Black Citadel

There had been no celebratory congratulations.

The process had been brutally simple: registration, ID, badge, then a "Next!" from the guild clerk who already forgot your name. That was Black Citadel.

Recruitment was a series of trials with dichotomous endings: survive, or die. It was a brutal hellscape that held no one's hand, throwing prospective members into their version of an "easy hunt".

It was, in fact, the antithesis of easy.

Hunts were not only difficult beyond the typical guild rookie hunts, they were completed solely on who collected the story. It meant one winner. One recruitment based of solo achievement.

Parties quickly dissolved into bursts of betrayal, negotiation and useless hope. The reward was not split—how could you recruit a man's magic, another's sword and a third's mind?

No. You had to have all three.

Ten Hunts. Ten new members. The initial pool for hundreds had dwindled to the very best, or the most ambitious. None emerged unscathed. The scars were real, whether or not they were visible in the proud mark of a burn across the dace, or invisible in the haunted gaze of a survivor. Black Citadel rewarded.

Yet, after all that—

It was horribly underwhelming.

People moved throughout the lobby, some heading towards the large notice board that occupied the entire west wall, others looking worse for wear, settling onto a worn bench. None of them looked, deep in their internal thoughts, counting coin or plotting the next Hunt, fingers drumming the wooden, scratched table, the hard surface marred by tears of abrasion and knives stabbed through to make a point.

A light, chime of laughter pierced through the professional atmosphere. Near the notice board, a group of pristinely dressed figures stood, wearing ornate, religious garments. They surrounded a smaller woman with unblemished wings, stark and almost glowing amongst the dull, appearance of the lobby.

Wyndel was engaged with one of the accompanying priests, her smile warm and innocent as she listened to his advice and warning. Her attention was fixed, hands clasped neatly before her, one wrapped with her signature beads, claimed to have blessed many successful hunters. The saint. The angel who descended.

She was a beacon of attention, attracting gazes effortlessly with her soft charm and quiet words. Her ginger bangs fell over her eyes when she shifted, masking the flicker that crossed her serene expression. It went unnoticed.

At the counter by the tavern side, a tall woman sat, nursing a large mug that clearly wasn't water. Her eyes, pits of simmering irritation, were brown, burning holes into the group of healers. Her gauntleted grip on the mug's handle tightened, causing it to creak with stress. Already, the treated wood began to warp, groaning in protest.

Freya didn't notice, or if she did, she didn't care. Her world narrowed to the clerical entourage, ears pinned flat against her temples. Something—pain, memory—flashed through her mind. She forced herself to look away with visible struggle, bristling, but quickly looked apologetic to the leaking ruin of her mug, her drink beginning to spill. Her cheeks burned pink under the tavern owner's glare, eyes lowered.

In the deep, dark corner, Caesar sat, shrouded by the placement of shadows that crowded the space around him. He was not drinking. He smoked. The area around him hung thick with the pungent smell of cigars, lowering visibility to a light blur. Yet his eyes were sharp, the red crosshair pupil a small spark in the darkness.

His gaze swept the lobby, cataloguing individuals, fingers restless as he rolled the cigar between his teeth. Then they stilled as if he caught himself. He was a statue, masked in the light, watching. Other hunters seated nearby felt the hairs on their neck rise, an imperceptible, involuntary shiver, one of awareness, crawling through them. They shuffled, turning away from the corner.

All except her.

She was a contented house cat, sprawled across her bench, her sleek tail swaying as she shovelled down her second bag of sweets. Ezario was completely unconcerned by the atmosphere, her wings neatly folded behind her, head tilted back as she popped another, chewy condiment into her mouth.

Around her, the tables were completely empty. No one dared approach: they knew who she was. What she was. She showed no signs of caring, though she flicked her attention towards the watcher, a faint smirk playing at her lips before she ate another sweet.

Then she looked at you.

"Oh? A new face."

She didn't stop eating.

Scholar's Gaia.

