Okeer, the jewel of the western continent, was renowned for its lush waterways and temperate climate. It was a destination where many came to unwind on vacation or embark on a pilgrimage to the abundant temples that lined its cobblestone streets, each temple a testament to the city's rich history and cultural heritage.
Beyond the grandeur of the city gates lay the slums, a stark contrast to the opulence within. Here, life was harsher, the struggles of daily existence evident in the worn faces of its inhabitants. However, at the heart of Okeer stood the grand colosseum, a place where laughter and cheering filled the air, drawing crowds eager for the thrill of competition and spectacle.
Once outside one of the many fighting arenas within the colosseum, visitors would find themselves in the bustling market. The marketplace was a cacophony of voices as vendors of different species clamored to attract customers to their stalls. Each shouted and gesticulated, eager to showcase their wares, from exotic spices and textiles to intricate crafts and mysterious artifacts. The market was a vibrant tapestry of colors, sounds, and scents, reflecting the diverse and dynamic spirit of Okeer itself.
As afternoon faded into evening, Sciras expertly navigated the crowded streets, weaving in and out of groups while purchasing overpriced goods from the less-than-reputable merchants who lined the market. Occasionally, he bumped into someone, but his skillful agility allowed him to slip away unnoticed. When a produce vendor turned away to assist another customer, Sciras swiftly swiped an apple and bit into it, savoring the stolen treat as he made his way toward The Rotten Opossum Bar and Grill.
The establishment was a rundown dive with a faulty neon sign outside that flickered ambiguously as "Sum Bar and Grill." During the day, someone with a sense of humor had spray-painted an L between the S and U, transforming it into "Slum Bar and Grill." It was a clever nod to the bar's true nature.
This was not your typical tavern—it was a refuge for the criminally inclined and a thorn in the side of the law-abiding. The local guards wisely kept their distance, aware that this was not a place for them to enforce order. The reason was simple: they didn’t want to cross paths with Sala Berrydust, the infamous proprietor whose reputation for handling trouble with swift and ruthless efficiency made even the bravest think twice. The bar thrived as a haven for those looking to escape the constraints of society, offering a temporary respite from the outside world. Sciras knew this all too well, having found solace and anonymity within its dimly lit walls many times before.
Those familiar with the gnome knew better than to cross her path unless they wished to vanish without a trace. Sala Berrydust’s influence extended far beyond the confines of her bar, thanks to her extensive network of gnome spies scattered throughout the city, keeping her informed of the latest gossip and potential threats. Sciras occasionally worked for her, handling delicate "collection" tasks that required a certain flair and discretion. The more he collaborated with her, the more he uncovered about her dark and complex past—one that made him keenly aware of the importance of staying on her good side.
“Sciras!” Sala greeted him warmly from her perch on a stool in front of a massive chalkboard. “I watched your fight. I bet a lot of money on you.”
The chalkboard, which spanned the entire wall, featured a detailed table of the day’s fights and their outcomes. Sciras noticed that his match had drawn numerous bets, all under Sala’s name. A crude drawing of Sciras hanging from a tree accompanied the figures, a grim reminder of his recent loss and its impact on Sala’s investments. Despite the dark humor, Sciras knew that there was always more at play with Sala, as she never placed a bet without a backup plan. He offered her a sheepish smile, aware that he owed her not only an explanation but likely a favor to even the score.
Sciras mustered a fake smile to greet her. “Well, that was your first mistake. Never bet on me. Double or nothing on the next fight,” he offered, trying to lighten the mood with a touch of bravado.
Sala, however, was not amused. She hopped down from the stool with surprising agility and sprinted toward him, her finger jabbing at him with each emphasized word. “You are going to pay me for every. Last. Gold. I lost. You hear me?” she declared, her eyes flashing with intensity.
Her fierce demeanor was a stark reminder of why she commanded respect and fear in equal measure. Sciras knew better than to take her threat lightly. He raised his hands defensively, nodding quickly. “Alright, alright, I hear you,” he replied, his tone conciliatory.
Sciras waved Sala off with a dismissive gesture and made his way deeper into the bar, heading for his favorite booth. The dim lights hanging above it cast a soft glow, providing just enough illumination for privacy. This secluded spot had seen many contracts signed and sensitive dealings made, making it a perfect retreat for those seeking discretion.
Around him, the lively atmosphere of the bar continued unabated. In a back corner, a group of dwarves cheered loudly, toasting their new companion's recent victory in a fight. Nearby, humans and Florens gathered around a central table, engrossed in a spirited card game, their voices a mix of laughter and friendly banter. Behind the bar, Sala served drinks while lamenting her lost gold to anyone willing to lend an ear.
Sciras settled into his booth, patiently waiting for the waiter to arrive and take his order. He had chosen this spot not just for its privacy but because it was served by a particular waiter he hoped to see. As he twiddled his thumbs in anticipation, a voice interrupted his thoughts.
