Chapter One: The Streets of Caer Eldralis

  He had not planned for this. He had scarcely anything at his disposal to evade the manhunt that was soon to be brought upon him. All he had was his estoc and dagger, only useful in a scuffle; something which he was keen to avoid.

  If necessary, he could combine his arcane skills with his blade, bolstering his options in combat enough to hold against two, maybe three, common foot soldiers. He hadn’t shied away from refining his bladework despite the act of incompetence he had played in his years in the compound.

  However, its true value would be the utility it could yield. Perhaps he could use a flame, a spark, or a wisp of arcane energy as a makeshift distraction.

  Other than that, he had his mind, wits, and the clothes on his back. The rest of his meager inventory hung uselessly by his side. His eyes darted around the streets that whizzed by, looking for a way out of the unplanned predicament he found himself in.

  His feet carried him swiftly into the Lower District. Cracked chimneys, the faint earth smell of dormant hearths—the scent of rotting scraps in the streets mixed with it, a stark contrast to the pristine upper districts.

  Selriph slipped between leaning barrels, his form agile and practised. He had roamed these streets long before donning the cursed garb of the Templar, slipping out between tutoring lessons to meet his childhood friend, Aera, beneath the broken arch at the rusted gate. Every corner he turned induced nostalgia in his frantic flight; the steps he took were deeply ingrained in his muscle memory.

  He rounded a corner and stopped cold.

  A figure stood in the alley he had just turned into. Selriph was exposed in plain sight.

  His eyes darted to the only cover in sight: a stack of crates. Before the figure could turn, he ducked quickly and silently behind, barely concealed.

  The cloaked figure paused. In the split second he saw the cloaked figure, he could discern nothing from it. Their identity was a mystery, as was his presence. For now.

  But he had an inkling the figure could sense that the silence was wrong.

  Selriph pressed himself flat against the wall, attempting to position himself to fully obscure himself from view. A bead of sweat formed on his temple. He sensed their attention, even though he couldn’t see them.

  Clak Clak Clak, as the figure stepped forward.

  Selriph’s grip tightened on his estoc. Who was this person? A guard? A Templar? Either way, he’d have to act. Kill? No, disable. Without a noise. He could not afford the consequences of a scuffle or a dead body, not now.

  The figure’s hood slipped back, moonlight catching the feminine curves of the face. A woman, raven-black hair weaving over a familiar-looking padded tunic. From the gap in the crates, he could just make out her eyes, keen and searching, sweeping the alley.

  And at her hip: a Templar sword.

  Maybe she was just someone on patrol. As long as he did not make a noise, maybe he could—

  Then she spoke, her voice composed and commanding. “Is someone there? Show yourself.”

  Selriph had only a split second to decide what to do. A distraction, something to draw their vision. The silent waft of cool air filled his nostrils, and he lifted his hand, fingers spread out in a motion he’d practised a hundred times in secret. An image formed in his mind.

  There on the opposite side of the alley, it came to life: a flicker of arcane force shimmered, just enough to catch someone’s attention. A construct—part sphere but winged—unfurled in the space. With a flick, Selriph used it to nudge a loose stack of wood before causing the arcane construct to shoot out of the alleyway, dissipating as it went out of his sightline.

  The noise was accompanied by a jerking turn of her head, the figure’s hand flying to her sword, eyes locked on the commotion caused by Selriph’s construct.

  That was all he needed.

  Selriph sprang from the boxes, the small displacement of air the only indicator of his movement. He darted out of the alley, back to the main street from which he had come. Legs churning, cloak streaming behind him as he sped. He could swear he heard the figure’s voice calling him, or perhaps that was just panic-induced paranoia. Either way, he didn’t slow as the building whizzed by. His footsteps kept light and silent—a result of many bouts of breaking curfew.

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  The numerous turns through the quiet streets of the Lower District led him to a small plaza, with half-empty stalls, overturned crates, and a stale fountain standing in the middle.

  Selriph paused, getting his bearings.

  North: towards the Upper District? Back where he came.

  East: toward the Warehouse District? No.

  Southwest…

  That way.

  A crooked passage just wide enough to slip through, half-concealed between two buildings, the wood rotted, abandoned, long devoid occupants.

  But he remembered.

  Aera had dared him to crawl through a similar passage before. It was a maintenance passage into the sewers below the city.

  Selriph darted towards it, the shadows swallowing him as he slid into the passage. Dampness permeated the air. He continued, breathing measured as he made his way through. Then, at the end of the passage, the stone beneath his feet grew wet and uneven. Cold air rose from below. The sounds of the city faded until only the hiss of air entering his nostrils remained.

  The tunnels and sewers below the city—not his original plan. He had wanted to sneak out to the suburbs by heading south through the city above, but that seemed impossible now.

