The box weighed against his hip like a torn-out heart. Dylan followed Jonas through the winding alleys of the black market, each step heavier under the gaze of the blind statues. His mind still lingered on Jonas’ warning.
This Gael...
A Threshold, apparently. A ferryman to things that had no na. But that was exactly what drew him in. He hadn’t co to this world for gold—hell, he wasn’t even sure why he was here. But to survive, he needed to understand its cracks, the underground currents where real power flowed.
Three hundred gold coins. The sum was laughable for the risk. And yet, it was perfect. Enough to buy identities, enough to justify his "legal" entry into public affairs without raising too much suspicion.
He suddenly rembered his own words, spoken the night before to Elisa and Maggie around a ager campfire: "We always warn each other. No solo missions, no accepting deals without thinking them through." The taste of the lie clung to his tongue, bitter and familiar.
Him, a forr lieutenant, knew better than anyone that rules were lines to be crossed when the opportunity was worth it. And this one... it reeked of the abyss and the truth.
Jonas stopped abruptly in front of a crack in the damp stone wall, far from the last flickering lights of the smoky lanterns. The air slled of mildew and cold tal.
"Here’s your way out," Jonas muttered, avoiding his gaze. "The sewers. Only way to avoid the gates and the eyes that matter in the High-Territory. But you sure you wanna do this? Gael... he ain’t just so client. He’s a real bastard."
Dylan adjusted the strap of his bag, feeling the unsettling warmth of the box through the leather. "Three hundred gold, Jonas. And a door opening. Don’t worry about . Go back to the inn. If Elisa or Maggie ask... tell ’em I’m tracking a lead. No details."
Jonas stared at him, disbelief and fear warring in his tired eyes. "You’re playing with fire that’ll eat your soul before it burns your skin, Dylan." He shook his head and lted into the shadows without another word.
Dylan stood still for a mont, listening to the heavy silence of the stones and the distant echoes of the market. Then he slipped into the crack.
The darkness was absolute, thick as tar. His soldier’s instincts took over. Touch—the rough, damp wall under his fingers, the uneven mud underfoot. Hearing—the constant drip of water, the distant skittering of rats (or sothing else), the deep, muffled thumping that seed to co from the stones themselves, an echo of the thum-thum from the Skinner’s lab.
He moved carefully, deliberately, mapping the turns and slopes in his mind. His training in the mined tunnels of his old world ca back to him, but here, there were no chanical traps. Here, the danger was subtler. Slimier.
A cold draft brushed the back of his neck. He froze, holding his breath. No sound. But a presence. The feeling of being watched by sothing that didn’t use eyes.
What was he thinking? A world where magic existed, where the supernatural was the norm—of course there’d be soone who could see him even from here.
So how do you stay cautious against that? How do you avoid the gaze of soone who can see through walls? Maybe he was wrong. Maybe nothing was watching him, and it was just another weird sensation, like the ones he always got.
After what felt like hours, a gray light filtered in from afar. Not the warm glow of a torch, but the cold, diffuse light of the moon slipping through a grate. The air grew lighter, tinged with the scent of clean stone and... artificial flowers. The High-Territory.
He approached the grate—a heavy, wrought-iron thing embedded in the sewer wall. Beyond it, a deserted cobblestone alley, flanked by tall, smooth walls. Patrician residences or discreet warehouses. In the distance, the slender, nacing silhouette of a watchtower lood against the midday sun.
"So here’s the obstacle..." Dylan thought, peering through the bars.
The problem wasn’t the physical walls—he knew how to climb, how to slip through, how to make himself forgotten. No. The real danger was the guards. But not just any guards. In the High-Territory, they weren’t like the ones in the Low-Belt who just looked. These ones scanned. With eyes that seed to see beyond flesh, with artifacts that reeked of sorcery, with senses sharpened by pacts or training unimaginable in his world.
Dylan crouched in the damp shadows, pulling out the box. The stitched leather was still warm, almost alive under his fingers. He ran his hands over it, searching unconsciously for a flaw, a secret. Nothing. Just that dull, steady pulse, counterpoint to the thumping still echoing in his temples.
« Deliver to Gael. Before tomorrow night. »
He had the na. He had the object. He had the skills of an elite soldier. But he also had, weighing as heavy as the box itself, Jonas’ warning and the certainty that Gael wasn’t human. And most of all, he had the weight of his own lie to Elisa and Maggie.
It wasn’t fear he felt—few things could still frighten him. It was excitent. Cold, sharp, dangerous. The thrill of diving into the unknown.
He slipped the box under his shirt, against his skin. The warmth turned into an unsettling heat. Then he examined the grate. The lock was complex, but not unbreakable. Beyond it, the alley offered deep shadows and protruding window ledges. A possible path ford in his mind—calculating blind spots, necessary speed, cover points.
