Princess took Kiaria and Diala's hands leading to the chariot. Her smile refreshed Kiaria and Diala with happiness.
On the boundless grasslands, a rented chariot rolled quietly through the mist-veiled roads, its wheels whispering over soft earth. The royal crest was stripped from its sides; even its lanterns burned with a muted flame. The Princess sat within. Across from her, Kiaria and Diala watched the beauty of an endless horizon.
It was a silent journey for a long while. The faint sound of wind and the occasional chirp of evening birds filled the emptiness. Then, faintly, came the glow of distant city lights.
By dawn, they reached the edge of the Central City. The streets were alive, bursting with the chaos of trade and color. Carriages rattled over stone paths, merchants cried their wares, and the scent of spice and roasted grain filled the air.
The Princess leaned slightly, peeking through the curtain. "This city," she murmured, "wears gold in daylight and rot at night."
Kiaria followed her gaze. On one side, he saw painters selling beautiful portraits, musicians plucking zithers by the roadside, and scholars debating beneath flowering lanterns. On the other side–poverty. Rows of widows begging with empty bowls, crippled soldiers missing limbs, and children scouring heaps of refuse for scraps of bread.
Even a group of smugglers stood near an alley, laughing cruelly as they struck a disabled man for amusement. No guards came. No one even looked twice.
The Princess sighed, drawing the curtain shut. "Every prosperous city hides its own hell. The light can never reach every shadow."
Her voice was calm, but beneath it lingered anger and sorrow intertwined.
As the chariot passed through the end of Eastern gate, the city's fragrance turned to the scent of dry wind and cold iron. The sky deepened into orange as dusk approached again. After a full night of travel under pale starlight, they arrived at their destination–
a tavern standing alone at the corner of the grasslands.
It was no ordinary inn.
The building sprawled like a beast made of timber and stone, its roof crooked with age, its windows dim and guarded by steel lattices. A massive iron sign swayed in the wind above the door, engraved with a single phrase in archaic runes: Hell Tavern.
Even from outside, one could feel it–the stench of blood, ale, and sin fused into the very walls.
The Princess disembarked first, straightening her cloak. "From here on," she said, her tone low, "we use no titles. No one knows my name. For the world outside, I'm only a nameless princess. But in this place… you'll call me Lainsa."
Kiaria and Diala exchanged glances.
Kiaria nodded once. "Understood, Sister Lainsa."
The Princess smiled faintly. "Good. And hide yourselves. The Hell Tavern is exactly a Hell eats those who walk in the light."
Kiaria closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened, his form had shifted–the shadow ghost. His veiled hat covered the scar, shadow form changed his robe partially faded as body invisible like a soul. Black as shadow, mouth is covered by a scaly mask, hair color turned black. Diala pulled her hood low as Lainsa handed her a black hat and cloak.
"Now," Lainsa said, voice quiet but firm, "stay close. And remember–look at no one too long. Here, curiosity kills quicker than poison."
The heavy wooden door groaned open.
Inside, chaos breathed.
The air reeked of liquor, smoke, and death. A dozen tables crowded the hall–men and women sat slouched over their drinks, their laughter sharp as blades. The scent of blood hung beneath the tang of alcohol.
Everywhere Kiaria's eyes went, he saw monsters in human form–mercenaries with broken teeth and scarred faces, assassins whispering over bloodied daggers, women with deadly eyes and the calm of predators. The walls were marked with knife slashes, and the floorboards creaked under boots stained with dried mud and worse.
The music–a haunting melody from a two-stringed lute–seemed to mock every soul there.
And yet, not one person turned to stop them. They simply stared.
A hundred eyes watched as Lainsa led them through the hall. But when Kiaria's gaze swept across the crowd–cold, detached, shadowed–many flinched and turned away. His ghostly presence carried no warmth, no scent of life. Even the killers there could feel it.
They reached the end of the hall, where a stairway wound upward to a guarded corridor. Two men with tattooed arms stepped forward until they saw Lainsa. One word escaped their lips–"VIPs." Then they stepped aside.
