Chapter 10 – The Things Beneath
The next night, the sky over Gravemarch looked bruised—clouds hung low like they were pressing down on the rooftops, and the wind had that strange, metallic scent that warned of a storm long before rain fell.
Cyrus leaned against the wall behind the barracks, arms crossed, hood up, and mask on. He hadn't spoken much all day, mostly because he didn't want to give away the fact that he had no idea who Calen was bringing him to meet.
Yura had asked earlier, "You sure about trusting him?"
To which Cyrus had replied, "Nope. But I trust his muscle memory. He's the type that swings before he lies."
Now, he waited.
Footsteps approached—two pairs. One familiar, heavy and deliberate. The other, lighter, but with a faint limp.
Calen emerged from the alley with a man half-draped in a brown cloak. The stranger's hood was pulled low, and one of his sleeves hung empty over a missing arm. His face was gaunt, skin pale, eyes sunken yet sharp. He looked like someone who had survived something that should've killed him.
"This is Elric," Calen said. "Used to be a city guard. Got too curious. Lost a few things."
"Just the arm," Elric rasped with a weak grin. "Still got the spine."
Cyrus tilted his head. "Lucky. Most people lose that first."
Elric chuckled, coughing once. "You're the masked guy? The one poking where he shouldn't?"
"Guilty."
"You're planning something big?"
Cyrus shrugged. "Depends on your definition of big. I'm not exactly staging a coup."
"Not yet," Calen muttered.
Elric glanced around, then leaned closer. "There's something wrong under Gravemarch. The magistrate's taking gold from cloaked figures who don't speak. Every month, like clockwork. Last time I followed them, I ended up in a cellar beneath the grain store."
"What was there?" Cyrus asked.
"…Stairs."
That word hung heavier than it should've.
"Going where?" Yura asked, having silently appeared next to them—clearly annoyed no one told her about the meeting.
"I don't know," Elric said. "There were symbols on the wall. Old ones. I touched one and black smoke poured out of the cracks. Heard… voices. The kind that scrape the inside of your skull."
"That's new," Cyrus muttered. "Possession-grade creepiness. My favorite."
"I barely made it out," Elric said. "No one believes me. They think I drank too much and got caught in a cave-in."
Cyrus turned to Calen. "Why bring him to me?"
"Because he's the only person I've met in this town who cares more about truth than survival," Calen said. "And he hates the magistrate almost as much as I do."
Cyrus nodded. "Good enough."
Later that night, back in their temporary lodging above an abandoned smithy, Cyrus stared at the wooden ceiling while Yura sat nearby sharpening her blade.
"So," she said casually, "how much of that stuff you already knew?"
"Most of it," he replied.
She looked at him. "From your… 'divine scrolls'?"
He smiled behind his mask. "Something like that."
Yura didn't push. But she did ask, "Why are you really doing this?"
Cyrus didn't answer at first.
Then: "The world ends in tragedy. That's how the story goes. But stories can change."
"And you think you're the one who can change it?"
"No," he said simply. "I have to be."
Silence again. Except this time, Yura didn't fill it with teasing remarks or annoyed sighs.
After a while, she muttered, "If you die, I'm keeping the dagger."
Cyrus chuckled. "Noted."
[System Notification]
Mission: "Crumbling Roots" – Unlocked.
[Objective: Infiltrate the Magistrate's estate.]
[Optional: Discover the origin of the staircase.]
[Warning: Danger level exceeds current capability. Suggest recruiting additional support.]
Cyrus stared at the floating text, then waved it away.
"Yeah, yeah. I get it. We're still in the 'don't-get-gutted' phase of the story."
The next morning, he stood outside the magistrate's estate.
Not to charge in. Just to watch.
The building was two stories tall, gilded with metal trims and guarded by six well-equipped soldiers. No cracks. No signs of rot. Everything else in Gravemarch was falling apart—but not this.
Elric hadn't lied.
The magistrate was hiding something, and whatever it was, it had money—and protection.
Cyrus watched until he saw what he was waiting for: a cloaked figure entering through a side door. No guards reacted. No one even looked up.
And just like that, the game shifted.
Back at the smithy, he scribbled out a rough map on a slab of old parchment. Yura hovered over his shoulder, trying to steal glances.
"I didn't know you could draw."
"Stick figures and murder plans," Cyrus said. "Two of my few talents."
"Is this your way of flirting?"
"No," he said, deadpan. "That would require effort."
She snorted, then sat beside him. "So what now?"
"We poke the shadows," Cyrus replied. "And we see which ones bleed.