Chapter 13: Downtown

The air buzzed thick—not just with Arwyn's 5,900 poules, but with Runar's own pulse, alive and jagged, pressing against his skin.

Arwyn clutched the Delacroix Diary, its leather warm and heavy. His scar stung, a dull ache radiating from the yellow glow beneath his jacket. "This place feels like it's sizing us up," he muttered, flipping the diary open. 

He snapped the diary shut, hazel eyes darting over the crowd. His faux leather jacket and denim stuck out like a glitch in this medieval sprawl. He half-wanted to sketch a tunic just to stop the stares.

Nathaniel stood beside him, spiky blue hair free now that he'd ditched the tire prop, his puffer jacket unzipped over khakis. He smirked, but his eyes were sharp, scanning the chaos. "Different's putting it tame and mild, kid. Last time I walked these streets, the towers were stumps, and they didn't breathe like a damn generator." 

The Ring of Chronos glinted on his finger as he tilted his head toward a merchant slamming his stall shut. "We're not exactly rolling out the welcome mat."

The crowd's eyes tracked them. Some were curious, and some were cold as steel. A man in a crimson robe, liripipe hood dangling past his shoulder, spat at their feet, hissing "Delacroix" like a curse.

Then another kid at the opposite side tugged his father's braies, pointing at Nathaniel's jacket. 

"Papa, he's from the void!" 

The word rippled through the throng. Void, ink-blood, cursed, and Arwyn's scar pulsed harder. "Great," he muttered. "Well, we're celebrities already."

Nathaniel nudged him forward. "Keep moving, kid. Your name's poison here, so let's not test how deep it runs yet. We're going to the spire to find more of your ability. Diary's not enough."

They hadn't gone ten steps when a shadow darted from an alley. A street rat, all grubby tunic and bare feet, with a smile that glinted yellow. The man lunged for Arwyn's sketchbook. Fingers brushed the edge before Arwyn snagged the kid's wrist, scar flaring hot.

"Nice try, punk," Arwyn growled, grip tight. The kid squirmed, eyes wide.

"You glow like the cursed ones!" The man's voice cracked, high and panicked, before he wrenched free and bolted, vanishing into the crowd.

Arwyn flexed his hand, rattled. "Glow? Is my energy that obvious, huh?" He tucked the sketchbook closer, scar still throbbing.

Nathaniel's smirk faded. "Glow's gonna get us killed, kid. Keep that scar under wraps—or at least stop flashing it like a damn beacon. You don't know how to conceal it yet." He nodded toward the skyline, where the spire pierced the clouds, its peak pulsing faint yellow—like Arwyn's own energy.

"That's our play. If your family left answers, they're there… Maybe."

The streets twisted as they moved. The cobblestone gave way to patches of dirt, then back again, like Runar couldn't decide its shape.

A horn blared somewhere ahead, and a patrol of soldiers marched past, armor etched with glowing runes. "No selling without a mark!" one barked at a trembling vendor, whose cart collapsed into piles of wood mid-plea.

Nathaniel muttered, "They've locked it down tight. We're walking a thin line."

The Crimson Spire loomed closer, its base ringed by guards. Their spears hummed louder than the wall crew's, tips flickering with that same glitchy light. A captain stepped forward. He was taller, armor pulsing red, a serpent-hilted sword at his hip. 

"No mark, no entry," he said, voice flat. His eyes narrowed, raking over them. "You're the strays from the wall, eh? Delacroix, they say. Spire's locked. Last of your kind burned here."

Arwyn's jaw clenched, scar itching to flare, but he swallowed the retort. "Burned, huh? Good to know."

Nathaniel shrugged, hands in his pockets. "The Spire wasn't locked the last time we were here."

The captain laughed, coughing. "Well then! Seems you've travelled the seas for two thousand years, eh?" His laugh quickly turned to a dark, serious expression. "Out, before I inform the Royal Guard. 

Nathaniel took a deep sigh, then nodded in acceptance. "We'll be back. Keep the lights on." They turned away. No fight, just a cold retreat into the crowd. The captain's stare bored into their backs, heavy as stone.

"So… What's Plan B?" Arwyn asked, voice low.

Nathaniel nodded. "Inn first. Low profile, and regroup. Then we figure out how to crack that Spire."

The inn sat crooked on a side street. The timber walls were sagging, and smoke curled from the chimney. A sign swung above the door, faded runes spelling something Arwyn couldn't read. Looked like a language exclusive to those who were true Runarians. Nathaniel didn't notice the sign, so he didn't get the chance to translate it for him.

