Threads Of Discord

The morning sun streamed through the stained glass windows of Drakehaven, casting fractured rays of light over the lively scene within. The tavern buzzed with energy—merchants argued over exaggerated rumors of disappearing villagers, adventurers boasted about nonexistent conquests, and a bard strummed an out-of-tune lute in a desperate attempt to be noticed.

Arkan Veris sat at a corner table with Kaelith, poking at the unidentifiable contents of his breakfast plate. "What is this?" he muttered, inspecting a particularly rubbery piece of meat.

Kaelith, already halfway through her meal, glanced up. "If you don't know, it's probably better not to ask." She smirked, spearing a piece of her own food. "It's not like we have many options. Unless you want to go hunt Nullborn for lunch."

"Tempting," Arkan replied dryly.

As they ate, a hooded figure slipped through the entrance of Drakehaven. The figure paused briefly, scanning the room as if searching for someone, then disappeared into the bustling crowd. Arkan's gaze lingered on the spot where they had stood, a strange sense of unease creeping over him.

"See something?" Kaelith asked, following his line of sight.

"Maybe. Not sure yet." He shook his head and went back to his plate, though the thought nagged at him like a splinter.

After a few minutes of silent eating, Arkan leaned back in his chair, his brow furrowed in thought. "Do you think any of the survivors made it out of the forest?"

Kaelith wiped her mouth with a napkin and leaned back as well. "Some of them, probably. People can be surprisingly resilient when their lives are on the line."

Arkan hesitated. "There was this boy… I saw these threads around him. Dark, tangled. It was like—like he was connected to something beyond all of this."

Kaelith raised an eyebrow. "And here I thought I was the cryptic one." She sighed, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the table. "Look, I'm not saying you're wrong, but you can't save everyone, Arkan. The world's falling apart. We have enough on our plates without chasing after every mystery thread you see."

Her tone was dismissive, but Arkan caught a flicker of doubt in her eyes.

Before he could respond, a familiar figure approached their table. Thrain, the burly man they had met earlier, loomed over them with an almost sheepish grin.

"You two look like you could use some work," Thrain said, pulling up a chair without waiting for an invitation.

"Straight to the point. I like that," Kaelith said, raising her mug.

Thrain chuckled. "Got a job for you, if you're interested. Good coin, and it might help you figure out what's going on in this city."

Arkan perked up. "What's the job?"

"Escort a merchant caravan," Thrain said. "They're heading to a hidden outpost on the outskirts. Word is, the merchant's got ties to the council—might know something about all this unrest."

Kaelith leaned back, folding her arms. "Sounds simple enough. What's the catch?"

Thrain hesitated. "The outskirts have been… dangerous lately. People disappearing. Shadows moving where they shouldn't be. If you take the job, you'll need to be ready for anything."

Arkan and Kaelith exchanged a glance. It wasn't the most appealing offer, but it was better than sitting around waiting for answers to fall into their laps.

"We're in," Arkan said.

Before they could finalize the details with Thrain, a booming voice cut through the lively tavern.

"You! Cheating little rat!"

Arkan barely looked up from his mug, recognizing the telltale tone of a drunk troublemaker. A hulking mercenary stomped toward him, pointing a sausage-like finger in his direction.

"I wasn't even playing cards," Arkan said flatly, sipping his drink as if bored.

"Doesn't matter!" the mercenary bellowed. "You've got a cheater's face!"

Kaelith snorted, setting her drink down. "You've got a drunk's brain. Is this really where we're going this morning?"

The mercenary glared at her. "You want to say that again, lady?"

Kaelith smirked. "Sure: drunk. Brain. Sound it out."

Arkan sighed, rubbing his temples. "Kaelith…"

"Don't blame me," she said, raising her hands. "I'm just being honest."

The mercenary roared in frustration and swung his fist at Arkan, who ducked without spilling a drop of his drink.

"Alright, here we go again," Arkan muttered, pushing his chair back as the mercenary lunged at him.

Unlike their first brawl, Arkan and Kaelith moved with practiced efficiency, navigating the chaos like seasoned veterans. Arkan sidestepped a flying chair, using light threads to yank a mug from a nearby table and fling it into the mercenary's face.

Kaelith, meanwhile, grabbed a bottle from the bar and smashed it over another brawler's head. "At least this one's less damp than our last fight," she quipped, a sly grin on her face.

"Speak for yourself!" Arkan shouted as a mug of ale splashed across his chest.

The tavern descended into chaos once again, with patrons joining in for no reason other than the thrill of fighting. Kaelith took down a particularly rowdy man with a swift kick to the stomach, then turned to Arkan. "You're getting better at this. Almost like you're enjoying yourself."

"I wouldn't go that far," Arkan replied, dodging a punch and retaliating with a solid elbow to the attacker's ribs.

The mercenary who had started the fight came at Arkan again, this time swinging a comically oversized axe. Arkan rolled his eyes, sidestepping the swing and grabbing the haft of the weapon with a thread-enhanced grip.

"Why does everyone here have ridiculous weapons?" he muttered, yanking the axe away and tossing it across the room.

Kaelith laughed, grabbing a barstool and hurling it at another brawler. "Welcome to Lyraeth!"

Eventually, the staff of Drakehaven stormed in, armed with cudgels and no patience. They broke up the fight, tossing the instigators—and a few unlucky bystanders—into the street.

Arkan and Kaelith stayed seated, looking as innocent as possible while the barkeep glared daggers at them.

"One more stunt like that," he growled, "and you're out. No exceptions."

Kaelith raised her mug in mock solemnity. "We'll be angels from here on out. Promise."

The barkeep snorted and stomped off, muttering something about adventurers ruining his morning.

