The city never truly slept. Even in the dead of night, the streets pulsed with a quiet, restless energy.
Eliard moved through the alleys with practiced ease, keeping to the dimly lit paths where the gas lamps barely reached. The encounter with the man in the coat still lingered in his mind. The King of Spades. A warning, a challenge—maybe both.
But something else gnawed at him. A feeling he couldn't shake.
His steps slowed for a moment as a sharp sensation pricked at the edges of his mind—a fragmented thought, a memory just out of reach. He didn't know why, but Marven's name surfaced. A place. A presence. As though a part of him remembered something his conscious mind couldn't grasp. Was it instinct? A remnant of something lost? He didn't know.
What he did know was that his feet were already carrying him toward a place he hadn't planned on going.
Someone is watching me.
His fingers brushed the edges of the book hidden beneath his coat. The woman had handed it over too easily. The more he thought about it, the more the pieces refused to fit.
Why had she helped him? Why was he given this book, something that clearly held significance?
And more importantly—who wanted him dead?
The questions circled his mind as he approached a quiet part of the district. Here, the streets were lined with decaying buildings, relics of an era before the city had embraced industrialization. Broken windows, crumbling brick walls, the distant sound of rats scurrying in the gutters.
A fitting place for those who didn't want to be found.
Eliard stopped at an unmarked wooden door, its edges worn and splintered. He knocked twice, paused, then knocked three more times—a pattern he had learned in another life, in another time.
Silence.
Then, the soft sound of metal scraping against wood. A peephole slid open.
Two dark eyes peered through the gap. A gruff voice followed. "Password?"
Eliard met the gaze without hesitation. "The crows still fly at dusk."
A pause. Then, the sound of locks disengaging. The door creaked open just enough for him to slip inside before it was sealed shut behind him.
The air was thick with the scent of old parchment and ink. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with books, ledgers, and scrolls. The room was dimly lit by a single oil lamp, casting flickering shadows across the wooden floor.
At the center of it all, seated behind a cluttered desk, was Marven Elholt.
A man who thrived in the underbelly of the city, dealing in secrets the way merchants dealt in gold. He was thin, with sharp, foxlike features, his graying hair tied back into a loose knot. His coat was worn but well-maintained, the kind of attire that let him blend into any crowd.
Marven leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled together. "Eliard Veyne."
Hearing his name spoken aloud in this place sent a ripple of tension through the air.
Eliard didn't react. He simply pulled out the book from his coat and placed it on the desk. "I need information."
Marven's gaze flickered to the book. He let the silence stretch before finally exhaling. "Of course you do."
He reached for the book with careful hands, running his fingers over the cover. Then, without another word, he flipped it open.
The moment he did, the lamp flickered violently, as if something unseen had disturbed the air. The temperature in the room dipped, and a faint whisper slithered through the space—so soft it was almost imperceptible.
Eliard's muscles tensed. He knew that sound.
A curse.
Marven's expression didn't change, but his grip on the book tightened. "Where did you get this?"
"A woman."
"What woman?"
Eliard hesitated. He wasn't even sure of her name. The memory of her cold, knowing gaze flashed in his mind. "She didn't introduce herself."
Marven clicked his tongue in irritation. He turned a few pages, his brows furrowing as he skimmed the text. Then, his fingers stopped. His face paled slightly.
"This isn't just a book."
Eliard crossed his arms. "I figured as much."
Marven looked up, his voice lower now. "This is a binding codex. It doesn't just hold knowledge—it holds a fragment of something. Something alive."
Eliard didn't like the sound of that. "Explain."
Marven's lips pressed into a thin line. He closed the book carefully, as if it might bite him. "There are things in this world that shouldn't be bound. Knowledge that shouldn't be written. This… this is one of them."
Eliard leaned forward. "And yet, someone wanted me to have it."
Marven studied him for a long moment before sighing. He rubbed his temples. "You always had a habit of stepping into things best left alone."
Eliard smirked. "And you always had a habit of knowing more than you let on."
Marven didn't deny it. Instead, he gestured toward the book. "If you want answers, be careful where you look. Some knowledge demands a price."
Eliard exhaled slowly. He already knew that.
And yet, he had a feeling this was a price he wouldn't have the luxury of refusing.