“There’s a hidden shop—the Velvet Vindication,” Drennar said, his voice cutting through the low hum of the Pale Lantern’s taproom. He took a slow, deliberate sip from his mug, as if we were merely discussing the weather or the price of bread, not embarking on what I suspected would be a wild goose chase through the underbelly of Vaelthane Hollow. His tone was smooth—too smooth, like polished obsidian—and his gray eyes caught the flickering torchlight, glinting with a knowing shimmer. His coat, of course, remained pristine despite the Hollow’s pervasive grit, a testament to either magic or sheer stubbornness. I’d wager the former.


    My eyes narrowed, suspicion prickling at the edges of my mind. “Information broker runs it?” My voice stayed low, sharp as a blade’s edge. I could feel the catch coming, lurking just beneath his words like a trap waiting to snap shut.


    He nodded, tilting his mug with a casual grace that belied the weight of what he was suggesting. “She’ll tell you anything you want to know—for a price.”


    There it was. The hook. Secrets as currency. Trust as bait. Drennar always played his cards in shadows, revealing just enough to keep you guessing, never enough to let you see the full hand. It was a game I’d have to grow accustomed to, though never fond of.


    Before I could respond, Nysera piped up, her voice bright and piercing like a bell in the gloom. “Can she tell me if banshees can fall in love? Or if weapons have feelings?” Her eyes were wide, sparkling with a manic curiosity that bordered on madness. She bounced on her toes, a bundle of restless energy, her short-cropped hair bouncing with her like sparks from a firecracker waiting to explode. Her chaos was relentless, unfiltered, and— like every other day—exhausting.


    I sighed, the sound heavy with resignation, and slid out of the booth, the worn leather creaking beneath me. “Let’s get this over with.”


    Drennar rose with a fluid motion, setting his mug down with a faint clink, and led us out into the twisting alleys of Vaelthane Hollow. The air outside was thick with the scent of damp stone and decay, the kind of rot that clung to your skin and lingered in your lungs. The cobblestones beneath our boots were slick with moisture, reflecting the faint, sickly glow of lanterns strung haphazardly above. Shadows curled along the walls like coiled snakes, shifting and slithering as we passed, as if the Hollow itself were alive and watching. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was.


    We moved in silence—or as close to silence as Nysera allowed, her boots scuffing the ground with every exaggerated step. The alleys twisted and turned, a labyrinth of stone and secrets, until we stopped before a blank stretch of wall. It was unremarkable at first glance, flanked by two faceless statues carved from the same gray stone, their eyeless gazes locked on one another in an eternal, silent standoff.


    Drennar raised a hand, his fingers tracing an arc through the air, and murmured, “Develaer eb steceres.” The words were soft, almost lost to the wind, but they carried a weight that made the air hum with latent power.


    The statues responded instantly. Their hollow sockets flared with an eerie green glow, casting jagged shadows across the damp stone. The wall between them shimmered, rippling like water disturbed by a pebble, then peeled away like wet parchment tearing at the seams. Beyond it lay a narrow corridor, its walls lined with flickering violet flames that danced in sconces of blackened iron. Just the kind of ambience I expected.


    Nysera gasped, her voice a burst of delight. “Denny, you’re a wizard! Cast a fireball next!” She clapped her hands, practically vibrating with excitement, her grin wide enough to split her face.


    I ignored her, as I often had to—for my sanity’s sake—and stepped forward, my boots echoing faintly against the stone floor. The air grew heavier as we descended, pressing against my chest like an unseen hand trying to smother me. The corridor twisted and turned, a serpentine path that seemed to stretch on forever, until it finally opened into a chamber dimly lit by arcane sconces. Their light pulsed faintly, casting long, wavering shadows across the room.


    At the far end stood a figure behind a pane of enchanted glass, her presence commanding the space. A Veilborn. Her form flickered at the edges, like smoke caught in a shaft of moonlight, never fully solid, never fully there. Her gown shimmered with shifting colors—deep indigo bleeding into crimson, then gold—runes sliding across the fabric like living things desperate to escape their confines. Her hair floated around her head like it was caught in invisible currents that defied the stillness of the room.


    Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.


    I stepped forward, wasting not even a single second to get answers. “Do you have information on Nox Arcanus?”


