The hallway was endless.
Cold stone walls stretched on either side, cloaked in shadows. Torches flickered but gave little warmth, their flames twisting unnaturally as if recoiling from what was coming.
Footsteps echoed—soft, hesitant.
A boy, no older than ten, walked alone. His frame was small beneath oversized ceremonial robes. His eyes were looking down, afraid to look up, afraid of what he'd see at the end of the corridor.
And then, the voice came.
"GET OUT!"A deafening roar that shook the very walls. The boy flinched.
"You are a disappointment!"
He stumbled, as if the words themselves hit him.
"I would have you executed—if you were not my son."
The air grew heavier, colder.
"Maybe I should send you into the Eldorysian Forest. Let the Shades finish what your mother failed to."
The boy gasped. He wanted to run, to scream, to cry—but his body wouldn't move.
Then—
"FATHER!"
Everything shattered.
Victar bolted upright in bed, chest heaving, skin damp with sweat. The early light of morning spilled through the half-open blinds—but it didn't soothe him.
He stared ahead, eyes unfocused.
Just a dream.
No. A memory.
Or both.
With a heavy breath, he ran a hand through his hair, brushing back the white and gold streak. The apartment was quiet and dark. The ticking of the old wall clock filled the silence.
Victar threw the covers off and swung his legs over the edge of the bed. His boots were already there, polished and aligned. He didn't remember putting them there. Maybe he never took them off.
He moved to the window and cracked it open. The cool air of Liberty City rolled in, carrying with it the scent of oil, spice, and baked bread. Below, the streets were starting to stir. Life continued, uncaring of the nightmares that plagued him.
His emerald eyes narrowed as they caught the silhouette of the spire in the distance—the tallest tower in the city, home to the local chapter of the Faith of the Pointed Star.
His fists clenched.
"Still breathing, old man," he muttered under his breath. "Still not dead."
Then there was a knock at the door. Sharp. Three times. Not urgent, but not casual either.
Victar turned. "You're early," he called out.
The door creaked open slightly. A familiar violet eye peeked through.
"Couldn't sleep," Silvanna said, stepping in without waiting for permission. "Neither could you, by the looks of it."
Victar gave a dry chuckle. "What gave it away? The bags under my eyes or the faint scent of existential dread?"
She tossed a small satchel on his table. "Breakfast. Real eggs. Not the powdered garbage you like."
He raised a brow. "You care now?"
"Don't get used to it," she smirked. "We go in three hours. Thought you'd want a hot meal before diving headfirst into Shade territory."
Victar glanced at the satchel, then back at her.
"I've received word," she continued, pulling a folded note from her coat. "The parchment... might not have fallen as deep into the ravine as we thought. Someone—or something—was seen leaving the forest. A child. Carrying something glowing with a golden seal."
Victar stood up.
"A child?"
"Maybe a scavenger. Maybe something else. Either way, if that parchment's out in the open—"
"—then we're not the only ones after it," Victar finished grimly.
Silvanna nodded. "Exactly. The Shades won't stop. And the Faith will send more than just whispers next time... and the mercenary cities never keep to themselves."
Victar grabbed his cane and holster. Checked the revolver. Loaded.
"Then we better find that kid first," he said. "Before someone else does."
Silvanna tilted her head. "Getting sentimental eh?"
He gave her a side glance. "Just practical."
Silvanna stood and stretched, her coat shifting just enough to reveal the hilt of the knife strapped at her waist. She arched her back with a sigh, rolling her shoulders like a cat waking from a long nap.
Victar watched her with a raised brow. "By the way…" he said, casually buckling his holster. "How did you find me? I changed apartments. No address, no trail."
Silvanna smiled without looking at him, still mid-stretch. "You changed buildings. Not habits."
She finally looked over her shoulder, her violet eyes gleaming.
"You still go to the same tailor. Still drink that bitter sludge you call coffee from the stall near Eastgate every morning. And still leave your windows open with the curtains closed, no matter the season. You're predictable, Leyu."
