The smoke entered his throat, and Conor coughed, trying to clear it from his respiratory tract. As the smoke gradually dissipated, Conor came face-to-face with the prisoner, startling him.

There was a dark aura emanating from the young man, or perhaps it was his pale skin contrasting with jet-black hair. He wore shabby clothes, with pants that exposed his ankles, and his hands were bound by long shackles and chains that clanked heavily behind him.

Conor couldn't meet with his blood-red eyes, instead focusing on the young man's right arm, which was as black as ink—distinct from his left arm, which made Conor uneasy.

“You freed me,” said the prisoner, his eyes fixed on Conor without wavering. “I should thank you, but before that—”

In an instant, Conor realized too late as a creature of chaos materialized behind the prisoner, poised to ambush them. Its drooling, fanged mouth opened wide, ready to devour. Conor held his breath, unable to articulate any thoughts, but the prisoner extended his right hand, now transformed into a large, dark-colored claw. Swiftly, the claw plunged into the chest of the creature—a monster known as a svatghir wolf—and in one swift motion, tore out its heart. At least, that's what Conor assumed, never having seen a monster's heart before—a dark purplish mass with splatters of black blood spraying across the vicinity, some even staining Conor's face as the prisoner forcefully extracted the heart.

Stepping back, the prisoner remarked, “Getting through my dominion's seal. Seems like someone is impatient.” He lifted the monster's heart, dropped it into his mouth, and began consuming it with a disgusting, thick slurping sound that grated on Conor's ears. Glancing at the lifeless svatghir wolf below, Conor wondered if this was truly how he appeared in death—helpless and inert, fit only to be trampled upon.

She didn't even care about what had happened to him.

Conor tightly shut his eyes, pushing the unsettling thoughts away.

“Hey,” the prisoner's voice drew Conor's attention. "Are you okay?"

“Uh… yeah,” Conor replied. "Earlier, you mentioned you could revive me...?"

“Oh, that,” the prisoner waved dismissively, flicking away the blood still on his hand. "That won't be happening."

Huh?

“But you promised...!” Conor panicked, a million arguments racing through his mind.

He was right—despite everything, he shouldn't have expected anything. He wouldn't let himself be swayed by atmosphere or false promises. That was why he preferred the library and rarely ventured out unless compelled. Besides safety and minimizing the risk to his life, he simply wasn't adept at reading people—crowds drained him, and interactions sapped his energy.

Preben had scolded him once. Finding Conor in his corner, unpacking an archive of old letters—a collection detailing birth and death records of Elision's residents and their family trees.

Preben called it a waste of time. Conor found it fascinating to uncover the life histories of others.

For instance, he hadn't known that Commissioner Lyall of the city's police knights was descended from the famed escape artist and master thief, Fritz Deor. Before his death, Fritz had hidden the Ephemeral Desire potion, which remained undiscovered. Conor mused that Fritz Deor must have possessed a very strong Mystic Ordinance to execute such daring escapes, but according to Preben, the late Fritz was no mage—just an unfortunate genius. Having learned from a seer that he would eventually be caught and perish, Fritz concealed his most prized possession, stolen from Berghant Academy, somewhere within the city, as the seer had foretold.

“Don't you get bored, trapped in the library like this?”

“I don't think so,” Conor replied.

Adjusting his tie beneath his waistcoat, the man in the top hat continued, “Surely, you must feel lonely at times.”

“I'm not lonely,” Conor insisted. "I have you with me."

“You know, I'm not always here.” Preben grumbled, turning as if to end the conversation. Conor glanced at the swaying hem of his coat. "What I mean is, go out and find a close friend who makes life feel worth living."

Preben wanted him to build connections, but Conor had known loss before and didn't wish to experience it again. He understood not to expect anything, to avoid betrayal.

Yet here he was, betrayed for the second time that day.

Conor opened his mouth to voice his irritation, but the prisoner suddenly laughed. Strangely, the laughter wasn't mocking—it was amused and cheerful, causing Conor to hold his words inside.

“Just kidding.” With a glint in his eye and a pleasant smile, the recently freed prisoner spoke up.

