored his ambivalence between Lumen and Umbra. Beside him lay an instrument Gaël didn't recognize. His eyes, one gold, the other black with violet undertones, betrayed an allegiance to a philosophy few truly understood.
He raised his glass toward Brann, a casual smile playing at his lips.
"I was wondering if you'd finally decide to join us, Brann."
His gaze slid toward Gaël, and his smile widened slightly.
"So this is the protégé of the Fallen."
Gaël felt an instinctive tension rise within him. The man hadn't shown any hostility, yet his gaze, sharp as a blade, studied him with an almost scientific curiosity. He wasn't a warrior sizing up his strength, but a man probing beneath the surface, trying to understand what lay hidden.
The other man remained silent.
"Greetings, Gaël. Fine fight in the arena!" the first man introduced himself warmly. "I'm Kaien Ren, Harmonist of the Broken Balance."
He then gestured toward his companion at the table.
"And this is Rai Tsukihara, envoy of the Sun Kingdom and Voice of Dawn and Dusk."
The latter slowly set down his bowl before lifting his sharp gaze to Brann. Unlike Kaien, he didn't smile. His angular face, framed by black strands streaked with gray, bore the marks of experience and the weight of heavy decisions.
"We agreed to speak before venturing into the Rift," he said in a measured tone, each word carefully weighed.
Then his gaze shifted to Gaël, his brow furrowing ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly.
"He's young."
Gaël clenched his fists beneath the table, but before he could respond, Brann simply nodded.
"He'll sharpen."
Kaien burst out laughing, his voice cutting through the tension with a bright, echoing sound.
"That's one hell of an introduction, Brann. Lacking a bit of poetry, don't you think?"
Then, with a smooth motion, he extended his hand toward Gaël.
"Kaien Ren. Disciple of no school, master of no path. But I'm sure we'll get along just fine."
Gaël hesitated, then grasped the offered hand. Kaien's grip was both supple and unyielding, like a current ready to adapt to any opposing force.
Rai, for his part, merely gave a slight nod, his attention returning to Brann.
"Before we dive into this madness, I need to know how prepared we are. The rift doesn't forgive improvisation."
Kaien raised an eyebrow, amused.
"Preparation's your obsession, Rai. Me? I'd rather ask, are we ready to dance with death?"
Brann leaned forward, elbows planted firmly on the rough wooden table, his steely gaze sweeping across his companions.
"We're not going down into the Rift for a simple shard hunt. If it's really Fenrir down there, you'd better gear up with free-spirit chimes. Without them, you'll be easy prey."
"You mean those bells sold by the Order?" Kaien asked skeptically. "Do they even work, or are they just a scam?"
Brann didn't answer directly. Instead, he continued:
"And if you think he's guarding treasures… we won't be the only ones hunting him."
A chill ran down Gaël's spine.
"Unlikely we'll run into other factions," Kaien interjected confidently. "We caught wind of this purely by chance. According to my sources, only the Archon and his inner circle know. Seems he's too afraid to send men down there himself. The Order just attempted a descent, they'll need time before making another move without drawing the Archon's wrath."
Brann raised an eyebrow, a flicker of doubt in his eyes.
"And why is it that this 'chance' only fell to you?"
Kaien gave a sly, lopsided grin.
"Let's just say… my talents earned me the trust of a few well-informed ladies."
"…"
"…Whatever the case," Kaien continued, his tone turning serious, "we shouldn't delay too long. When do we head down?"
Brann straightened slightly, his deep voice resonating like a sealed command.
"I need to retrieve something first. And find me an entrance. The Archon's sealed them all, if I'm not mistaken. You have two days."
Kaien sighed, stretching like a man about to leap into an abyss he couldn't see the bottom of.
"In that case, let's finish our drinks and sleep on our doubts. In two days, we step into the monster's maw."
Gaël, silent, cast a glance at Brann. And in that moment, he understood, there would be no turning back.