Chapter 1 - Too Little, Too Late
Alden's feet pounded a staccato rhythm into the pavement, each step sending a dull thud up his aching legs. His breath came in ragged spurts, stolen by the unrelenting exertion. People stumbled out of his way, their faces twisted with contempt as he sprinted past. Sweat caked his skin, pulling the Deathrollers shirt Julia had given him too tight against his thin frame. His mind barely registered his body's screams—he had it, he finally had it. Slung over his shoulder, a satchel weighed heavily, its contents capable of altering the trajectory of their lives. For too long, they had staved off death in this godforsaken city. The thought that just two books could free them from this companionship with suffering irked him greatly. Yet as much as he needed these books, the original owner, Caiden, probably needed them more.
"THIEF!" a voice bellowed from a short distance behind Alden—undoubtedly Caiden. "What are you all standing there for? Stop him!" His command echoed through the crowd, urgency and accusation lacing his voice. Alden tucked his head down and settled into a faster pace, haphazardly shoving people aside, determined to increase the distance between them. His legs moved to a faster tempo, the weight of the satchel slapping against his shoulder periodically, sending a dull ache reverberating through his body.
Despite his initial lead and rugged determination, Alden could hear frantic footsteps gaining on him. His malnourished body was no match for even a base attuned, regardless of how out of shape they were, it appeared. His only hope lay in losing his pursuer amidst the labyrinthine alleyways that lined Bloodreach, slipping away quietly into the shadows. Alden cast his eyes among the towering buildings that hugged the walkway, searching desperately for an entrance.
Caiden closed in, mere feet away now. His breathing matched, if not surpassed, my own labored gasps, his ragged face contorted with a mix of anger, frustration, and exhaustion. His body rebelled against the too-tight collared shirt he wore, each strained step a testament to its craftsmanship. His eyes bore into Alden, promising pain with his glare.
"Pathetic," Alden thought bitterly, "to be born into wealth and gifted with an attunement, only to squander it." The thought irked him to the core. If he were pursued by a true attuned, he wouldn't have made it out of the shop, let alone this far.
Alden’s gaze darted along the suffocating row of buildings, hope dwindling with each passing moment. Rounding a corner, he committed to running until he could run no more, until finally, he saw it. Perched between a familiar drug store and a shady bar lay a narrow stretch of deep darkness that beckoned to him—a sanctuary. An entrance.
His body surged with newfound energy, as if fueled by a second wind. He launched forward like a projectile shot from a cannon, swiftly closing the gap between salvation and himself. Caiden, realizing his prey might escape, surged forward. White aether coalesced around his limbs, doubling his speed in a desperate bid to catch Alden.
“Too little, too late,” Alden thought, victory within reach as he neared the entrance to the labyrinth. He reached out, poised to dive into its depths. Exhaustion played tricks on his senses, for he swore the darkness beckoned him back. Shaking his head, Alden refocused on his goal—to reach sanctuary. His foot touched the refreshing chill of the labyrinth’s shadows, and he laughed. They would be free at last: free to wander without scornful gazes, free to enjoy a full meal for once, finally—
A rugged hand wrapped around Alden arm, wrenching him from his reverie. With a gut-wrenching pull, Alden was yanked backwards, torn from the promise of freedom within the labyrinth. His world turned on its axis.
“No!” Alden yelped, his voice echoing against the narrow walls of the alley. He flailed against the iron grip that had pulled him from the brink of freedom, but to no avail. With a desperate roar, he threw his fist against Caiden’s arm, straining against the reinforced strength of both flesh and aether.
Caiden’s grip remained unyielding, the mystical energy amplifying his already formidable strength.
"Finally," he panted, still winded. "Finally got you, you little shit." His words echoed against the grimy walls of the drugstore as he pinned Alden with relentless force. With a swift motion, he ripped the satchel from Alden's grasp. Alden redoubled his struggles, his hands clawing desperately at the air as he lunged for the satchel with reckless abandon. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat urging him to fight harder. His fingers brushed the edge of the satchel, but Caiden's grip was unyielding.
Caiden gathered himself, stretching to his full height, a towering figure against Alden's stunted frame. Alden twisted and turned, trying to break free, but Caiden's hold was like iron. His breath came in ragged gasps, his muscles straining with the effort.
"Now, explain to me how a wretched void-born freak even managed to end up in this sector, let alone find out about these" Caiden spat, lifting Alden's hair to reveal the signature purple irises and small horns that marked him as void-born. Alden's eyes burned with defiance, even as his body trembled with exhaustion. He knew he couldn't give Caiden the answers he wanted, but he couldn't stop fighting either.
"That was simple," Alden thought, fully aware that nearly everyone on this side of town harbored a grudge against Caiden Drangonsfang, yet few dared to provoke his ire. Whether it was unpaid debts, abuse of power, or outright cruelty, Caiden was invariably at the center of it all. In this sector of Bloodreach, settling scores with the local enforcer had become almost a rite of passage. Discovering the details of his illicit "side-business," where he dealt in questionably sourced grimoires, was as effortless as visiting a local bar.
