The map crinkled softly in Gareth's hand as he walked, the inked lines guiding him through the rising slopes toward Draemond's city. The road dipped and climbed, and with each step the horizon shifted until, at last, the walls came into view.
They were immense, carved from pale stone that caught the late sun like fire. Banners snapped in the wind—black and silver, the crest of House Draemond—and the gates yawned wide, spilling light and noise into the evening air.
Gareth slowed, breath catching. The city was alive.
Beyond the walls stretched tiers of stone streets, broad avenues bustling with carts, markets, and the chatter of countless voices. The scent of roasting meat tangled with the sharper bite of iron and coal. Towers rose in the distance, some gleaming with glass, others ancient and scarred by time. Lanterns flickered to life one by one, stringing golden lines through the shadowing dusk.
A boy darted between the legs of a merchant's mule. Street hawkers shouted prices in three different tongues. Somewhere, a minstrel's lute was drowned by the clang of a smith's hammer.
It was vast. It was overwhelming. It was alive.
Gareth stood at the threshold, staring, every breath filled with the weight of it. For a heartbeat, he almost smiled.
Then—he heard it.
A low rumble, distant, steady. A hiss of steam. The grind of wheels over steel.
The sound dragged his gaze across the city, past the markets, past the rising towers, to where tracks cut through stone and iron.
And there it was: the train. Its silhouette roared into view, smoke billowing, sparks flying as it thundered across a raised viaduct.
Pain speared him instantly.
Memories fractured open, not one, but hundreds.
The world blurred with them—
Flashing lights. Cold subway tiles.
The jostle of strangers. A mother's voice, soft and fleeting. The crush of a crowd at a station. A ticket in his pocket. A window streaked with rain.
"It hurt. Gods, it hurt".
His chest constricted as though iron bands had locked around his ribs. His vision swam, his breath staggered.
But no sound left his lips. No cry, no word. Only his clenched jaw, the tremor in his hands, the sweat forming at his temple.
The city roared around him, alive and vast. Yet within him was silence—silence heavy enough to break a man.
And Gareth walked forward.
The streets swallowed him as he moved deeper, each turn spilling into a new world.
A plaza opened before him, lanterns strung between timber posts. A small band sat on overturned crates, their voices rising in harmony. A fiddle shrieked, a drum thumped, and a girl's clear tone cut through the noise, singing of voyages across endless seas. The crowd clapped in time, coins clinking into a battered tin. Children laughed, spinning in circles. For a fleeting moment, Gareth slowed, letting the melody brush against him.
But the music carried him into narrower streets where the stones were cracked and the air thick with smoke. The laughter of the plaza faded, replaced by harsh voices and the smell of rot.
There—by a wall striped with shadows—stood a noblewoman in embroidered silk, her hand raised high. A boy knelt before her, clutching his side, blood on his lip. Each strike of her cane snapped sharp in the alley. The few passersby kept their eyes down, slipping quickly by.
Gareth stopped. His gaze hardened, but he didn't step closer. He simply lifted a hand.
The air bent. Invisible force lashed out, snapping the woman off her feet and hurling her into the side of a carriage with a cry. She crumpled in the dirt, gasping, too shocked to scream.
Gareth walked forward, quiet, his steps steady. He didn't look at her again.
The boy's eyes went wide. He stared up at Gareth as if he were staring at something impossible—his bruised face lit with wonder. Slowly, he rose, wincing at the pain, but straightened his back. And then, with a small, trembling smile, he bowed deeply.
Gareth said nothing. His shadow stretched long under the lanternlight as he passed, the boy's eyes following him until he was gone.
The alley bent where the lantern light couldn't reach. A single door stood ajar, its frame warped with age, wood cracked like something that had endured centuries of storms.
Gareth pushed it open.
Inside was a single room. No windows, no second door—only walls of dark stone slick with moisture, carved with faint sigils that seemed to shift if he looked too long. The air smelled of ash and incense, heavy enough to choke. Shadows clung to the corners like things alive.
At the center, a round oak table. Old, scarred, blackened as though lightning had kissed it. And on that table lay many artifacts, each resting on worn black cloth, each radiating an aura that pressed against Gareth's chest as though the air itself were bending around them.
And behind them sat the Old Man.
His beard was long and white, yet streaked with soot. His skin bore a thousand wrinkles, but his posture was upright, unbroken. His eyes—two suns long since burned out—still carried heat, like coals that refused to die. His voice, when it came, was low, steady, and each word landed like a strike to the soul.
"Every man thinks he chooses his path… until the path chooses him."
The words landed heavy in the small room. The old man's voice was low, worn, yet every syllable cut like steel. He leaned forward, his gaze locking onto Gareth as though he could peel back the boy's very skin and look straight at the soul beneath.