A monument to history, artifice and a concerning addiction to discovery. It was a towering structure, split into tens of floors that spanned high, a wide base at a bottom that narrowed upwards, where the elite resided.

Now, it was the central focus of a man whose kingdom was sent to ruins.

Kaethryx, Scion of Thorns, stood before the doors of the structure's third "floor", 42-B. The Emerald District. It was an opulent space, pillars leaning high towards the domed ceiling, rows of bookshelves spanning multiple storeys, lined with records, knowledge and dense text that was, unsurprisingly, a scholar's dream.

He did not move for a while, green eyes absorbing the scenery before him—the scent of aged paper, inkwells and stale air born from years of imposed silence and stillness. His nose twitched from irritation; it was an offence to the constant movement in his life, like a full stop, a peace that made his nerves fray.

Turning his head, he zeroed in on the alcove, where a door lay behind a wall of concealment magic. Vilthrax Compendium. Held by space magic, it was an archive of history. Of his history. A hard, traitorous thud bead against his chest with a heart he once thought was dead.

He clenched his fist, then forced his muscles to relax into their usual, predatory tension. Opening his right hand wide, Vidrask, his greatsword, materialised in his hand. Kaethryx closed his fingers around the handle, its weight familiar and bloody from years of roaming.

Years after the betrayal. His ruin. His loss. His people. He never forgot. He swore he wouldn't rest until he found them all. He was nearly at the end of his personal list, a mental catalogue he memorised from spite, burned until it was the only thing he ever thought of.

Revenge. Vengeance. They were the same thing. They were the only reason he kept going, why he wasn't a husk of himself, but an upgraded, ruthless version that sharpened himself until the edge would eventually cut its owner. The Compendium had the rest of their names—he knew it. Only the victors would frame history their way, and they would flaunt it with every breath, every written word. He knew their handwriting.

Kaethryx took a step forward, his armoured step loud in the silence, shattering the serenity of the third floor. Vidrask's tip scraped against the marble floor, a shrieking, grating noise irritating the ears.

"Halt!"

Two guards stood before him, grasping swords. They took in his appearance—dark, dangerous, the greatsword he held effortlessly in one hand—trying to suppress the primal fear that screamed at them to run, hide, scream for help.

Brave, Kaethryx thought, a cold smirk curling the corner of his lips, but foolish.

One slash and they'd both be dead. He lifted Vidrask, the ground rumbling with the tell-tale growth of thorns, some already crawling through the cracks. He was merely inconvenienced, swatting away gnats.

Closing the distance, Vidrask was a solid, inevitable arc ready to bisect the two, frozen guards in his path. Kaethryx was low, under their guard, his blade an inch from committing to the action.

However, before he delivered the blow, he stilled. Someone was here. Not just anyone...

A hunter.

Instead of delivering a swift end, Kaethryx flipped his grip on Vidrask, slamming the flat of the weapons's blade across the guards. Their eyes widened, barely able to process the crushing strength that scent them flying against a heavy shelf, which wobbled, a heavy rocking motion that slowly began to tip towards them.

He turned, looking directly at the spot where he hunter was hidden.

"Well? Are you here to collect my story, hunter, or watch the show?"

But he had clear thoughts of not letting this one go.

"Faster, faster," Malachi called out, tapping his cane impatiently on the ground. He watched, with rapt attention, as the hired meat began preparing for the dive, cordoning the entrance of the sunken city, Thalassar. Internally, he vibrated with eager anticipation, yet held himself mostly still.

The prize was incalculable. Relics of the old king, when retrieved, polished, repurposed, would sell for a magnificent, massive sum that could fill his coffees for decades. He refused to lose out on this.

He could not lose out on this.

Months of investment, of planning, of requisition, had only made him more impatient. Each auction was held at a speed that betrayed him, each lot sold a minor fraction compared to the price this collection would give him. He ensured, through careful word of mouth and hundreds of implications, that the next auction would be historical. The house would be full, filled with guests he never had the privilege to see before.

