Paths and Shadows

Lucian woke up gasping for air, his body drenched in sweat. The oppressive weight of the dream clung to him like a suffocating shroud, its vivid imagery refusing to fade. He pressed a trembling hand to his chest, feeling the frantic thud of his heart. "Just a dream," he whispered under his breath, the words a fragile mantra as he fought to steady himself. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, moving with the sluggishness of someone dragging themselves free from a mire. The cool air against his sweat-soaked skin sent a shiver down his spine, sharpening the edges of his awareness.

"Well, good morning, sunshine," came Triboulet's voice, lively and full of mockery. The tone was as grating as it was familiar, and Lucian could practically picture the smirk the specter would be wearing if he had a face. "Sleep well? Or were the nightmares a little too spicy for your taste?"

Lucian rubbed his temples, trying to ignore the insistent voice. "It was nothing. Just a dream."

"Just a dream, he says," Triboulet drawled, stretching the words as though savoring their taste. "Like I wasn't right there with you. I've got to say, I think the flames were a nice touch. And the screaming was exquisite."

"Leave it," Lucian snapped, his tone sharp. The ghost of a headache began to form, worsened by Triboulet's constant prattle. "I don't need your yapping mouth right now."

Triboulet chuckled, the sound low and grating, like broken glass grinding together. "Touchy this morning, aren't we? Fine, fine, I'll let it go. But while we're on the subject of fun, how about we kill the drunkards downstairs? They're just lying there, ripe for the taking. A few lives for a handful of cards. It's a win-win."

Lucian's fists clenched involuntarily, his nails biting into his palms. "No," he said through gritted teeth. "I am not a murderer."

Triboulet's laughter turned sharp and incredulous. "Not a murderer, he says. My dear Lucian, did you forget the corpse collector? The one you so kindly freed from his mortal coil? Or does that not count since he was in your way?"

Lucian's throat tightened, the memory surging forward unbidden. The flames, the blade, the way he had steeled himself to survive. He forced the thought back, speaking through clenched teeth. "That was different. I have no choice."

"Oh, I see," Triboulet said, his voice dripping with mockery. "When you do it, it's survival. But these drunken fools downstairs? Now that would be crossing a line. I love your moral gymnastics. They're quite entertaining."

Lucian glared at the empty room, willing himself to calm down. "Enough. I won't do it. I'm in control here, not you."

Triboulet's laughter echoed in his mind, dark and tinged with a manic edge. "For now," he said, the words dripping with ominous promise. "But you can't keep me caged forever, Lucian. Sooner or later, you'll slip, and I'll be right there to pick up the pieces."

Lucian forced himself to take a deep breath, pushing the voice to the back of his mind. His stomach churned, a sharp reminder of his hunger. He focused on that tangible need, using it to ground himself. Rising from the bed, he straightened his cloak and headed downstairs, his steps deliberate and measured.

The common room of the inn was a chaotic sight, a testament to the revelry of the night before. Overturned chairs and spilled ale stained the wooden floor, and the heavy stench of stale alcohol and sweat lingered in the air. Most of the patrons were still slumped over tables or sprawled across the floor, their snores weaving a discordant rhythm with the occasional clatter of crockery. Among the disarray, a young girl darted between tables, her movements quick and practiced as she cleared away empty mugs and half-eaten scraps of food. Her wiry frame and no-nonsense demeanor suggested that she was no stranger to this routine.

Lucian made his way to the bar, his steps measured as he avoided stepping on any limbs sticking out from beneath the tables. Taking a seat at the bar, he watched the girl for a moment. She caught his eye briefly before turning her head and calling out, "Dad, we've got an early riser."

From the back room, a burly man emerged, wiping his hands on a stained apron. His face bore the rugged lines of someone who had seen more than his fair share of hard days. Despite his tired appearance, there was a sharpness in his eyes, a no-nonsense demeanor that made it clear he ran a tight ship, chaos or not.

"You're up early," he said, "What'll it be?"

Lucian met the man's gaze with a faint nod. "What does my coin cover for food?"

The barkeeper studied him briefly before answering. "The same as last night," he said, his tone matter-of-fact. "Porridge and rye bread."

Lucian nodded again. "That'll do."

Chance leaned on the counter, watching him for a moment longer before introducing himself. "Name's Chance Merrick," he said, extending a large hand. "And the one cleaning up is my daughter, Miya."

Lucian hesitated for a fraction of a second before reaching out with his unmarked hand, the one free of the telltale sign of his wildcard status. He gripped Chance's hand briefly, feeling the firm grasp and the rough calluses that spoke of a lifetime of labor. Chance's sharp eyes flicked to the burns scattered across Lucian's fingers, but he said nothing, merely filing the detail away.

"Lucian" he replied simply, offering a polite nod in Miya's direction. She didn't pause in her work, merely acknowledging him with a curt nod of her own.

When the food arrived, Lucian ate in silence at first. The porridge was watery, but its warmth offered a small comfort. The bread was tough, requiring a deliberate effort to chew, but it served its purpose. As he worked through the meal, he found himself breaking the quiet.

"I'll be staying for a while," Lucian said, his tone neutral. "Are there any jobs around here?"

Chance leaned back slightly, crossing his arms as he considered the question. "Depends on what you're looking for. Farmers need extra hands, merchants always need someone to guard their wares. There's work, but none of it pays much."

Lucian frowned slightly, his thoughts turning over. "Anything that pays better?"