Victar frowned. "That's called being consistent."
"It's called leaving breadcrumbs," she said, flicking his forehead as she passed by. "You're lucky it was me who followed them."
"You're terrifying."
"And you're getting rusty," she called from the door. "Three hours. Don't be late."
The door shut with a soft click, leaving the apartment in silence once more.
Victar stared at the spot where she stood, then let out a breath through his teeth.
"Rusty, huh…" he muttered. "We'll see about that."
He turned toward the window again, eyes fixed on the faraway tower of the Faith.
"PORT BLACK! I FORGOT TO TELL YOU—BE THERE! THREE HOURS!" Silvanna's voice shot up from the street below.
Victar blinked, then stepped toward the window. He pushed it open wider, peering down into the street.
There she was—already halfway across the cobbled road, coat fluttering behind her like a cape. She didn't look back, but one hand shot up in a lazy wave.
Victar rested his arms on the windowsill, watching her disappear into the morning crowd.
"Port Black," he muttered. "Of course it's Port Black."
He smirked. That place was a mess—salt in the air, knives in the dark, and half the smugglers owed him money or a black eye. Typical Silvanna, dropping that little detail after walking out.
With a sigh, he stepped away from the window and grabbed the revolver. He checked it once more, holstered it, and slipped on his coat. The familiar weight settled over his shoulders like an old friend—or an old debt.
"Three hours," he said to himself. "Let's see what hell she's dragging me into this time."
***
The Temple of the Pointed Star loomed over the city of Royland like a monument to forgotten gods and twisted faith. Spires high in the sky, shrouded in grey mist, and the stained-glass windows glowed faintly with unnatural light—even though the sun hadn't yet climbed high enough to touch them.
Outside the cathedral gates stood a group that didn't look faithful in the slightest.
They looked more like cutthroats than pilgrims. Scarred faces. Mismatched armor. A few held rusted weapons, others had strange trinkets hanging from their belts—bones, feathers, a finger or two that probably didn't start out fake. There was mud on their boots, blood on one of their sleeves, and not a single one of them looked like they'd ever stepped foot in a temple voluntarily.
The massive cathedral doors groaned open, as if reluctant to reveal what lay within. From the threshold emerged a tall figure in ceremonial robes, embroidered with gold stars that shimmered as if alive. A priest. Thin and pale, with a fixed smile that never quite reached his eyes.
"His High Holiness," the priest announced, "will be overjoyed to greet you."
The group didn't move. One of them—a tall man with a broken nose and a sabre across his back—spit onto the steps.
Another leaned over to whisper to his companion, "Did he say greet or gut?"
The priest's smile remained unshaken. "Please. Follow me."
With a few muttered curses and exchanged glances, the band began to move, boots echoing as they crossed into the shadowed maw of the temple.
Inside, it was colder than it should have been. Statues of faceless saints watched from the walls and pillars. Candles flickered but gave off no warmth.
They passed through a corridor lined with murals—celestial wars, star-beasts, holy executions—and then into a wide chamber where a circle of robed figures stood in silent anticipation.
And at the center, on a raised dais beneath a star-shaped skylight, stood a man.
Younger than most would expect.
Barefoot. Clean robes. No crown.
But his presence was heavier than the air in the room.
The High Holiness of the Faith of the Pointed Star turned slowly to face the newcomers, his eyes glowing faintly gold beneath the hood.
"So…" he said, voice calm, almost warm. "These are the ones?"
The priest bowed deeply. "Yes, Your Radiance. They've come for the parchment."
A ripple of tension moved through the room.
The High Holiness nodded once, and side eyed the ragtag crew. "Tell me," he said, tone still gentle. "Do any of you know what it is you seek… or have you simply come chasing coin and legends?"
No one answered.
He smiled. This time, it did reach his eyes.
"Good," he said. "Then let us begin."
The man on the dais turned fully now, letting the faint light from above catch his features.
He was young—unexpectedly so. Barely in his thirties, with neatly kept blonde hair and a shallow beard lining a sharp jaw. His eyes, though, were ancient. Not in age, but in weight. Like they'd seen too many lifetimes stitched into one.
