Martel’s consciousness flickered like a candle in a storm. His head throbbed, the dull ache spreading across his body like an unwanted guest overstaying its welcome. The scent of wet, rotting wood hung thick in the air, mingling with the pungent stench of decay that made his eyes water. He tried to lift his arms, but they were bound tightly behind his back. His legs, too, were lashed together, leaving him helpless. His vision swam as he tried to piece together what had happened.

The last thing he remembered was the flickering torchlight in Sir'ala’s Secret Library and the voice of Umbriel echoing in his mind. But now, here he was, tied up in what looked like an abandoned barn, the walls sagging with rot. The wood creaked under the weight of the damp air, and somewhere, faintly, he could hear the patter of rain on the roof. His body screamed in protest at every movement, especially his chest and face, which bore the brunt of whatever attack had left him in this state. He had been beaten, dragged across the mud, and left to rot here.

"Umbriel!" he called out, his voice hoarse, the name slipping from his lips instinctively.

Before he could say more, a fist slammed into his mouth, silencing him with brutal efficiency. His head whipped back, his vision darkening for a moment as the pain roared through him. The figure standing before him was shrouded in shadow, but their presence was unmistakable: a looming silhouette, their breath slow and controlled, exuding a calm yet menacing aura.

"Call her again," the voice hissed, low and rough, "and I'll cut out your tongue."

Martel gasped, tasting the metallic tang of blood on his lips. He blinked through the pain, trying to steady his thoughts. The figure didn't want him to make noise—why? If they were truly alone, what difference would it make? That meant there had to be others nearby. People who might hear him if he screamed loud enough.

He swallowed hard, trying to sharpen his senses despite the haze of pain clouding his mind. Yes, he could hear it now. Faint, but undeniable. The distant sounds of life beyond these rotting walls—voices, footsteps, the occasional clatter of hooves on cobblestones. They were in the outskirts of a town, possibly a busy one. If only he could alert someone...

His captor, sensing Martel's realization, moved with deliberate cruelty, grabbed a wooden plank from the floor, and with no hesitation, swung it toward Martel’s head. The world exploded into darkness once more as the blow connected, sending him spiraling into unconsciousness.

When Martel finally stirred again, it was to the rhythmic creaking of wheels on cobblestones. His head throbbed worse than ever, but his senses slowly began to return. He was no longer in the barn. The air was fresher here, though still thick with the scent of unwashed bodies, of the marketplace. His hands and legs were still bound, but he was lying on his side, his body jostling slightly with every bump on the road. His mouth had been gagged, rendering any hope of calling for help futile.

The murmur of the marketplace grew louder, more distinct. The clamor of people haggling, shouting, and laughing. But above all, he could hear the creak of wooden wheels—a cart. He was being transported, like a sack of grain, through the streets of what he guessed was Tratiari.

The cart rolled steadily through the city, passing vendors and townspeople who went about their daily lives, oblivious to the captive hidden under layers of worn tarps. Martel tried to shift his position, testing the strength of the ropes that bound him. His wrists were raw from struggling, but the bonds were too tight. He wouldn’t escape this easily.

A sense of despair began to claw at him. What if Umbriel was in danger? What if she had been taken too? He had to find her. He had to—

The cart jolted to a halt, throwing Martel's thoughts into disarray. He lay still, listening intently. The voices outside were distant but persistent, growing fainter as if people were walking away. The driver—the mysterious figure who had captured him—must have stopped for a reason. Martel strained his neck, trying to glimpse his surroundings through the small slits in the tarps covering him.

Just as he managed to catch sight of a familiar stone building, a shadow fell over him. His captor, a hooded man who had kept him bound, was peering down at him, his shadowy face with red eyes could be seen behind the darkness of his deep hood. Martel froze, holding his breath.

The hooded man grunted, then with a quick glance around the marketplace, adjusted the tarps, ensuring Martel remained concealed. He moved swiftly, seamlessly blending into the crowd. His gait was that of a simple vendor, an unremarkable man doing his rounds, and yet, he carried Martel like a prize, oblivious to the throngs of people around him.

