The descent into the underground black market was like stepping into an entirely different world—one of vice, blood, and unrepentant anarchy.
This underground network expanded through Drakehelm, and multiple other cities in this world. It was here that the ragged and torn felt they belonged. Away from the shadows of the rich noble families and estates, the highly esteemed and successful houses that paved the way for the economy with their intelligence—or power.
The air thickened with smoke, both from cheap cigars and alchemic fumes wafting from countless hidden vendors. The streets, if one could even call them that, were a twisting labyrinth of rusted iron walkways, dimly lit alleys, and crowded, busy stalls selling everything from cursed relics to illegal soul-infused weaponry. The walls were lined with half-functioning gas lamps, flickering like dying stars, and the ground beneath their feet was a mixture of metal grates, stone, and bloodstained cobblestone.
Lucien, hands in his coat pockets, strolled through it all as if he belonged there with a grin. "Ahhh! The smell of fresh rot and piss! The best."
Sella, however—did not.
'Disgusting. The Black Chapel teaches us elegance along with a hidden blade, but how quickly for one to abandon it to trail amongst squalor and filth?'
She kept one hand over her mouth like she could taste the horrible air, her eyes narrowing in disgust as they passed piles of rotting waste, half-dismembered corpses thrown into the alleys like garbage, and vendors selling questionably sentient alchemic creations. The stench of sweat, alcohol, and rusted blood clung to the air, and Sella grimaced at every step.
Lucien, noticing her discomfort, smirked.
"Oh? Something wrong, Lady Scowlington?"
Sella shot him a glare over her fingers. "You walk through this filth voluntarily? Easy to die from air stench poison. Maybe I'll tie you up and lock you down here; something this filthy could maybe weaken your immortality."
"Maybe maybe. But just live a little," Lucien teased, nudging her shoulder. "You can't spend your whole life in creepy, candle-lit cathedrals, praying that the world stays boring. I bet you never even wore normal clothes, or even a dress."
Sella stuttered, "I-I don't need to. Those will distract me from what the Black Chapel stands for."
"Sure sure."
Sella looked down at herself, her clothing, thinking, 'I never wore anything that this world called normal. Never wore a dress, or any exquisite or exotic clothing besides what the Black chapel offers us. To stay in the Chapel's outfits means to preserve ourselves in the Chapel's doctrine. To take it off and change into the world's clothing..means to abandon the cause…Lucien knows that. The last time I ever wore anything normal or even a dress…was when I was a child. With the ghost of man, my father.'
Then, a group of strangers immediately locked onto her.
A tall man with a face covered in intricate tattoos stepped closer, flashing her a grin lined with gold teeth. "Well, well, ain't you a rare sight down here, sweetheart?"
Another man, this one hunched with a mechanical arm, whistled low. "She's too clean to be a regular. Pretty skin, pretty eyes, pretty clean hair, I bet she has all the men chasing her!"
A woman with pierced lips and sharpened nails smirked. "Hey, beautiful, how much for a night of your company?"
Sella's eye twitched.
Without hesitation, she grabbed the nearest dagger off a vendor's table and hurled it.
The blade lodged itself in the wooden beam behind the man with the gold teeth—right next to his head. The man didn't budge, he just smiled.
"She's interesting, she fits right down here."
Sella sighed, looking at Lucien, "Ugh. They're just like you. Control your rats!"
Lucien laughed, "Control my rats?! That one was funny, I'll admit." But then he leaned in, "You know, threatening murder every time someone talks to you or compliments you is why you don't have any friends."
Sella rolled her eyes. "And you do? And I don't need friends."
Lucien gestured vaguely to Torch, perched lazily on his shoulder. "Nope. Like I said, waste of time. I manipulate people, use them for my gains and for my revenge."
Torch blinked once before biting Lucien's ear.
Lucien yelped, grabbing the cat by the scruff and shoving him off.
