The items on display were a catalogue of desperation: vials of diluted elemental residue glowing with weak light, illegal summoning wards etched into bent scrap metal, and a row of small, gleaming cylinders.
Lycan Surge.
A black-market booster. Unstable, dangerous. It was a crude, forced amplification rather than true augmentation of the Varkyn’s natural gift. It pushed their bodies beyond natural limits, often with irreversible consequences.
Selene picked one up. Her fingers went still. Her internal tempo faltered, skipping a beat. For an instant, the composure around her eyes cracked.
She swallowed, the sound audible in the sudden quiet. The cylinder clinked against the concrete stall as she set it down.
“That substance isn’t safe,” I observed.
“I know. But it’s old news.” She pushed the memory aside and leaned over the table, pinning the man with a hard stare. The pretence of the cargo theft vanished completely. “I’m hearing rumours of a new supplier. Someone selling a compound that transplants magic rather than boosting it.”
The vendor blinked. “Transplants? Like… mimicry?”
“Transfer,” Selene corrected, her voice low and dangerous. “I’m looking for tools that allow a user to channel power they weren’t born with. A theft, not a surge.”
The vendor shook his head rapidly, backing away. “Haven’t seen that. That’s… that sounds suicidal.”
“If you see it, you call me.” She slammed a card onto the table.
We moved on, questioning two more vendors. Her questions were surgical. She drilled down into specifics: containment failures, non-magicals showing signs of elemental burnout, and new suppliers operating outside the usual syndicates. Her tone took on an edge, a tremor of controlled impatience.
“You take the front stalls,” she said abruptly, her voice clipped. “I’ll check the back paths.”
Ignoring me completely, she turned and strode towards a narrow, dark alley—a black slash between two half-collapsed buildings.
She intended to lose me. I considered letting her go, allowing her to pursue this phantom alone. But the scar across my ribs—a souvenir from a life I’d left behind—gave a distinct, warning throb. It had laid dormant for decades; now, around her, it woke up.
I allowed her a lead, then melted into the deepening shadows to pursue. The shadow-walk came easily, a familiar cloak that rendered me invisible to anyone who wasn’t explicitly looking for a ghost.
She moved with deceptive fluidity, slipping between hidden entrances and bypassing main thoroughfares. Vendors watched her, whispering, but she maintained a relentless pace. Finally, she halted at a concealed doorway half-covered by a sagging neon sign marking The Pit, its lurid green light painting her in stark relief.
She paused for a heartbeat, then slipped inside.
I followed.
Stairs descended into the earth. The atmosphere curdled, growing warmer, heavier. A muffled roar grew louder—a primal sound of bloodlust. Music thumped, a driving beat accompanied by shouting and the metallic clang of a cage.
The smell hit me: too many bodies. Human, Varkyn, Umbrakynn—the pungent mix of sweat, magic, and fresh blood.
An underground fight ring. She had intended to come here all along.
I stayed closeto the wall, mapping the exits as my vision adjusted. Across the packed room, Selene slipped past a pair of bruisers and vanished into a guarded booth at the rear. The mood around the pit was volatile. Hungry.
Crude betting tables occupied the outer ring, coins passing quickly between hands. But the strongest pull came from the pit itself.
A Varkyn stood on the verge of a shift, muscles bulging, claws already bared. He should have dominated the fight by sheer mass. His opponent was an Umbrakynn—gaunt and bleeding heavily. He moved with a broken rhythm, limbs snapping too fast, then too slow. His irises were blown wide, unfocused.
He shouldn’t have been standing. Yet he was winning.
His fist connected with the Varkyn’s chest, and the shockwave rippled through the crowd. The Varkyn stumbled, hacking blood.
A wrongness tightened in the air—a magic signature that didn’t belong to either species. Forced. Inserted. Knotted beneath the skin.
The Umbrakynn lunged again. As he moved, his tangled hair flopped to one side, revealing the skin at the side of his neck.
A crude, uneven triangle throbbed there, glowing dimly beneath the flesh—a sigil.