"You are afraid," he said simply. "Not of death. Not of pain. But of yourself."
Gareth flinched before he could stop himself.
The old man's smile deepened, thin and knowing. "You fear being hollow. That the memories will strip you apart until there is nothing left but fragments. That you will wear so many faces, so many lies, that you will not know which one is yours. You fear losing yourself more than losing your life."
The words struck like hammers, each one pulling Gareth's hidden thoughts into the open. His throat was dry, but the man gave him no chance to speak.
"Listen, boy." The old man's tone hardened, sharp and rhythmic, every line dropping like a blade.
"A man who fears himself will never own himself."
"And a man who does not own himself—will be owned by the world."
"So the question is not what path you will walk. The question is—will you walk as yourself, or as their shadow?"
The silence that followed pressed thick around them, broken only by Gareth's uneven breathing.
Then, slowly, the old man spread his hands. One by one, ten objects appeared on the table with a muted gleam—steel, gold, glass, shadow. They were laid not as weapons of war, but as pieces of fate waiting to be claimed.
He did not name them, not yet. Only gestured with a weary sweep of his hand.
"A sword… a mask… a crown… a lantern… a medallion… a wand… an eyepiece… chains… a heart… a mirror. Ten faces of destiny. Ten answers to the same question: who will you be?"
His eyes found Gareth again, burning with the kind of patience that only comes from someone who has already seen too much.
"Sit, boy." His voice softened now, but did not lose its weight. "If you wish, I will read the threads that bind your future. Perhaps you will hate what you see. Perhaps you will cling to it. Either way… the table does not lie."
He leaned back, hands folded, a thin smile tracing his lips.
"Choose your chair, Gareth Valven. Then choose your path."
Gareth's eyes lingered on the table. Ten objects, each quiet, each humming with a weight he couldn't name. The sword caught a flicker of the lamp's glow, the mask sat half in shadow, the mirror reflected nothing at all.
He didn't reach for any of them. Not yet. Instead, he leaned back, folding his arms, and studied the old man. His voice, when it came, was steady but edged with caution.
"…How much do you charge for all this?"
The old man blinked, then laughed. Not the laugh of a merchant, nor of a madman—just a dry, low sound that seemed older than the walls themselves.
"Charge?" he repeated, amusement curling in his tone. "Boy, if you think fate runs on coin, you've already lost the game."
Gareth frowned. "Then why offer it to me?"
The old man leaned closer, shadows deepening across his lined face. His smile was faint, but sharp.
"Because some debts are written in blood, not gold. Because every man owes something to tomorrow. And because…" He gestured lightly toward the table. "I only open the door. Whether you walk through it—that's on you."
He leaned back into his chair, eyes never leaving Gareth.
"This one's on the house. Consider it… a courtesy."
The room fell silent again, the weight of the choice pressing harder than any coin purse ever could.
Gareth's gaze shifted again to the table, then back to the old man. His chest tightened with the weight of it, the way those objects seemed to wait for his hand. He wet his lips before speaking.
"…What if I bring my friends here? Let them choose too? Maybe they'd know better."
The old man chuckled softly, shaking his head. His eyes—ancient, piercing—locked onto Gareth with unnerving clarity.
"No, boy. This is not a feast where every man takes his share. This table was set for you alone."
He leaned forward, voice lowering into something sharp, almost pitying.
"You want to escape the choice. That's what you're really asking. You think if you hide in the crowd, fate will lose your face."
The words struck hard, making Gareth's throat tighten.
"But fate is patient," the old man continued, his smile faint but merciless. "The door is always open. You may run from it, you may turn your back on it, but sooner or later—it will claim you. Choice… or chains. Those are the only ends."
The silence pressed thick, broken only by the creak of Gareth's chair as he shifted. His voice came out quieter now, stripped of bravado.
"…Are you the real deal?"
The old man's eyes softened, though they never lost their weight. He didn't answer with words. Instead, he simply held Gareth's gaze, unblinking, as if the truth was too vast, too undeniable, to be caged in speech.
And in that silence, Gareth felt it—the sharp, cold certainty that this man was not bluffing.
Gareth swallowed, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. The question slipped out before he could stop it:
"…Then what about this mark? The one carved into me."
The old man's eyes sharpened. Slowly, he leaned back, as though the very mention of it demanded space. His gaze ran over Gareth, not at his flesh, but through him, deeper.
"That mark," he said at last, his voice low, grave, "is not painted on your skin. It is carved into your soul. It is you now. The mark will outlive your body, your memories, even your name. It has become your truest face."
Gareth's breath hitched. He wanted to argue, to deny, but the words died in his throat.
The old man continued, his tone carrying a shadow that made the room colder.