Radiance Leonard VI Frontain.
The youngest ever to hold the title. A figure revered by some, feared by many, and understood by none.
He stepped down from the dais slowly, his bare feet making no sound against the polished marble floor. As he walked, his gaze swept over the group like a silent judgement.
One of the crew stepped forward, standing out from the rest like a crooked nail in a polished board. A scar ran across his left eye, which was pale and unfocused—blind, probably. His right arm wasn't flesh. It was a crude mechanical replacement made of dull iron and exposed wires, sparking faintly with each movement.
He spat to the side, clearly unimpressed.
"What'd ya want us to do, huh?" he growled, voice like gravel rubbed against steel. "Ain't here to kiss rings."
There was a tense silence.
The robed figures around the room bristled, a few shifting like they'd been given an unspoken signal to act. But Leonard lifted a hand, and the air seemed to freeze mid-breath.
"No one's asking you to kneel," Leonard said, tone steady and smooth. "I summoned you because you are... useful."
The scarred man snorted. "Useful how?"
"To retrieve what was stolen," Leonard replied. "A parchment bearing the seal of our faith. It was meant to be delivered safely to this temple... instead, it was thrown into the Eldorysian ravine and now lies in unknown hands."
The crew exchanged glances. A few muttered under their breath.
"You want us to go into that cursed forest?" the man asked. "Where the Shades live?"
Leonard's smile widened slightly. "Yes."
"Suicide."
"Possibly," Leonard said, folding his hands. "But well-paid suicide. Should you succeed, every debt you carry—wiped clean. Every name on every bounty list—erased. You'll walk out of here free men."
"And if we fail?"
"Then you die in the shadows like countless others," Leonard said plainly. "But you'll have died in service of the Faith."
The crew went quiet again. Even the scarred man with the iron arm seemed to falter.
Leonard stepped forward once more and looked him dead in the good eye.
"Or," he added, voice a whisper now, "you can leave. Walk out those doors. Live the rest of your short, hunted life until someone finds you in an alley or a ditch."
A long pause.
The man clenched his jaw. Sparks flickered from the gears in his arm. Then, with a grunt, he turned and looked back at the others.
"Well," he muttered, "guess we're goin' shade-hunting."
Leonard smiled.
"Good," he said softly. "May the Pointed Star guide you. You leave by sundown."
"We get any other reward?" a voice bellowed from the back—loud, slurred, and far too comfortable for the setting.
It came from a round, greasy-looking man near the rear of the group, shirt half-unbuttoned, a thick chain around his neck, and fingers stained with oil or something worse. He scratched his belly as he spoke, face twisted in suspicion.
Leonard didn't flinch. His golden eyes settled on the man like a candle flame catching oil.
"Salvation," the Radiance said.
The fat man scoffed. "I ain't here for no salvation."
A beat passed. Then Leonard's lips twitched, just slightly.
"And ten thousand dracos... gold dracos," he added, voice almost casual.
Silence. Even the greasy man blinked.
The scarred one turned to look at him, deadpan. "Still not interested?"
The fat man coughed. "Well—I mean—salvation's nice too."
A few of the others chuckled.
Leonard said nothing more. He simply turned and ascended the dais again, robes sweeping behind him like drifting shadows.
"You have until sundown," he said, voice now echoing louder, carried through the chamber. "At that time, a guide will meet you at the edge of the forest. Fail to be there… and we will assume the Shades did our work for us."
With that, he raised his hand.
The great doors at the far end groaned open, light spilling in from the corridor beyond.
Dismissal.
The crew stood for a moment, still uncertain whether they'd just accepted a job or signed their death warrants.
Then the scarred man cracked his neck and turned. "You heard the shiny pope. Let's pack."
They filed out, boots echoing through the stone halls.
Behind them, the High Holiness stood beneath the skylight, bathed in star-shaped light.
And for the briefest moment—his eyes flickered red.
