By the time Reiner trudged back home, the sun had long bid its farewell. There was something off in his gait. A dull, dead weight in every step, as if his feet weren’t quite sure they belonged to him anymore. He shoved the door open, its creaky protest grating on his nerves. How long had he let that racket fester? And how bloody distracted had he been in his work to ignore something as obvious as a groaning door?

Inside, it was pitch black. Reiner lazily flicked a bit of mana into the board, sparking a dim light from the lamp. He staggered in, not bothering to take off his boots, and collapsed onto the bed with a grunt. His stomach growled, reminding him that the last time he’d bothered to eat was this morning. But sod it all—he couldn't muster the will to drag himself up and rustle up some grub. Curling up instead, he let out a frustrated growl. Ugh, for the love of all things unholy, he couldn't even pull himself together enough to make dinner. Pathetic.

Rolling onto his back, Reiner’s mind wandered where it always did—back to Jade. How long had it been since she went missing? Days? Think it’s been a whole week now? What was she doing? Was she alright? And then, there was this whole bloody mess with the authorities. Whatever had crawled up their arses had them summoning enforcers like him, dragging him back to his hometown. All hush-hush, of course. No one telling him what in the name of all that's decent was going on. Some kind of beast outbreak? Last one was a good ten years ago, and even then, Alcor and by extension, Randall, was never on the chopping block. Too far north. Any rampaging beasts would have to chew through two major cities before even sniffing this place. Nah, couldn’t be that.

Maybe illegal magic was making the rounds, but with the Inquisition crawling all over the place? Nah, this had to be big. Outlaw level stuff. But, honestly? He couldn’t give a rat’s arse about any of it. All he cared about was Jade. Where the hell was she?

He’d tried everything. Hired mercenaries, called in favours from old mates, even poked around that shady thieves’ guild in Alcor. He’d spent every day combing through every corner of the town himself. Jade would never vanish without a word. Not after what happened with those wretched girls earlier this year. A dark anger simmered beneath his skin. He could still picture those little monsters, the smirks on their faces after Jade had gone missing. Especially that Elise. Her smarmy grin was a festering wound that refused to heal.

The divinator swore up and down that the girls had nothing to do with it, but Reiner’s gut told him otherwise. Elise’s smug face haunted him. His eyes drifted to the crossbow propped against the shelf. A wicked thought bloomed in his mind. Maybe he could get some real answers.

A manic grin split his face. Sharp. Twisted. He shot up from the bed, snatching the crossbow. Hands trembling. For a moment he just stared at it. Tears streamed freely down his cheeks, unchecked, splashing onto the polished wood. For a brief moment, his reflection stared back at him from the gleaming surface of the weapon. His own tear-streaked face, a ghost of the man he once was.

The sight sent a violent shudder through him. With a guttural howl, he hurled the crossbow across the room. It smashed into the wall with a deafening crash, splintering a shelf, sending books and bits flying. Reiner tore through the room like a mad dog, fists slamming into anything that dared cross his path. The bedside table went crashing, the lamp shattered, glass spraying everywhere. He grabbed a chair, chucking it with wild abandon—watching it splinter against the far wall.

His breath came in jagged, ragged gasps as he stood in the wreckage. His knuckles, torn up and bleeding, throbbed as splinters dug into his skin. But Reiner couldn’t care less. He stood there, shaking with rage he could barely rein in. What the hell was he doing? Why was he doing this? Jade. His daughter. His world. He needed to find her.

His mind raced, scrabbling for any missing piece of the puzzle. And then, it clicked—Jord. Of course, his mate Jord, the one who dabbled in all sorts of secretive circles. Loved to hoard odd books and trinkets, that one. Yeah, Jord might help him with it.

The girls? Sod ‘em—they were just kids. And, bloody hell, he was only raging like this ‘cause he was scared. What would Jade say if she saw him now, tearing the place apart like a lunatic? Yeah, he should pay Jord a visit. Anything that could help him find his daughter, anything at all.

"Thalador, keep her safe," he muttered under his breath as he bolted out the door. The evening crowd was still milling about, and he noticed the whispers as they eyed his bloodied knuckles. But he didn’t stop. Soon, he was standing in front of a familiar old library.

Reiner banged his knuckles on the door, rattling the wood under his fist like it owed him money. He stood there, chest heaving from the mad dash over. Silence. With a frown, he knocked again, harder. Still nothing.

"Brilliant," he muttered, trying the handle. It turned, door creaked open. Weird. Jord was always fussier than a nun with a lock after dark.

He stepped inside, and the usual scent of old leather and dusty books hit him. But there was something else now. Something foul. A gut-twisting stench. Thick and sickening, like damp earth stirred with rancid meat. The smell clung to the back of his throat. Sharp. Really fucking sour. Reiner swallowed down the bile. “Bloody hell. What in the name of Thalador...”