"Do you know what lives in that mark? It is no single brand, no single flame. It is home to many… deities and natural phenomena. Storms coil there. Shadows nest there. Hungry eyes stare from within it, waiting. Some will whisper gifts. Some will whisper lies. And all will demand pieces of you in return."
Gareth sat frozen, his pulse hammering in his ears.
"That is the danger of corruption," the old man said, his voice dropping into a growl. "When the weak-minded drink too deeply of what their mark holds, they twist. They lose themselves. They become things far from their ideals, mockeries of their former selves—walking hollows driven only by craving."
The weight of his words pressed hard, but he didn't stop.
"And the timing could not be crueler. The Great War of the Kingdom stirs once more. Armies march, blades are sharpened, and blood waits to soak the soil. Even the Eclipse—your Eclipse—trembles in weakness during this moment. Do you understand? Not even your greatest shadow can shield you forever."
The old man leaned forward, his eyes burning like fire in the dim room.
"So, Gareth Valven, I say again… choose. While your hands are still your own."
Gareth's jaw tightened. His voice cracked out, low, almost trembling.
"…Then why? Why did my captain fall? Why did he… get corrupted too?"
The old man studied him with something between pity and respect. He tapped a finger on the table, once, twice, before answering.
"Corruption takes many forms. Some are born of desperation, some of ambition, and some… are forced upon you."
He leaned forward, his tone sharp as a blade.
"Perhaps your captain tried to defy his root. To twist his own nature, to take power not meant for him. That is sacrifice—breaking yourself for strength that will never hold."
A pause. His gaze darkened.
"Or perhaps he simply flew too far from himself. Men forget who they are, what they swore, and the mark makes them pay for it. The further you drift from your core, the louder corruption whispers."
Gareth's fists clenched.
The old man's voice dropped to a near whisper, his words curling with weight.
"Or worse still—he was targeted. Marked not by his own weakness, but by hands unseen. There are things in this world, boy, that hunt purity. Things that feed on resolve until nothing remains."
The silence that followed was thick, almost suffocating.
The old man finally leaned back, his eyes never leaving Gareth's.
"Remember this. Corruption is not always failure. Sometimes… it is war waged upon the soul."
Gareth's breath hitched as his eyes darted between the relics. His hand hovered, trembling slightly. Then, with a steadiness that felt borrowed from some place deeper than fear, he moved.
First, his fingers closed around the Mask. The surface was cold, smooth as still water, yet shadows seemed to crawl just beneath it. For an instant, he thought he saw his own face warped within its blank reflection.
The old man tilted his head, his smile faint but knowing.
"Ah… the face you hide, and the faces you fear. Dangerous."
But Gareth was not finished.
His other hand reached forward, stopping above the Mirror of the Abyss. A shard of polished black glass, edges rimmed in silver. When he touched it, his chest tightened. A hundred faint whispers seemed to rise, each voice speaking in tones he almost—but not quite—recognized. He swallowed hard and dragged in a sharp breath.
The old man's eyes narrowed, the first flicker of true surprise crossing his face.
"You dare peer into the pit itself. Few come back whole from its gaze."
And then—without hesitation—Gareth reached for the Sword of Dominion. Its blade gleamed faintly, humming like a heartbeat. The weight of it thrummed through his bones, not just steel but command itself. His palm burned as he lifted it, as if the weapon demanded not just to be wielded, but obeyed.
The chamber fell silent. The three relics glowed faintly, their lights clashing, overlapping—mask's shadows, mirror's abyssal shimmer, sword's sharp radiance. The table trembled under them.
The old man leaned back slowly, exhaling a laugh low and rough.
"You… you are not walking a path. You are tearing three roads into one. Mask, Mirror, Sword." His voice darkened, words carrying like prophecy. "Secrecy. Madness. Dominion. Each one alone is a storm. Together?"
His smile sharpened, almost cruel.
"You will either become a name carved into eternity… or you will burn faster than any flame I've ever seen."
The glow of the weapons faded, settling into Gareth's hands. For the first time, the old man's laughter stopped. His gaze hardened, solemn now.
"…So. The die is cast."
The old man's words hung like chains in the silence. The glow of the three relics dulled, fading back into cold steel, dark glass, and shadowed porcelain.
Gareth blinked—just once—and the shop was gone.
He stumbled forward into the damp, narrow alleys of the city, the scent of smoke and rain-soaked stone filling his lungs. The night air clung to him, cold but sharp, alive. For a heartbeat he wondered if it had all been a dream, some cruel vision spun from exhaustion.
But his hands still tingled. The weight of the choice lingered, carved into his bones.
Slowly, his lips curved into a small, almost defiant smile.
Without looking back, Gareth slipped into the dark, vanishing into the maze of alleys as though the city itself swallowed him whole.