It was why Malachi could wait no longer.

With purposeful strides, he reached the lip of the city's entrance, a massive sink hole of pure black, obscuring the, undoubtedly, massive and beautiful city at its bed.

A city that will soon be mine, he mused with vicious glee.

His gloved fingers, wrapped around the head of his cane, tightened. He felt the grounding pressure, a reminder that impatience would be the architect of his ruin. He had time. They would be done in a few hours, then he could safely descend himself to appraise the recovered relics.

So he waited.

By then, Malachi was a silent figure in his carriage, partly listening to the drone of his assistant, partly on any disruptive noise that would cut through the monotone drill to signify the expedition was ready. One leg was neatly folded over the other, his free hand atop its knee. His head was tilted towards the open door, eyes looking out as he watched.

"...and so, Lord Regent," his aide continued, reading from his clipboard, "we are expecting the crown of Orygas, his jewellery and trident. The market value will exceed the total price of our previous auction, including Seraphyne's pearls, Lot 132, which sold in the seven digits."

Malachi waved his hand dismissively. "I am aware," he spoke, his voice a smooth, low purr of aristocracy, rich and velvety. He broke away from the observations, turning to his aide. "The portal?"

His aide blinked, then recalibrated himself, adjusting the collar of his shirt. "In Thalassar's gardens, as predicted. Its central position in the city makes it easy to identify. The main team will be able to collect all the important relics and leave before the secondary and third teams finish their expedition further down."

"It will take approximately two hours."

Malachi nodded, confirming his own, unspoken calculations. "Two hours," he repeated. Stepping out of the carriage, his aide behind him, Malachi began to walk towards the largest tent; where the gear was being prepared.

Just as he was about to slip on the amulet, he was interrupted.

"Lord Regent. Report."

"Speak."

"Our outriders are detecting an anomalous source quickly approaching our position." The man's tone was level, but hinted at his lingering unease. He did not look at Malachi. "They suspect it to be a hunter."

Malachi froze. Fingers inches from grasping the amulet.

"A hunter."

"Yes."

"When?"

"Eight minutes. Sir."

His lips curled. Eight minutes. Malachi's fingers closed around the amulet, wrapping it around his neck. It allowed movement in water without, pointedly, soiling his expensive clothes.

"Shall we continue?" The man asked hesitantly, glancing past the cordon, past the city.

"Yes," Malachi responded coolly, a hand slipping into his pocket. "I will handle the... disturbance... myself."

Malachi turned and walked, his cane tapping with each, deliberate step, palming a coin in his hand.

Modransk, usually lively and bustling, was completely silent. The entire archipelago and its citizens sensed it.

A threat was approaching.

Now, huddled their homes, no one smart enough dared open their doors. The air had already thickened with the scent of stormy oceans, a heavy, charged pressure lifting their hairs like static. The danger would not be quiet.

Grey, bruised clouds rolled overhead, bulging from the weight of thunderous storms and water that pelleted against the ground, a hammering noise that drowned out the creaking movement of ships at bay, hastily protected with tarp. Lightning flashed, illuminating nothing but a blanket of rain and a rod of pure white that burned behind the retinas.

It was here.

From the depths of the churning waves, Selqorath emerged, his hair sticking to his temples, water cascading down his long form, eyes—as blue as the waters he commanded, surrounded by black—were fixed with an ancient, furious homing on the bay. His fin ears were splayed wide, capturing noise, the rapid flutter of a thousand heartbeats desperately trying to hide.

His expression was carved from marble, beautiful yet rigid with burning zealotry, lips pursed to a thin line, brows furrowed. The lower half, merman with its sapphire scales and tapered to an elegant fin, was submerged, untouched by the roiling movement around him.

With a flick of his wrist, he was propelled upward on a column manipulated by his hydromancy, seated like a regal king looking down at his future subjects. Selqorath's eyes swept over the archipelago, piercing the blurry haze of heavy rain, landing on the west coast, the tarp over a row of ships.

