Chapter 2: The Mark of the Abyss
Arlan Hallow sat in the corner of the dimly lit tavern, the cold drink in his hand doing little to calm his racing thoughts. His fingers absently traced the outline of the strange coin in his pocket—the same coin that had haunted his dreams and dragged him to the edge of the Abyss the night before. Every time he thought about it, the same sensation crawled over his skin: something ancient and unseen watching him from the shadows.
The tavern bustled around him, the sounds of clinking mugs, hushed conversations, and the occasional bark of laughter filling the air. It should have felt normal, comforting even. This was his world—the seedy, grimy underbelly of Arvellis where no one asked questions, and everyone kept their heads down. But tonight, everything felt off, as if the very air had shifted since he’d taken that coin.
"You’re distracted," came a low, raspy voice from across the table.
Arlan looked up to see Fenn, his long-time partner-in-crime, eyeing him suspiciously. Fenn’s wiry frame was draped in a cloak, his scarred face barely visible under the hood. Despite the man’s rough appearance, his eyes gleamed with the sharpness of a predator constantly searching for weakness.
"Just tired," Arlan muttered, taking a swig from his drink. "Didn’t sleep much last night."
"Right," Fenn said slowly, clearly unconvinced. He leaned in closer, lowering his voice. "Look, whatever you got yourself into, you better come clean now. I don’t like the way you’ve been acting. You’ve been jumpy ever since you met that cloaked guy."
Arlan tensed, his hand tightening around his mug. He didn’t want to talk about it—about the coin, the dreams, or the void that felt like it was creeping into his very soul. But Fenn wasn’t someone you could easily dodge. The man had a way of sniffing out secrets.
Before Arlan could respond, the tavern door slammed open, and a gust of cold wind swept inside. Every head in the room turned as a group of men entered, their faces hidden beneath dark hoods. There was something off about them—something that set Arlan’s instincts on edge. The room seemed to quiet, the atmosphere shifting with an almost palpable tension.
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Fenn cursed under his breath. "Shit, those aren’t city guards. They’re too quiet."
Arlan’s gaze remained fixed on the newcomers. They moved with a purpose, their eyes scanning the room like wolves searching for prey. One of them—a tall figure with a thick, jagged scar running down his face—locked eyes with Arlan. His lips curled into a cold, humorless smile.
Arlan’s stomach dropped.
The man stepped forward, his voice a deep, commanding growl. "You, Arlan Hallow. Come with us. We know what you carry."
Arlan’s hand instinctively reached for the coin in his pocket, as if it could somehow protect him. His pulse quickened. He didn’t know who these men were or how they knew about the coin, but it was clear they weren’t here to have a friendly chat.
Fenn’s hand moved to the dagger at his side, his posture tense. "I don’t know who you are, but if you think we’re gonna—"
Before Fenn could finish, the scarred man made a subtle gesture, and the hooded figures moved like lightning. In an instant, two of them were at Fenn’s side, grabbing him by the arms and slamming him into the table. The force knocked the air out of his lungs, and Fenn’s dagger clattered uselessly to the floor.
Arlan shot to his feet, but another figure was already in front of him, a blade pressed lightly against his throat.
"Don’t be stupid," the scarred man said, his smile never fading. "We’re not here to kill you. Not yet, anyway."
Arlan’s heart pounded in his chest, his mind racing for options. He could fight, but these men moved like trained assassins. Even if he somehow managed to take one down, the others would cut him down before he could blink.
"What do you want?" Arlan asked, his voice hoarse.
The scarred man stepped closer, his eyes gleaming with dark amusement. "It’s not about what we want. It’s about what the Abyss wants. And right now, it wants you."
The coin in Arlan’s pocket seemed to burn against his skin, its presence heavier than ever. The Abyss. He had heard the whispers in his dreams, felt the pull of the void. But now, the reality of it was crashing down on him like a tidal wave.
"You’re marked," the man continued, his voice lowering to a whisper. "Chosen by forces older than this world. You belong to the Abyss now."
Arlan’s blood ran cold. The words felt final, like a sentence passed down from some unseen judge. He didn’t know what it meant to be "chosen" by the Abyss, but he knew it wasn’t something he could escape.
The scarred man stepped back, gesturing for his men to release Fenn. The hooded figures moved with eerie precision, falling back into formation like they hadn’t just subdued two seasoned criminals with ease.
"Come with us," the man said. "We’ll take you to someone who can explain what’s happening to you. Or… you can stay here, and let the Abyss claim you on its own terms."
Arlan’s hand clenched into a fist. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to fight, to do anything but go with these people. But deep down, he knew the scarred man was right. The Abyss was coming for him, whether he wanted it or not.
With a heavy breath, Arlan met the man’s gaze. "Where are we going?"
The scarred man smiled again, a look of satisfaction crossing his face. "To the heart of the Abyss. Where all the chosen go."
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As they led Arlan out of the tavern and into the cold night, the whispers in his mind grew louder, more insistent. He was walking toward something he couldn’t understand, something far beyond his control. But one thingwas clear: there was no turning back now.
End of Chapter 2