Dreven rose hours before Lisan, already dressed in a simple cloak that concealed much of his gray skin. He stood by the window of their rented room, the faint murmur of the waking town seeping through the shutters. His golden eyes scanned the horizon, cold and analytical. This world was different from his own in every way that mattered. Its deities were silent to him, save for the faint, stretched whisper of K’rath’s essence. It felt like a candle struggling against the wind.

On the small table, Lisan’s journal lay open, its pages filled with the swirling script of Ultima’s common tongue. Though the symbols were becoming familiar, full comprehension still eluded him. He flipped through the book, careful not to disturb her work, and paused at a passage about the Inquisition—an organization serving the gods of Ultima to suppress rival religions and maintain order. It was a stark reminder that his presence here was more precarious than he liked to admit.

A sharp creak of the floorboards behind him broke his reverie. He turned to see Lisan, her hair a mess and her face set in a glare.

“Dreven,” she snapped, her voice low and dangerous, “what do you think you’ve done?”

He turned fully to face her, his expression unreadable. “As I said before, it was necessary—”

Whack.

Her hand connected with his face, the force snapping his head to the side.

“If you ever do that against my will again,” she hissed, her voice trembling with fury, “I will personally see to it that the Inquisition captures you. Even if it means breaking this blood bond.”

Dreven rubbed his jaw, his expression calm but his golden eyes glinting with a flash of emotion. He took a step back and inclined his head slightly. “Understood.”

Lisan’s shoulders rose and fell as she took a deep, ragged breath. “We need supplies,” she said, brushing past him and grabbing her coat. “And I need a damn mana potion.”

She didn’t wait for his response, storming out of the room. Dreven followed without a word.

The market sprawled before them like a living tapestry, vibrant and chaotic. Stalls of every shape and size spilled out into the cobblestone streets, their vendors shouting to advertise their wares. The scent of spices, roasting meat, and something distinctly floral wafted through the air.

Dreven was struck by the sheer diversity of the crowd. Beastkin with fur-covered limbs and animal ears moved gracefully among Dwarves with thick beards and stout builds. Elves with angular features and flowing robes negotiated with merchants, while other, stranger figures—scaled, feathered, or horned—added to the chaotic beauty of the scene.

“Stay close,” Lisan called over her shoulder, already navigating her way through the throng.

Dreven trailed behind, his sharp eyes taking in every detail. Despite the hood of his cloak, he noticed the lingering gazes of passersby. He couldn’t blame them—his gray skin and golden eyes marked him as an anomaly, even in a world as diverse as this.

As Lisan haggled with a merchant over mana potions, Dreven wandered to a nearby stall displaying weapons and trinkets. His fingers brushed over a dagger with an ornately carved hilt, but his attention was soon drawn to a small commotion nearby.

A tiny Foxkin girl, no older than five, had tripped and fallen just in front of him. Her fox-like ears flattened against her head as her small body shook with the effort to hold back tears.

Dreven crouched down, his golden eyes softening slightly as he studied her. “Are you hurt?” he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.

The girl looked up, her wide, teary eyes meeting his. She sniffled and shook her head, her tail curling around her legs.

“What’s your name?” he asked, his words slow and deliberate, his limited grasp of the language apparent.

The girl hesitated before answering in a small, trembling voice. “Mila.”

Dreven reached into the small pouch at his belt, retrieving a coin that Lisan had lent him earlier. He held it out to the girl, who stared at it with wide eyes before hesitantly taking it.

“Thank you,” she whispered, bowing her head deeply.

At that moment, Lisan returned, her arms full of small vials. She paused, looking between Dreven and the Foxkin girl with a puzzled expression.

“What’s going on here?”

The girl quickly bowed again and darted off into the crowd, clutching the coin tightly.

Dreven straightened, brushing off his cloak. “She tripped. I helped.”

Lisan’s eyebrows shot up. “You... helped a child?” Her tone was incredulous, bordering on amused. “You, the merciless Sanguinari who’s left countless bodies in his wake?”

