Niegal
Niegal descended into the underworld of Puerto Cuidad—though no maps marked it, and no names were spoken aloud.
Each footstep echoed off the stone, the chill of the cavern clinging to his skin even beneath his heavy cloak. The path twisted downward, carved directly into the cliffside over centuries by miners and magic alike. Moss glowed faintly underfoot, bioluminescent and damp with sea air. The salt of the ocean mixed with incense smoke and burning herbs, a scent that clung to the bones.
This was the Black Market.
A sanctuary of secrets, of magic outlawed and goods forbidden. Every high tide swallowed it whole, the sea reclaiming the caverns. But for now, it thrived in the breath between tides. Hidden. Alive.
Niegal kept his hood low, silver-streaked hair tucked into shadow. He moved quietly between the stalls—tables piled with mana-charged minerals, tinctures in cracked glass bottles, talismans made of bone, bark, and blood. No prices were listed. Everything here was barter, trade, favor, or debt.
"Blessed night," one vendor rasped, holding up a sealed jar of glowing moths. "For clarity of vision, old friend?"
Niegal shook his head silently and kept walking.
He knew the market well, though he hadn't walked it in years. These were his people once. Exiles. Practitioners. Healers. Smugglers. Survivors. Most had given up their names long ago, if they ever had them.
The path curved sharply left before ending at a massive metal door, forged with runes and embedded deep into the stone of the cavern wall. Rust, salt, and time had weathered its surface, but it still radiated power.
He placed his palm flat against the door.
A mechanical whir—click click THUNK snap—sounded as green light spiraled from his fingertips, unlocking the arcane mechanisms within.
The door swung open with a heavy groan.
Inside, a single lantern burned over a desk strewn with bundles of dried herbs, scrolls, and tightly packed crates. Candles burned in alcoves, casting long shadows. Charcoal wards had been smeared across the stone walls in the shape of ancestral symbols.
At the center of the room, hunched over a wooden chest, was the Behike.
She turned slowly, eyes sharp beneath a crown of woven reeds and feathers. "Niegal," she said, voice low and weathered. "I felt you coming. You always bring the storm behind you."
He stepped inside without a word, closing the door with a wave of his hand. The light of the lantern flickered but did not go out.
"I won't be long," he said, though he already knew it was a lie. "I need provisions. Knowledge. Answers."
She laughed, raspy and soft. "And perhaps a bit of peace?" Her hand gestured to the steaming kettle on the nearby stove. "Even warriors need tea."
Niegal didn't respond. He moved through the room slowly, methodically, brushing his fingers along the labeled crates. Dried Serpent Root. Black Salt. Stormglass. Vulture Eyes. He paused at one box sealed with a wax rune he didn't recognize.
"Still tracking the Church?" he asked, gaze still on the box.
The Behike nodded once. "More disappearances in the northern provinces. Whole villages gone quiet. The Inquisition is spreading further than even the nobility know. Your nephew wasn't wrong to send for you."
"I came because I felt the call. Not because of duty."
"Duty and love can sometimes be the same thing," she said, not looking at him.
Niegal's expression shifted at that—subtle, but sharp. "I have no illusions about love. Not anymore."
The Behike tilted her head. "And yet… you keep watching over her."
Niegal said nothing, but his jaw tightened.
She moved to the desk and opened a worn journal, flipping through pages filled with diagrams, pressed flowers, and old script. "Elena is not just any practitioner," she continued. "You felt it too, didn't you? The storm magic around her. The pull of something ancient."
"I saw it in her eyes the moment we met," Niegal admitted. "She's not just powerful. She's tied to something older than this Church, older than our names."
He took a seat on a crate, exhaling for the first time since entering. His eyes grew distant. "And she's engaged to a man who doesn't yet know what war costs. Not truly."
The Behike gently closed the journal and handed it to him. "Then you'll need this."
Niegal took it, thumbing through pages of glyphs and coded maps. "These are ancient sigils of protection… from the old bloodlines. I thought these were lost."
"They were. Until I found them again. Or rather—they found me."
A silence fell between them.
Niegal leaned back against the stone wall, his tired body finally starting to feel its own weight. He didn't know how long he'd stay underground this time. Maybe days. Maybe weeks. Time moved differently here. But he did know this:
He wasn't ready to reveal himself to the world yet. Not until he understood what was coming. Not until he had seen it from all sides.
But his gut told him something was shifting—beneath the surface, beneath even the sea.
The storm wasn't just coming.
It had already begun.