The red woolen blanket slid over his lover’s shoulder as she rolled over in bed. Blue curtains fluttered with the cool winter breeze, the scent of many breakfasts wafting in from adjacent homes. He loved to watch her move when she slept, and gently ran a finger along her spine, reveling in her softness. She shivered slightly, but did not wake. He rose shortly thereafter.

Almost always the first to wake up, he walked to the washroom. His fingers ran through his tousled black hair. The mirror in front of the sink reflected the sunrise onto the scarring across his torso, intricate black runes that traced around his shoulders, across his back, and along both arms. A memory of the past.

Once finished, it was only a few short steps into their kitchen. He grabbed a handful of potatoes and an onion, setting them on a wooden cutting board. The runes on his right arm pulsed as a knife made from shadow formed in his hand. He loved using his shadow blades for cooking now. Better than their previous use.

Gently removing the skillet from the rack and heaping some butter into it, the cooking began. He chopped spices, added salt and peppers, and capped it off with several slices of bacon. The smell was wonderful and he knew that she would wake soon. He put on a pot of water and ground some coffee into their usual cups.

The sound of shifting blankets and soft footsteps. “That smells amazing.”

Syler smiled, “I’m glad you think so. Good morning, wife!”

She smiled back, her fiery red hair showing the signs of heavy sleep, “Good morning, husband!”

After she too had stepped into the washroom for a few moments, she returned wearing a silk robe that made him consider abandoning his cooking. He barely resisted. Breakfast was plated and coffee brewed. A passionate kiss before sitting at the small table. She adjusted the red flowers resting in a vase in the center of the table, tracing a small rune in the air and causing one of the buds to bloom.

“What are you up to today, my love?” Syler asked.

“I was thinking of going to the Prisoner's Tankard,” Cara said. The Prisoner’s Tankard was held every year, pitting the worst criminals against one another to the death. This practice both fully funded the prison system for the rest of the year and rid the system of its most heinous criminals.

“Have fun with that. I've already seen more than my share of death.”

“I know. That's why I didn't invite you.”

“Why do you go to that every year?”

“To remind me of how society maintains balance,” she said. A wave of deja vu struck Syler.

“This all feels so strange.”

“It should,” she said, her face suddenly stern, “it isn’t real.”

“Huh?” Syler was going to articulate a better question, but his eyes widened as black tendrils spread through Cara’s veins, starting from her chest and spreading up her neck into her face and along her arms.

Her cheeks became sunken, her skin sallow. “YOU DIDN’T SAVE ME!” she screamed, reaching out with a bony crooked hand.

Syler started awake, the grass around him damp with dew. The red flowers near his head were familiar. He reached out, running his hand over the lettering of the headstone. Cara Dunn, Loving Wife. Not intending to fall asleep there, Syler brushed a tear away and rose. This nightmare was not unfamiliar to him, and neither was the dream.

It seemed as though it had been years since he found her in their home after returning from a supply run to the Agricultural district in the south-western area of Sartak City. Three weeks. Killed by shadow magic. The same magic he used. The magic of Penumbra.

The canvas rags Syler wore itched, but he ignored it as he walked numbly through the Graveyard Barracks, the district along the easternmost wall of the city. The undead occasionally walked the grounds of the graveyard, a byproduct of all the death and misery found there. Syler had made doubly sure that Cara would not rise again, knowing he would be unable to deal with that. She had been blessed and marked by a priest of Chaldia, the goddess of the Veil.

Without realizing it, Syler had meandered north to the Pale Ale, a tavern of flickering candles and myriad secrets. The tavern stood next to the Braving Grounds, where the elite guards sworn to keep the undead in check trained and fought. Orcs, who made up the majority of the guard presence of Sartak City and subsequently the majority of those frequenting this tavern, were fiercely loyal to clan and family. And were susceptible to the occasional minor corruption or two.

“Blue Eye,” the barkeep said with a nod. Wiping a freshly washed mug, a stout dwarf stood behind the bar, with skin that seemed as granite and hair as black as Syler’s, intricately braided beard encrusted with gems that matched the ruby gemstones that were his eyes. He motioned to an empty stool, which Syler took.

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“Baryl.”

“Water?” Baryl asked.

Syler nodded.

A freshly cleaned mug of water was placed before him. He slid a white draka, the standard coin of the realm made from the shed scales of dragons, across the bar. It was far too much money, and Baryl had tried to give him change the first time, but Syler had just left it on the bar. He tucked the coin away with a nod.

“Why don’t you ever buy booze?”