Dreven’s jaw tightened, but he said nothing.

Lisan smirked, shaking her head. “You’re full of surprises. Though, I suppose even someone like you might have a soft spot for kids.”

He wanted to argue, but the words wouldn’t come. She wasn’t wrong. Somewhere in the cold, unyielding depths of his heart, a faint ember of his old self lingered—a sentiment from a life long past, before he was turned into what he was now.

Lisan softened her expression and gestured for him to follow. “Come on. We’ve got one more stop before we head back. I need a map to Port Free.”

They moved through the crowd together, the lively chatter and chaotic energy swirling around them.

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Marshall Allis POV

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

Allis Vaelthorne pinched the bridge of her nose, frustration simmering just beneath her composed exterior. She had spent the entire day navigating the bureaucratic labyrinth of the capital’s Inquisition headquarters. High Marshall Bower had sent her through three different intermediaries, each telling her to wait, and each offering no meaningful progress.

She leaned against the stone wall of the corridor, her arms crossed tightly. The polished marble floors and towering stained-glass windows of the headquarters offered a false sense of grandeur and efficiency. Inside, it was a maze of protocol, delays, and indifference.

Her target, the Outworlder Dreven, was somewhere in Perata. Each wasted moment grated on her nerves, knowing he could be slipping further from her grasp. If he escapes because of this nonsense… she thought, clenching her jaw.

The heavy wooden doors to High Marshall Bower’s office creaked open, and a young clerk stepped out. “The High Marshall will see you now.”

Allis swept into the room, her boots clicking sharply against the polished floor. High Marshall Bower sat behind a massive oak desk, his bulk filling the room as much as his presence. His grizzled face was marked by deep lines, and his uniform bore the gold trim denoting his rank. Despite her urgency, he barely looked up, his focus on a stack of papers.

“Vaelthorne,” he greeted flatly. “You’ve been persistent.”

“Because this is important,” she snapped, stepping forward. “An Outworlder fugitive is in Perata, and I need a detachment of Inquisitors to track him down.”

Bower leaned back in his chair, folding his arms. “And? Every major city in Ultima gets around a hundred Outworlders a year. Most are harmless, confused souls who either die quickly or integrate. We don’t have the resources to chase down every one of them. What makes this one so special?”

“Because he’s not harmless,” Allis replied, her tone sharp. “This one is dangerous. His name is Dreven. Based on his abilities and the report I’ve gathered, he’s at least upper Bronze rank—possibly Iron. That makes him stronger than the average Outworlder. And he’s not alone.

Bower’s eyes narrowed slightly at this, a flicker of interest breaking through his disinterested façade. “Iron rank, you say? That’s not typical.”

“No, it isn’t,” Allis pressed, seizing on his attention. “He’s no ordinary Outworlder. If we let him roam unchecked, the consequences could be disastrous. I need a team, sir.”

Bower rubbed his chin thoughtfully before nodding. “You’ll have three Inquisitors. But understand this, Vaelthorne: I want them alive. Someone that powerful could be a valuable source of information.”

Allis bristled at the restriction. “Alive? With respect, High Marshall, that will make this mission exponentially more dangerous.”

“Alive,” Bower repeated, his tone brooking no argument. “The Inquisition needs intelligence on Outworlders like him. If he’s truly as strong as you claim, we’ll interrogate him. That’s final.”

Allis bit back a retort, swallowing her frustration. “Understood,” she said through gritted teeth.

The trio of nameless Inquisitors met her in the outer courtyard of the headquarters. They wore the standard uniforms of their order: black and crimson robes reinforced with light armor, their faces obscured by hoods and masks. They were silent, disciplined, and unnervingly efficient.

Allis handed them a sketch of Dreven—crude but sufficient—and a more accurate portrait of Lisan Emberton, provided by the Adventurer’s Guild.

“Your targets,” she said curtly. “Focus on the woman; she’s easier to track. The Outworlder will likely be nearby. Do not engage without my command.”