Inside, the air smelled of stale ale and sweat. The innkeeper was a stout man in a stained doublet, gray hair spilling from a coif—looked up from wiping a counter. His eyes flicked to Arwyn's scar, then Nathaniel's blue hair, and his face hardened. "Rooms?"

"Yeah," Arwyn said, leaning on the counter. "Two, if you've got 'em."

The innkeeper snorted, crossing his arms. He noticed the inky aura that circulated Arwyn. He didn't have a problem with Nathaniel however. "Not for Delacroix blood. Curse'll rot my beams. Bringin' fire and ash to my place." His voice was a growl, brooking no argument. He pointed at Arwyn. "You. Out."

Arwyn's scar flared, a hot spike of anger surging, but he bit it back. "Seriously?" Nathaniel raised a hand, calm as ever. A smirk tugged at his lips. "Suit yourself, pal. Enjoy the quiet." And so, they stepped out, door slamming behind them, and the street swallowed them again.

"Such a friendly place eh?" Arwyn muttered with such sarcasm, kicking a loose stone. "What's their deal?"

Nathaniel fell into step beside him, hands still in his pockets. "Delacroix Curse—old tale, kid. Your kin split the rings, locked Terra Incognita's chaos behind walls like the one we just crossed. Saved the continent, sure, but it cost 'em. Passion Energy turned on 'em. It burned 'em out, mind or body, sometimes both. Locals say they fled to Earth, so it left Runar to rot with the mess. Now? Your name's a plague not just in Runar, but the whole Incognita. Folk'll think you'll spark the fire again and finish what your ancestors started."

Arwyn's steps slowed, diary heavy in his pack. "So I'm a walking bomb?" His scar pulsed, a dull ache syncing with Runar's hum.

Nathaniel smirked, sidelong. "Yeah, maybe. Or a key. Depends who's holding you when you go off."

The streets stretched on, a maze of cobblestone and human life.

Runar wasn't just alive. It was unstable, feeding off something deep. Arwyn's sneakers slapped the stone, Nathaniel's khakis swishing beside him, their Earth gear a stark contrast to the tunics and hose around them. Minutes bled into each other, the Spire's glow a distant tease.

They rounded a corner, and Arwyn collided with someone—hard. He stumbled back, catching a flash of steel and leather. A girl stood there, ponytail high and tight, armor gleaming—patchwork like the guards' but sharper, swirls etched into the plates, not runes.

A whipsword coiled at her hip, and its segmented blade glinted. There was a dagger that hung beside it, simple but pretty wicked. Her aura crackled. Passion Energy, raw and wild, hotter than Arwyn's but different, untamed.

She wasn't a Dream Sketcher, since he'd feel the ink if she were. Her amber eyes locked on him, sharp as her blades. "Watch it, glowstick."

Arwyn steadied himself, smirking despite the sting in his chest. "Glowstick? Cute. What's your deal?"

She tilted her head, sizing him up. "Santina. And you're trouble," she replied, smelling. "You reek of ink and bad luck." Her voice was steel wrapped in silk, a warning laced with curiosity.

Nathaniel stepped up, hands still casual. "Bad luck's our specialty. You local, gal?"

"Born here," Santina said, shrugging. "And you're definitely not. Those clothes are a dead giveaway." Her gaze flicked to Nathaniel's puffer, then Arwyn's scar, lingering a beat too long.

Arwyn chuckled, wiping the dust off his clothes. "It's called a jacket. Faux and leather."

"Yeah, whatever. Stuff is not welcome here." Santina stared at him, looking up and down his appearance.

Before Arwyn could fire back, the diary jolted in his pack, pages rustling. He yanked it free. There was new ink, and it bled across the paper: 

"Generation 120: Arwyn Delacroix. The Spire wakes when the Quill bleeds." 

His scar seared, poules dipping (5800). And something tugged at him, deep and insistent.

Santina's eyes narrowed. "That's no tourist trinket."

A scream tore from the street nearby—sharp, alive, and it echoed over the rooftops. The ground trembled, faint but real, cobblestones rattling underfoot. Arwyn's breath caught, diary trembling in his hands.

Santina stepped back, hand resting on her whipsword. "That scar. That's the Quill's…" She staggered even more, and after a moment, she smirked. "The world's unfair with your kind. Good luck, cursed ones." She turned, vanishing into the crowd like a shadow.

Nathaniel grabbed Arwyn's arm, pulling him back with widened eyes. "We need her, kid—or we're fucking screwed." His voice was low, urgent, blue hair catching the Spire's distant glow.

Arwyn stared after her, scar burning, diary heavy. Runar watched, and its heart was starting to beat, even if it had no reason why.