Escape

Lucian moved swiftly into the clearing, the flames from the pyre licking at the darkening sky behind him. The crackling of burning wood and flesh faded as he put distance between himself and the site of the pyre. The acrid stench clung to him, sharp and inescapable. His skin stung with each movement, the burns across his body sending sharp jolts of pain that made him grit his teeth.

His heart raced as he walked, every creak of the trees or distant sound setting his nerves on edge. He could not afford to stop. Someone would soon notice the corpse collector had not returned, and questions would arise. Each step aggravated his wounds, the raw skin beneath his clothes burning as if the fire still clung to him. Reaching into his pocket, his fingers brushed against the cool surface of the storage card. As soon as he touched it, he felt the faint, familiar pull of its magic. Closing his eyes briefly, he focused his mind and connected to the card.

The card's contents became clear to him: seven silvers and sixty-three coppers. It was not much, but it would feed him for a while and allow him to afford the lowest accommodations for some time. It was all he had, and it would have to be enough.

When he finally slowed his pace, he ducked beneath the cover of a tree and took a moment to steady his breathing. The air, though not yet night, carried a dimming chill as dusk approached. It was cool against his face, offering a brief respite, though the faint rustle of leaves above was a deceptive calm. He leaned against the trunk, wincing as the rough bark scraped against his burns. He needed a plan, and he needed it quickly.

As he continued walking, his mind began to turn over his options. The city was still some distance away, and he needed a plan. Lucian activated his wildcard abilities, focusing his thoughts as the faint glow of energy pulsed around him. The card materialized in his hand, its presence immediately unsettling.

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Name: Smoldering Veil

Rarity: Unique

Rank: Rankless

Suit: Wildcard

Description:

Drawn from the grim labor of a corpse collector, Smoldering Veil enshrouds the user in flickering embers and a thin haze of smoke. The card grants a surge of agility and strength, as though the restless energy of the pyre clings to the bearer. The user will be clad in roaring flames so intense that mere proximity can sear flesh, while direct contact reduces enemies to ashes. Every movement leaves behind smoldering embers, turning the battlefield into a burning graveyard.

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The card's texture was rough and almost alive, veins like ridges throbbing faintly beneath his touch. Being a Wildcard, it lacked the affiliations most cards carried, a detail that made its origins feel ominous and alien. It was slightly opaque, a characteristic of its status as a one-time-use card. The edges were slightly burned, and it carried the faint stench of charred flesh. At the center of the card, an image of a man engulfed in flames stood out, vivid and grotesque. He was bound to a pyre, the flames consuming him entirely, while others below writhed in the inferno, their forms indistinct but hauntingly human. The edges were marked with intricate patterns that seemed to shift under his gaze, with no number etched on the card, leaving it rankless and adding to its enigmatic nature.

In the hierarchy of cards, rarity defined not only their availability but often their raw potential. Cards were categorized as common, uncommon, rare, unique, legendary, myth, and supreme, with the latter three shrouded in mystery. Most believed that legendary and above were mere hearsay, whispered in the shadows of taverns by gamblers and collectors hoping to stumble upon one. Even Lucian, despite his experience, had never encountered anything beyond rare and doubted if such cards truly existed until now. Alongside rarity, every card carried a rank from 1 to A, denoting its lethality, effectiveness, or the energy required to wield it. The rankless nature of this card was an aberration, an unsettling void in a structured system, leaving him unsure if it was incomplete, defective, or something altogether more dangerous.

Lucian's frown deepened as he studied the card, unease twisting in his gut. The power it held was undeniable, but there was something fundamentally wrong about it. The grotesque imagery, the sensation of life beneath its surface, and the acrid smell all seemed to claw at his senses. Dangerous as it was, it could still mean the difference between survival and capture. He muttered under his breath, "What kind of twisted creation is this?" With a quiet sigh, he dismissed the card, letting it fade back into the ether and tightened his cloak. The city gates would not open for hours, but he needed to reach them before dusk.

After nearly half an hour of walking, the faint glow of Rismond's torches came into view. The road leading to the city gates was busier than he'd expected, even at this late hour. Merchants guided ox-drawn carts loaded with goods, peasants trudged with bundles of firewood, and travelers moved with weary determination. Lucian blended into the crowd, keeping his hood low as he approached the gates.

"Halt," a guard barked as he neared. Lucian froze, lowering his gaze but keeping his posture relaxed.

"Hood down," the guard said, stepping closer. Lucian obeyed, tugging the hood back just enough to reveal his face. The guard's eyes flicked over the fresh burns, his expression unreadable, but his gaze lingered for a moment longer than expected.

"Forge accident," Lucian muttered, his voice hoarse.

The guard gave a short nod, accepting the explanation. "Passage fee's ten copper."

Lucian handed over the coins, careful to keep his movements steady. As he slipped through the gates, he felt the guard's eyes lingering on his back. The faint prickle of being watched made him quicken his steps, but he resisted the urge to glance over his shoulder. Blending into the city's bustle, he disappeared into the crowd without looking back.

Rismond greeted him with its usual chaos. The main streets were lined with stalls selling everything from food to cheap trinkets, their vendors shouting over each other in an attempt to attract customers. Most enticing of all were the stalls selling cards, their colorful displays and whispered promises drawing curious eyes. The scent of roasted meat mingled with the stench of refuse, creating an unpleasant but familiar atmosphere. Lucian moved quickly, weaving through the crowds as he headed for the Red Deck district.