He sneered, contorting his otherworldly features into something twisted and unrecognisable. A claw-tipped, scaled finger lifted, pointing towards the loading dock.

Immediately, a large wave erupted, cloaking the entire dock and crashed down. The simultaneous eruption and shattering of tens of heavy ships was shockingly loud, overpowering the noise of the storm, as debris scattered, sent flying like lethal projectiles over the archipelago.

Selqorath watched from his pillar, a silent, judging monarch examining his absolute decree. Satisfied he gestured—palm up, lifting—the debris gathering and compressing into a tight ball, held by a fist of water.

Just as he was about to catapult the beast onto the city, it shattered. He watched, eyes wide, then narrowing, as his sculpture dissolved into useless pulp. Then, Selqorath's attention slowly dragged, following the projection, to the disturbance.

Hunter.

He could smell it on the wind, nostrils flaring, wrinkling from the musk of prey. The pillar did mot collapse beneath him; instead, the surface expanded up and outward until the archipelago was encompassed by a bubble of cutting water. Selqorath did not move, or speak. He simply observed, a king disturbed by a sudden revolution.

After a moment, his hand lifted once more, flicking up. His harpoon, Thelgon, manifested above him, its point locked directly onto the hunter. The stand-off, the preparation, was absolute. There was only the storm, the destruction, and the glacial indifference of the ancient creature undisturbed by the interruption.

Selqorath's mind was not quiet. Hunter. Powerful. Shattered the weapon. He had fought many people like that one. He had won all of them. This one, he thought coldly, would be no different. He had already reached that conclusion.

Selqorath would have his Atlantis.

His hand snapped down. Thelgon, in a burst of shocking speed, blitzed through, cutting the air, straight towards the hunter. It was a streak of black, closing the distance, empowered by his hydromancy.

It did not stop.

Jakardi was whistling a dirge.

There was no real reason. He simply felt like it. Hands swinging back and forth like a pendulum, he skipped, armour and all, across the path, unperturbed by the drab, dark scene before him.

Helsing's Carcass.

A pit birthed from the death of a giant, its cavernous depression spanned hundreds of metres, the bedding so thick with corrupted mana it filled the hole to the brim. It was here where Jakardi was retrieving a soul.

Retrieving.

Initially, he protested against the deployment—bored, uninterested. Helsing's Carcass was just a massive sinkhole with nothing fascinating inside. It was, essentially, a kill pit. However, once he listened to the details, he was already at the Cross, waving goodbye with a grin. A soul, buried in a giant's version of a fart. He snickered, the rhythm of his dirge stuttering before he resumed in a hum.

The tune bled into contemplative silence as he reached the lip of the Carcass, head tilted at an angle towards it, feeling the oppressive, heavy pressure of corruption that emanated from the thick mana blanket. His senses stretched thin, spreading across the full expanse of the scene, probing for a luminous anomaly.

It would be a torch in his dark world.

Minutes felt like hours as thin, mental probes pulsed like a nexus, searching far from his position. Jakardi's magic spanned further than he originally thought the soul would be. He did not feel strain; the sacrifice had been more than earning a little headache after a quick exercise.

There.

Jakardi locked on, muscles tensing for a fraction of a second before he forced them to relax. His face, which had been neutral during the search, broke into a wide, fascinated grin. His eyes burned behind the blindfold, as if he could see the soul himself.

It was at the dead centre of the Carcass. Respect blossomed warmly in his chest, quickly smothered under the rush of adrenaline that flooded his veins. He was already moving, his grimoire unclasped from his hip, pages rippling open as it hovered before his palm.

He leapt, soaring high before landing softly on condensed air, right above the pit. The link was stronger, the invisible string pulling taut. The soul was right below him. Jakardi's head tilted down, grin widening until it stretched his cheeks painfully.

"Found you," he rasped, voice barely above a whisper.