“Why would I?” Syler said.

“Everyone has their reasons. You more than most, I presume.”

“Don’t presume.”

Baryl raised his hands, “No judgment here, my friend, but you have been coming here every morning for the past two weeks, ordering water and watching all my patrons come and go.”

“I meant no offense.”

“And none has been taken. Feels strange, is all.”

Syler nodded, grabbed his mug of water and moved to his usual corner table. He closed his eyes and focused, and his right eye flared with a faint blue glow beneath his eyelid. The tavern, once relatively dark with just the fireplace and handful of candles for light, seemed to him to be bathed in a light as blue as his eye. A gift for his injuries and bravery during the War of the Shard back in 4883. Five years ago. The Dokkalfar had taken his eye, and the gifted technomage gnomes of the Guild had given it back. Technology and magic working together.

Every orc in the Pale Ale bore a weapon, wreathed in slightly brighter light. Even Baryl had an axe he kept behind the bar for special occasions. None of that interested him. He sat and sipped, ordering a small meal several hours later. Fried potatoes and onions with bacon. Cara’s favorite.

It only took a week for him to spot it. Money exchanges hands. Searches neglected. The Guild doesn’t take too kindly to bribery or contraband being allowed into the city, at least when it didn't benefit them. It was a matter of time before they sent someone to correct the issue.

Some time later, a rift of darkness crossed into the blue light. A portal from Penumbra, the shadow realm the Guild had created centuries ago. Out slunk an orc. Or one who appeared as one, anyway. He could see a lithe elven figure dressed in the black garb of an Agent beneath the illusion.

A quick swig to finish his water brought him to his feet. A bawdy orc on his third mug of ale was raucously retelling a recent battle in the graveyards. Cheers muffled other sounds. A hand hooked around an elbow. A swift tug to a nearby table.

“‘Ey, what’re ya doin’?”

No need for the accent here, brother. Syler signed to the illusory orc now sitting next to him. The secret language used by the Agents was a complex sequence of subtle hand movements.

Why do you interfere, Exiled?

I figured you’d be in here eventually.

The elf smirked under the illusion. What do you want?

Who killed Cara?

The smirk disappeared. I don’t have that information. I did not.

Who does?

Who do you think?

Syler swore under his breath. Where?

Where else? Temple District, at the Badger.

Another swear. Without another word Syler stood and walked out of the tavern.

The Sexy Badger tavern was the main hub for Agents, used to gather information and deliver contracts to those working in the city. Once he left the Agency he was forbidden from entering the Badger again, unless he wanted back in. He walked back into the graveyard, pointedly heading toward a group of skeletons wandering through the headstones.

The canvas overcoat drifted to the ground as Syler drew near. The black runes across his body pulsed and shadow wrapped around him, starting at his back and looping around his torso, spreading down his arms and legs. The wraps looped around his face and head, leaving only a slit at his eyes. The cowl was the last part of the Penumbra armor to form. He reached behind him, touched another rune on his back, and drew a small shaft made from similar shadow stuff. It expanded out the upper and lower limbs of a bow, a narrow line of darkness forming the string. He drew the string, an arrow forming as he did so.

The first two of the seven skeletons fell before the others knew what was happening, the dark arrows dissolving into dark mist from the skulls as the bones clattered to the ground. He darted in, dropping the bow, which began to dissolve away as the arrows before it, and drew two long shadowy daggers. Skeletal fingers reached out to grab at him, but Syler was faster, rolling between two of the undead and rising back to his feet with a thrust, breaking several ribs of the skeleton before him and severing the spine at its median. It continued to reach for him even as it fell to the ground, just managing to grab and scratch at Syler’s ankle.

A swift kick sent the top half of the skeleton to smash into another one nearby, destroying both into a pile of bones. The two he’d rolled past reached him from behind, scratching at his back. The black leather repelled one of the attacks.

Syler grunted as he felt a scratch at his neck, a trickle of warm blood seeping down beneath his armor. As they reared back to strike again, he spun, holding out both daggers to intercept. Their forward momentum smashed their skulls into his daggers, dissipating the necromantic Teknaus, the ambient magic that had raised them.

A dagger throw took out the final skeleton, and Syler leaned against a nearby headstone, pressing a hand to his wound. It was superficial, thankfully.

Syler already felt a bit better, though he knew the gravity of necessity. He returned to Cara's stone.

"My love, I once told you I'd never go back to what I was. I'm afraid I can't hold to that now. I'm sorry. I love you. I'll return when it's done."