“O-oh.”

The prisoner seemed indifferent to Conor's stammering. He snapped his fingers, and instantly, the darkness enveloping them dissipated, replaced by a closed room—a spacious area filled with wooden cupboards, cardboard boxes, and tools used for exhibitions.

Conor's attention was drawn to his own body slumped nearby on the floor. Evidently, he was truly dead—judging by the pool of blood beneath him, his stiff, contorted form, and the fact that he was looking at himself as a disembodied spirit.

"You're not lying."

“Nope,” the prisoner replied. "Now, are you sure you want your life back?"

Desperate, Conor answered without hesitation. “Yes, please!”

He wanted to live—to prove that divinations did not dictate his fate.

“If I bring you back to life, what will you give me in return?”

“Like what?” Conor struggled to think.

“Well,” the prisoner began, “I can't simply restore someone's life. It requires intense concentration of eyr and a pact with me—a reciprocal exchange. It's quite simple, really. You ask, and I grant your life back. But do you truly wish to become tied in name and fate with a creature like me?”

The way he spoke made the young man before Conor seem inhuman. Conor recoiled at the notion of fate. He felt sick hearing that word.

“If I could bend fate to my will, I would.”

In the dimly lit room, the prisoner smirked before remarking, “Nice words.” Then, in a cheerful tone, he continued, "But words mean nothing without action." He glanced at Conor. “What will you give me?”

"Anything."

“Anything?” The prisoner repeated, receiving a nod from Conor. He narrowed his eyes, crossing his arms. “Even your heart?”

“My... heart?” Conor echoed. "Are you going to devour it?" He remembered the svatghir wolf whose heart the prisoner had consumed.

The prisoner snorted, the shackles on his legs creaking as he shifted position. "No. I have another use for your heart.”

"Okay, just take it," Conor replied. “As long as I don't have to watch you eat my heart, I'll hand it over.”

Something in the prisoner's expression hinted at a hidden agenda, but Conor refrained from asking. He suddenly felt the prisoner's right hand, black as ink, pierce his chest and retrieve something—holding Conor with his left hand while extracting what felt like his heart, glowing with a bright, obscuring light.

“You haven't changed at all.”

The prisoner spoke softly before everything faded to darkness.

But not for long, because as soon as Conor opened his eyes and took a deep breath, he found himself lying on the room's floor, his whole body aching. Blinking, he tried to get up and glanced around. "Am I... back?"

"You think I'm just fooling around?" Conor heard the prisoner reply. He saw the dark-haired young man lift his chin arrogantly, holding up something—a heart-shaped crystal object of pale white color, with gold carvings that twisted to resemble veins, secured by a silver chain. "This," said the prisoner, "is now mine."

Conor rose to his feet. "Wait, how am I supposed to live if I don't have a heart?"

"That's easy," the prisoner began, "after all, you are—"

A voice interrupted from above, shouting loudly. Many footsteps clashed, indicating a swift movement, ready to enter the underground room.

“These are the police knights! Open the door!”

The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

Conor saw annoyance—and perhaps a hint of boredom—cross the prisoner's face. The young man chuckled and glanced aside.

“Time to leave.” The prisoner rose, kicking over a nearby wooden cupboard, revealing a narrow window just large enough for escape.

“You wouldn't—whoa!” Conor screamed as the prisoner leaped out the window, dragging Conor along, using the fallen cupboard as support.

In the chilly darkness of night, Conor followed the prisoner, who gripped his wrist tightly, leading him away from the urban area towards the hills on the outskirts of town. They moved so swiftly Conor felt they were almost invisible, silhouetted against the moon, leaving the police knights to search the basement.

The prisoner—Conor really wanted to know his name instead of just calling him 'the prisoner'—smiled meaningfully at Conor as he continued dragging him through the outskirts and into the forest. Conor felt tense as they trudged through leaves and bushes before the prisoner halted abruptly. Before them lay an opening—Conor glimpsed a ruined structure on an island. Were they headed there? Conor caught his breath, wondering how they'd cross the lake to reach it.