The Inquisitors nodded in unison, their movements precise and devoid of personality.

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The twisting streets of Perata were a cacophony of sound, color, and motion—a chaotic dance that seemed almost alive. Unlike the rigid order of the Inquisition headquarters, the city was wild, unpredictable, and unrelenting. Vendors hollered over one another, their voices blending into a discordant symphony as they peddled wares from precariously balanced carts and makeshift stalls. Children darted between the throngs of people, their laughter mingling with the shouts of merchants and the occasional curse from a passerby.

The cobblestones beneath Allis’s boots were uneven and slick with grime, worn smooth in some places and jagged in others. She moved with purpose, her boots kicking up faint puffs of dust and refuse. Her eyes darted from shadowed alleyways to the open streets, every detail scrutinized for a sign of her prey.

The air was thick with scents that seemed to battle for dominance. Spices from distant lands mingled with the tang of roasting meat and the pungent odor of unwashed bodies. Somewhere nearby, the sharp, almost metallic scent of freshly butchered fish cut through the miasma, while the sweetness of candied fruits offered a brief reprieve. It was overwhelming, but Allis forced herself to focus, using the sensory overload to sharpen her attention.

Her thoughts churned as she wove through the crowd. Dreven. His name echoed in her mind, a weight pressing against her resolve. She had seen the aftermath of Outworlders before—ordinary people pulled into this world, given power they didn’t understand, and left to either flounder or become a threat. Most were harmless. But Dreven was different. There was an air about him, a presence she couldn’t ignore, one that gnawed at her instincts.

Hours passed, the sun slipping lower in the sky, casting long shadows that seemed to stretch and twist like the streets themselves. The crowds thinned but never truly disappeared, replaced by a new wave of activity as lanterns were lit and night markets began to awaken. Allis’s patience wore thin, but she pressed on, her hunter’s instincts keeping her sharp.

And then she saw him.

Her breath hitched as her gaze locked onto a figure crouched near a small Foxkin girl. He was tall, his hood pulled low, but the gray hue of his skin was unmistakable. Even in the fading light, his golden eyes seemed to glow faintly, marking him as something other.

She froze, her pulse quickening as she observed the scene. Dreven’s posture was unthreatening, his movements slow and deliberate as he spoke to the girl. The child’s fox-like ears twitched nervously, her tail curling around her small frame in a gesture of caution. But she didn’t flee.

Dreven handed her something—a coin that glinted in the dim light. The girl’s eyes widened, and after a hesitant moment, she accepted it with a bow.

Allis’s brow furrowed. What are you playing at? She had expected hostility, recklessness, perhaps even violence. But this? This display of kindness unsettled her.

Her instincts screamed at her to act, to draw her blade and put an end to the game before it began. But the market was still alive with activity. A confrontation here would endanger civilians, something she couldn’t allow. Not yet.

Her fingers twitched at her side, aching to reach for her weapon. Instead, she melted into the crowd, her movements deliberate and fluid as she kept her eyes locked on him.

Moments later, another figure approached. Lisan Emberton. The rogue was as vibrant as the rumors suggested, her fiery red hair catching the last rays of sunlight like a beacon. Unlike Dreven, her movements were sharp and calculated, a predator in the guise of an ally.

The two exchanged brief words, their body language relaxed but purposeful. Allis strained to catch any hint of their conversation, but the din of the market drowned out their voices.

They moved on, blending seamlessly into the chaos of the street.

Allis followed, her pulse quickening with every step. Her gaze never wavered, her mind calculating the best moment to strike. Dreven’s presence unsettled her in a way she couldn’t fully articulate. He wasn’t just an Outworlder. He was something more—something dangerous.

From the shadows of a narrow alley, she watched as they turned down a side street, disappearing into the labyrinth of Perata’s underbelly. She exhaled slowly, her hand drifting to the hilt of her sword.

Patience. This was a game of strategy, not impulse. To act too soon would risk everything.

The hunt has begun, she thought, a faint smile tugging at her lips. And I always catch my prey.