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  Isilyn

  Nethraven was everything I hated and everything I needed all at once. It was a city that had no room for hesitation, no sympathy for weakness. If you weren't strong enough to survive here, the streets would chew you up, spit you out, and forget your name by sunrise. And maybe that was what made me feel at home. This place had never promised anything other than survival, and it didn't care if you were a prince, a beggar, or a thief. I thrived in that shit, because I had learned long ago how to claw my way through the darkness.

  The city was alive with noise—too much goddamn noise. Voices shouting from every corner, the clinking of metal against metal, the screech of cartwheels over cobblestones worn down by centuries of use. I pushed forward, eyes scanning every face, every shadow, every fucking corner. You couldn't trust anyone in this city. Everyone had a price.

  I kept my hood low, fingers hovering near the dagger at my side, as I passed through the bustling market square. The stench of rancid meat and rotting vegetables clung to the air, souring the already putrid smell of sweat and ale. A vendor tried to hawk his spoiled goods as I passed. A man with a scarred face leaned against the stall, eyes lingering on me like a predator. I felt his gaze like a knife to the back but didn’t flinch. He wasn’t the first to size me up, and he wouldn’t be the last.

  I walked past alleyways that stank of piss and bile, my boots slapping against the cracked cobbles. The buildings leaned in, as if trying to crush the life out of me. But I didn’t let that fear rise. Nethraven was a beast, and I was just another soul feeding it. But damn if I wasn’t going to take a few bites out of it before I was gone.

  My thoughts kept drifting back to the Rusted Tankard, the tavern where the scum of Nethraven went to drink away their miserable lives. It wasn’t much, but it was a roof over my head, and it didn’t ask questions. In this city, that was the best you could hope for.

  The Tankard loomed in front of me, a run-down excuse for a tavern. I stepped inside, the door creaking as it opened, and the stench hit me like a slap. Stale ale, smoke, sweat. It churned my stomach, but I didn’t care. I wasn’t here for the atmosphere; I was here to disappear.

  The bartender, a burly man with a scar across his lip, didn’t ask any questions when I slid a few coins across the bar. He just nodded, his eyes narrowing with recognition. He knew better than to ask.

  “I need a place,” I said, my voice low and steady. “Quiet. Off the books.”

  The man grunted, barely lifting his gaze from the coins. He tilted his head toward the back. “Third door on the left. Don’t make a fuckin’ mess.”

  I grabbed the key and made my way upstairs, the weight of the coins still warm in my palm. The air was thick up here—thick with desperation. People like me hid here, running from their past, running from whatever hell they were trying to forget. I wasn’t here to make friends.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The third door on the left creaked open, and I stepped inside. It was small, but it was enough. A bed, a chair, a table. It didn’t matter. I dropped my pack on the floor and grazed my fingers over the hilt of my dagger. I wasn’t stupid. Someone would come looking for me. They always did.

  But this time, I was ready. Let them come. Let them try.

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  Zarek

  Nethraven looked like a beast, and I felt like I was walking straight into its jaws. The city stretched out before me, its towering walls like jagged teeth, waiting for the right moment to snap. The last of the daylight bled out of the sky, leaving behind a thick purple haze that made the whole city look like it had been drenched in blood.

  I could feel it in my stomach—a tight knot of unease I couldn’t shake. This place wasn’t right. The air felt heavier, like the city itself was alive with some dark, hungry energy. I’d never liked Nethraven, but today, it felt like the city was holding its breath, waiting for something.

  Korrin, my right-hand man, was quiet as usual, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow. He didn’t trust Nethraven any more than I did, and I wasn’t sure if he was keeping an eye on me or on the streets.

  “You feel that?” I muttered, keeping my voice low, like even the air around us might be listening.

  Korrin didn’t answer right away. His grip tightened on the reins as he surveyed the city ahead. Then, after a long breath, he spoke, his voice steady, but edged with the same tension I felt. “Yeah. I feel it.”

  It wasn’t just the tension. It was something darker—something crawling beneath the surface of the city. Maybe it was the criminals running the corners, or the guards who’d sell their mothers for a few coins. But there was a weight here that felt… wrong.

  We passed a few rusted gates, where lazy guards were more interested in their next drink than in keeping watch. Korrin tossed a couple silver pieces at one of them, and the man barely glanced up before waving us through.

  The streets grew tighter as we moved deeper into Nethraven. The buildings crowded us, dark alleys leading off into even darker corners. The place felt like a maze, each turn more suffocating than the last. Voices whispered in the night, talking about the latest scandals, the latest deals—secrets everywhere, all buried beneath the filth.

  “Fuckin’ hate this place,” one of my men muttered.

  I didn’t answer. None of us liked it here. But we had no choice. And when the job was done, Nethraven would be a bad memory.

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  Dravena

  The artifact burned inside me, a slow-moving fire that seeped into my very bones. I couldn’t escape it. It followed me everywhere, its pull stronger than anything I had ever known. And the closer I got to Nethraven, the harder it became to control. The city seemed to hum with the same dark energy that I carried, as if it were calling to me.

  I moved quickly through the narrow streets, trying to shake off the growing sense of urgency. The artifact pulsed again, a sharp pang that made my stomach twist. It wasn’t just an object—it was alive, it was a presence. And it wanted me. The city wanted me, too. There was power here—hidden power—and it was mine for the taking.

  The cloak around me felt like armor, but it couldn’t shield me from the feeling that Nethraven was watching. I pushed past the drunken idiots, the beggars with hollow eyes, all of them part of the city’s endless, grinding machine. I didn’t have time for any of them. The whispers in my head were growing louder, urging me to hurry, to find it before anyone else did.

  The artifact pulsed again, a hunger that gnawed at me. I shoved a beggar away without a second thought, feeling his life force flicker against my skin, his desperation like a moth to a flame. I wasn’t here to save him. I wasn’t here to save anyone.

  I was here to take what was mine.

  Nethraven had no idea what was coming.