Running down the winding, stone-laid road, Narvel's mind raced faster than his feet. Thoughts surged in waves, each more frantic than the last, all centered around a single question—' How do I get out of this mess I was dragged into without warning?'
The thundering of hooves behind him grew louder, echoing off the walls of the alleys and aging buildings. The men chasing him were on horseback, and they were gaining fast. Realizing that a straight path would only make him an easier target, Narvel veered sharply into a side street.
He darted through crowded spaces, weaving between vendors, carts, and citizens, all of whom yelled and cursed as he shoved past them.
His heart thudded with both exertion and anxiety. He couldn't shake the memory of the unmoving guards at the city's gate—their strength so overwhelming it lingered in the air. 'If the men chasing me are like them,' Narvel thought, 'they'd have caught me already.'
That brought him little comfort. 'They may not be that strong, but they're at least Awakeners like me.'
'Either way, losing them was the only option for now. Whether or not I'll actually deliver this thing to the library?' He scoffed inwardly. 'That depends on my mood.'
As if in response, glowing lines of text flickered into existence before his eyes.
Quest.
Quest for Power: Deliver the Stone of Realization to the Eperium Library before sunset.
Reward: A step forward.
Failure to comply will result in being marked an enemy of all Royal Factions in Camelot.
Consequences: Very high probability of death.
Tread carefully.
Time Remaining: 9:23:46
Narvel read the prompt, eyes narrowing. He'd heard the tales of quests, how rare and valuable they were to Novas within the Crucible. Some Novas waited months, even years, for their first quest. They were considered blessings. But this? This didn't feel like a blessing.
It felt like a trap with a countdown.
He hadn't chosen this path. It had been thrust into his hands—literally.
'All the Royal Factions… enemies?' Narvel's pulse quickened. The guards at the city gate were enough to terrify him. If those were just basic sentries, what level of power guarded the royal sectors?
He briefly considered escaping with the cube—the Stone of Realization, as the interface named it. Maybe he could leave Camelot altogether and disappear. But then his thoughts returned to those unmoving gatekeepers. Would they let him leave so easily? Could they sense the cube on him? Would they strike him down without warning?
And then there was the so-called reward: "A step forward." Narvel frowned. 'A step forward… to where? To what?' The vagueness irked him. But at the same time, the phrasing—it felt intentional. Like it was meant for someone like him.
His feet didn't slow. If anything, they moved faster.
The chase had gone on for what felt like hours, and Narvel eventually found himself in a dense forest, the city and its chaos now far behind him. Sunlight filtered through the thick canopy above, casting fractured beams of gold across the underbrush.
He had managed to slip out of immediate sight, but the distant shouts behind him told him clearly that his pursuers had followed him into the woods and were still on his trail, combing through the thickets, trying to track him down.
Moving swiftly and silently, Narvel leaped onto the low branch of a sturdy tree, his breath still ragged. From there, he hopped lightly from one tree to the next, navigating across thick limbs and choosing only the most stable branches to avoid creaking wood that might betray his position. His effort was to increase the distance between himself and the men behind.
Minutes passed.
Eventually, their voices faded into the background. Silence returned—thick and heavy, broken only by the occasional rustle of wind-blown leaves or the distant call of birds.
Perched on a wide branch several meters off the ground, Narvel crouched low, his chest rising and falling sharply. Beads of sweat rolled freely down the sides of his face and into the collar of his shirt. His limbs trembled slightly underneath the mask, both from the exertion and the lingering adrenaline.
"That bastard…" he muttered to himself. "I'll have to find out who he is and get my revenge."
For the first time since the chase began, Narvel finally had a chance to inspect the object clutched in his hand, the mysterious cube he had been forced to deliver. The Stone of Realization.
Under the dappled sunlight that trickled through the leaves, he turned it over slowly, inspecting its strange, shifting surface. The cube was smooth to the touch, almost unnaturally so, with faintly glowing symbols that faded in and out like they were breathing. It didn't feel like any regular item.
It radiated a low hum—a kind of silent pressure that whispered of purpose and hidden potential.
"What's so good about this thing anyway?" He wondered aloud. "Is it some kind of ancient relic? A historical monument?"
While he pondered, Narvel became aware that Ebonveil had been constantly pestering him, vibrating slightly inside him since the moment the chase began. At first, he dismissed it—assuming the weapon was simply reacting to the presence of enemies and the thought of consuming blood, eager to taste combat. That was not unusual.
But now, there was no one around. No threats, no bloodlust in the air.
And still, the weapon itched to be released.
'Is it because of this cube?' Narvel thought, tightening his grip around it. He considered the possibility that the cube was composed of rare or precious materials—valuable enough to fetch a small fortune.
'I could try selling it…'
But the idea was quickly dismissed. This wasn't a world he could trust so easily. If he attempted to sell such a rare item, there was no guarantee he wouldn't be killed just to keep things quiet. Buyers of high-value items often came with dangerous protectors and sharp contingency plans.
Suddenly, Ebonveil vibrated violently within him, sending a pulse of discomfort through Narvel's core. Gritting his teeth, he released the weapon from his body.
As the dark scythe emerged, a magnetic pull surged from its blade, drawing the cube toward its tip with a sudden clang. The sound echoed through the forest, startling a few birds from their nests and shaking loose leaves from nearby branches.
Narvel's eyes widened. The two items had reacted to each other. He could feel it in his bones that something was happening.
Ebonveil trembled as though it were feeding. It was drawing something from the cube, and with this development, a flicker of unease passed through Narvel's heart.
He tried to pull the weapon away, but it was locked in place as an invisible force held it down. Whatever the connection was, it was deeper than he expected.
Leaning closer, Narvel focused on the point of contact.
Instinctively, his [Deep Thoughts] talent activated.
His vision shifted as an overlay of luminous threads appeared before his eyes. The cube and the scythe lit up with veins of energy, weaving and intertwining. Moth-like light—tiny glowing specs that flowed through the veins.
Narvel recognized the energy, Ember.
But the veins weren't just carrying Ember. There was something else moving with it, something intangible, yet potent. Something Narvel could not yet comprehend.
Still, he watched. Fascinated. Mesmerized. Ebonveil was drawing this unseen energy from the cube, absorbing it like it was nourishment. And in that moment, a realization struck him.
He had been trying to absorb Ember into his own body for a while… and here it was, flowing clearly, visibly. If he could understand how it moved through these vessels… he might just find a way to do it himself.
Then, as suddenly as it began, the process stopped. Ebonveil pulled back from the cube and the connection severed. The hum of energy faded. Narvel's [Deep Thoughts] deactivated, leaving him back in the normal world, with only silence and questions.
"Why'd you stop now?" He muttered, half-annoyed as he studied the scythe. He turned it in his hand, and checked its status through his interface—but everything seemed unchanged. No new abilities, no new entries, and no visible upgrades.
Disappointed, he returned Ebonveil into his body and continued moving through the forest, uncertain but unwilling to linger.
…
Hours passed. The forest changed around him, thinning out in some parts, and growing thicker in others. The canopy above shifted with the movement of the sun, painting long shadows across his path. Narvel could no longer hear the sounds of pursuit.
To be safe, he made a few changes. He pulled off his mask and folded it, slipping it into the inner pocket of his shirt. He also removed an outer layer of clothing, though it wasn't much, it was just enough to alter his silhouette and appearance slightly.
Without a change of clothes, this was all he could do. But even small changes might be enough to mislead anyone looking for a masked fugitive.
And right now, that was exactly what he needed…