Hidden Truths, Growing Doubts

Arlan sat with his companions at a corner table in the guild tavern, the warm glow of lanterns flickering across their young faces. He listened quietly as Mira animatedly recounted the story of their recent dungeon quest to a growing crowd of novice adventurers, all eager for tales of danger and excitement. Tomas interjected occasionally, embellishing his heroics with a humorous flourish, while Leila corrected him with amused skepticism.

Arlan's mood, however, remained somber. Beneath his cloak, Bones shifted slightly, as if sensing his master's unease. Arlan absently stroked the skeletal rat's head with his thumb, feeling the smooth bone under his fingertips. His thoughts lingered on the near-disaster in the guild hall—the Holy Knight, Cedric's piercing gaze, the suspicion that had nearly unraveled his carefully woven lie.

"You alright?" Beren asked, nudging Arlan gently with his elbow. The stocky boy had noticed Arlan's unusual silence.

Arlan startled slightly, forcing a weak smile. "Yeah, just tired from the quest. First time in a real dungeon and all that."

Beren nodded, accepting the explanation easily enough. "Yeah, adrenaline does that. Feels good though, doesn't it? Finally making a name for ourselves."

Arlan chuckled softly, a little humor returning. "I suppose. Though fighting giant beetles wasn't exactly what I imagined adventuring would be."

Beren grinned widely. "Hey, everyone starts somewhere. Before you know it, we'll be slaying dragons and rescuing royalty!"

Leila turned her head from where she sat across the table, catching Beren's enthusiasm. "Rescuing royalty, huh? With your luck, they'll mistake you for an ogre and toss you in the dungeon instead."

Everyone burst into laughter at Beren's feigned outrage, breaking the tension Arlan felt. He joined in, grateful for their easy companionship. Even Bones stirred lightly inside his cloak, as if picking up on the lighter atmosphere.

Yet, beneath their camaraderie, Arlan felt a creeping guilt. These people, his newfound friends, trusted him, defended him—even against Cedric's accusations. They thought him merely quirky, a summoner of odd little creatures. But the truth, the dark truth of his class, weighed heavily upon him. Each day the burden grew harder to bear.

The tavern doors swung open suddenly, interrupting Arlan's dark musings. The chatter died abruptly as a cloaked figure entered the guild hall, drawing hushed whispers and wary glances. He was tall and lean, dressed in travel-worn black leather armor, his hood pulled low to conceal much of his features. A curved dagger hung at his hip, and there was something unsettling about his presence—a quiet menace that silenced even the boisterous novices gathered nearby.

"Assassin," Beren muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing.

Arlan stared, fascinated and nervous. Assassins were rare, often whispered about but rarely seen in public. Everyone knew they existed as shadowy figures who operated just beyond the law, their allegiances unknown, their loyalties uncertain. Assassin guilds were rumored to have networks everywhere, manipulating events from the shadows. Their power was dangerous, their morality flexible at best.

The assassin approached Gareth, leaning forward and speaking quietly. The clerk's face went pale, and he hurriedly handed over a sealed envelope. Without another word, the assassin took it and turned, heading swiftly for the door.

Before leaving, his gaze swept briefly across the room—and landed squarely on Arlan. For one brief, chilling moment, their eyes met. Arlan's blood ran cold. The assassin's eyes were cold, calculating, unreadable. He stared for what felt like forever but was probably mere seconds, then exited the guild hall without further acknowledgment.

Arlan released a shaky breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "What was that about?" he whispered.

"Guild politics," Mira said quietly. "Probably some shady business involving one of the high-ranked parties. Assassins only show up for serious matters."

Tomas gave an exaggerated shudder. "Hope it's nothing involving us. I'd rather face dungeon beetles all day than cross blades with an assassin."

Beren shook his head. "I don't trust them. They're not adventurers, just hired knives. The guild shouldn't even let them in."

Arlan said nothing, but his heart twisted uncomfortably. He knew his own secret placed him firmly outside the normal rules. If the guild discovered his lie, could they send someone like that assassin after him? The image of the assassin's cold eyes haunted him.

After the excitement, the group dispersed for the evening. Arlan wandered alone through the streets, Bones hidden inside his cloak as always. Nightfall cast long, flickering shadows along cobblestone roads, and Arlan found himself drawn instinctively toward quieter parts of town, where the buildings grew older and people scarcer.

Lost in thought, he passed near an abandoned shrine to an obscure god, long neglected and crumbling. The stone building was overgrown with ivy and half-collapsed, but Arlan found its forgotten atmosphere strangely comforting. He ducked inside to gather his thoughts.

Inside the ruined shrine, moonlight filtered through holes in the ceiling, casting strange patterns on the moss-covered floor. Arlan sat heavily on a fallen pillar, letting Bones out of his pocket. The little skeletal rat skittered about curiously, exploring cracks and crevices. Arlan watched him fondly, a rare moment of peace amidst uncertainty.

"I don't know what to do, Bones," he admitted softly. "Every lie I tell makes it harder. Sooner or later, they'll realize you're not some spirit familiar. Then what?"

Bones tilted its small head, as though listening thoughtfully.

"I don't even know what I really am," Arlan continued quietly, mostly to himself. "A necromancer is supposed to be evil, right? But I'm not… I just want to live. To survive. Maybe that's enough. Or maybe I'm just fooling myself."

He sighed deeply, letting silence fill the ruin. Somewhere outside, an owl hooted mournfully.

Suddenly, Bones perked up, darting toward the corner of the shrine. Arlan watched curiously as the undead rat dug frantically at the earth, tiny bones scattering dirt in all directions.

"What is it?" Arlan asked, approaching cautiously. He knelt beside the small hole Bones was making. In the moonlit gloom, he glimpsed something pale—a buried object. Intrigued, Arlan brushed aside loose soil, revealing an old, weathered wooden box. Carefully, he pulled it free.

Bones sniffed at it, backing away slightly as Arlan opened it with trembling fingers. Inside, nestled in decayed velvet, lay a tarnished silver amulet with a deep, violet gem in the center. Arlan's eyes widened. This wasn't some worthless trinket. It was something magical—he could feel a faint hum of power radiating from the stone.

A whispering voice echoed faintly, barely audible but clear enough to send chills down Arlan's spine:

"Find me. Free me…"

Arlan jerked back, dropping the pendant into the dirt. Bones looked up sharply, eyes glowing brighter as it regarded its master questioningly.

"What was that?" Arlan whispered, trembling slightly.

The voice faded, leaving only silence. Carefully, Arlan wrapped the mysterious pendant in his cloak. "Whatever it is, we should probably not tell the others yet," he murmured to Bones, his heart racing with both fear and excitement.

Bones climbed back into his cloak, seeming to sense his unease. Arlan glanced around the ruin one last time, then quickly exited into the night. The streets were quiet, and as he hurried back toward his rented room at the inn, Arlan felt that his secrets were multiplying faster than he could handle.

And so, clutching Bones close and his newly acquired artifact concealed, Arlan slipped silently through the shadows, already determined that tomorrow would bring not just more adventure, but the first steps toward unraveling the truth about his dangerous, mysterious power.