No one paid him any mind. He was invisible, just another face in the sea of Tratiari’s bustling streets.

But as the man moved further through the market, his confident steps faltered for a split second. Someone was watching. He could feel it. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end, and instinctively, his hand slipped into the folds of his cloak, gripping something tightly.

From the shadows of an alley, a tall figure emerged out of nowhere—his own hood pulled low over his face, obscuring his features. But there was no mistaking the gleam of the amulet that hung around his neck. It was Keno.

The hunter had found his prey.

The hooded man stiffened but didn’t break stride. He kept his pace steady, though his eyes flicked from side to side, searching for an escape route. His hand moved deftly inside his cloak, fingers wrapping around a small vial full of a shimmering liquid inside it.

Keno, on the other hand, was relentless. His eyes locked onto the hooded man’s movements, filled with cold fury. His prey had made a fatal mistake: letting himself be seen. Now, Keno would ensure he never left Tratiari alive.

With a roar, Keno charged, his steps heavy and fast, the crowd parting like water as he barreled forward. The hooded man barely had time to react. He spun on his heel, flinging the vial at Keno’s face with practiced precision.

The glass shattered on impact, and the liquid splattered across Keno’s skin. He recoiled, blinking as a strange sensation overtook him. The world around him twisted, warped, the people in the marketplace blurring into vague, indistinct shapes.

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And then they began to change.

Beautiful women, their faces shimmering with otherworldly allure, appeared from nowhere. They surrounded him, their voices like music, their touch intoxicating. Keno stumbled, his mind clouded by the sudden onslaught of desire. The women laughed, cooing to him, pulling him closer. He tried to push them away, to focus, but their voices drowned out his thoughts.

"Come with us," one of them whispered, her breath warm against his ear. "Stay with us…"

For a moment, Keno faltered, his hand reaching out to one of the women. She was tall and slender, her black hair cascading down her back like silk. Her eyes were a stormy gray, and she smiled at him, he was lost in her gaze, unable to resist the pull of her beauty.

But then, in a flash of clarity, Keno shook his head. No. This wasn’t real. None of it was real.

He blinked, and the vision shattered. The beautiful woman was gone, replaced by the cold reality of the street. In his hand, instead of her waist, he gripped nothing more than a splintered wooden post. The world righted itself, and the marketplace returned to normal. People bustled around him, some snickering, others casting amused glances his way.

The hooded man was gone.

With a growl of frustration, Keno flung the post aside and darted back into the crowd, his eyes scanning the streets, searching for any trace of his prey. He had been tricked, blinded by a petty illusion. But he would not be fooled again.

Keno’s heart pounded as he weaved through the bustling streets of Tratiari. The haze of the illusion still clung to him, like a lingering shadow in the corner of his vision. How could he have fallen for such a simple trick? He cursed himself under his breath, every wasted second bringing his quarry further out of reach.

The marketplace was alive with noise—the clinking of coins, the calls of vendors hawking their wares, the laughter of children weaving between carts. All of it grated on Keno’s nerves, a reminder of how easily the hooded man had slipped away. He clenched his fists, scanning the crowd, but there was no sign of the hooded man or the cart he had been dragging.

He couldn’t afford to let his frustration cloud his judgment. Somewhere in this labyrinth of streets, Martel was being transported to gods-knew-where, and the hooded man was growing more distant with each passing minute. Keno closed his eyes for a moment, taking a deep breath, letting the sounds around him fade into the background. He needed to think.

"Alright, you bastard," he muttered to himself. "Where are you taking him?"

Keno’s eyes flicked to the road ahead, narrowing as he remembered the man’s path. The cart had been heading in a particular direction, through the busiest parts of Tratiari but with purpose, as if the hooded figure had a specific destination in mind. And then it struck him.

“Platea Verdi,” Said Keno to himself.

Platea Verdi was the most secluded district in Tratiari, a large open space bordered by overgrown gardens and forgotten temples. It had been abandoned for years, falling into ruin after the last of the noble families that lived there vanished under mysterious circumstances. Now it was a haven for those who wanted to stay out of sight, to conduct business in secret. The perfect place for someone like the hooded man to hide.