His fingers twitched, desperate to pinch his nose, but he forced them down. Instead, he marched deeper into the gloom. With a quick flick, his mana sparked, and the lamps blinked to life, barely casting enough light to stir the shadows lurking between the shelves. Even the air felt off—heavy, moist.

He sniffed again, and a shiver crept up his spine. “Jord, what the fuck did you do?” he growled under his breath.

The first floor was empty, save for that stinking silence. Boots scuffed against the floorboards, echoing in the quiet. The smell clung to him, growing stronger with every step.

Up the stairs he went, two at a time. The stench hit him like a wall halfway up, turning his stomach. Something was definitely wrong. Bloody hell, something was really wrong.

His breath quickened, heart hammering in his chest. He knew what that smell was—he wasn't daft. Dead bodies had their own special perfume, and this wasn’t his first whiff of one. Not after years spent enforcing the slums of Alcor. But this? In Jord’s place? His mind raced. What if… No. It couldn’t be him. It bloody better not be.

Reiner’s eyes darted to every corner, searching. But all he saw was dust and books. More dust than he remembered. Calm down, you git. But the smell still stalked him, filling every bloody room. Fresh, too. Had to be. Not a day old. And worse, there was that sickly sweet tang to it—the stench of rot. Fresh rot.

Stolen novel; please report.

He scanned the entire floor—nothing. Not a sign of Jord, or anyone, for that matter. But the smell, fresh as it was, told him there was a body somewhere, a fresh one. He bolted back downstairs, mind spinning. There was one place left. The basement.

Of course, it was the fucking basement.

His heart hammered as he stood frozen before the basement door. Fingers brushed the cold, iron handle. "Please, Jord, be alright," he muttered under his breath, then yanked the door open. Oh god. The stench hit him like a slap—thick and choking. He slapped a hand over his nose, gagging, but he went down those creaky old stairs anyway, each groan from the wood beneath his boots making his heart leap in his chest. His mind screamed prayers to Thalador for his mate’s safety.

Pitch black. He flicked his hand, a spark of mana flaring as a fireball danced above his palm. The place lit up in the glow, shadows leaping everywhere. But nothing. Just bloody crates and dust-covered books.

No blood. No body. Not what he was expecting.

Reiner’s skin crawled, every hair on edge. Something was proper messed up here. The stink of death clung to everything like a bad rash, but no body, no puddle of congealed blood. Just that sickly, festering odor, slinking through the air like a damn ghost. Where the HELL was it?

His eyes darted about, instincts screeching. The smell wasn’t coming from here; it was being drawn here. His gaze swept over the floor, the walls, shelves… and then, something caught his eye. In the corner, a pile of books had toppled over, scattered all higgledy-piggledy. His boot nudged one, giving the floor a tap. Faint sound, almost like a whisper.

He frowned. Tapped harder.

Hollow.

His heart nearly burst from his chest. His boot thudded against the wood—thunk, thunk. There was something under the floorboards, something buried. He crouched down, fingers brushing the seams of the warped old wood.

Before he even knew what he was doing, he dug his nails in and wrenched at the boards. They creaked, groaned under the strain, but something was definitely down there. That rotten smell thickened as the boards gave way with a splintering crack.

The hollow gaped open like a hungry maw, and the stench—death, decay—came flooding up, thick as a fog. Reiner gagged, staggering back, the fireball in his hand sputtering out.

"Oh, Thalador," he muttered, swallowing the bile clawing at his throat.

With barely a second thought, he conjured another flicker of flame. His eyes adjusted, and then he saw it—something metal gleamed beneath the scattered books. A seam. Trapdoor, maybe? Leading further down.

He shoved the rest of the books aside, uncovering more of that metal edge. His fingers traced it until they found a hidden latch. It gave with a groan, and the floor split open, revealing a narrow stairway descending into pitch darkness.

"Oh, Jord… what’ve you gotten yourself into?"

He paused for a beat. Then, "Fuck it!" And down he went. Each step into the depths brought that deathly smell closer, heavier. As he stepped into the lower chamber, the faint glow of mana crystals scattered about bathed the room in an eerie blue light.

And there it was. No escaping it. The whole bloody chamber was filled with it. A nightmare, ripped straight from the foulest corners of some twisted mind.

Organs—hearts, lungs, livers—all ripped clean from their owners, each one preserved, stuck in glass jars that lined the shelves. All tied together with shiny strings. Rows of eyes, ears, fingers, all carefully placed. The blood smeared across the jars in dried, crusty streaks. A fucking ritual?