Sella smirked. "Seems like he hates you, too. And besides, I don't care for anyone's compliments. Anything they say does not matter to me. I hear people compliment my looks all the time, but it's equivalent to a bunch of flies gathering around my ear."
Behind them, the three nuns trailed closely together, their robes slightly hiked up so they wouldn't trip on the grimy ground. They clutched their prayer beads so tightly their knuckles turned white.
"Holy Ilrion, protect us. Holy Ilrion, protect us. Holy Ilrion, protect us."
They muttered their prayers frantically, ignoring the growing number of people watching them with amusement.
One drunken man stumbled toward them, leering. "You ladies looking for salvation?"
The nun with pale green eyes flinched.
The scarred one, however, punched him so hard he collapsed. "Back away, demon!"
The man only laughed. "Haha! Yes! Hit me! I'm an evil man, haha!"
As they ventured deeper, the underground black market revealed another horror—one far worse than the crime and debauchery.
Lucien and Sella both noticed it at the same time.
Among the criminals, the gamblers, and the wanderers, some people bore horrific, oozing sores, their veins red-blackened beneath pale skin, their irises tinged with crimson.
Unlike the surface world, where the afflicted hid in the shadows, here, they moved freely.
'The Red Death. Or the Red Plague, doesn't matter. Still a cursed disease that basically kills whoever touches it slowly. Something the witches had spread for whatever reason.' Lucien thought. 'I do know when I was with the Black Chapel, they would try to kill the gods that escape their Tarot cards, and also kidnap people and use them as sacrifices or fuel for their dark power. But when they kidnapped people, they came back with the disease.'
Sella's voice was quiet, sharp. "The plague is spreading unchecked down here. I'm not surprised. If it was contagious, this whole market would go under."
Lucien, uninterested, simply shrugged. "How much 'under' can it get? These people..in every district like this, people are forced to feel at home underground. People who have the Red Plague are outcast from society where rats run around and screw each other while making squeaky noises. The disease was forced on them, their lives taken and tethered to a deadly poison that could kill them by combustion any moment now. It pisses me off. And this state doesn't have an empire like every other state does, so it's no order to be placed to help them. Only the Inquisition runs shit here, alongside rich noble families."
"Are you caring about these people?"
"No. These people mean nothing to me. It's just annoying how things turned out for them. The fact that I relate to them in many ways is why it messes with my head. Being tied to something you have no control over. The Inquisition forces the sick down to the undercurrents of the city to explode to themselves. The air underground is denser, so an explosion would gather in on itself and won't cause as much damage. But exploding outside, since it's exposed to more air, would cause more chaos.
"…Maybe that's a good thing. Keeping them away from masses of children. And those who would be caught in the crossfire. There is no treatment for it."
"…Still stupid, nonetheless."
Lucien rolled his eyes. "Sounds like something a cryptic bastard would do."
Sella thought, 'I don't understand him. He claims to not care, and yet, shows pity…'
After dodging more conmen, scammers, and one particularly aggressive mechanical rooster that someone was betting on, they finally reached the bar.
Its name was etched into a massive iron sign above the entrance, written in old dialect:
"The Crooked Warden."
Lucien didn't knock.
He didn't wait.
"Here!" Lucien smiled.
He simply kicked the doors open with a loud crack, stepping inside with a grin.
"Give us drinks! Now! Free!"
The bar fell silent.
All eyes turned toward him.
The bartender, a massive wall of a man, looked up from polishing a steel tankard. His face was weathered with scars, his jawline chiseled like stone, his arms corded with muscle, veins prominent beneath tattoos of runic symbols. His bald head gleamed under the dim, golden lights, and his sharp, black eyes scanned Lucien with a look that could break lesser men.
His bar was a sanctuary for criminals, outcasts, and lost souls. Dimly lit, lined with aged mahogany and iron, shelves upon shelves of stolen liquor lining the back wall. The floors were reinforced metal, dented from past bar fights, and a chandelier made of repurposed bayonets hung above them.
In one corner, a gambling ring roared with laughter.