At the top of the stairs waited a small chamber lit by spirit lanterns. The room smelled faintly of iron and herbs. Sitting at the round table in the center was a tall man in black–gray hair, eyes the color of ash, a scar running across his jaw.
Chief Azriel of the Treasure Hunters.
"Lainsa," he said, not bowing, his voice carried no respect. "I was told you'd come. Didn't expect… children."
Lainsa smiled thinly. "Not children. Allies." She gestured to them. "Ghost and Shade."
Azriel's gaze lingered on Kiaria. "Ghost?"
Kiaria's shadow form flickered faintly, and his eyes–half mist, half malicious–met Azriel's. The chief's smirk faded.
"Shade?" he asked, turning to Diala.
She lowered her head slightly. "Where Ghost goes, I follow."
Azriel chuckled. "A single identity then. 'Ghost Shade.' Not bad."
He rose from his seat, his cloak shifting like smoke. "You've chosen a dangerous road to walk, little ones. The Hell Tavern gives freedom… but no mercy. Everyone here's been branded by blood or gold. Once you register, there's no going back."
"Then let us register," Kiaria said, his tone steady. "We came to stand, not to run."
Azriel studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Fine." He took a bronze plate from the desk and carved two words into it with a silver stylus: Ghost Shade. When he placed it into Kiaria's hand, the metal warmed slightly, embedding a faint mark of spiritual recognition.
"Now you're one," Azriel said. "Your fates, your rewards, your deaths–all linked."
Lainsa leaned back, smiling. "Perfect."
After some time, Azriel poured drinks–dark amber liquid that glowed faintly in the lantern light. "To survival," he said.
Kiaria and Diala refused politely. Lainsa chuckled.
"They're still young, Azriel." Princess murmured.
"Age doesn't matter in this place," Azriel said, draining his glass. "Only instinct." He set the cup down and his tone shifted. "Now listen. The next treasure hunt begins soon. But this one isn't ordinary. We'll be venturing into Re Ze Lure."
The name hung in the air like thunder waiting to strike.
Lainsa's eyes darkened. "Re Ze Lure… so it's open again."
"Not open," Azriel corrected grimly. "Unsealed. Something's moving beneath it."
Kiaria frowned. "Where is it?"
"A forbidden island," Azriel said. Even maps refuse to mark it. Legends say it was once a divine continent, burned down during the Age of Collapse–around twenty-five millennia ago. No one returns from there. Not even bones float back."
Silence fell.
Azriel leaned forward, his expression cold. "This time, there's no guarantee of life. Not even for me. If you want to come, understand this: you may find treasure, or you may never see the sky again."
Kiaria's lips curved faintly. "We'll come."
The chief's brow lifted. "Even knowing that?"
"Especially knowing that," Kiaria replied, his voice carrying a strange calm. "There's no meaning in walking safe roads."
Azriel chuckled softly. "You sound just like her." His eyes drifted to Lainsa. "Always smiling at death."
Lainsa shrugged. "Death's never been my enemy."
When they finally rose to leave, Azriel handed them a sealed envelope with coordinates etched in spirit ink. "Prepare yourselves. Departure–the first dawn of next month. Don't come if you're unready."
Returned to the chariot.
In the chariot, Diala finally spoke, her voice small. "Kia… there are only three days till next month. And I'm not even armed."
A soft laugh came from outside the carriage window. "Then we'll fix that."
Lainsa climbed in, her smile faint but confident. "Diala, leave it to us. You'll have what you need."
Kiaria turned to her. "Sister Lainsa… that island. Why did you call it cursed?"
Her expression darkened. "Because no one who ever landed there came back alive. Re Ze Lure isn't just an island–it's a graveyard the heavens forgot to bury."
Kiaria leaned back, his shadowed eyes glowing faintly under the light. "Then we'll rewrite its story."
The chariot rolled away through the grasslands. Behind them, the Hell Tavern glowed dimly in the distance–a den of monsters, thieves, and seekers of death.
And among its countless names carved into the walls, one new inscription burned faintly under the dim light:
Ghost Shade – Registered.