Caiden, the wrongfully appointed enforcer of this sector of Bloodreach, was notorious for his ruthless tactics and corrupt dealings. Once a privileged member of a noble family, he had been outcast to this forsaken sector after a scandal that tainted his name and severed his ties to the aristocracy. The exact nature of the scandal was whispered in hushed tones—rumors of betrayal, forbidden experiments, and dark pacts with sinister forces. Stripped of his status and wealth, Caiden had clawed his way up through the ranks of the underworld, using intimidation and brutality to secure his position.
His reputation for cruelty was well-earned; he ruled with an iron fist, ensuring that fear kept the local populace in line. Caiden’s operations spanned everything from protection rackets to smuggling rare and dangerous artifacts. The grimoires he peddled to those with deep pockets represented a chance for the mundane to become attuned, to harness the power of the aether that made this wretched world go round.
As for how Alden found himself in this sector, grappling with a known attuned, it was a story woven of hope and desperation, inseparable as two sides of the same coin.
Hope had flickered in Alden’s heart like a distant beacon amid the shadows of Bloodreach. Born with the mark of the void, he had always been an outsider, shunned and feared for his unnatural differences. Subjugated to living on the outskirts from a young age, after enduring numerous failed foster homes, Alden's nineteen years of existence had been wrought with unrelenting strife. The grimoires represented a new life at the academy, where shelter and food weren't a mere hope, but a certainty.
Desperation, too, played its part. Julia, a kindred soul, also void-born like him, had fallen gravely ill after their last food heist. The bread they had stolen, a risk taken out of sheer necessity, had been laced with a deadly poison. Despite his desperate pleas, no healer would lower themselves to aid a void-born. Alden had watched helplessly as Julia's condition worsened, her fevered delirium echoing through their meager shelter. They had shared dreams of escaping the slums of Bloodreach together, of finding solace and acceptance beyond its cruel boundaries. But now, with each labored breath Julia took, Alden's hope for their future dimmed.
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The grimoires Caiden traded promised power and knowledge that could change their lives, offering a chance to escape the cycle of poverty and peril that defined their existence. Alden knew that securing one could mean the difference between life and death for Julia, and for himself—a path to a future where their void-born heritage might be embraced rather than feared.
As Alden struggled against Caiden's relentless grip, the weight of his desperation and determination pressed upon him. He knew he had to succeed, not just for himself, but for Julia—to secure the grimoire that could save her life and finally pave the way to the sanctuary they had long dreamed of.
Alden glared up at Caiden’s towering figure, defiance burning fiercely in his eyes. In a bold move, he spat at Caiden, catching the enforcer off guard. For a fleeting moment, Caiden's grip loosened—a split-second opportunity Alden seized without hesitation. With a primal yell, he unleashed a powerful kick aimed squarely at Caiden's gut. The impact echoed through the air with a resounding thud, his shin meeting the brick wall that was Caiden. Shockwaves of pain reverberated through both combatants, each grappling with the intensity of the confrontation.
Caiden was more caught off guard more than he cared to admit, the aether coursing through his body lending him the imposing stature of an iron tower. Alden winced as pain shot through his leg, an unwelcome addition to his already precarious situation. He tried to put his weight on it, and a spike of pain shot through his system. He slumped, collapsing to his knees against the grimy wall of the drug store.
"You fucking freak," Caiden snapped, wiping the spit from his cheek with disdain, the kick seemingly having no effect on him. Kneeling next to Alden's bent form, he grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked him up. "They should have just let you freaks die in the outbreak—useless, bad apples, the lot of ya."
"Guess I can add 'racist' to your list of ill deeds, Caiden," Alden thought chuckling bitterly.
"What are you laughing at? You think this is funny? Do you know how many weeks of aether I wasted on catching you? Do you know what you almost cost me? Who you almost took these grimoires from?" He screeched, his face bare inches away from Alden's, breath carrying the foul scent of tuna, causing Alden's nose to scrunch in disgust.
"Fuck you," Alden spat, his voice dripping with venom.
"Ohhhh," Caiden chuckled darkly, his features contorted with a wicked pleasure that spoke volumes of the retribution he planned. "You will regret ever stepping out of whatever hovel you came from, my friend. A world of pain awaits you," he taunted, his voice dripping with ominous promise, a harbinger of suffering yet to be unleashed.
Pain was familiar, an old companion to Alden, a constant presence he had grown accustomed to over the years. It was a relentless force, one that had tempered his resilience in the crucible of life's hardships. Enduring pain was second nature to him; it was the price he paid for survival.
Caiden sneered, his contempt palpable as he spat upon Alden before letting his battered head fall back onto the cold, unforgiving pavement. With grim satisfaction, Caiden poised to strike at the already cracked rib, relishing the suffering he was about to inflict. Fortunately, the blow never landed.
"Heya!" a voice yelled coming from the bar. "What's going on over here? Berty, is that you?"
