(~923 words — part 5)
It started with a missing boy.
Nothing dramatic. No screams. Just a mother at the market, panicked and pleading with town guards who barely looked interested.
Nyari noticed as she passed by—heading toward the central fountain to read her new mission scroll. The woman's voice was hoarse, eyes red.
"He went to fetch bread last night. He never came back!"
"No, he's not the first—there's others missing, too!"
The guards muttered something about runaways. About "kids sneaking into the lower alleys" and "drunks dragging each other off."
Nyari didn't stop walking.
But her ears flicked once.
And her tail twitched.
Something felt off.
Familiar, but… wrong.
She reached the fountain. Sat. Opened her scroll.
It was a courier run—an easy mission. Gold, reliable. Something to do while she processed the Princess's offer.
But the words blurred.
Because behind them—behind everything—was that feeling.
Like someone was watching from beneath the city.
🏚️ The Lower District
That evening, Nyari drifted into the old stone quarter—Virelow's forgotten underside. Winding alleys. Crumbling buildings. Lanterns that flickered on their own.
The shadows here were different.
Heavier.
Not just darkness—but presence.
"How many people disappear before someone listens?"
"How many whispers get buried under stone?"
She didn't wear her badge openly.
She didn't summon her dagger.
She just walked—quietly. Listening.
The streets grew emptier the deeper she went.
Eventually, she reached a broken archway leading into a collapsed well square. An old man sat there, eyes glazed, talking to no one.
Nyari crouched beside him.
"What happened here?" she asked gently.
He didn't look at her.
"The stones whisper.
The drain takes 'em.
Too many footsteps go down.
Not enough come back up."
She felt it again—like wind brushing the back of her neck when no wind blew.
"It's down there."
🕳️ Descent
The drain was easy to find.
A rusted grate, half-covered in moss and trash, tucked behind an abandoned baker's stall.
Nyari crouched beside it and placed her hand on the metal.
It was cold. Not natural chill—something worse.
She phased through.
A flash of light wrapped her—her body flickering like mist as she slipped into shadow and dropped silently into the darkness below.
🌑 The Tunnels
It wasn't just a sewer.
It was a forgotten catacomb.
Ancient, silent, filled with crumbling carvings and skeletal remains that weren't buried so much as fed on. The air was thick with rot and silence. Not a rat in sight. Not a sound but dripping.
Nyari summoned her dagger—not as a weapon, but a light.
Its glow cast long shadows against the walls.
She walked slowly.
Footsteps silent.
Heart steady.
Until she saw it.
🕷️ The First Horror
The child's shoe lay in a puddle of bile.
Beside it—marks.
Claw marks.
Too large. Too sharp.
Not human.
Not beast.
Nyari's pupils narrowed to slits.
She reached forward—then froze.
Because something… breathed.
Behind her.
She whirled.
But nothing was there.
Just a ripple of air.
A flicker in the dark.
Something was moving. Without sound.
Without light.
And then it spoke.
Not with a voice—but with a presence in her mind.
A pressure. A whisper made of hunger.
"She who wears stripes of the old hunt…
You do not belong here."
Nyari stepped back.
"…What are you?"
The air shivered.
A shape emerged—long, fluid, oily black. A creature not quite real, dripping shadow like water.
Eyes opened across its head. Too many.
Too curious.
"Leave… before we remember your kind…"
Nyari's dagger pulsed.
"…You've taken children," she said, her voice quiet but unshaking.
"I'm not leaving."
The thing twitched.
Then screamed.
⚔️ The Fight in the Deep
It struck without warning—an explosion of tendrils, black liquid, and shrieking wind. Nyari moved faster—far faster than it expected. She vanished sideways, flipping over a crumbled coffin and reappearing behind the creature with a flash of motion.
Her dagger slashed—light versus void.
The creature howled.
But it wasn't hurt.
Not yet.
Nyari struck again, leaping high, trailing glowing sigils behind her.
One attached—burning like fire in shadow.
The creature recoiled—but then split. It divided into two smaller forms, each less physical, more mist.
Nyari gritted her teeth.
"It adapts…"
But she adapted faster.
🌀 Denial of Nothingness
She exhaled.
Let go.
Let her real power breathe.
Not her dagger.
Not her speed.
But the thing inside her—the void-bender, the goddess beneath the stripes.
Her free hand shimmered—twisting space itself into a spear formed of concept.
"This is a weapon that severs illusions."
She threw.
The spear struck the shadow—not in the body, but in the concept of it. The illusion of form shattered. The creature screamed once more—and collapsed in on itself.
Gone.
Not slain.
Erased.
🧒 Survivors
In the chamber beyond, she found them.
Three children.
Cold. Scared. Alive.
They stared at her—wide-eyed.
"Are you… a guardian?" one whispered.
Nyari knelt beside them.
"I'm just someone who cares," she said.
"…And I'm here to take you home."
🕯️ That Night
The story spread.
Not by Nyari.
By the children.
"She had glowing eyes."
"She moved like wind."
"She fought a nightmare and won."
The guildmaster didn't question it.
She just placed a new scroll in Nyari's hands.
"This came from the palace," Daska said. "The Princess wants a meeting. A real one. In person. No disguise."
Nyari looked at the scroll.
Then at the stars.
"…Guess I'm out of shadows to hide in."
To be continued in Chapter Seven: "The Palace of Mirrors"
(Nyari is summoned to meet Princess Seralyth in the capital. But royal courts are games of masks—and not all eyes watching her are friendly.)