The drizzle had become a steady, wind-driven mist by the time Lonir reached the edge of the old tannery district. The air hung thick with the acrid stench of wet leather and decaying hides, sharp enough to burn the back of his throat with every breath. Buildings here leaned against each other like weary drunks, their roofs sagging under the weight of endless moisture, walls stained black from years of oily runoff that left a slick, greasy sheen on everything it touched. He had no destination. Only the need to keep moving—away from the market, away from Kael's shack, away from the memory of stew that still sat heavy in his stomach, a warm lump that churned uneasily against the gray emptiness inside.
The pact anchor at his waist felt colder now, as though it had drunk something from him during the last offering and was still digesting—its rough surface brushing against his hip with a faint, abrasive scrape through the damp robes.
He turned into a narrow passage between two warehouses. The ground was uneven—broken cobbles slick with oil and rainwater, each step squelching underfoot like treading on soft flesh. Shadows pooled thick here, broken only by the occasional flicker of a distant lantern that cast long, wavering reflections in the puddles, distorting them into elongated, monstrous shapes.
Footsteps followed—wet slaps on stone, not hurried but measured, echoing off the close walls like a heartbeat in a coffin.
Lonir stopped.
A figure stepped into the mouth of the alley—tall, broad-shouldered, hooded cloak dark and patched, dripping with the mist's fine sheen. Face half-hidden, but the eyes caught light: hard, unblinking, the whites yellowed like old parchment. A short sword hung at his hip—practical, worn, the leather grip darkened by sweat and use, no ornament but the faint tang of oiled metal in the air. On the back of his left hand, a faint red-black brand shaped like a shattered shield, pulsing with a heat Lonir could almost feel from across the space.
The man spoke first. Voice low. Rough, gravelly, like stones grinding under boot.
"Kael sends his regards. Said you're carrying something worth taking."
Lonir turned slowly.
The man—Varkis, though Lonir didn't know the name yet—drew the sword halfway. No flourish. Just readiness, the blade's edge catching the dim light with a cold gleam, rain sliding along it in thin rivulets.
"You're new," Varkis said. "Despair, he told me. Never seen one of yours before. But I've killed enough contractors to know the look. Scarred. Hollow. Dangerous."
Lonir said nothing.
Varkis stepped forward. "Show me the card. Or I take it off your corpse."
Lonir reached inward.
The Bleak answered.
Pain erupted—eyes swelling with a pressure that buzzed like trapped insects, bursting with wet, meaty pops that echoed in his skull. Vitreous fluid poured down his cheeks in thick, sticky strands, warm and slick, mingling with the mist on his skin. The smell of his own ruptured tissue rose—sharp, metallic, like fresh-split meat.
He staggered but held, the world tilting through dangling orbs that swung with every movement, brushing his melting cheeks like cold, gelatinous pendants.
Skin cracked across his face—fine webs racing outward, accompanied by a tearing sound like wet paper ripping. Then the cracks wept hot fluid that burned as it ran, flesh liquefying in slow, steaming sheets that peeled away with a soft, sucking slurp, exposing glistening muscle and yellow fat beneath. The stench intensified—burnt hair singed by invisible flame, cooked meat rising in waves, coppery blood thick in the air.
Chest tore open in a long, vertical gash—the rip audible, like fabric giving way under strain. Ribs creaked with a deep, resonant groan as muscle pulled back, heart hammering against exposed bone with a wet, rhythmic thump that he could feel vibrating through his frame. Lungs sucked air through bubbling fluid, each breath a gurgling rasp that tasted of salt and iron.
One arm sloughed halfway to the elbow, muscle hanging in wet, stringy ropes that slapped against his side with every tremor, the exposed bone cold and aching in the damp air.
Varkis watched—then moved.
Fast.
The shattered-shield brand on his hand flared dull red, emitting a faint sizzle like meat on a hot pan. Pain tolerance. Strength. Speed. Violence's gift.
He closed the distance in three strides, boots splashing through puddles. Sword flashed—cut across Lonir's exposed shoulder, deep enough to scrape bone with a grating vibration that shot up his arm like lightning.
Blood sprayed—hot, sticky, splattering the alley wall with a patter louder than the mist.
Lonir released.
A larger portion this time—charged from longer endurance.
