The Shattered Reflection

The city of Cenith was a labyrinth of contradictions, a place where light and shadow danced on the edges of perception. Beneath the heavy veil of fog that clung to the cobblestone streets, the city breathed with a pulse that was both ancient and eternal. The gleam of gas lamps flickered like dying stars, casting fleeting shadows that whispered of secrets too old to be told. The skyline, a jagged silhouette of spires and towers, seemed to reach toward the heavens as though in search of something beyond their reach. Yet, there was no heaven in Cenith—only the cold embrace of a city caught between two worlds, its soul divided by a barrier that few could see but all could feel.

Erith Vale stood at the edge of a narrow alley, his coat collar turned up against the biting wind that swept through the streets. His eyes, cold and unyielding, stared into the heart of the city, where the Veil flickered like a dying ember, its tendrils curling and twisting around the fabric of reality. A place where the boundaries between the human and the supernatural were not merely blurred but fractured, broken, and remade by forces beyond comprehension.

He had not come back to Cenith willingly. The city, with all its hidden corners and forgotten histories, had called him, pulling him back like an invisible thread woven into the very marrow of his bones. But Erith had come for one thing, and one thing only: to uncover the truth. And if the truth meant shattering the fragile peace that held the city together, so be it.

The cases had been strange at first—murders with no rhyme or reason, bodies found in impossible places, their faces contorted in expressions of pure terror. But it was the way the dead seemed to whisper after they had been taken—silent words pressed into the fabric of time itself—that caught his attention. There was something more, something hidden beneath the blood and the dust, something that tied these deaths together like the threads of an intricate, cursed tapestry.

His footsteps echoed through the alley as he made his way toward the darkened doorway of a small, inconspicuous tavern. The scent of stale ale and unwashed bodies wafted from within, the murmur of voices a faint hum behind the thick, weathered door. Erith paused, his hand resting on the handle, his thoughts as fractured as the world around him.

It had been years since he had stepped into a place like this. Too many years. Years spent in silence, lost to the weight of memories that gnawed at him like a hunger that would never be satisfied. He had left the City Watch, abandoning the only life he had known. The loss of his wife, his child—a tragedy shrouded in shadows—had driven him into isolation, away from the watchful eyes of the city and the endless whispers of ghosts he could not escape.

But tonight, those whispers had found him again.

Erith pushed open the door, the creak of wood mingling with the murmurs of the tavern's occupants. The warmth of the room greeted him, but it was the tension that lingered in the air, thick and heavy like a storm waiting to break, that caught his attention. Eyes flicked toward him, but none met his gaze. They never did. Not in Cenith.

He approached the bar, where a man with graying hair and tired eyes polished a glass with slow, deliberate motions. The bartender, as always, wore the mask of indifference, but there was a flicker in his eyes—a recognition that did not belong.

"Erith Vale," the bartender said, his voice low, as if speaking the name aloud might shatter something fragile. "Haven't seen you in years. Thought you were dead."

Erith's lips curled into a shadow of a smile, a gesture that was all sharp edges and bitterness. "I'm not dead. Not yet."

The bartender didn't respond, instead sliding a glass of whiskey toward him. Erith took it without hesitation, his fingers brushing against the cool surface. It was a simple gesture, but it brought a small measure of comfort in a city that had long since stopped offering any. He tipped the glass back, savoring the burn as it slid down his throat, and then set it down with a soft clink.

There were questions in the room, questions that hung in the air like the weight of a thousand unspoken truths. Erith didn't need to ask them. He already knew what was coming.

The murder. The victims. The whispers.

"All of them had ties to the Order," the bartender murmured, his voice barely audible over the clatter of glasses and the low hum of conversation. "The Forgotten."

Erith's pulse quickened, but he didn't show it. He could feel the Veil pressing against the edges of his mind, an invisible force tugging at the seams of reality, and he knew—the answers were hidden in the shadows. Somewhere between the truth and the lies.

The bartender leaned in closer, his voice now a barely-there whisper. "They say the Veil's weakening, Erith. The entities are getting restless. Something's coming."

Erith nodded, though he didn't need to hear the warning. He had already seen the signs—the cracks in the world, the whispers in the dark. He had no choice now but to follow the path, wherever it led. The Veil was thinning, and soon, the hidden forces that controlled Cenith would be unleashed. And Erith… he would be caught in the middle.

His fingers clenched around the glass, the shards of his past cutting into his skin as the first pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.

There was no turning back.

Not now.

Not when the city itself was starting to unravel.