The air was thick with tension as Aedric and his companions moved deeper into the city's underbelly. The flickering torchlight along the narrow alleyways barely provided enough illumination, casting long, wavering shadows that danced along the stone walls.
Seris, the supposed last descendant of the First King, walked slightly ahead of the group, her presence commanding even in the dim light. Despite her disheveled appearance, there was something undeniably regal about her—an unshakable confidence, a quiet strength.
Aedric's mind swirled with questions. If Seris's blood truly held power, then Gorran's ritual was far more dangerous than they had anticipated.
"Where are we heading?" Varen asked, his voice hushed but steady.
Seris didn't look back as she answered. "To the Old Quarter. There's someone there who can help us."
Aedric exchanged glances with Tessa and Lirian. The Old Quarter was one of the city's most dangerous districts, filled with thieves, mercenaries, and outcasts. If Seris had allies there, they weren't likely to be the noble sort.
Still, they had no other choice.
The group pressed on, their footsteps muffled against the uneven cobblestones. The city remained eerily quiet at this hour, but Aedric knew that eyes were watching them from the darkness—hidden figures lurking behind wooden shutters and shadowed doorways.
As they turned a corner, a low whistle cut through the silence.
Aedric's hand immediately went to the hilt of his dagger. The others tensed as well, instincts sharpened from years of surviving in the streets.
From the shadows, a figure stepped forward.
The man was tall and wiry, dressed in tattered leathers that bore the insignia of the Black Hands—a notorious gang that ruled the Old Quarter with ruthless efficiency. His face was lined with scars, and his eyes gleamed with something unreadable.
"Well, well," the man drawled, crossing his arms. "Didn't expect to see you here, Seris."
Seris's expression remained unreadable. "We need to speak with Garron."
The man chuckled. "Garron doesn't just take visitors. Especially not ones being hunted by the palace guards."
Varen stepped forward, his stance casual but ready. "We're not here to cause trouble. Just a conversation."
The man tilted his head, considering. Then, with a smirk, he gestured for them to follow.
"This way."
---
The hideout was located in the ruins of an old temple, long abandoned and reclaimed by the criminal underworld. The once-grand hall had been stripped of its religious relics, replaced with makeshift wooden tables, scattered weapons, and the smell of burning tobacco.
Men and women lounged around the room, their eyes sharp, their hands never straying far from their blades. This was a den of killers and outlaws.
At the far end of the hall, a man sat upon a broken throne. His presence was undeniable—broad-shouldered, with streaks of silver in his dark hair and a jagged scar running from his brow to his jaw. His gaze was calculating as he studied them.
Garron.
The leader of the Black Hands.
Seris stepped forward. "We need your help."
Garron's lips curled into a faint smirk. "I'm listening."
Aedric watched as Seris explained the situation—Gorran's ritual, the need for her blood, the danger looming over Velmire.
Garron listened in silence, his fingers tapping absently against the armrest of his throne. When she finished, he leaned forward, his expression unreadable.
"So," he murmured. "You're asking me to go against Gorran and his warlocks. A suicide mission, by all accounts."
Seris met his gaze without flinching. "If he succeeds, this city will fall. Everyone in it—including you."
A heavy silence followed.
Then, Garron chuckled. "You always did know how to make things interesting, Seris."
Aedric narrowed his eyes. They knew each other.
Before he could ask, Garron stood.
"Fine," he said. "You have my attention. But if we do this, we do it on my terms."
Seris nodded. "Agreed."
Garron smirked. "Then let's get to work."
Aedric exhaled slowly. They had gained an ally. But the real battle was yet to come.