Chance's expression grew a touch more serious. "Better pay comes with higher risks. There's the black market, but you'd need to tread carefully. It's not a place for the faint-hearted or the unprepared."

Lucian's interest was piqued, though he kept his expression neutral. "What kind of work does the black market deal in?"

Chance's gaze sharpened, his tone lowering slightly. "Smuggling, dealing in rare cards, escorting things or people that shouldn't be seen by the law. There's also a few who need help with private trades or unconventional crafting work. It's all dangerous, but if you're careful, the rewards can be worth the risk."

Lucian hesitated, then leaned forward slightly. "What about card creation? Any demand for that?"

Chance nodded, though his expression turned more serious. "Always. Cards are valuable, no matter the suit. But in the black market, the demands are usually... questionable. You'd best tread lightly if you take that kind of work. It's easy to get tangled up with the wrong crowd."

Lucian nodded thoughtfully, the information slotting into place. His family hailed from a long line of artisans within the Spade Suit, a lineage renowned for their precise craftsmanship and dedication. Nearly all his ancestors who bore the mark of the Spade pursued the path with unwavering commitment, joining the ranks of the Gilded Shovel, an elite guild dedicated to advancing the craft of card creation. Their meticulous work had earned them respect and prestige, traits Lucian had always admired but could never fully inherit. Even those that didn't get the mark of the Spade still pursue an artisan craft.

His father had taught him the basics of card creation, passing down foundational knowledge as any Spade artisan would. But the true intricacies of the craft, the techniques that required control over energy, were reserved for those who bore the mark of the Spade. This mark was bestowed during the coming-of-age ceremony, a rite Lucian had anticipated with both trepidation and hope. Yet, when his time came, his destiny took an unexpected turn. Instead of the Spade, he was marked as a Wildcard, an anomaly that set him apart and severed his path from the traditions of his family.

Without the mark of the Spade, Lucian's knowledge remained rudimentary, like owning a beautifully forged blade without the skill to wield it. He had the tools but lacked the energy techniques, the lifeblood that transformed raw materials into something extraordinary. It was as though he had been handed a lute without strings, capable of understanding its form but never able to coax a melody from it.

He turned inward, seeking Triboulet's input. "Can my abilities help with energy techniques?"

Triboulet's response was immediate, his tone dripping with malice and glee. "Of course they can," he said, his voice curling through Lucian's mind like smoke. "But why waste time on something so... dull? You could simply kill Chance. His mark is a four-dotted dice, a Trickster of the Dice Suit. Imagine the power his card would hold."

Lucian's stomach turned at the suggestion, a cold knot forming deep within him. "I'd rather be dead than kill people in cold blood," he murmured, his voice barely audible, the words more for himself than the entity in his mind.

Triboulet erupted in a fit of manic laughter, the sound echoing in Lucian's mind like a cacophony of broken strings. "Oh, you're priceless!" Triboulet's voice dripped with mocking glee. "The hypocrite speaks! You've already spilled blood to save your precious hide, and yet here you are, playing the virtuous saint. Tell me, Lucian, do your lies keep you warm at night, or is it just the fire of your guilt?"

Chance, overhearing, raised an eyebrow, his expression curious but not accusatory. "You talking to yourself, lad?"

Lucian glanced up, masking his unease with a faint smile. "Just talking to myself."

Triboulet chuckled darkly, the sound sending a chill down Lucian's spine. "Suit yourself," he said, his tone laced with sardonic amusement. "But remember, I can create cards far better than those Spades ever could."

Lucian forced the voice to the back of his mind, focusing instead on the path ahead. The idea of taking on card creation tasks intrigued him, not just for the potential coins but for the opportunity to test his abilities. He decided to explore the idea further, hoping he could navigate the shadows of the black market without losing himself.

Chance gave him detailed directions to the dark market, his tone carrying an undertone of caution. "Be careful," he said. "There are plenty of scammers and folks with ill intent down there. Keep your wits about you, and don't trust anyone too quickly."

Lucian nodded, rising from his seat and straightening his cloak. "Thanks for the warning," he said, his voice steady. He turned to leave, his mind already turning over the challenges that lay ahead.

As he left the inn, at the site of the burnt pyre, a group of Warriors stood in grim silence. The acrid smell of charred flesh lingered in the air, mingling with the earthy scent of blood-soaked soil. Tristan, a Champion clad in battle-worn armor, knelt beside the pyre, his sharp eyes scanning the remains.

"The corpse collector didn't return last night," one of the warriors reported. "No sign of him except for some blood."

Tristan's gaze narrowed as he examined the scene. The pyre had been thoroughly burned, leaving little evidence behind. But the faint traces of blood told a story, one that hinted at something far more sinister.

"It looks like someone escaped," Tristan said, rising to his full height. "Possibly a wildcard."

The warriors exchanged uneasy glances. Wildcards were unpredictable, their abilities unbound by the rules that governed the other suits. A rogue wildcard was a threat that could not be ignored.

"Inform the higher-ups," Tristan ordered. "Tighten security around Rismond. I want to know the moment anything unusual happens."

As the warriors dispersed, Tristan remained by the pyre, his thoughts troubled. The signs were subtle, but his instincts told him they were dealing with something dangerous. He would not rest until the mystery was solved.

Back in Rismond, Lucian moved through the bustling streets, the directions Chance had given him guiding his path. The dark market loomed ahead, a maze of shadowy alleys and concealed stalls. Every step felt like venturing deeper into a den of vipers, but he steeled himself, determined to see the task through.