But it never came.
He just kept walking—jaw tight, eyes forward.
That silence struck deeper than any protest. Was this his way of punishing me? For the deal I made—for the choices I kept making? The thought slid cold down my spine. Why did his quiet feel heavier than anger? Why did it hurt?
We had one lead: an artifact trafficker known for moving cursed relics through Shadeau’s lower markets. If the Eye had passed through this city, it would have crossed his hands.
Dilapidated buildings leaned against one another, barely upright, their wood warped and slick with moisture. Rotted balconies sagged under the weight of time and mold. Cracked cobblestones shifted beneath our feet—some slick with something that gleamed too red in the lanternlight. Tangled wires and torn laundry hung overhead, swaying faintly in air that didn’t move.
The smell was the worst—thick and layered. Rot and old wood with the copper tang of dried blood, the smoky perfume of burnt herbs, and a cloying sweetness that reminded me of spoiled fruit and singed hair.
Narrow, poorly lit alleys branched in every direction. I kept close to Alaric, every instinct screaming to stay in the shadows. To make myself small.
Shadows moved where they shouldn’t—shifting, wrong.
Whispers came from every direction. Some right against my ear. Others drifting through the air like lost prayers. Words half-formed, fragmented syllables slipping through the dark like fingers grasping for something just out of reach.
A plea.
A warning.
Pain lanced behind my eyes as whispers turned to screams. I clutched my head, staggering beneath voices that weren’t mine. My knees nearly buckled.
Alaric’s hand found mine, anchoring me like a lifeline thrown to someone drowning. His thumb brushed over my knuckles in a silent promise—steady, warm, real. I hadn’t realized how tightly I was trembling until I felt the strength of his grip.
"Push them out,” he murmured, his breath warm against my temple, voice low and steady despite the strain in his jaw. "They will drive you mad if you let them."
I turned my head slightly, letting the sound of his voice pull me back. “Look at me,” he said gently. “Focus on me.”
His hand raised my chin, coaxing my attention to him.
“You’re stronger than they are,” he murmured.
His presence steadied me—but the realization settled in, unwelcome. I was leaning on him now.
Depending on him.
The whispers seemed to soften when he spoke, as if they knew to listen.
When he tilted my chin to meet his eyes, something inside me stilled. The tension in my shoulders melted; my chest tightened—not from fear, but from the way he held my attention.
For a heartbeat, I stayed in that feeling—his touch, his steadiness. Then the world crept back in.
And I moved with him instinctively, as if his shadow was the only safe place left to stand.
Shadeau swallowed us again. Dim lanterns flickered against walls slick with damp and shadow. Mist curled around our ankles like something alive, whispering over cobblestone. Every doorway seemed to watch us. Every alley loomed.
Alaric’s hand didn’t fully leave my arm—not really. His fingers hovered close, ready—the way they always were when he sensed danger before I did.
He led me through the maze—past figures wrapped in tattered cloaks, past merchants selling wares I dared not look at too closely.
The first market we reached was a chaotic sprawl of makeshift stalls beneath sagging canopies, their edges stained with time and ritual smoke. The air was thick with crushed spices and burning sage. Vendors whispered in a lilting, unfamiliar tongue..
A scrap of parchment fluttered against a post near one stall, its edges pinned with rusted nails. Cheap paper. Rushed ink.
Meant to be seen, not preserved.
The sketch was crude—heavy lines, uneven strokes—but the artist had lingered on the hair.