The hand with his grimoire flicked, the tether solidifying, condensing into a visible stream of mana that attached itself directly to the soul. He felt its finished life, its resistance to moving on, through the connection. It only excited him further.

Jakardi's free hand grasped the tether and pulled.

SHRIEKKKKKK—

The soul was gone.

Satisfied, though mildly disappointed its fight was over, Jakardi began the casual walk back to Helsing's Cross, each step pressed against the solid air with his magic. His mind had already drifted onto the next job. Paperwork. His lips, aching from the constant, fixed expression, finally moved, frowned.

He loathed paperwork. A necessary, bureaucratic tedium that made him fall asleep mid-meeting more than once, earning disciplinary notes he didn't bother reviewing. Internally, Jakardi shrugged. He'd hand the problem to a clerk that couldn't talk back.

Just as he reached the edge of the Carcass, he froze, his senses, not withdrawn from the search, had strummed. Someone else was here. The adrenaline that had begun to fade resurged in a dizzying rush.

Jakardi had already moved, cutting across the edge of the Carcass, senses latching onto the new form. His approach, despite the heavy armour, was eerily quiet, maintained by his magic.

He saw them, their back turned to him.

His grin returned, pulled taut from cheek to cheek. Grimoire raised and open, Jakardi whispered:

"Boo."

The catacombs were a monument to gilded depravity. Lined in gold, piled high with ceilings of white marble and crystal chandeliers, it was easily mistaken as a private, underground ballroom.

If not for the tombs shelved on the walls.

Elenis' eyes, bleached as bone in their dark pits, narrowed, squinting against the harsh, violent light that flooded the area. Every second he spent here was another second Odryx was alive. However, the catacombs were the most optimal, most advantageous, strategical position he could have.

The potential for necromancy was high, pure, perfect. Its location directly underneath the estate was merely a bonus, or deliberate—he never really knew—Odryx's... ambitions... never excluded his own dabbling in black magic.

He thought of the Dremare estate. His eldest, Wiktor, undoubtedly managing the marquisate well. His youngest now old enough to start a family. Elenis' grip on his sceptre relaxed fractionally, the thoughts grounding him to the present.

Approaching the centre of the catacombs, which held an altar surrounded by concentric rings, Elenis stopped at its base, studying the history inlaid upon it. Hastily-reapplied paste, runes written over each other, complex, unfinished sigils that remained permanently incomplete.

Previous attempts, Elenis considered, or mimicry. Alastor was never one to shy away from an opportunity. At a glimpse, he registered familiar sigils he had crafted himself, following years of dedicated research. His sceptre hummed in response to his rising ire, the serpent skeleton shifting an increment out of position.

How dare he.

Elenis' hold hardened over his sceptre. He didn't see red, nor rage. He saw theft. Theft of what was his; theft of a life he could not fulfil; theft of a peace he was no longer privileged to receive.

Alastor Odryx was a thief.

He scowled, a twisted contortion of his pale, alabaster features, straining the skin taut until it threatened to crack. How dare he, Elenis thought repeatedly, the phrase echoing in his mind into a crescendo until he had forgotten where he was.

A thief. A thief, a thiefathiefathief—

The thoughts stuttered, then were silenced.

No.

Immediately, Elenis calmed, though the disparate, abrupt shift made his vision blur at the edges for a moment. He could not break here; he would not break here. He would never give Alastor, that smug, insolent creature, the thought of seeing him, Marquis Dremare, broken beneath his estate.

No. He would make his army instead, using the dead here. He would succeed and form a bond, unlike the man who had failed him even after death. Elenis did not fail—he surpassed it.

Rooting his sceptre to the ground, he raised his other hand, palm down, above the altar. The serpent skeleton wrapped around his weapon constricted, eyes glowing a blazing gold, jaws unhinging.

The ritual began.

Under his ministrations, the ritual circles began completing themselves, each successful one emitting a faint glow and noise, a deep resonant bass varying in pitch. They turned alternatively, gathering in power, flooding the opulent space with a poisonous mixture of green, purple and gold.