    Her obsidian eyes met mine, flat and unreadable, like twin pools of ink. She tilted her head slightly, studying me as though I were a curiosity pinned beneath glass.


    “Secrets are power,” she said, her voice echoing in two layers—one clear and resonant, the other a faint whisper trailing just behind, like an afterthought given form. “And power comes with a price. One flows in. Another flows out. Such is the exchange.”


    “I got one!” Nysera interjected, bouncing on her toes again, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife through silk. “Corvy’s a vampire!” She grinned triumphantly, as if she’d just unearthed the greatest secret in the whole kingdom.


    I didn’t bother turning to look at her. “That’s not a secret. It’s obvious what I am.” My fangs glinted faintly as I spoke, a subtle reminder of the truth she’d so gleefully announced.


    “I’m not giving any secrets,” Drennar said flatly, his arms crossed over his chest, his expression as unyielding as the stone around us. He stood apart, unmoved by the Veilborn’s presence or Nysera’s antics.


    I sighed again, the sound sharper this time. “Fine. I’ll give one.”


    I stepped closer to the glass, my voice dropping into the ancient tongue of vampires—a language older than time itself, carved from blood and ashes. I spoke a secret few of my kind would dare to share: the ritual to overcome the curse of sunlight, a forbidden knowledge buried deep within the lineage of the undead. The words tasted bitter on my tongue, heavy with the weight of centuries.


    The Veilborn inhaled sharply, her eyes flaring like mirrored glass catching the sun. She seemed to drink in the secret, her form shimmering more violently as she absorbed it, the runes on her gown pulsing with newfound energy.


    “The answer you seek lies in a tower across Leviathan’s Pass,” she said at last, her dual voices weaving together in a haunting cadence. “In the dark corners in the southeastern part of the continent.”


    Vague directions. A vague location. Typical of her kind—always a riddle wrapped in a shadow. But it was something, a thread to follow in the tangled web of Nox Arcanus.


    “Let’s get out of here,” I said, turning on my heel. For once, Nysera and Drennar followed without protest, their footsteps echoing behind me. The silence was a rare reprieve, though I knew it wouldn’t last long.


    We didn’t get far.


    The shadows ahead shifted, thickening into solid forms. Hooded figures stepped from the darkness, their blades drawn, glinting wickedly in the violet light. They moved with purpose, blocking our path back to the Hollow.


    I smiled, a wicked curve of my lips, fangs flashing in the dimness. Play time.


    Drennar dove behind a jagged outcrop of rock with the speed of someone who’d rehearsed the move a hundred times. Nysera vanished with a delighted giggle that bounced off the stone walls, her form dissolving into the air like mist. Whatever illusions she wove took hold instantly—our attackers turned on each other, their blades slashing wildly as they screamed about dragons and serpents lunging from the shadows. The chaos was immediate, visceral—blades clashed, blood sprayed, and cries of terror filled the air. It was the kind of chaos only a gremlin with glitter in her soul could conjure.


    I had to admit, she made my job child’s play.


    I moved through them like a blade through water, my movements fluid and precise. A throat torn here, arterial blood hot against my fingers. A chest punched through there, my fist came out the other side with ease. Necks snapped with a twist of my hands. Bodies dropped, lifeless, to the stone floor, their blood pooling in the cracks.


    The last one stood trembling, his blade shaking in his grip. I grabbed him by the throat and lifted him off the ground, his feet dangling uselessly.


    “What’s in the tower across Leviathan’s Pass?” I asked, letting the old power flow through my voice—vampiric charm made absolute, undeniable, inescapable. His will crumbled beneath it, his eyes glazing over.


    His lips parted, a single word escaping. “A mage.”


    Then he burst into flame.


    I shielded my eyes from the sudden flare, the heat searing against my skin as he crumbled into ash in my grip, the embers scattering across the floor.


    Nysera popped back into view beside me, her eyes wide with unrestrained delight. “He went up like a candle! Is it someone’s birthday today?” She clapped her hands, practically dancing in place.


    Drennar emerged from his hiding spot, brushing dust from his coat with a meticulous care that suggested he hadn’t just been cowering behind a rock moments ago. His expression remained impassive, as if the carnage were a minor inconvenience.


    Zolphan sure knew how to cover his tracks.


    I smiled, something cold and sharp curling at the edge of my thoughts. You had to admire a man who planned for everything—even silencing his pawns.