In the middle of the room, above an altar, hung what was left of a body. Spine snapped in half, ribcage torn open. It just hung there. The skull cracked wide, skin pulled tight over a half-rotten face, mouth slack, opening and closing like some grotesque puppet.

Below, the floor was littered with more bits—flesh, bone, all scattered about. Limbs twisted at the wrong angles, tendons snapped, skin peeled back to show the muscle gleaming underneath.

This was people. Loads of them. And from the looks of it, this had been going on for a while. Reiner always knew Jord had a few dodgy secrets, but he figured it was just old man’s eccentricities. Never in a million years would he have imagined this. People had died for this. Had Jord done all this?

Reiner’s world was collapsing in on itself. But just then, his eyes caught the worst of the lot—a head, lying on the floor, surrounded by circles. Torn from its body, but somehow still moving. The eyes rolled in their sockets, the mouth opening and closing, like it was trying to speak. Only gurgles of air escaped.

What the hell was this? A bloody undead? How? What?

...What the hell had Jord been up to here?

"My, my... didn’t expect any guests," a voice, smooth as silk, floated in the air, and Reiner’s heart shot up into his throat.

“WHO THE FUCK IS THERE?” Reiner roared, channeling his mana. His Path surged through his limbs, his strength and speed shooting up tenfold. He slammed his boot on the floor, sending a tremor through the room. “SHOW YOURSELF, OR I’LL FIND YOU, AND YOU’LL BLOODY WELL REGRET IT!” He snarled, teeth bared.

A soft chuckle echoed through the chamber. Low. Mocking. Whoever was watching found this amusing. Reiner’s eyes darted, shadow to shadow. Each flicker of light spiked his pulse. Muscles taut. Ready. The floorboards underfoot trembling with the pressure of his mana. But no one. No one appeared.

Then—crack. Sharp. A groaning creak. Wood and metal splitting. Reiner’s gaze snapped up, just in time. The roof split open, tearing, as if space itself had been sliced. A rift. Moonlight spilled in, thin, silver beam cutting through the dark. Piercing.

And there—at the far end of the room, lounging. A figure. Perched atop Jord’s mutilated corpse. Limbs bent, twisted. Grotesque. His face locked in terror, eyes wide, staring at nothing.

She was tall. Too tall. Even sitting. Moonlight framed her, casting her in silver. Crimson dress flowing, pooling around her like blood. Skin pale. Hair black, sleek.

Reiner’s breath caught. She was beautiful—unsettlingly so. For a moment, he was almost distracted from the sight of Jord’s mangled body beneath her. Did she kill him?

Reiner shook his head, pushing the thought away. He couldn’t afford to let emotion cloud his judgement. Space magic? Down here? Without a single matrix? Incantation? She was leagues above him in power. And now those eyes—sharp, glowing blue, with slitted pupils—had locked onto him. A cold, predatory smile curved her lips, and a chill sweat slid down Reiner’s spine. She crossed her legs, leaning casually against what was left of Jord. Confident.

"Well," she began, her voice as smooth as silk, "I daresay you're wondering what brings me here. No need for alarm. Merely tending to some... refuse." A violet crystal materialized in her hand, which she inspected with an air of mild disinterest. "Ah, Elven necromancy... such a vulgar craft. Quite the defilement, really. Reanimating corpses, stitching the dead with such crude threads of magic. Where, I ask, is the artistry in that? It’s all so terribly gauche. Binding souls to rotting flesh... what an utter waste." She clicked her tongue, shaking her head in disdain. "True necromancy should aspire to something higher... something sublime."

Her gaze shifted lazily to Jord’s mutilated remains, a cold chuckle slipping from her lips, devoid of warmth. "Or, as in this case, when executed poorly, one ends up with this unfortunate specimen. It appears I arrived a touch late. He was well on his way to becoming a death knight."

Reiner’s mind reeled. Was she talking about Jord? No... it couldn’t be. Yet, as much as he didn’t want to believe it, something gnawed at him. The evidence was all around—this place, old and foul, had been like this for a long time. And Jord had been here all along.

“Relax,” the same voice whispered, now directly in his ear, and Reiner froze. The woman still sat in front of him, yet hands, cold and unmistakably hers, rested on his shoulders. He didn’t dare move.

“How rude of me,” she said, the voice behind him echoing her words. "Allow me to properly introduce myself."

Reiner felt like he was drowning. He was in way over his head.

"Gweneth Draycotte," the voice behind him murmured, while the woman before him offered a cold, mirthless smile. "Head of the Grey Tower. Some know me as The Nightmare, though I’ve never cared much for the moniker. You, however..." Her smile deepened as she rose, her movements fluid, almost …ethereal. "You may call me Gwen."

She extended a hand, "A pleasure to meet you, Reiner Everhart."