With newfound determination, Keno turned toward Platea Verdi and sprinted down the alleyways, his long strides eating up the distance. He dodged pedestrians, leaped over market stalls, and tore through the crowded streets as if the world itself were pushing him forward. Every muscle in his body screamed at him to keep moving, to not stop until he had Martel back.

Meanwhile, under the cover of his cart, Martel struggled to make sense of his surroundings. The rough movement of the wheels jostled him back into full consciousness, and he began to regain some control over his body. His arms were still bound, but his mind was sharp. His captor had made sure the gag was tight, rendering him speechless, but Martel's eyes were wide open, observing every detail of the journey.

He could tell they were leaving the main part of the city. The noise of the marketplace had grown distant, replaced by the quiet murmur of trees swaying in the wind. Occasionally, he heard the squawk of a bird or the soft rustling of leaves. Wherever they were going, it was far from the eyes of the bustling city.

Martel tried once again to free his hands, twisting his wrists against the tight rope. His skin had been rubbed raw, but he ignored the pain. He had to find a way out. He couldn't afford to wait until they reached their destination—by then, it might be too late.

The ancient district of Platea Verdi sprawled out before the hooded man like a forgotten ruin. Once a symbol of wealth and power, its grand houses now lay in decay, covered in creeping vines and moss. Crumbling statues of long-dead heroes lined the paths, their faces weathered and blank, watching silently as he approached.

The hooded man cast a glance around, ensuring he was alone. The streets here were deserted, just as he expected. He pulled the cart into the shadow of an old temple, its once grand pillars now cracked and leaning. The sound of the creaking cart echoed in the stillness, accompanied by the occasional caw of a crow perched on a nearby rooftop.

Satisfied that no one had followed, he set the cart down and pulled the tarp away, revealing Martel’s bound form.

"Time to get you settled," he muttered, dragging Martel from the cart and dumping him unceremoniously onto the cold, stone ground. Martel groaned through the gag as his body hit the floor, but he refused to let his captor see his pain. He would not give this man the satisfaction.

As the hooded man turned away, Martel caught a glimpse of something in his captor’s hand—a small, delicate bottle, shimmering with a pinkish ethereal light. His breath caught in his throat.

“It could be… one of the Chaos Devices.” Martel thought.

Before Martel could react, the man tucked the bottle back into his cloak and disappeared into the shadows.

Keno arrived at the outskirts of Platea Verdi moments later, his breath coming in short, sharp bursts. The entire district felt suffocatingly quiet, as if the very air had been stolen from it. The ancient trees towered over him like sentinels, their branches clawing at the sky. It was a place of forgotten history, and yet it thrummed with a strange, dangerous energy.

He slowed his pace, moving cautiously now, his eyes scanning every shadow for movement. His instincts told him that the hooded man had led Martel here for a reason. This wasn’t just a kidnapping. It was something far more sinister.

As he approached the heart of Platea Verdi, he caught sight of something glinting in the moonlight. A cart, half-hidden under a crumbling archway, stood abandoned near an old temple.

Keno crept closer, his fingers itching for the hilt of his blade. His eyes narrowed as he spotted the tarp covering something—or someone—on the ground.

Without a second thought, Keno darted forward, ripping the tarp away. Martel lay beneath it, his eyes wide with relief and anger.

“Keno, watch out, it's a trap!” Martel gasped through the gag, his voice muffled.

Keno quickly removed the gag, helping Martel sit up. “We need to get out of here, as fast as we can,” he muttered, working on the knots that bound Martel’s wrists.

Martel coughed, his voice raspy from disuse. “This… this man is… it’s a trap Keno and I think he has one of the Chaos Devices.”

Keno’s eyes widened, his hands stilling for just a moment. "A Chaos Device!?" His voice dropped, urgency thick in his tone. "Which one?"

Before Martel could answer, a soft voice echoed from the shadows, smooth and mocking.

"You’re too late, Keno."

Both men froze, their eyes snapping to the figure emerging from the temple’s entrance. The hooded man stood there, a cruel smile twisting his lips as he held the bottle aloft. The Chaos Device shimmered in the dim light, pulsing with power.