Back at the Guild – Whispers of the Weeping Catacombs

The guild hall was louder than usual.

Dozens of adventurers were gathered in small groups, hunched over tables, talking in serious tones. A few glanced at Arlan as he stepped inside, but most were too busy murmuring about the Weeping Catacombs collapse.

"—it was unnatural, I'm telling you."

"Yeah? And what do you know about underground structures?"

"I know that ruins don't just cave in overnight."

"Could be necromancers," another voice muttered. "Everyone's saying the undead are spreading."

Arlan kept his expression neutral as he approached the counter.

The same scarred guild clerk from before was manning the desk, looking half-asleep as he counted coins. He barely looked up when Arlan placed his guild badge down.

"Back from another job?" the clerk grunted.

Arlan shook his head. "Just here for information"

The clerk smirked. "Funny, because we just got news that the Weeping Catacombs collapsed. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that, would you?"

Arlan forced a casual shrug. "I dunno. Maybe it was unstable?"

The clerk eyed him for a long moment, then chuckled, shaking his head. "Yeah, maybe. Either way, nobody's complaining. Less undead, less work for us."

Arlan felt it would be to suspicious to start asking about other crypts right now.

So he left the guild to go shop for some supplies.

The city was restless.

Veyleigh had always been a loud, lively place—traders shouting their wares, fishermen hauling in their morning catch, taverns overflowing with laughter and music. But today, something was different.

The tension in the air was palpable. People spoke in hushed voices, glancing over their shoulders as if expecting trouble.

Arlan pulled his hood lower as he navigated the busy marketplace, his eyes scanning for supplies. He needed rations, extra water, and some replacement gear before heading to the next crypt. The Old Chapel Ruins wouldn't wait forever.

As Arlan scanned the marketplace, his eyes landed on something that sent a jolt of unease through his spine.

A bounty poster—spiked to a wooden post near a merchant's stall, its parchment slightly curled at the edges from the salty Veyleigh air.

The ink was bold, the message clear.

WANTED: UNIDENTIFIED NECROMANCER

A rogue necromancer was sighted fleeing from Ravencross after engaging in battle with Holy Order inquisitors.Suspect is a young male, presumed highly dangerous. Known abilities include summoning shadow-like creatures and wielding corruptive magic.

Last Known Activity: Ravencross Incident: Witnesses reported an intense battle between the suspect and several Holy Order scouts. Three inquisitors were confirmed slain. One escaped to report the attack. Unconfirmed Sightings: The suspect was last seen traveling southward, possibly toward Veyleigh. REWARD: 30 gold pieces for information leading to capture.

All who harbor or assist the suspect will be considered accomplices to necromantic treason.

-By Order of the Inquisition-

Arlan's blood turned ice-cold.

His fight in Ravencross—the one that nearly cost him his life—had finally caught up with him.

He clenched his jaw, the memories flashing through his mind. the clash of steel, the smell of burning flesh. He had barely escaped with his life, his body broken, his magic drained.

And now?

Now the bounty hunters were coming.

Arlan turned away from the poster, forcing himself to walk normally. No sudden movements. No panic.

But inside, he knew.

Veyleigh wouldn't be safe for long.

Familiar Voices—Ghosts of His Past

He heard them before he saw them.

Voices he knew too well.

Mira. Tomas. Leila. Beren.

The world around him seemed to slow as they stepped into the city square.

His old party.

Arlan stiffened. He thought back to that night in the ruined tower, when he'd left them behind. When they had looked at him not with camaraderie, but with fear.

He stayed near some market stalls, his hood pulled low, barely daring to glance in their direction. But the moment he did—his heart clenched.

They looked tired. Dust from travel clung to their armor. Mira's face was set in a frustrated scowl, her fists clenched at her sides.

She was still looking for him.

"He's out there," Mira said, her voice edged with exhaustion and something dangerously close to desperation. "I know he is. He wouldn't just die."

Tomas forced a grin, though it looked strained. "Mira, you said that in the last town. And the one before that."

Leila shifted uncomfortably, looking at the ground. "What if he… doesn't want to be found?"

Arlan's breath hitched.

Beren crossed his arms. "He's an idiot," he muttered, voice gruff. "But if he's alive, we'll find him."

Arlan wanted to say something.

He wanted to step forward, tell them he was still here, tell them—

But he didn't.

He turned to leave, slipping quietly through the crowd.

He was almost out. Almost.

And then—

He made the mistake of looking back.

For the briefest of moments, his eyes met Mira's.

She froze.

Her breath caught.

Her eyes widened.

"Wait—!"

But Arlan was already gone.

He ducked into the crowd, his heart hammering as he disappeared into the streets of Veyleigh.

Mira's voice still echoed in his ears.

She had seen him.

And now… she knew.