“Sir, what would you like?”
Sciras glanced up, taken aback by the sight before him. The young woman standing there couldn't have been more than nineteen, yet the bags under her eyes spoke of long hours and little rest. Her voice was rough, like sandpaper scraping against metal, betraying a weariness that seemed out of place in one so young. Surprised, Sciras took a moment to collect himself before responding, wondering silently about the story behind her tired eyes.
“Where is…?” Sciras began, but the girl cut him off with a roll of her eyes and a sigh of frustration.
“Momi? She came in here, looking whiter than a ghost, and Sala told her off. Your order, sir?” she replied, her voice carrying a hint of impatience.
“Uh… an ale,” Sciras said, surprised at his own choice. He hated the bitter taste of ale but found himself curious to see where this uncharacteristic decision might lead.
The girl sighed again, this time with even more exasperation. “Any particular kind, sir?”
“Surprise me,” Sciras replied, deciding to embrace the element of chance that seemed to be guiding his evening.
With an exaggerated sigh, she turned and left, leaving Sciras alone with his thoughts. He put his elbows on the table and cradled his head, feeling a mix of curiosity and unease about Momi's whereabouts and the interaction with the young server. The evening had taken an unexpected turn, and he couldn’t help but wonder what else lay ahead.
Loud laughter erupted in the tavern, causing Sciras to jump in his seat. A group of dwarfs, clearly several drinks in, sat at a middle table playing cards and exchanging boisterous banter. The lively atmosphere was further enhanced by a gnome playing an upbeat tune on the piano at the front of the bar. Sala had declared it happy hour, marking drinks half off, which only added to the merriment.
Moments later, the young server returned with his ale. Sciras sipped it slowly at first, taking in the lively atmosphere around him. The ale wasn’t to his usual taste, but he found himself ordering another, and then another, letting the warmth of the drink and the noise of the tavern envelop him. Before long, his table was cluttered with empty mugs, each one a testament to his growing frustration and need for distraction.
“Fucin’ Momi,” he muttered under his breath, the alcohol loosening his tongue and dampening his restraint. He slammed the empty mug down on the table with a thud before flicking it across the surface. It slid, clinking loudly as it collided with the others.
The noise drew the attention of the other waiters, who watched him with a mix of annoyance and caution. Sciras could feel their eyes on him, a silent reminder to keep his temper in check. Despite the haze of ale, he knew better than to draw any more unwanted attention in a place like this.
A waiter approached the table, eyeing the pile of empty mugs before looking back at Sciras. “Sir, Sala told me to let you know that your drinks are double. Are you sure you have enough coin for… all that?” she asked, a hint of skepticism in her voice.
Sciras glanced up at her, ready to respond with his usual bravado, but before he could speak, the tavern's ambient noise abruptly dropped. The sudden hush sent a ripple of tension through the room, and Sciras turned his gaze toward the entrance.
Three guards, clad in the distinctive colors of the royal army, had entered the tavern. Their presence was a stark contrast to the usual patrons, and they carried an air of authority that demanded attention. The guards made their way to Sala, who, despite her frustration, engaged them in conversation. It was clear she was not pleased with their intrusion, a barge-in from The Night Watch that disrupted her domain.
The Night Watch was known to be a cut above the local guards who typically patrolled the slums. These were elite soldiers, handpicked by the King himself to maintain order and enforce the law in his city. Their arrival in the tavern was unusual, and the patrons watched with a mix of curiosity and apprehension, wondering what business had brought them to this corner of Okeer. Sciras, too, felt a spark of unease. He knew that their presence could mean trouble, and he wondered whether it was time to make a discreet exit or see how the situation unfolded.
One guard pointed in Sciras’s direction. The waiter whistled and left his side. The tavern had its fair share of shady deals but never the royal guard showing up to apprehend one criminal.
Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.
In his inebriated state, Sciras's confusion only deepened as the guards approached. He stumbled out of his booth, knocking the mugs to the floor, and staggered towards the front, using nearby tables to steady himself.
“Wha u wan wif me, offaceer?” he slurred, trying to focus on the uniformed figures before him.
The two guards in the back snickered at his drunken state, while the one in front, looking more serious, gripped the hilt of his sword, which bore a lion’s head. “Do you know a girl by the name of Momi?”
“Ah hells, Sciras. What did you do?” Sala interjected, her voice a mix of exasperation and disbelief.
Sciras lifted his arm, pointing at the guard. “Ya I now Momi. That bicsh stoo me up. Had a plan all sssset out for our date and she sick and doesn even tell me. Her boitoy,” he mumbled, his words tumbling out in a drunken jumble.
Sala glanced at him, dumbfounded by his response, unable to hide her disbelief at the situation unfolding.