***
Victar made his way through the crooked lanes of Port Black, the stink of salt, sweat, and ship oil clinging to the air like a curse. This part of the city was louder, rougher, more alive—if you could call rats and cutthroats life. The docks creaked with activity, gulls screamed overhead, and somewhere, someone was already being chased for something they probably deserved.
He stood out—intentionally.
A crisp white shirt rolled at the sleeves, brown leather braces over the shoulders, and a travel-worn suitcase in one hand. He walked with a kind of casual elegance that didn't belong here, like a noble lost in a den of thieves—but Victar knew better. That image was part of the weapon.
A few eyes lingered on him as he passed. Some recognized him. Others mistook him for prey.
Then, from across the wharf, a man saw him—and immediately froze.
Gold teeth, bald head, cheap rings, and a face like a kicked pig.
Julius.
Victar paused mid-step, suitcase still at his side. His eyes met Julius's for a second—just a second—but it was enough.
Julius panicked.
He spun around, trying to melt into a crowd of dockworkers hauling crates onto a rusted freighter. But the man was too slow, too bulky, and far too obvious.
Victar sighed and adjusted the grip on his suitcase.
"Julius," he called out. "Fancy seeing you here."
Julius pretended not to hear.
Victar's stride quickened, just a hair faster than a walk. Like a hawk gliding in just before the dive.
Julius made the mistake of looking back—and tripped over a rope coil.
Victar was on him before he could fully scramble up, planting one boot beside his head.
"You owe me fifty dracos," Victar said flatly, tilting his head. "And that was three weeks ago."
Julius held up his hands, breathless. "Look, look—I was gonna pay you! I got half now, I swear—"
Victar crouched, setting the suitcase down with care. "I'm not here for the money."
Julius blinked. "You're not?"
"No," Victar said. "I'm on a job. Which means I don't have time to chase debtors." He leaned in, just close enough that Julius could see the flicker of something colder in his eyes. "But if I see you again before I'm done—debt or no debt—I'll assume you're looking for trouble."
Julius nodded quickly, sweat already rolling down his temples. "Y-You won't. Promise. Gone. Vanished."
"Good."
Victar stood, grabbed his suitcase, and continued walking—without looking back.
He arrived at the far edge of the docks, right where the sea met rocks. The sky overhead was grey, and the water below sloshed like it was sick of carrying fools and freight.
He stopped when he saw the ship.
It was long—absurdly long, like someone had tried to compensate for something. But the width? Barely enough for two drunks to stumble across side by side. The planks along the hull looked like they'd been scavenged from a dozen other vessels, all hammered together with spit, prayers, and borrowed coin. A crooked figurehead of what might've once been a lion drooped off the bow, barely hanging on by a single rusted nail.
It was less of a ship and more of a dare to the sea.
Victar blinked once. "Please don't be my ship."
Then, mercifully, he spotted another vessel just beside it—sleeker, sturdier, still rough around the edges but actually seaworthy. And on the gangplank stood Silvanna, coat tossed over her shoulder, arms crossed, smirking like she'd known what he was thinking from the moment he laid eyes on the floating abomination next door.
"You're late," she called, even though he wasn't.
Victar walked up, suitcase still in hand, eyes flicking between the two ships. "Was admiring the engineering disaster next to you. What do they call it?"
Silvanna grinned. "The Lady's Vengeance."
He snorted. "She doesn't look like she's winning any fights. Or floating for long."
"Crew said it's faster than it looks."
"Which isn't saying much."
She stepped aside and gestured to the much more respectable vessel behind her. "Relax. Ours is the Gray Dawn. She leaks a little and the cook's a pirate, but she'll get us to the forest."
Victar gave a small nod, stepping aboard.
"Good," he said. "Because I have no intention of dying before the world ends."
Victar stepped aboard the Gray Dawn, the wooden deck groaning slightly under his boots. The ship wasn't glamorous, but it was solid—no signs of rot, no ominous creaks, and most importantly, no scent of impending doom like the one docked next to it.
