Hands—firm, unhesitating—pushed them toward a narrow alley. They were herded up a winding staircase carved into bone-white stone. The steps bent and twisted, as though grown rather than built.
A wooden door slammed shut behind them.
The room was small and dimly lit, its single lantern giving off a pale silver glow. A tub of warm water waited by the wall. Clean robes lay folded beside it. The air was heavy with the faint scent of soap and something older, like parchment left too long in the rain.
Ryne glanced at the tub, then at him. "Do you… want to watch a woman bathe, or shall I undress in poetic silence?"
Nameless's reply was sharp as shattered glass. "I am not interested in such indecent acts. Get yourself clean."
She raised an eyebrow. "Not even a little peek?"
"The dead still scream in my mind," he said flatly, turning his gaze away. "Your skin is not what I seek."
Her laugh was low, almost mocking. "Shame. Could've added a distraction to your demons."
"Get. Cleaned."
With a shrug, she walked toward the tub and began unfastening her clothes with casual ease."Yes, General Purity. As you wish."
Nameless sat in the corner, arms crossed. The blood on his hands had dried into the cracks of his skin, a second skin of rusted crimson. He didn't relax. Couldn't.
The water splashed as she sank into it, a long sigh escaping her lips."Gods, this feels… divine," she murmured, stretching like a cat.
Nameless's jaw tightened.
Ryne made another contented sound, exaggerated this time. "Mmm. Almost makes me forget that we are in an unknown place."
"Must you be so loud?" His voice cut the air.
She laughed softly, the ripples echoing. "What, does it unsettle you? Poor Nameless, undone by a woman enjoying warm water."
"I have endured wars that split the sky," he said flatly. "This is worse."
Her laugh rang brighter. "Then maybe you're the one who needs a bath badly."
Minutes passed, the sound of water moving in slow ripples behind him. Then—her voice again, quieter now, almost thoughtful."Do you think this city's real?"
He didn't turn. "Everything that bleeds is real. Doesn't mean it's safe."
When she emerged, she was dressed differently as they got provided with new clothes.
Ryne now wore a gown of pale silver and deep black, a perfect harmony of light and shadow, as if the night sky itself had been stitched into her attire. The bodice curved like sculpted ivory, its surface adorned with faintly glowing filigree—patterns that shimmered like constellations whenever the lantern's glow touched them. Her flowing sleeves trailed like banners caught in a soft wind, lined with silk so fine it seemed spun from moonlight. Her hair fell freely down her back, framing the polished curves of subtle armor worked into the gown's design. Each step she took felt deliberate—regal.
She caught his eye and smiled faintly. "You look like a murder cult."
"And you," he said, rising to his feet, "still talk too much."
She stepped aside without another word.
Nameless went to get himself cleaned. He stripped away his worn layers, the fabric stiff with dried blood and dust from the valley. His movements were precise—washing not for comfort, but for function, each motion as calculated as sharpening a blade.
He did not dry himself fully. Instead, he reached for the garments laid out for him.
Nameless dressed in silence. The robe was cut from heavy black fabric, its folds sharp and deliberate. It hung low across his shoulders, the collar resting against the line of his neck without ornament. The sleeves were long and wide, falling neatly to his wrists before tightening with a narrow binding. The sash at his waist held the layers close, giving shape to the drape without softening it.
His long hair, unbound, slid over the robe's dark fabric, the strands blending with it until they seemed a part of the garment. His frame carried the clothes without effort—straight, still, defined by strength more than decoration.
When he finished tying the last knot, he stood simply—nothing more than a man in black, but one that the cloth seemed made to fit.
Ryne gave him a slow, appraising look. "Now that is a sight. You almost look like someone who knows what he's doing. I'm happy they've provided us good clothes."
He ignored the compliment.
A knock sounded at the door. "Whenever you're ready," a muffled voice said, "the council wishes to speak with you both."
They exchanged a glance.
Ryne opened the door, pausing just enough to tilt her head toward him. "Think they'll fear you?"
Nameless stepped past her, his voice cold as winter stone. "I don't think so, Ryne."
He walked outside without looking back.
Ryne lingered for a breath, her gaze on the empty corridor ahead, then followed. The air beyond the room felt heavier, as though each step was taking them deeper into something that had been waiting for centuries.
The corridor spat them out like unwelcome guests into a courtyard paved in black stone. The slabs were cut with unnerving precision, each one veined with pale lines that didn't stay still—shifting, almost imperceptibly, as though the stone itself was breathing.
A man waited there.
Knight was the only word that fit—not for his armor, but for the sheer weight of his presence. It pressed on the air the way a storm presses on the horizon before lightning strikes.
His armor bore scars from wars long past, yet every plate gleamed as though polished not for vanity, but for ritual. A long, dark-blue cloak hung from one shoulder, moving faintly despite the stillness. At his hip rested a sword with a hilt of steel-blue leather—worn smooth from use, yet cared for like an heirloom.
He stood straight, shoulders squared. His gaze landed on them like the point of a spear—assessing, not welcoming. "I am Vaelric," he said, voice calm but edged. "Call me Vael."
Nameless inclined his head. "Nameless," he replied, then gestured to his companion. "Ryne."
Vaelric's eyes flicked over them. "It is… unusual," he said slowly with a small smile on his face, "to see humans walk into this place. Much less alive."
His hand brushed the pommel of his sword—habit, not threat. "The Grandmaster wishes to meet you," he continued. "That is not an honor given freely. Follow me."
They moved through Araveth's streets—a maze of black arches and walls streaked with bone-white roots. The roots pulsed faintly, in rhythm, like veins feeding something vast and unseen.
The air was muted here. Their steps made sound, but the sound didn't seem to travel. Lanterns floated overhead, each holding pale green fire that did not flicker—it breathed.
Ryne, predictably, broke the silence. "Why are the lanterns floating? Why do the roots glow? And is it just me, or is the air heavier here?"
Vaelric gave her the smallest glance. "All questions have their place. Whatever you wish to know, ask the Grandmaster. He will decide what you are allowed to hear."
That quieted her. For once.
Nameless didn't speak. His thoughts were far from the streets—caught on the shadow of the woman in his dream. Her eyes burned with truths he wasn't ready to face. He doubted he ever would be.
The main hall rose ahead, vast and black, shaped like the ribcage of a colossal beast long dead. Pale roots crawled over its high arches, weaving into patterns that almost formed symbols before shifting away.
Vaelric stopped before the doors. "He's waiting inside," he said, then gave Nameless one last unreadable look before stepping aside.
Inside, the air changed—cooler, sharper. The scent was faintly herbal, layered over something older, like rain-soaked stone that hadn't seen the sky in centuries.
At the far end sat a man on a low dais, a cup in hand. The liquid inside shimmered faintly, catching the dim light like something that belonged to another world.
The Grandmaster was carved from dusk and blood.
His long hair spilled in dark, untamed waves, glinting crimson when the light touched it—like embers that refused to die. His face was all sharp lines and quiet defiance, a mouth on the edge of a smirk it never committed to.
And his eyes—pale gold, patient—were neither warm nor cold. They were the kind of eyes that had no need to chase you, because they already knew where you would run.
His robe was deep brown and muted red, its edges frayed with intent, not neglect. Stains marred the hem—faded, but stubborn. His hands, resting on his knees, were scarred and calloused. These were not the hands of a man who merely commanded battles. They were the hands of one who had survived them.
"Greetings, rare guests," the Grandmaster said, rising to his feet.
They bowed. Nameless's was little more than a tilt of the head.
The Grandmaster's gaze moved to Ryne… then stopped on Nameless.