  He was going into the underbelly of the city, but he knew even here, he was far from safe.

  Selriph pressed onwards, turning into a damp corridor, his heart slowing along with his breath, his mind shifting to scan his surroundings. A random assortment of loose items adorned his vision; all he needed to do was look in the right places.

  He slowed, spotting a side chamber. It looked like a collapsed cellar. The ladder that led to its abode looked like it would snap at the slightest weight. He slipped inside, crouching in the dark. A rusty basin, broken crates, and a sack, covered in soot.

  Perfect.

  He had slipped into non-identifiable garments even before the prelude to his escape, but he still looked too clean, too untouched, too… military.

  Anyone in the tunnels or his pursuers would easily pick him out. He needed to blend in. Selriph did not hesitate. He reached for the ash, rubbing it across his exposed arms, his jaw and his black-grey hair, further dulling its tone into a greasy black.

  His unmarked tunic was too clean, with only one way to remedy that. He reached into the crates, adorned with a foul-smelling substance that he smeared on his tunic and pants. It seemed like month-old fish oil, perhaps? Maybe worse. Best that he avoid thinking about it too much.

  He then scattered dust and loose hay, rolling around on the floor like a pig in a sty, pressing grime onto skin and fabric. The result? A glance at the tarnished metal plate revealed what he had been after: no longer a runaway Templar trainee in the reflection, but a backbent, forgotten and struggling urchin common to these parts.

  He donned his cloak again, smearing soot and hay on it for good measure. The dirt-ridden boy readjusted the blades at his hip as he went back into the tunnels, now another face of filth.

  To his left, the exit was back to the surface; to his right, the tunnels sloped deeper; his path was clear. The tunnels twisted, and the air grew colder as he moved deeper into the network of tunnels below Caer Eldralis.

  He could feel it; he was heading towards the city’s underbelly now. Not part of the plan, but there were ways he could navigate the tunnels to get to the suburbs, just so long as he avoided the vermin and the unsightly individuals he might encounter along the way.

  He turned the corner, his gaze locked onto the movement through the murk.

  Selriph's footsteps ceased.

  Please, not another Templar.

  The pacing sounds started again, now from the shadows.

  A hunched figure emerged from the gloom, adorned in tattered rags.

  A Templar, it was not.

  A beggar.

  The man stared back at him, head tilted, eyes twitching up and down as he appraised the grime-covered boy. “You are running from them, aren’t-cha?” he rasped, voice like gravel and cracked with age. “The Templars, dey be stirred up like mad dogs up dere.”

  How does he know—? The search had only just begun.

  Selriph’s reply feigned nonchalance. But internally, he was taken aback by how close to the mark this man was. “Are they? Must have missed the news. Just out for a stroll in the tunnels.”

  ‘A stroll’? Of all things! He thought to himself.

  As if on cue, the beggar laughed, a voice rasping and hollow. “A stroll, eh? At night? Through the sewers? You must have a few nails loose if this is your idea of a stroll.” He stepped forward, eyeing Selriph more intently. “You are either crazier than I, or you have a good reason for being here.”

  Selriph didn’t answer.

  The beggar’s tone shifted, low and conspiratorial. “dose boys and gals up there, maybe dey are looking for dat alley-carver causing a ruckus this month, the murderer. Maybe dat’s why dey are all riled up tonight?”

  Selriph tilted his head, playing the game. “You mean the killer everyone’s whispering about? I’ve heard the stories. Not exactly bedtime tales.”

  The beggar nodded quickly. “Aye, probably keep-cha up at night. But de way dem Templars are crawling over every stone now, it’s not just for him. dey’re after someone else.” His eyes glistened. “A young’un. Say he’s dangerous, a coward, a deserter.”

  The man’s breath curled with rot. “And here’s the kicker. They say he is practicing the forbidden arts. Magic. Things even the Templars fear.”

  Selriph could scarcely hide his surprise at the beggar’s perceptiveness; he had hit the nail on the head, either by sheer dumb luck or omniscient perception.

  Selriph replied coldly, “What do you want?”

  The beggar’s grin stretched into a thin, tooth-bared expression. He leaned in, eyes glittering with something hungry.

  “What I want... is information. You didn’t happen to see the one they’re after, did you?” He paused. “Maybe you know him?”

  Information, right…

  Selriph’s lips parted, ready to answer, but then he froze.

  From behind, echoing down the stone, came the steady drum of boots. Selriph turned to see torchlight from beyond the corner, a figure—no—two, maybe three, disembodied shadows along the walls. The faint scent of pitch and smoke came with their approach.

  The beggar’s grin vanished.

  His voice was a whisper.

  “They’re here.”