Eliard stepped out into the cold night, the heavy wooden door groaning shut behind him. The air was thick with mist, curling through the narrow alleyways like ghostly tendrils. The streets were nearly empty, save for the occasional flicker of movement in the shadows—whether it was rats, beggars, or something else entirely, he couldn't be sure.
He tightened his coat around himself, the weight of the book pressing against his ribs. The woman's words still echoed in his mind: Some hands are meant to stay obscured.
What did she mean by that? And why had she given him the book so easily? It felt too convenient. Too deliberate.
A quiet tension settled in his bones—his instincts screaming that he wasn't alone.
Eliard kept walking, his fingers subtly grazing the hilt of the knife hidden beneath his coat. His breath remained steady, his pace unchanged, but his ears sharpened, catching the soft, measured footsteps trailing behind him.
Whoever it was, they were careful. Skilled. But not skilled enough.
The alley ahead split into two paths: one leading to the main streets, where gas lamps flickered dimly, the other ending in a dead end. A trap for the careless.
Eliard chose the latter.
He reached the brick wall at the end of the alley and turned, leaning casually against it. His pursuer entered moments later—a man draped in a long, dark coat, his face half-hidden by a pulled-up scarf. His movements were confident, deliberate.
"Lost?" Eliard asked, his tone light, but his grip firm on his weapon.
The man didn't answer immediately. Instead, he studied Eliard, his eyes sharp beneath the shadow of his hat. Then, slowly, he pulled a worn deck of cards from his coat pocket and flicked one into the air.
Eliard's pulse quickened as the card spun before landing between them.
The King of Spades.
A message.
A threat.
Eliard glanced at the card, then back at the man. "You're either here to kill me or warn me. Which is it?"
The man tilted his head slightly, then spoke in a voice that carried the weight of a secret world. "Neither. I'm here to see if you're worth keeping alive."
Eliard smirked. "And how do you plan on deciding that?"
The man flicked his wrist, and a second card shot toward Eliard like a blade. He barely had time to react, twisting to the side as the card embedded itself into the brick behind him.
A test, then.
Fine.
Eliard lunged forward, his knife flashing in the moonlight. The man twisted away, fluid and practiced, but Eliard was already adjusting—his movements sharp, unpredictable. The alley became a battlefield of shadows and steel, instincts clashing with precision.
For a moment, they were locked in a deadly rhythm—dodge, strike, counter—until Eliard feinted, forcing the man off balance. He caught his opponent's wrist and twisted hard, wrenching him around before slamming him against the wall.
A quiet chuckle escaped the man's lips. "You learn fast."
Eliard pressed the knife against his throat. "I don't have time for games."
The man's expression remained unreadable. "Then stop playing and start listening."
He lifted his free hand, fingers curling slightly. A ripple of unseen force pulsed through the air. Eliard instinctively stepped back as the man effortlessly slipped from his grasp, the shadows around him shifting unnaturally.
Exemplar.
Eliard narrowed his eyes. "Who sent you?"
The man dusted himself off and adjusted his coat. "No one. But I'll give you a piece of advice, Eliard Veyne."
Eliard stiffened at the sound of his name.
The man turned to leave, pausing at the mouth of the alley. He glanced back, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling amusement.
"The cards have already been shuffled. Whether you play your hand or not… the game has begun."
And then, like a specter dissolving into the fog, he was gone.
Eliard stood there for a long moment, his fingers tightening around the knife's hilt before he finally let out a slow breath.
This wasn't just a hunt for answers anymore.
It was a game.
And he had just been invited to play.