Those that Lurk Underground

The lofty silence of the library in the sixth district shattered like glass when the heavy wooden doors were splintered from their hinges. Cyprian Ashdown, an Adept of the Lodge, stood frozen for a moment, his breath hitching as his eyes darted to the sound. His hand, previously resting on his chin as he pondered over the ancient tome before him, now hovered in mid-air, tension rippling through his body like a coiled spring.

A moment ago, he'd been standing on the high balcony of the library, peering over the sprawling city of Koona below. The towers and spires stretched into the hazy light of the early evening, the streets bustling with the perpetual motion of a city caught between prosperity and unrest. The pages of his book had held the answers—or so he thought. But the information he'd uncovered was incomplete, fragments of a dangerous puzzle that could spell ruin for the Lodge if left unresolved.

"The Lodge will not take this information well," Cyprian had muttered to himself, the faint glow of Atta surrounding him as he manipulated the pages to hover in the air, flipping them rapidly with an unseen force. "Koona will burn if this is true. I need to—"

The sound of splintering wood tore through the room like a scream, and his words died in his throat. He spun toward the source of the noise, his heart racing.

The mangled remains of a heavily armored corpse were hurled through the broken doorway, slamming into the library's polished floor. A sickly sizzle filled the air as molten metal fused with charred flesh, the acrid smell stinging Cyprian's nose. The armor had been warped and twisted by extreme heat, the insignia of a noble house barely recognizable.

"What in Lorian's name…" Cyprian hissed, his voice trembling as he instinctively waved his hand. Atta sprang to life, forming a protective shield that shimmered faintly in front of him. His connection to the flows was strong, but the Atta felt sluggish tonight, as though resisting his commands.

Then, from the shadowed corridor beyond the ruined doorway, two figures emerged.

They moved like wraiths, cloaked in flowing white, their faces obscured. The first wore a two-horned mask that covered his features entirely, hunched slightly as he leaned on a staff. His movements were unnervingly fluid for a man who seemed frail at first glance. The second figure was starkly different—a man with no visible mask, his sharp features illuminated by the flickering light of the library. He walked with an air of calm confidence, his hands tucked behind his back, as if the chaos around him were of no consequence.

Cyprian's eyes widened. He knew the stories, the whispers of these ghost-like operatives who moved in the shadows of Koona. The Revenant. A thieves' syndicate, yes—but something far more dangerous than simple brigands. They had been growing bolder, disrupting the power structures of Koona, targeting noble houses, and now… the Lodge.

"Who dares to attack a Sorcerer of the Lodge?" Cyprian growled, his voice sharper than his trembling hands would suggest. He flicked his wrist, and a piercing tendril of Atta shot toward the blind man with the staff, aiming straight for his chest.

But the wraith did not flinch.

The attack collided with an invisible shield of Atta, the flow unraveling as if consumed by something far more potent. Cyprian staggered, his connection severed with a force that sent a spike of pain through his skull. His control was undone in an instant, as though the blind man's harmony had swallowed his own.

The blind man tilted his head slightly, his voice soft but commanding. "It would do well for you not to fight."

Cyprian snarled, pulling Atta from the air once more, this time flinging a barrage of books and tomes toward the intruders. The books soared like missiles, but the blind man danced through them with an almost casual grace, his staff knocking some aside while others simply missed their mark.

"I need time…" Cyprian muttered under his breath, his eyes darting toward the table where his resin rings lay. The potent artifact could boost his Atta control, giving him a chance to turn the tide. He reached for them, using Atta to pull the rings toward him, but the blind man's staff lashed out, slamming into his ribs. Cyprian hissed in pain, stumbling backward.

Another strike came, this one aimed for his face. He barely avoided it, but the staff connected with his thigh instead, forcing him to kneel. Each blow was precise, calculated to disorient him rather than kill.

Desperation clawed at him as he siphoned energy from the resin rings, weaving it into a makeshift shield. The Atta barrier flickered as the blind man pressed forward, relentless.

"Why?" Cyprian spat, his voice cracking. "Why attack the Lodge? Your syndicate of thieves has no quarrel with us!"

The blind man's voice was calm, almost indifferent. "The Lodge meddles where it should not. Your quest for knowledge leads only to destruction."

Cyprian's anger flared, his shield holding for a moment longer before cracking under the relentless assault. "You don't understand! If the anomalies continue unchecked, Koona will—"

"It matters not," the blind man cut in, slamming his staff against Cyprian's shoulder, sending him sprawling onto the desk.

Before Cyprian could regain his footing, the second man—the one without the mask—stepped forward. His movements were unhurried, almost leisurely, but there was a deadly precision to the way he placed himself behind Cyprian.

A cold blade pressed against Cyprian's neck, and his blood turned to ice.

"You're sloppy, Volim," the man said, his voice smooth and amused. "I had to intervene before you got yourself killed."

The blind man—Volim—snorted. "I was handling it, Lancelot."

Lancelot. The name struck Cyprian like a physical blow. The leader of the Revenant. The mastermind behind their growing influence.

Cyprian's mind raced, searching for a way out. The Atta in his hand still flickered, barely holding on. If he could just—

"I wouldn't," Lancelot said, his voice almost a purr. The blade at Cyprian's neck shifted, its edge biting just enough to draw blood. "Resin-infused steel. No shield will save you from it. I've learned that lesson well."

"What do you want?" Cyprian ground out, his voice laced with defiance.

Lancelot crouched beside him, his expression almost pitying. "You, my dear Sorcerer, were in the wrong place at the wrong time. The Lodge is a relic, clinging to power it no longer deserves. You're a pawn in a game far greater than you can comprehend."

"I serve the Lodge," Cyprian spat.

"And that's why you'll die," Lancelot replied softly.

Before Cyprian could react, a sharp, searing pain exploded through his chest. He gasped, looking down to see a bony, serpent-like appendage—no, a tail—protruding from his torso. His vision blurred as blood pooled beneath him.

The last thing he saw was the creature beside Lancelot, its skeletal frame hovering in the air, its crimson eye gleaming with a malevolent light.

Lancelot rose, his expression calm as he exhaled a cloud of resin smoke. "You would have been useful," he said, almost wistfully. "But you're a piece that doesn't fit into the puzzle I'm building."

Volim's masked face turned toward him. "You didn't need to kill him. He could have answered questions."

Lancelot smirked. "The Lodge would never let him live if they found out he talked. This way, he's a martyr, not a traitor. Poetic, isn't it?"

Volim took a puff of the resin smoke Lancelot offered him and coughed. "If this ends with you dead, it might just be worth it."

Lancelot chuckled. "Oh, Volim. You wound me."

Behind him, the skeletal creature coiled and hovered, its crimson eye watching. The Revenant moved through Koona, dismantling its hierarchy one careful strike at a time. And Lancelot? He would play the game until the board was his.