“Sciras, under the order of the King, you are under arrest for kidnapping his daughter, our Lady Momi,” the lead guard declared, his tone leaving no room for argument.
Panic surged through Sciras. An alibi—he needed one desperately. But before he could gather his thoughts, the two guards in the back stepped forward, securing his arms behind him with handcuffs. In his stupor, he didn't resist the arrest, knowing it would only make matters worse. As a last-ditch effort, he looked to Sala for help, hoping for some intervention or plea on his behalf. But her expression was unreadable as she turned her back on him, disappearing behind the bar without a word.
The guards shoved him out of the tavern, the cold night air hitting his face as they led him away. His mind raced, trying to piece together an explanation, a defense—but for now, he was at the mercy of the King’s justice.
Cold air crept through the empty market streets as the sun set, making it easy for the guards to escort their prisoner across town without any fuss. Sciras couldn’t help but notice that they were heading away from the castle, which troubled him. Something wasn't right.
“Hey, wait—” he started, but a sharp smack to the back of his head silenced him. One of the guards shoved him forward, the message clear: no talking.
The pale moonlight cast an eerie glow on the temple's sharp obsidian corners as they approached. Midnight was near, and as the clock's hands crossed, a bell tolled, echoing through the deserted streets. The temple was known for its ominous reputation as a cult hideout, largely due to the lack of activity during the day. However, Sciras was well aware of its true purpose: it was home to The Order of the Wicked Shadow, a recently reformed Wardan order.
As they arrived, two heavy oak doors creaked open, revealing the dimly lit interior. A beam of moonlight shone down from an opening in the ceiling, illuminating the center of the chamber. Surrounding the moonbeam were several armed men clad in black and brown armor, each with two swords strapped to their backs—one long and steel, the other shorter and silver. The pews lining the walls left plenty of space for whatever ceremony or meeting might take place.
One of the guards shoved Sciras forward. “I brought you your man. Now pay up,” he demanded.
“Yes, yes. You fellas always love your gold,” replied a man with an eye patch over his right eye, adorned with the order's sigil. He dropped a heavy bag of gold into the guard’s hand and waved them off dismissively.
The guards left without a word, their footsteps fading into the night, leaving Sciras alone with the members of the order. The man with the eye patch stepped forward, inspecting Sciras with a calculating gaze. This wasn’t about any crime against the King; it was something deeper, something tied to his past with the Wardans. He was in the presence of those who might know more about his fate than he did himself.
The heavy oak doors slammed shut, their echo reverberating through the chamber as the guards departed, leaving Sciras handcuffed and kneeling before the intimidating assembly of men. These were not ordinary men; their presence was commanding, each one exuding an air of authority and purpose.
The man who had dismissed the guards turned his attention to Sciras. His hair, peppered with gray, was slicked back, and a nasty diagonal scar across his right eye pulsed with an eerie green glow. He regarded Sciras with a mixture of disdain and curiosity.
“Sciras Tavrot. We’ve been watching you for some time now. Your self-destructive behavior was of no concern to us until you royally cocked up,” he said, his voice carrying a weight that made Sciras’s heart race.
Sciras’s eyes darted around the room, taking in the circle of armed men who stood silently around him. Sweat trickled down his forehead, and his palms felt clammy. “I’m not sure what you mean,” he stammered, trying to keep his composure.
The man with the eye patch moved closer, bending down to meet Sciras at eye level. His presence was unsettling, the scar on his face seeming to pulse with the same enigmatic glow.
"You stuck your pecker where it didn’t belong. You know the rules, Sciras. Especially in your order."
"Fuck off, Nax," Sciras retorted, defiance lacing his words.
Nax moved swiftly, grabbing Sciras’s face and squeezing his cheeks, forcing him to look toward the center of the circle. There, bound in the same manner as he, was Momi. Her eyes, filled with tears, locked onto his.
"Sciras!" she cried out.
"Momi? What are…" Sciras began, but then snapped his head toward Nax, fury in his eyes. "What have you done to her?"
"We didn’t do anything, Sciras. We are an order of the shadows that hunt the undead, not the living."
"Then why is she tied up?" Sciras demanded, his voice rising with frustration.
He attempted to rush to her aid, but Nax held him back, pushing him down by the shoulders with an iron grip. "I don’t think you understand. You are a former member of the Order of Lycans, are you not?"
Sciras clenched his jaw, biting back every venomous word he wanted to spew at Nax, trying to maintain control despite the fire raging inside him.
"What does that have to do with…" Sciras trailed off as realization dawned on him. "No, that's not possible. Momi, when did you start feeling sick?"
"I haven't been feeling well the past few days. I woke up today and was so hungry. The hunger was sickening, and I couldn't stop myself. I ate a live chicken from the neighbor’s yard," Momi confessed, her voice trembling with fear and confusion.
