The city pulsed like a living beast, its streets a maze of shifting silhouettes and flickering lamplight. Eliard moved swiftly, sticking close to the damp stone walls, his breath steady but controlled. The sensation of being watched had not faded—it had only grown stronger.
The deeper he ventured into the city, the more it became apparent that the world he had fallen into was not one of simple industry and order. The architecture loomed high, gothic spires piercing the smog-laden sky, their iron-wrought frames twisting in eerie, unnatural ways. Faint lantern light flickered behind thick glass windows, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch and shift when he wasn't looking.
A shiver crawled down his spine. The paranoia that had taken root in his mind was no mere illusion. Somewhere in this place, someone—or something—was aware of his presence.
And that meant he had to act first.
His fingers brushed against the card in his pocket, its edges smooth yet unnervingly warm. It was the only clue he had, and every instinct in him screamed that it wasn't something he should take lightly. The vision he had seen when he first touched it—the towering figure of shadow, the crimson moon, the chained book—had been far too vivid to dismiss as mere hallucination. This was not just some relic of the past; it was connected to something greater. And it had appeared before him the moment he arrived in this world, then it likely meant one thing.
It was meant for him.
But why?
He exhaled sharply, pulling his coat tighter around him. Answers wouldn't come from standing idle in an alleyway. He needed information. He needed to know what the card meant. And most importantly, he needed to figure out who Eliard Veyne truly was—or had been.
His first step was finding a safe place to think. The city, with its ominous whispers and lurking shadows, was not an environment that welcomed uncertainty.
Eliard pressed forward, weaving through the narrow streets, avoiding the main thoroughfares where clusters of people moved under the watchful eyes of the city's enforcers. He passed by a rusted iron sign reading The Hollow Lantern, the name of an old tavern. Its door hung slightly ajar, the scent of spiced ale and damp wood drifting into the night air.
He hesitated.
A tavern meant people. People meant conversation. And conversation, if navigated carefully, meant information.
His mind warred between caution and necessity, but before he could decide, the door creaked open further, as if inviting him in. A low murmur of voices spilled into the alley, accompanied by the slow, deliberate scrape of a chair against wooden flooring.
He wasn't alone.
His grip tightened on the fabric of his coat, instincts screaming. He could leave, fade back into the night and try elsewhere, or he could step forward and confront whatever lay beyond that threshold.
The card in his pocket pulsed with warmth, a subtle, rhythmic thrum against his skin.
Eliard took a breath.
And he stepped inside.
The tavern's interior was dim, the glow of oil lanterns casting elongated shadows across the wooden walls. The air was thick with the scent of burning tobacco and the sour tang of old alcohol. At the far end of the room, a barkeep polished a glass with slow, methodical movements, his expression unreadable beneath the dim light.
A few patrons sat scattered around the room—men and women dressed in worn coats, their eyes sunken from long nights. A group huddled at one of the round tables, engaged in hushed conversation over a tattered map spread before them. Another man sat alone in the corner, his face obscured beneath the wide brim of his hat, his fingers drumming lightly against the rim of his untouched glass.
Eliard kept his stride steady, measured, as he approached the bar. He could feel eyes shifting toward him, some subtle, others not. He was an outsider. They knew it.
The barkeep, a gruff man with a beard dusted in gray, barely glanced up. "You new?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.
Eliard met his gaze. "Something like that."
The man let out a grunt, setting the polished glass down. "If you're looking for work, there's none here. If you're looking for trouble, you'll find it faster than you'd like."
"I'm looking for information."
That earned him a longer look. The barkeep leaned against the counter, his gaze sharp despite his aged appearance. "Information comes with a price."
Eliard reached into his coat and withdrew a few tarnished coins he had found in his pockets earlier. The barkeep eyed them before sweeping them into his palm.
"Ask."
Eliard took a moment, choosing his words carefully. "What do you know about playing cards?"
The reaction was almost imperceptible—a slight pause in the barkeep's movement, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. Then, just as quickly, the expression was gone, replaced by the same impassive gaze.
"Cards?" The barkeep shrugged. "Plenty of gamblers in this city. Some of 'em live for the game, some die by it. Why?"
Eliard held his gaze. "What about ones that… don't belong to any deck?"
The silence that followed was heavy.
The barkeep's fingers tapped idly against the counter, his expression unreadable. Then, after a long pause, he exhaled and reached beneath the bar, pulling out a small, folded slip of parchment. He slid it toward Eliard without a word.
Eliard unfolded it carefully. A single address was scrawled in ink, the handwriting rough but legible.
"Go there," the barkeep said quietly. "And if you're smart, you'll make sure no one follows you."
Eliard studied the address. There was no name, no further explanation. Just a place.
A lead.
He tucked the parchment away and gave the barkeep a nod before turning back toward the door. The air in the tavern felt heavier now, as if unseen forces had begun to stir.
As he stepped out into the cold night, the feeling of being watched returned, stronger than before.
The game had already begun.
And Eliard Veyne had just placed his first bet.