Rat rolled the pendant between his fingers as he leaned against a cold stone wall in a deserted corner of the town. The silver chain felt alive somehow, like it had a heartbeat faintly beating in time with his own. His mind wandered back to the night before, to the moment when he had pulled it from the knight's neck, his hand brushing her skin.

He had looted hundreds of bodies before, but this time, it had been different. The second his fingers grazed her flesh, he'd felt a shock, a burning sensation that moved fast up his arm and nearly made him drop the necklace. Then the visions began.

The fire crackled in front of him, its light flickering across the ground. Rat sat frozen, his legs folded beneath him, as though some unseen, mysterious force pinned him there. Across the flames sat the knight, or what was left of her.

Her armor was gone, leaving her in a blood-stained tunic, but the right side of her face was unrecognizable. Bone poked from the exposed half of her skull, tendons hung in frayed ribbons, and one eye stared lifelessly from its ruined socket. The other eye, however, was alive, burning into him with an intensity that made him shiver. Strands of her blonde hair, covered in blood and mud, clung to her scalp, and her lips-split and dark with dried blood-curved into a bad try of a smile.

„You took it,“ she said, her voice dry, like a whisper that carried the weight of the grave. The flames danced in her good eyes, moving around.

Rat tried to speak, to say that he's sorry, to make an excuse, but his mouth wouldn't work. His fingers still gripped the necklace tightly, as if his life depended on it.

„Good,“ the knight continued, leaning forward, her ruined flesh shifted and stretched. „I need you to have it.“

The words confused him, but he couldn't ask for clarification. He could feel the air around him thickening, pressing down on his chest.

„I died,“ she said, the firelight flickering shadows across her broken face. „But my story isn't done.“

Visions flared before Rat's eyes, as though he was looking through a fogged glass. He saw a small, stone manor in a valley of green, a younger version of the knight standing at its gates, and an even smaller child standing by her. Her armor gleamed as she hugged the child-her sister, perhaps?- who clung to her as if she would never let go.

The image shattered, replaced by the chaos of a battlefield. The knight charged forward, her sword moving fast through the air, the small obsidian gleaming at her throat. Blood splattered across her face, and her lips curled in pain. The knight fell to her knees, the darkness embracing her.

„Find her,“ she said, her good eye fixing onto Rat. „Find my sister. The pendant belongs to her.“

Rat's tongue finally began moving again. „W-why me?“ he asked, his voice trembling. „I'm no one. Just a rat who picks at the scraps of the dead.“

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Her head tilted, for a moment she looked more like a corpse than human. „Because you touched me,“ she said simply. „You saw me. Now, you carry my story.“

The fire flared suddenly, the flames roaring higher and brighter, swallowing her form until she was nothing but a silhouette. The air around him grew hotter, suffocating, and Rat shut his eyes against the blinding light. When he opened them, the fire was gone, and he was back on the battlefield, his hand holding the necklace, the knight's lifeless body was before him.

„Find her sister,“ he muttered to himself, his voice low and skeptical. „Sure. Like that'll go well.“

But even as he tried to dismiss the knight’s words, a part of him—the part that had lived on scraps and survived by instinct—knew he wouldn’t be able to ignore them.

Rat slid the necklace back under his tunic and slipped into the sewers through a hidden hatch, one of many scattered across the city that only he seemed to know about. The stench hit him immediately. Rot, dampness, shit, and decay. But it didn’t bother him anymore. He had lived with it for too long. The darkness swallowed him as he closed the hatch, the faint light of the alley disappearing behind the false wall.

The sewers were a maze of tunnels, twisting and turning beneath the city like a serpent's spine. Water dripped from above, its steady plink echoing off the slimy stone walls. Rat moved fast, because he spent a lifetime navigating these passages. He didn’t need a torch; every crack, every turn was etched into his memory.

This was his world—a hidden place where no one could find him. When he was a boy, chased by angry merchants or cutthroat bandits, the sewers were his safe place. He would slip into the darkness, disappearing into its labyrinthine depths while his pursuers cursed and stumbled behind him.

Rat’s secret sanctuary lay at the end of a narrow, twisting passage that most would overlook. To reach it, he had to squeeze through a gap in the wall, his body twisting sideways to fit through the narrow space. Beyond it, the tunnel widened into a small chamber carved into the stone.

The chamber was barely tall enough for him to stand upright, its ceiling low and arched. It smelled of mildew and stagnant water, but to Rat, it was home. A pile of blankets sat in one corner, patched and frayed but warm enough to keep the cold at bay. A few scattered items—an old wooden bowl, a chipped flask, a small pouch of salt—rested neatly along the walls.

It was dry, at least, even when the sewers flooded after heavy rains. Rat had spent countless nights here, curled up beneath his blankets while the city above carried on, oblivious to his existence.

But this place wasn’t just a refuge. It was the last place he had seen his mother alive.

The memory came back to him, unwelcomed. He had been a boy, maybe nine or ten, huddled in the corner while his mother lay on the ground. Her face was pale, her breaths shallow and uneven. Fever had taken her, and there was nothing Rat could do but sit and hold her hand.

She had whispered to him, her voice barely audible over the drip of water from the ceiling. He couldn’t remember her words anymore, just the way her hand had gone limp in his. He had stayed with her all night, too afraid to leave, too numb to cry.

Rat shook his head, forcing the memory to go away. He crouched down by his blankets, rummaging through the small stash of belongings he kept here. He pulled on an extra layer of clothing—a patched woolen tunic—and tightened his belt. Winter had come, and the sewers were colder than usual.

He didn’t know where to start. The knight’s words echoed in his mind—Find my sister. It seemed impossible, like a cruel joke played on him by a dead woman. But something about the necklace, about the way her half-ruined face had stared at him through the flames, made it feel less like a choice and more like a duty.

Rat tucked the necklace back into his tunic and grabbed his knife—a crude but reliable blade he’d found on the battlefield years ago. He strapped it to his belt, checked his boots, and adjusted his jacket.

As he prepared to leave, he glanced around the chamber one last time. This place had been his refuge, his home, his graveyard of memories. Now, it felt like it was urging him onward, pushing him back into the world above.

With a deep breath, Rat ducked into the tunnel, his steps quick and silent. The hunt was beginning, and the sewers carried him toward the unknown.