The Red Deck was a world apart from the city's polished center. Here, the buildings were crumbling, their facades stained with soot and grime. The air was thick with the smell of unwashed bodies and rotting garbage. Beggars sat huddled in doorways, their hands outstretched in silent plea. Among them were those with hollow, vacant stares, their faces etched with despair and resignation. Others lay motionless in the corners, their forms barely distinguishable from the refuse around them. Lucian kept his gaze forward, his steps brisk but unhurried, determined not to linger too long in their misery.

Eventually, he reached a rundown inn with a sagging sign that read "The Blind Bet." The sound of laughter and raised voices spilled out as he pushed the door open. Inside, the dimly lit room was crowded with patrons, most of them gathered around tables where games of chance were in full swing. A few glanced his way, but none paid him much attention.

He approached the bar, where a burly man was wiping down the counter with a rag that looked as if it had seen better days. Lucian's eyes caught a mark on one of the man's fingers. It was a die with four red dots etched onto it, a mark of the Suit of Dice. This mark signified the man was no novice but someone who had earned his place within the ranks of this elusive group. Followers of the Suit of Dice were reputed to carry an uncanny streak of fortune, a trait reflected in the man's steady, almost self-assured movements.

"How much for porridge and rye bread?" Lucian asked, keeping his tone even.

"Five coppers," the barkeep replied, his voice gruff but not unfriendly.

Lucian slid the coins across the counter, his fingers brushing against the rough wood. The barkeep nodded and turned away, returning moments later with a steaming bowl and a chunk of bread. The warmth of the meal and its simple aroma grounded Lucian, a small reprieve from the chaos outside.

"You new around here?" the man asked as Lucian began to eat.

"Just passing through," Lucian said, keeping his tone neutral, masking the cautious edge in his voice.

The barkeep smirked, the expression subtle but sharp. "Festival's still going strong. Lot of folks out tonight."

Lucian nodded, hiding his unease. The Innocence Parade might have concluded, but the lingering festivities ensured the city's pulse stayed lively. The porridge was watery, with only a few lumps hinting at what it was meant to be. The rye bread was tough and dry, its crust nearly as hard as the wooden counter. He focused on finishing his meal, the gears in his mind already turning as he considered his next move. The energy of the inn buzzed around him, yet Lucian felt like an outsider looking in, his purpose far removed from the revelry.

"You looking for a room?" the barkeep asked as Lucian set the bowl down, wiping his hands on his apron. His voice carried the casual indifference of someone used to transient faces.

"How much?" Lucian replied, masking the hint of weariness in his voice.

"Fifteen coppers a night. Food included," the barkeep said, glancing at him before continuing to wipe the counter.

Lucian reached into his pocket, sliding the coins across the counter. "I'll take it."

The barkeep nodded, producing a tarnished key from beneath the counter and handing it to him. "Last door on the right, second floor," he said with a quick gesture toward the staircase. "Beds aren't much, but they're better than the floor."

Lucian gave a short nod in acknowledgment, gripping the key as he turned toward the stairs. Each step creaked beneath his weight, the worn wood groaning with a disconcerting consistency. The hallway above was dimly lit, shadows clinging to the corners. The walls bore the scars of years of neglect, and a faint mustiness lingered in the air.

He counted the doors as he passed, his steps measured. At the end of the hall, the key turned in the lock with a heavy click. The door creaked open, revealing a room as shabby as he had anticipated. A narrow bed with a lumpy mattress was pushed against one wall, its sheets stained. A single window let in a sliver of light, illuminating a cracked basin on a rickety stand and a lone chair that looked as though it might collapse under its own weight.

Lucian closed the door behind him and leaned against it, letting out a long breath. The room was far from inviting, but it offered solitude, and that was enough for now. He walked to the bed and sat on its edge, the mattress sagging beneath his weight. The faint scent of mildew tickled his nose, but he ignored it.

He activated his wildcard abilities, summoning the card into his hand. Its ominous design demanded his attention. The image of the burning man stared back at him, the flames curling around his figure like a taunt. As he held the card, a faint echo seemed to rise from it, a distant, tortured scream. It was not just a card. It was the soul of the corpse collector, twisted and trapped, absorbed by the Soul Carver that had transformed it into the object he now held. The memory of the pyre resurfaced, vivid and raw. The man's frantic struggle, the way his body convulsed as the blade struck true, and the horrifying gurgle as life ebbed from his throat replayed in Lucian's mind.

Yet, what disturbed him most was not the memory itself, but his own detachment. The realization crept in with chilling clarity. The mark of the Wildcard was not just a source of power. It came with madness, an erosion of humanity that dulled morality and twisted emotions. He wondered if this was how it started, the slow unraveling of the person he once was.

A faint chuckle echoed in his mind, pulling him from his thoughts. "Enjoy the festival, Lucian. It is all about you, after all," came the mocking voice of Triboulet. His words carried a sardonic edge that made Lucian's jaw tighten. Exhaustion, however, weighed on him too heavily to respond. He let the voice fade as he lay back on the bed.

The mattress offered no comfort, its lumps pressing into his back. Outside, the noise of the inn ebbed and flowed, a chaotic symphony of laughter, muffled footsteps, and the occasional crash of glass. Lucian stared at the ceiling, his mind a tangle of thoughts and doubts. When sleep finally came, it brought no peace. In the darkness of his dreams, fire and ash consumed him, and faces twisted in anger and fear chased him endlessly. No matter how fast he ran, the flames always caught up.