The room was suffocatingly small, its air thick with unspoken thoughts. A single lantern on the desk flickered weakly, casting jagged shadows on the walls. Arkan sat on the edge of his cot, staring blankly at the floor. Across the room, Kaelith leaned back against her pillow, spinning her dagger idly between her fingers.

The blade was sleek, its edge glinting in the dim light—a weapon she'd claimed from one of the mercenaries they had fought with the previous day. When Arkan had questioned her need for it, she'd simply shrugged and said, "Old habits," though he suspected she liked the reassurance of having a weapon close by.

"You're brooding again," Kaelith said suddenly, breaking the silence. Her voice was light, but her emerald eyes didn't waver from him.

Arkan sighed, rubbing his temples. "I can't stop thinking about them."

Kaelith lowered the dagger, watching him carefully. "The survivors?"

"The boy. The families. Everyone who ran into the forest," Arkan muttered. "We just… left them. I don't even know if they made it. And that boy—there was something wrong with those threads I saw around him. Something dark."

Kaelith sat up, slipping the dagger back under her pillow. "We did what we could, Arkan. Sometimes, that's all you can do."

Her tone was steady, almost gentle, but Arkan shook his head, his voice filled with guilt. "Is it, though? What if we could've done more? What if we abandoned them when they needed us most?"

Kaelith sighed, leaning back against the wall. "You can drive yourself mad with 'what-ifs.' Believe me, I've been there. But sitting here and beating yourself up won't bring them back—if they're even gone. And anyway, you're still here. You still have a chance to do something."

Arkan looked at her, surprised by the weight in her words. But before he could reply, a sudden chill swept through the room, cutting through the stale air like a blade.

He stiffened. "Did you feel that?"

Kaelith frowned, her hand instinctively going to the dagger under her pillow. "Feel what?"

"A pull on the threads," Arkan whispered. His glowing eyes darted to the corners of the room, as if searching for something unseen. "It's faint, but it's there. Like…"

"Like what?" Kaelith pressed, her voice taut.

"Like the shard," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. "Or something worse."

A sharp knock on the door shattered the tense silence, making them both jump. It was deliberate and impossibly loud, each sound reverberating through the room like an echo in their very minds.

Kaelith was on her feet in an instant, the dagger in her hand. She cast Arkan a wary glance. "Were you expecting someone?"

He shook his head, rising to stand beside her.

The knock came again, louder this time, and with it, the lantern flickered violently before going out, plunging the room into near darkness.

Kaelith gripped the dagger tighter. "I'm starting to hate this city."

She opened the door cautiously, revealing a figure cloaked in shadows. They stood motionless in the doorway, their hooded form blending unnaturally into the thick darkness that seemed to ripple around them.

The air grew colder, and Arkan felt the threads around him tighten, as though reality itself was holding its breath.

"If you want answers," the figure said, their voice layered with an unnatural echo, "meet me at the Whispering Spire by dawn."

Kaelith tightened her grip on the dagger, her eyes narrowing. "And if we don't?"

The figure tilted their head, the movement slow and unnervingly deliberate. "Then you'll lose more than you've already failed to save."

Arkan flinched, the words cutting through him like a blade. Guilt flooded his mind, bringing with it images of the survivors—the terrified faces of those who had fled into the forest, the boy with the dark threads coiled around him.

Kaelith stepped forward, her voice sharp and defiant. "What do you know about the survivors?"

But the figure gave no answer. Instead, they dissolved into the shadows, their form unraveling like a tapestry being torn apart. The oppressive chill vanished with them, leaving the room silent and heavy with unease.

Kaelith shut the door and turned to Arkan, her face a mix of frustration and concern. "Well, that was sufficiently creepy. Do you really think we should trust someone who makes death threats sound poetic?"

"They know something," Arkan said, his voice firm despite the lingering weight of guilt in his chest. "About the shard. About the survivors. I can't ignore that."

Kaelith groaned, sheathing her dagger with a dramatic flourish. "Of course you can't. You wouldn't be you if you did." She jabbed a finger at him. "But let me just state, for the record, that this is a terrible idea."

Before Arkan could respond, there was a quieter knock at the door—a distinct contrast to the one before. Kaelith frowned but opened it cautiously.

Thrain stood on the other side, his rugged face illuminated by the faint light spilling in from the tavern hall. The burly man carried the distinct scent of ale, though his demeanor was more businesslike than drunken.

"Thought I'd find you here," he said, his deep voice gruff but amiable. "Wanted to confirm you're still in for the job."

Arkan exchanged a glance with Kaelith, who gave a small shrug. "The escort mission?" Arkan asked.

Thrain nodded. "Merchant caravan leaves at midday tomorrow. Gold's good, and the route's quiet enough—unless, of course, you like surprises." He smirked. "Still interested?"

Kaelith hesitated. "Midday might be… complicated."

Thrain raised an eyebrow, waiting for an explanation, but Arkan stepped forward. "We'll be there," he said firmly.

Kaelith shot him a look, but Thrain grinned. "Good. Don't be late."

As he left, Kaelith turned to Arkan, her irritation clear. "So we're going to the Whispering Spire and escorting a caravan tomorrow? Great. What's next, single-handedly saving Lyraeth before lunch?"

Arkan managed a faint smile, though the weight of the night still hung heavy in his chest. "If it helps us find answers, it's worth it."

Kaelith groaned, flopping back onto her cot. "You're going to get us killed, you know that?"

Arkan sat back down, staring into the darkness where the shadowy figure had stood. Kaelith's earlier words echoed in his mind: "Sometimes, that's all you can do."

He wasn't sure he believed that, but he knew one thing: he wasn't done trying.

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