Varkis's face buckled. Eyes bulged with a visible strain, veins popping black like ink under skin. One ruptured with a soft, wet burst. Skin split across cheeks, peeled in flaps that steamed and smoked in the damp air. Muscle bubbled beneath, the smell of his own cooking flesh mixing with Lonir's—acrid, nauseating. He screamed—raw, furious, the sound echoing off the walls like a wounded animal's howl—dropped to one knee but didn't fall, his breath coming in ragged gasps that misted red.
The sword stayed in his grip, knuckles white.
He lunged again—sword twisting in the air with a whistle.
Blade took Lonir in the thigh—deep, the steel cold and sharp as it sliced through muscle, twisting with a wrench that sent fresh blood gushing warm down his leg, soaking into the mud with a sucking sound.
Pain flared white-hot. Leg buckled, knee hitting the ground with a splash.
Lonir tried to push The Bleak further—endure more, reflect more.
But the regen was too slow. Flesh crawled back with agonizing slowness, itching and burning as it knit, but not fast enough. Blood poured in rhythmic pulses, the metallic tang thick in his nose. Vision dimmed at the edges, the world narrowing to gray haze.
Varkis—half his face melted, one eye dangling and swinging with each labored breath—grinned through the ruin, teeth exposed where lips had sloughed away.
"New ones always think pain makes them invincible," he rasped, voice bubbling through damaged throat.
He raised the sword for the killing blow, rain dripping from the blade in slow beads.
Lonir turned.
Ran.
Leg dragged, each step a fire that shot up his spine, blood trailing in a hot, sticky line that mixed with the oil-slick mud. The passage blurred—dangling eyes swinging, melted skin flapping loosely against his cheeks.
Varkis didn't pursue immediately—too injured, too slow, his own screams echoing behind, mixed with wet curses and the slosh of his boots as he tried to stand.
Lonir stumbled out of the alley, turning blindly into the tannery yards. The smell thickened—acrid chemicals biting his nose, animal decay coating his tongue like fur. Sheds and stables dotted the area, low and filthy, doors hanging open with creaks in the wind. He chose one at random: a small, sagging stable half-buried in mud, roof leaking in steady drips that plinked against metal buckets inside. The floor was covered in straw black with rot and manure, the air humid and fetid, buzzing with flies that scattered at his approach.
He pushed inside, door creaking shut behind him with a groan of rusted hinges.
Collapsed against the far wall, hay crunching under his weight, the damp wood cold against his back.
Leg throbbed in waves, hot and swollen. Shoulder burned deep, bone aching with every shift. Half-melted arm dangled useless, flesh still dripping in slow, viscous strings that pattered onto the floor. Chest gash bubbled with every ragged breath, the exposed heart's thump audible in the quiet space.
The world tilted.
Darkness pulled.
He passed out.
No dreams came.
Only gray.
He woke to silence.
No rain. Not even a drip. The storm had stopped fully—sky outside the cracked stable door a flat, unbroken blue that felt wrong after so long under clouds, the light slanting in harsh and bright, stinging his regrown eyes. The air was still damp, but warmer now, the smell of rot thicker without the rain to wash it away. Flies buzzed lazily around his wounds, their wings a faint hum in the stillness.
He sat up slowly—straw sticking to his bloodied robes, crackling as he moved.
Wounds hadn't healed yet. Thigh gash was crusted with dark scabs, partially knit but raw—muscle peeking through torn skin, pulsing with every heartbeat. Shoulder ached deep, bone bruised and tender to the touch. Arm had regrown some—pink tissue covering bone like fresh scar—but it hung limp, nerves still frayed, fingers numb and tingling. Chest had closed to a thin, jagged scar, but black veins spread wider from it, threading across his torso like roots burrowing under skin, cool and itching faintly.
He touched his face—fingers brushing rough, uneven patches where skin had reformed too quickly, black veins pulsing faintly beneath.
The pact anchor at his waist felt warmer now—as though it had waited for him to wake, the horned figure's thorns gleaming in the blue light.
He stood—leg buckling once with a sharp twinge, but holding under his weight.
Stepped outside.
The city looked different without rain—sharper, uglier. Puddles reflected the sky in still, glassy pools. People moved with purpose now, as though the break in weather had given them false hope, their footsteps quicker on the drying ground.
Lonir walked on.
The gray inside him didn't lift.
It only deepened.
And the other cards waited—flickering, closer, as though the near-death had fed them too.
He kept moving.
Because there was nothing else.