"Hey, where are we going?" He asked.

"There, obviously," the dark-haired youth replied without turning.

Before Conor could question how they'd cross the lake, he felt himself being lifted. Conor saw the young man's firm, broad back in front of him.

“Hold on tight, okay?" The prisoner chirped. Conor shouted in surprise, already figuring out what would come next.

"Wait!"

Conor cried out, gripping the prisoner's shoulder tightly. Whatever Mystic Ordinance the prisoner possessed, it was strong enough to launch them into the sky. Conor held his breath, gazing down at the remains of a castle below. The night air tousled the young man's black hair as he laughed.

“You should probably close your eyes,” he advised. Conor stiffened.

"Close my eyes?" Conor yelped as they suddenly spun through the air. Conor lost his grip on the young man and momentarily floated. Instinctively, he shut his eyes, still shouting, but felt no impact when they landed. When he opened his eyes again, he found himself caught by the prisoner, who had landed first on the island.

“Shush,” the prisoner said, grinning. "You don't want them to hear where we are, right?" He released Conor, who was somewhat dazed and stood amazed next to him.

“Don't tell me you just did that.” Conor's annoyance was ignored by the prisoner, who had already walked ahead, his chains dragging on the ground. Conor hurriedly chased after him.

“What is this place...?” This was Conor's first time seeing an old castle. He had no idea such a place existed in the forest near the library. There were no records indicating this castle's previous existence. They entered what Conor guessed was once a meeting place. The walls had collapsed, exposing the interior to the moonlight at night.

The prisoner remained silent, his gaze sweeping over the surroundings. His mouth briefly seemed to frown before he turned to Conor and smiled.

“Do you know why I brought you here?”

“I don't know,” Conor replied after a pause, then guessed, “Does it have anything to do with that ancient book?”

“Kind of,” the young man chuckled. He leaped onto the steps leading to the top of the half-destroyed court in the center of the open room. With an outstretched hand that made the chains rattle, the prisoner spoke firmly.

“What I want you to do is…help me get killed.”

***

In a dark and damp alley, Cecily Brylene didn't need to look back to realize she was being followed. She stopped for a moment, tightening her grip on the strap of her violin case. She already knew who was tailing her, and it annoyed her. She didn't like being rushed.

There were three, maybe six of them—a group with their faces hidden behind dark purple hoods, adorned with oval-shaped emblems resembling mirrors on their robes.

Finally, one of them spoke, sensing Cecily was ready to acknowledge their presence. It was a deep, serious voice of a man, alert and grave.

"You didn't bring the book."

"The book is gone," Cecily replied.

"We didn't want it gone. The order was for the object not to be destroyed. It was to be delivered to us."

Cecily huffed, glancing briefly at the group. "It's done. Okay? I'll fulfill my duty in the end."

"You're cautious. Yet, stubborn," the man said. "Your actions could lead to losses. If the others get ahead of you, everything expected of you will be in jeopardy, and you will suffer the consequences."

Cecily scowled at the reminder. Bound by fate as a hero, she would carry Frain's name until her death. "No one will surpass me."

Hearing Cecily's determination, the group vanished from the alley, apparently satisfied with her words. They were mere followers, but of high rank—a direct subordinate to the one who had brought Cecily to this city.

Cecily continued on her way, walking through deserted streets until she reached the town square. The clock tower stood silently, with no pedestrians or vendors around. Cecily didn't mind; no one would notice the sound she was about to produce anyway.

She set her violin case down, retrieved her instrument, applied rosin to the bow's hair, and positioned the violin. Streaming eyr, she began to play a song.

This was Cecily's Mystic Ordinance, a task that strained her magical nerves, but manipulating ley lines through her music was crucial. Repairing damaged ley lines was taxing work; if not done properly, the tears would reopen, forcing Cecily to repair them repeatedly until her destiny was fulfilled. She did this out of obligation and because she genuinely enjoyed playing the violin.

After all, only monsters and specters could hear the haunting melody of her violin's song.

***

“You want... to be killed?” Conor felt a heavy weight on his chest. Even without a heart, he could still sense the strange pressure. "Why?"