He took a deep breath, the High-Territory’s cold air burning his lungs. His fingers, agile and precise, settled on the lock’s chanism. His heart, for the first ti in a long while, beat a little faster. Not from fear.
From challenge.
The first tallic click, muffled by the damp, seed to echo like a gong in the tense silence.
The second click was sharper. A clean, decisive snap. Like a decision being made.
Dylan carefully withdrew his tools, tucked them into his sleeve, and pushed the grate open slowly. It creaked faintly, as if hesitant to let him pass.
The air of the High-Territory clawed at his skin.
A scent of polished stone, faint incense, and tad, waxed flowers replaced the stench of the sewers instantly. Even in his old world, he’d never seen such cleanliness, such order. Here, everything seed under control—the silences as much as the shadows. Everything had been polished, tad, calibrated. The walls themselves seed to forbid rebellion.
Dylan crouched, checking angles.
The air was silent, not a sound, as if even movent was a sin.
But he still knew he was being watched.
That heavy gaze on him, weighing his intentions. Maybe it wasn’t Gael—not yet. But soone else. A chanical or sorcerous eye. A sentinel without a body. A vigilance that fed on intent.
So he stepped out. Slowly. One foot after the other, until he lted into the alley.
He hugged the wall, senses sharp, and ducked into a shadowed nook just as voices broke the silence. Two figures passed at the far end of the street—gray cloaks edged with chains. High-Territory patroln. Their gait was too slow to be entirely human. Dylan let them pass, holding his breath, body taut as a wire.
When they were gone, he moved again.
"Gael... Find Gael." He repeated it in his mind.
Dylan had done this kind of deal before. He knew that in situations like this, you didn’t find a man like Gael. He found you.
Dylan kept walking, eyes sharp for signs. A curtain parted against the wind’s flow. A cat frozen mid-step, staring unblinking. A door slightly ajar in a dead-end alley.
That’s where he saw it.
A symbol. Faint. Scratched into the stone of a doorfra.
A half-erased black circle... crossed by a red thread.
He approached.
And the door opened on its own.
No creak. Not even a whisper.
Just a narrow hallway, too smooth to be honest, lit by a light with no source. The air inside was warm. Thick. Like stepping into a vast mouth.
Dylan didn’t hesitate.
He stepped in.
Behind him, the door closed without a sound.
The hallway didn’t seem to have an end.
Not because it was long. But because it refused to finish.
Every step erased the one before it. Every breath made the walls stretch deeper, more intimate. Dylan didn’t panic. He slowed. He studied the smooth, almost organic walls—no handholds, no dust. Just that light. White and soft. Like the kind in fever dreams.
A voice spoke. Not in his ears. Not quite.
In his throat. Like a mory trying to speak for him.
"You entered."
He stopped.
"Good. Not all have the courage."
He looked around. Nothing. No being. No mouth. No identifiable source.
"You carry sothing that isn’t yours. And you know it."
Dylan swallowed. But he didn’t answer. He’d been taught better than to reply to a voice with no face.
He kept walking. Slowly. Deliberately.
And finally, the space shifted.
A room opened without transition. A large, circular chamber, furnished like a noble’s salon lost in the oblivion of a dream. Overstuffed chairs. Rugs woven with shifting symbols. Curtains that didn’t hang but floated.
And at the center, a seated man.
Not old. Not young. Pale, almost gray skin. White hair pulled back. He wore simple but immaculately fitted clothes. A black glove on his left hand, an oversized ring on his right. He watched Dylan from his chair—or from eternity.
His eyes had no color. They had... a texture.
"I am Gael," he said calmly, as if answering a thought not yet spoken.
Dylan stepped forward, straight-backed, jaw tight. Speaking would put him at a disadvantage.
Gael tilted his head slightly.
"You co from below. But you are not one of them. You reek of gunpowder and lies. You’re the kind of boy who bathed in blood too young."
Dylan stopped three paces away.
He took out the box.
And set it down.
But he didn’t let go just yet.
"From the Skinner," he said at last.
A silence. Gael smiled. Softly. Without joy.
"He likes to test. You passed."
Then, without rising, he extended a hand. A fluid, almost careless motion.
Dylan released the box.
Gael barely touched it.
And the thing vanished.
Literally.
Just a ripple in the air. A soft wave. And the box was gone.
Dylan took a step back.
Gael finally stood.
"And now that you’ve delivered... it’s ti we discuss what cos next."
"Next?"
"The Skinner lied to you. Three hundred gold? Please, boy."
Reviews
All reviews (0)