Sciras's gaze shifted upward to the moon visible through the hole in the ceiling. A waxing gibbous, the phase just before a full moon. His face softened as he locked eyes with Nax, understanding dawning on him.
Nax bellowed with laughter, joined by the others. "Ah, so the man finally realizes his mistake."
"I didn’t bite her," Sciras insisted, his voice firm yet laced with desperation.
Tears streamed down Momi’s cheeks as she looked at him, pleading for answers. "Sciras, what’s going on?"
Sciras's mind raced as he struggled to piece the puzzle together. The implications were grave, and he needed to find a way to prove Momi's innocence—and his own. The Order of the Wicked Shadow had their suspicions, but he knew there was more to discover, something that could explain this terrible misunderstanding. For Momi's sake and his own, he had to find the truth.
Sciras's eyes widened, and he found himself unable to speak as he stared at Momi, who seemed so unaware of what had happened to her. He felt an overwhelming urge to embrace her, to assure her that everything would be okay, even as he silently berated himself for his carelessness. How could he have been so stupid?
“You did have sexual relations with this woman… did you not?” Nax's question cut through the haze of Sciras’s thoughts.
“I did, but...” Sciras's voice faltered, the weight of his actions pressing heavily on him.
The idea that he might have passed on the curse sickened him to his core. He had taken every precaution to prevent this from happening. When he had first transitioned, he had the guidance and support of his master. But now, those who could have helped were gone, leaving only the dusty, old books in his order's temple as remnants of their knowledge.
“What are you going to do about it?” Nax asked pointedly.
“Oh, Gods,” Sciras muttered, as the realization of his responsibility settled in. This curse was his to bear, and now, undeservedly, it threatened to involve Momi, pulling her into a world she never asked for. He closed his eyes, grappling with the enormity of the situation, knowing he had to find a way to make things right and protect her from the fate he had endured.
He was going to have to kill her.
Unable to keep their straight faces any longer, the men giggled, their laughter dispelling the tense atmosphere that had hung over the room. Sciras blinked, confused by the sudden shift in mood and unsure of what had just transpired. He looked around at the others, who were now dispersing from the circle, their amusement evident.
One man gently freed Momi from her bonds and brought her a plate piled high with raw fish and other meats, which she began to devour eagerly. Her seemingly insatiable hunger was a stark reminder of the changes she was undergoing, yet there was something reassuring about the way she settled into her meal.
“It’s not the end of the world, Sciras,” Nax said, stepping forward to unlock Sciras's cuffs. He pulled him up by the back of his shirt with a firm but friendly grip.
“What just happened?” Sciras asked, bewildered by the turn of events.
“Just having a spot of fun at your expense,” Nax replied, a hint of a grin still lingering on his lips. “Things have been quiet of late regarding spirits and ghouls.”
“That wasn’t funny, Nax,” Sciras retorted, though he could feel some of the tension leaving his body.
“Someone had to get you out of that sad boy mindset you’ve been stuck in,” Nax said, his tone shifting to something more serious. “What are we going to do with her?”
“Teach her,” Nax replied. “We’re not killers, Sciras. This is how our respective orders grow. You were bitten by a foul beast, and we were touched by foul necromancy.”
“How do I teach something I never finished?” Sciras asked, the weight of responsibility settling on him again.
“Restart the Order of Lycans, as we have with ours,” Nax suggested. “Learn the old ways and teach her. There will always be more Lycans out there, and they will need a leader.”
“I’ll do it for her,” Sciras agreed, determination and purpose rekindling within him, ready to face the challenges ahead with renewed resolve.
“There is one more thing,” Nax said, handing Sciras a scroll sealed with wax bearing the order's symbol. “I’ve heard you’ve been looking for the group who killed your order. My scouts found something interesting in Black Hollow that might help you in your search.”
Sciras’s hand trembled as he accepted the scroll. After years of endless searching and self-loathing, here, finally, was a lead—answers he had thought might never come. He opened the scroll briefly, just long enough to see the haunting emblem that had been burned into the walls of his temple: the mark of the Obsidian Order. The sight of it reignited a long-buried fire within him, a mix of anger and resolve. He squeezed the scroll tightly, feeling the weight of its significance.
Momi, oblivious to the turmoil within Sciras, waved at him from her spot, cheerfully devouring her meal. Her casual, innocent gesture brought him back to the present, calming the storm inside him. He realized he had more than his own vendetta to consider now—he had a responsibility to her as well.
“Do you mind watching her while I take care of this?” Sciras asked, knowing he could trust Nax with her safety.
“Of course,” Nax replied with a reassuring nod. “It’s what brothers do. We are all Wardens, after all.”
With a shared understanding, Sciras felt a renewed sense of purpose. He had allies and a path forward, both for avenging his past and building a future. As he prepared to set out for Black Hollow, he knew that his journey, while fraught with danger, was one he no longer had to face alone.