Caiden sighed, frustration etched on his face like lines in stone. He turned to confront the onlooker, the frustration melting away to reveal an unnervingly fake smile. As he turned his back on Alden, perhaps considering him down for the count, Alden's body seemed to agree, screaming at him to stay down.
"Ha, I knew it!" The voice, clearly a man's and tinged with drunken confidence, rang out loudly. "I could recognize that bald spot from anywhere," he chuckled, the words slightly slurred and punctuated with a tipsy giggle.
Caiden let out a low chuckle, though his eyes and face remained devoid of the same amusement his voice expressed.
"Donald, what are you doing all the way here? Aren’t you supposed to be slumming it up with the new inquisitor they appointed in Sector Eight?" Caiden asked.
Donald paused, taking a hearty sip from his beer. "Could ask you the same question. What are you doing hanging around The Rusty Pigeon? Ain’t you supposed to be handling that whole House Whiteclaw fiasco?" His words slurred slightly.
Caiden glanced back at me, his expression twisted with regret. "Just... tying up some loose ends," he muttered, turning away starting to stride purposefully toward Donald.
This was Aldens chance to slip away into the darkness, he could get away now and go back to the hovel he and Julia called home. But, was that what he wanted, another miserable stretch of pain and suffering for an unknown amount of time. No one would treat Julia either, fuck that, he wouldn't let his friend die.
Caiden was moving further away now, the aether dissipating from his body like plumes of smoke. His back turned to Alden, the satchel bouncing against his arm in rhythm with his stride. With each step, Alden felt his future slipping further and further away.
Donald let out a drunken chuckle. "Loose end, you say? Well, I guess so. Anyways, come have a drink. The old boss man wants to talk shop." His words slurred slightly, his demeanor relaxed and carefree from the alcohol.
"Talk shop? I thought that old man didn't deal in my illegal goods. Too good for my haphazard work," he said with a hint of bitterness. "Now you come crawling back, hopi—" He stopped abruptly, letting out a high-pitched and definitely not manly yelp. Alden's good leg had struck him squarely where any man would feel it, attuned or not.
Caiden collapsed against the ground, wheezing heavily, the satchel slipping from his grasp. His once-imposing figure now seemed feeble and defeated amidst the dust and debris of the alleyway. Alden wasted no time, swiftly scooping up the satchel and hobbling towards the entrance to the labyrinth. Every painful hop sent sharp jolts of agony through his injured leg, but the urgency of escape spurred him on. The labyrinth offered a chance—a narrow path to safety and perhaps even a future where he and Julia could find refuge from the merciless grip of Bloodreach.
As he disappeared into the comforting darkness of the labyrinth, he was chased by the uproarious laughter of Donald as he made his escape.
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Caiden slouched on the pavement outside the bar, his gaze fixed on the shadowy alley before him, absently nursing a beer. Standing beside him, Donald exhaled a dense cloud of smoke from his cigar.
"You realize you've got to retrieve those, or it'll be your head on the line. Whiteclaw doesn't forgive slip-ups, and you've just made a serious one," Donald stated, his earlier inebriation replaced by a steely seriousness.
Caiden moved to stand at the threshold, keenly aware of the peril ahead yet unable to summon the courage to cross into that dreaded realm—a breeding ground for the haunting nightmares that plagued Bloodreach. His father's tales of the labyrinth gripped his mind like a spectral presence, their weight settling upon him like a heavy shroud.
In his childhood, nestled by the crackling hearth on frosty winter evenings in Bloodreach, he had listened with wide-eyed fascination as his father wove tales passed down through generations.
"The labyrinth," his father would begin in a hushed voice that seemed to conjure shadows from the corners of the room, "is not merely a maze of stone and darkness. It is a place where time loses its way, and reality itself bends like a malevolent spirit."
Caiden could almost hear the echo of those long-ago nights, the warmth of the fire mingling with his father's voice as he described the labyrinth's inhabitants—creatures born from ancient fears and twisted dreams. "Those who dare to venture in," his father cautioned, "risk not only losing their way in the labyrinth's labyrinthine corridors, but also losing themselves to the depths of their own despair. Some whisper that the labyrinth feeds on your darkest thoughts, twisting them until they devour you whole."
His father's stories painted a chilling tableau of the labyrinth as a place where the line between reality and nightmare blurred irreversibly. It was a place where the brave ventured forth, only to emerge as hollow echoes of their former selves, forever haunted by visions that would never release their grip.
And now, his damned payload was in there, snatched by some deranged monster who should never have existed in the first place. Clearly on a suicide mission judging by how recklessly he plunged into its depths.
Caiden felt the heat of his grimoire against his thigh, a residual trace of spent aether coursing through him. His reserves were dangerously low, the pitiful amount of aether he had expended to capture that creature leaving him with less than half of his energy. The fading aether trails of the rogue grimoire taunted him, growing fainter by the second.
"God. Fucking. Dammit," he seethed through gritted teeth, hemmed in from all sides with no favorable choices in sight. Summoning his resolve, he pressed deeper into the engulfing darkness. The stories were likely no more than twisted fables—Aether Mother bear witness if he ever placed trust in anything his spineless father had uttered again.