The ground beneath him trembled. The serpent on his sceptre shuddered imperceptibly. A grim smile crossed Elenis' features.

He summoned the full, colossal weight of his serpent.

It was a beast that snaked through the tunnels of the catacombs—large, ephemeral and imposing. Its head rested beside him, the glowing sockets holding a weighted focus on the door.

He followed it, lifting his sceptre, eyes wide and slightly unhinged. Holding the weapon low, Elenis' voice echoed across the cavernous space, demanding:

"Reveal yourself."

Skyhorn sailed smoothly across the generated winds, its many oars undulating rhythmically. It was a beast of engineering and craft, powered by mana and perpetuated by constantly siphoning the ambient magic that surrounded the airspace.

Aboard the ship, Perellion was positioned at the head, overlooking the crimson view of the Brimstone Crags below. His wings were stiff, folded behind him and bristling, as if he felt the sticky, dense dust that lingered down there.

Surrounding him were members of the Sundraw guild, running checks as they prepared to descend into the Crags, none standing idle. Each were equipped with their own weapon, ranging from the typical broadsword to a sleek, concealed dagger. Looking over his shoulder, Perellion watched their movements, a captain surveying the efficiency of his fleet.

A chess master examining the positioning of his pawns.

He pushed himself away from the ship's edge, boots thudding softly as he strode across the deck towards his lieutenant—a burly man with thick, ropy scars and half a wing. Brunn. The man looked up, catching Perellion's eye and turned.

"Captain," Brunn spoke gruffly, hands stiff by his sides. "The fleet will be ready to anchor in five minutes." He met Perellion's heterochromatic gaze, his own expression stoic and calm. A fine layer of sweat plastered his salt-and-pepper hair to his temples coming from the boiling, thirsty heat of the crags below.

Perellion acknowledged the timeline with a nod. "The asset will be in the Dune camp. Ensure our arrival does not warrant his retreat." The last word hung in the air, a cowardly note he factored during profiling. It was an acceptable, if not respectable, possibility. His target was a survivor, not a fool.

But he would be foolish to try and evade him.

Without another word, Perellion pivoted on his heel, leaving Brunn, who returned to his task, to finish the preparations. He would descend personally. His presence, as Sundraw's guildmaster, always evoked a variety of reactions whenever he personally recruited a useful tool. It was a necessary play to maximise success.

Otherwise the result would be final. Unfortunate, but a natural outcome in his mind. Tools should not be left without a handler.

As he reached the edge of the ship once more, a hand resting on the railing, Perellion looked down and saw...

A hunter.

His eyes sharpened, blue and brown orbs of predatory, avian focus that zeroed in on the figure below the Skyhorn. His other hand twitched towards the bow strapped along his back, then curled, wrapping around the lower limb.

"Brunn."

"Captain?"

"Prepare the cannons."

The order was cold, cutting through the familiar ambience of the fleet. The air froze as guild members shared looks, their own expressions hardening as they heard the command. A collective "Yes, Captain!" rippled across the crowd, as everyone moved with more haste, rolling the mana cannons—the current titans of technology—and loading them with the starter for mana.

Brunn, after a sharp nod of Perellion's authority, was now barking instructions as the fleet prepared for battle. Their loyalty was absolute, an unchanging, unwavering vow to the Arbiter.

Meanwhile, Perellion's eyes never left the hunter in the Crags, now thin slits of tension. The hunter was a disruption to his smooth operation.

They needed to be dealt with.

Lifting his hand—the one not carrying his equipped bow—he let it hang in the air, listening to the noise of mechanisms locking as the crew anchored the cannons, priming them.

"Aim."

The cannons tilted towards the hunter. Several rows of destruction, coalescing mana, began to build with power, condensing the air into something heavy and charged.

Perellion's hand slashed down in an arc.

"Fire."

.