The streets were quieter than usual that evening.
Lucien walked with his coat pulled tight against his body, the dim glow of lanterns along the cobbled road painting faint circles of light on the wet stone. The rain from earlier still clung to the air, leaving everything damp and heavy with the scent of iron and earth. His boots clicked against the uneven surface, echoing faintly in the emptiness of the night.
He should have gone straight home, but a strange heaviness lingered in his chest. The kind that told him something was coming, even if he couldn't name it.
His eyes flickered briefly to the shadows at the end of the street. They seemed to stretch further than they should have, curling unnaturally along the walls as if waiting for him to step closer. He told himself it was just his mind playing tricks. He'd been on edge too often these days, and the unease was beginning to feel like a constant companion.
Still… he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.
Lucien's pace quickened. He shoved his hands deep into his coat pockets, forcing himself not to look over his shoulder. He knew if he gave in, if he turned back, he'd see something there. Something that shouldn't be there.
A soft whistle broke the silence.
Lucien froze. His breath caught in his throat, his eyes darting to the narrow mouth of an alley on his right. The sound hadn't been loud—it was casual, almost playful, but it carried the sharp weight of danger.
A shadow shifted within the alley. Then another.
Before he could move, something slammed into his back. Pain flared through his ribs as an arm wrapped around his neck, choking off the startled gasp that escaped his lips. He struggled, thrashing wildly, but his attacker's strength was unnatural, far beyond what any ordinary man could muster.
"Don't fight." The voice was low, muffled against his ear. Cold. Certain. "You'll only make it worse."
Lucien kicked, his heel connecting with something solid, but a second figure darted from the shadows and grabbed his arms, twisting them behind his back with precise efficiency. Rope—or was it some kind of cord?—bit into his wrists, burning against his skin as they bound him tight.
Panic thundered through his veins.
"Who—who are you?!" he rasped, barely able to get the words out as the first man's grip tightened on his throat.
The only answer was silence.
They dragged him into the alley, his boots scraping against the stones as he tried to resist. The shadows swallowed them whole, the flickering lanternlight outside quickly becoming a distant glow. The deeper they pulled him in, the colder the air grew, until each breath clouded faintly before him.
Lucien's heart pounded against his ribs. Fear clawed at him, but underneath it, there was another feeling—one he didn't dare admit. A grim recognition. Something about this wasn't random. This wasn't a mugging, wasn't a senseless act of violence. They had come for him.
His vision blurred as a sharp sting pierced his neck. He gasped, trying to twist away, but a burning cold spread through his veins. Some kind of drug. His strength bled out of him in an instant, his limbs growing heavy, his protests slurred.
The men exchanged no words. Their faces blurred in his fading sight—hoods pulled low, expressions unreadable. But in their movements, he felt the discipline of soldiers. Or perhaps… zealots.
Lucien's knees buckled. His head lolled forward as the shadows around him stretched wider, darker, until even the faint glow of the street outside disappeared. His body was dragged deeper, swallowed by a darkness that felt alive, whispering promises of things he couldn't understand.
And just before the last thread of consciousness slipped away, he heard it.
A voice—faint, distant, but deliberate.
"Fourth Division."
Then nothing.
The darkness did not end.
It lingered even as Lucien stirred, awareness bleeding back into him slowly, like light through a crack in a shutter. His head throbbed, each heartbeat pounding against his skull, dragging him back toward wakefulness.
When he opened his eyes, the world was still dim. A lantern flickered somewhere above, its weak glow revealing a ceiling of rough stone, damp and mottled with patches of mold. The air was colder here, heavy with the metallic tang of rust—or blood.
Lucien shifted, but his arms wouldn't move. His wrists burned when he tugged, the ropes binding him tighter with every twitch. His ankles were bound as well, the coarse fiber biting into his skin.
He was seated in a chair. No… restrained to it. The wood beneath him groaned when he moved, as though it, too, had been worn down by countless captives before him.
Footsteps echoed.
Lucien's breath stilled in his throat. The sound was steady, measured, approaching from the darkness beyond the lantern's reach. He strained his eyes, trying to make out a shape, but all he could see was shadow.
Then—movement.
A figure emerged, cloaked in dark gray, the hood pulled low enough to shroud their face. The flickering light caught the faint glint of something metallic stitched into the edges of their robe—small lantern motifs, each one distorted as though carved by a trembling hand.
"Awake," the figure murmured. Their voice was neither cruel nor kind. Simply… indifferent. "Good."
Lucien swallowed hard, his throat dry. "Who are you? Why—why bring me here?" His words came out rough, edged with the panic he was trying to swallow down.
The figure didn't answer. Instead, they stepped closer, raising a gloved hand. From the folds of their sleeve, they produced a lantern no larger than a fist, its glass panes cracked but still faintly glowing. The dim light inside was not flame—it pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat.
The sight of it made Lucien's skin crawl.
"You will understand in time," the figure said. They tilted the lantern slightly, and for the briefest second, Lucien thought he saw something moving inside it. Something that wasn't flame, or light, but alive.
His chest tightened. "I don't… want any part of this."
That earned the faintest twitch at the corner of the figure's mouth—half amusement, half pity. "Choice is not yours to wield."
Before Lucien could press further, more footsteps filled the chamber. Several figures emerged, each cloaked in the same gray robes, forming a loose circle around him. Their faces were hidden, their silence oppressive.
It was then he noticed the carvings on the walls. Lanterns—etched crudely into the stone, some upright, some toppled, some shattered. Countless images layered atop each other, as though dozens of hands had marked this place over the years.
A cold realization crept through him.
This wasn't just a kidnapping. This was initiation.
The lead figure lifted their small lantern higher, and the glow spread wider, revealing Lucien fully bound, fully exposed.
"Welcome, Lucien," the figure intoned. "To the Lantern Syndicate."
The words echoed through the chamber, swallowed by the stone walls, heavy with a finality that made his chest sink.
Lucien's heart hammered. His breath came fast. He didn't understand the rules, didn't understand the purpose, but he knew one thing with sickening clarity:
He wasn't getting out of here.
Not yet.