A few heads turned as he made his way across the deck. All new faces.
Except one.
"Gass," Victar said flatly, spotting the wiry man leaning against a barrel, trying too hard to be invisible.
Gass winced. "Look, about the thing at your shop—"
"You stole three watches and a silver ring. And the ring was fake," Victar replied without looking at him. "I expect better from my thieves."
Gass coughed into his hand and slowly backed away toward the rigging.
Victar kept walking.
He didn't get far before another voice piped up, thick with an accent that sounded halfway between noble sarcasm and tavern drawl.
"So he's the one, Silvy?" said a man slouched on a crate, arms crossed behind his head. "Looks fancy. Two streaks of white and gold in his hair? Sure he ain't a noble?"
Silvanna rolled her eyes. "Don't judge a book by its cover, Hugo."
"The cover's very short," Hugo shot back, squinting at Victar like he was a menu.
Victar stopped and stared at him, completely deadpan. "You sure?"
Hugo stood up, chest puffed with bravado—and the moment he did, the size difference was laughable.
He was five-foot-one, tops.
Victar—six-foot-three and handsome enough to attract girls from every continent—tilted his head slightly.
There was a beat of silence.
"Perspective," Hugo muttered, slowly sitting back down.
"Wise choice," Victar said, stepping past him.
Silvanna bit back a smirk. "Play nice, boys."
Victar didn't respond. But his eyebrow arched ever so slightly as he took in the rest of the crew.
This was the team.
Shady, mismatched, underprepared.
But it would have to do.
The forest wasn't going to wait.
Hugo, still stewing from his height-based defeat, muttered just loud enough for everyone to hear, "Still lacks muscle."
Victar glanced over, eyebrow twitching. "Ladies prefer lean," he said casually. "And I'm more than capable of showing strength—just not the kind you're thinking of."
Before Hugo could reply, another voice cut in—louder, cockier, and coming from above.
"Really?" someone shouted. "Then show me your strength, pretty boy!"
A figure dropped from the upper rigging, landing with a solid thud on the deck. Taller than Hugo and built like someone who genuinely lifted crates instead of complaining about them, the man grinned with the confidence of someone who liked breaking things—especially egos.
Don.
Victar didn't even flinch. "How original," he said, sighing. "Haven't seen that in a dozen plays and barroom brawls. Big guy challenges quiet one. Tries to look tough. Predictable."
Don rolled his shoulders. "Then prove me wrong."
Instead, Victar reached into his trouser pocket and pulled out a small deck of cards.
"Pick one," Victar said, fanning the cards with one hand.
Don frowned but played along. He slid a card out—the Queen of Stars—and pushed it back into the deck.
Victar shuffled. Once. Twice. And then tapped the top card with his finger.
"Is this the one?" he asked, holding it out.
Don leaned forward.
"…Yeah," he said, confused. "But—what is that your—"
Victar flicked the card into the air.
And in the blink of an eye, Don vanished.
Gasps echoed around the ship.
Don reappeared midair, arms flailing, right where the card was still spinning. He barely had time to register what was happening before he dropped with a loud thud on the deck, landing on his back and knocking the wind out of himself.
"WHAT THE—WHAT THE F***K?!"
The deck went dead silent.
A few crewmembers stumbled back. One guy dropped a mug.
"R-Real magic?" someone whispered.
"N-Not tricks?" said another.
"A… a wizard?" a young woman breathed.
"No," another whispered, eyes wide. "Worse. A sorcerer."
That word carried weight.
Fear.
Awe.
Disbelief.
Born with it. Not learned. Not earned. Gifted.
Victar stepped forward and picked up the Queen of Stars as it fluttered back down.
He tucked it into the deck, then slid the cards neatly back into his pocket.
"No need for drama," he said dryly. "That was the gentle trick."
Silvanna was leaning against the railing now, arms crossed, smirking.
"Told you not to judge the cover," she said.
Hugo was speechless.
Don was still wheezing.
And the crew?
Now they weren't just curious.
They were afraid.