“Because my death is inevitable,” the dark-haired young man answered. “But imagine this—if I told you that killing me could grant you anything you desire, what would you think?”

"What do you mean?"

“Doesn't my death sound more enticing now?” The prisoner smiled.

Conor grew anxious. "Who are you?" He felt compelled to repeat the question, but Conor's words halted when he heard someone calling his name from outside.

“Conor, are you there?”

“Preben?” Conor gasped, running towards the source of the sound, unaware of the meaningful gaze from the prisoner behind him.

Sure enough, Preben stood at the entrance of the castle ruins, tall in the dim moonlight, his dark coat blending into the night.

“Why are you here?”

"Did you know you've been gone all day and night?" Preben accused. “Unusual behavior for you. I was worried something had happened, and here you are in this place,” he said.

“Uh, he brought me here.” Conor gestured towards the castle. Preben adjusted his mask and strode inside confidently.

"So, you've returned to this place." Preben said.

"Well, what a pleasant surprise," said the prisoner. “To think there was one of—”

"Enough," Preben interrupted sharply. “I only did what I had to do. But you—be prepared.”

"I know that already," said the prisoner. "All thanks to that young man in the scarf over there, thanks, yeah?"

“He has a name.”

"If I knew, I would have said so," replied the young man.

Conor felt it was time to interject. “My name is Conor,” he said.

“Conor,” the prisoner solemnly repeated his name, “Nice name.”

Conor didn't know how to respond, but a glimmer of opportunity presented itself.

"May I know your name?" He asked.

Leaning to the side with arms folded across his chest, the prisoner, shackled on hands and feet, regarded Conor seriously, his perfectly angular face betraying boredom.

"I don't have one."

"Really?" Conor said, half surprised, half confused.

“I used to have one,” he said. “But it was long ago, and I forgot it. Or maybe it was taken from me.” He shrugged, seemingly unfazed.

Preben, seemingly sensing the young man's sincerity, then added, “What he said is true.”

Conor frowned. Losing a name sounded absurd and unsettling. Names brought familiarity, held significance, and preserved memories. What should he say to someone without a name?

Heavy footsteps resounded from outside, followed by a thunderous cry. “Hands up and don't move!”

“They're here?!” Conor was shocked; the police knights had arrived. Conor couldn't discern the exact expressions of the two men with him, especially since one wore a mask and the other seemed impassive.

Everything blurred quickly. Troops flooded the castle from all directions, surrounding the prisoner who followed their lead with apparent indifference, ushering him out. Conor attempted to intervene, but Preben swiftly grasped his hand, adjusting his mask as he whispered,

"This is just the beginning."

“Preben Raphax.” Someone suddenly spoke. “You're a hard man to find.”

Conor recognized the woman from the newspaper—Commissioner Octavia Lyall approached, her heels echoing across the floor. Her men parted to make way for her. Preben turned to her calmly.

“Commissioner Lyall, it's a pleasure to meet you,” Preben Raphax greeted, tipping his hat slightly.

“I heard a rumor,” Octavia Lyall said gravely, “then the auditorium suddenly caught fire on the day of an important exhibition.”

“Were there any casualties?”

“Some minor injuries, and about twenty serious injuries from both monster attacks and the flames,” Octavia replied.

“I hope none of the important guests were among those twenty.”

Octavia frowned slightly; her burgundy hair seemed to glow in the castle's dim light. “It shouldn't have been so easy for monsters to breach our defenses. All access points have been monitored, but on this day, more so than others? Something’s not adding up.”

“Perhaps the monsters came from within the city. Have you considered that?”

“Anyway,” Octavia continued, dismissively, “as a librarian and scholar, perhaps you can provide me with some...insights.”

“What about that young man? Are you going to detain him?” Conor asked, nervously speaking to Commissioner Lyall, but he had many questions for the prisoner, especially because he took Conor's heart.

“Let's discuss it at the office,” Octavia said, motioning for Preben and Conor to follow her and her troops. “Watch your step, and, oh, I hope you don't mind not getting any sleep tonight.”