In another, a mechanically-enhanced boxer wiped blood from his mouth, stepping out of a fighting pit where another man lay unconscious.
"It's him…"
Inquisition officers lurked near the back, pretending not to notice anything, too drunk and uncaring to do their jobs.
"Lucien Albrecht, eh?"
"Don't do anything stupid. I want to go home to my wife and kids."
"Same here. Let's enjoy our break."
The bartender set down his tankard.
"No."
Lucien blinked. "No?"
The bartender cracked his knuckles. "You pay."
The nuns, behind them, were already praying again.
The tension in the bar hung thick as smoke, every pair of criminal, exiled, and lawless eyes turned toward Lucien as he stood at the entrance, grinning like a devil.
The bartender—a beast of a man, broad-shouldered and stone-faced—didn't flinch as he wiped down a steel tankard, his scarred arms lined with old war-torn tattoos. He was a man built for battle, one who had seen enough fights to know when one was about to start. He was at least 6 feet, muscular, and dark grey shoulder length hair with a bushy beard, and light brown eyes.
Lucien, however, didn't wait for an invitation.
In a blink, a flicker of motion faster than the human eye could track, Lucien was suddenly on the bar counter, crouched like a perched predator, his revolver pressed firmly against the bartender's temple.
The entire room went dead silent.
The mechanical boxer stopped mid-drink, one eye still swollen shut.
The gambling table froze, dice suspended mid-roll in a dealer's hand.
Even the Inquisition officers, who normally didn't give a shit about anything, suddenly found themselves very interested.
Lucien's voice came low, slow, amused. "Gunthr."
The bartender—Gunthr—didn't react right away. He just held Lucien's gaze, his jaw set, his muscles completely still. It was a silent exchange of experience.
Then, Gunthr laughed.
A deep, gravel-throated chuckle, like a man who had been expecting something ridiculous to happen the moment Lucien walked in.
Without dropping his smirk, Lucien spun his revolver once before smoothly tucking it away in his coat.
Gunthr leaned forward slightly, his voice dry and unamused. "Of course, this one's free. I like my retired life, and I'd rather not get shot in my own bar by a lunatic. Plus I owe you one anyway."
Lucien flashed a grin. "Smart man."
Gunthr shook his head, reaching beneath the counter. "What do you want?"
Lucien leaned on his elbows, glancing at the three incredibly out-of-place nuns, who were still standing near the entrance, praying under their breath as they took in their surroundings.
He pointed a lazy finger at them. "Make something weird for them."
Gunthr raised a thick brow. "Weird?"
Lucien grinned. "Something that'll make me laugh. They're pretty interesting."
Gunthr exhaled, rubbing his temple. "Another job."
Lucien shrugged, stretching his arms behind his head. "Yep. And I know you're the one who sent them to me."
Gunthr didn't confirm or deny it. He simply went to work, grabbing bottles from the shelves with effortless efficiency.
Sella, arms crossed beside Lucien, eyed him suspiciously. "Who is this?"
Lucien tilted his head toward Gunthr. "Gunthr. Former war dog, ex-mercenary, and the only person down here who actually knows how to mix a drink properly. I sincerely hate his guts, but since he's great with giving me information, I keep him around."
Gunthr added, "I hate Lucien's guts, but because of him being around, there's never troublemakers inside of my bar wrecking my stuff." Gunthr didn't look up as he poured a dark, shimmering liquid into a frosted metal tankard.
Lucien nodded. "Exactly. People talk in bars. He hears a lot of things, and when he hears something only I can handle, he sends them my way."
Sella hummed, watching as Gunthr smoothly mixed a glowing amber liquid with something thick and dark. "So what, he's your informant?"
Gunthr glanced up briefly, his eyes sharp. "I don't work for him."
Lucien smirked. "But he does send me paying clients. So, technically—he does."
Gunthr sighed heavily, sliding the drink onto the counter. "Brat."
Sella shook her head. "And the nuns?"
Gunthr nodded toward them. "They came in earlier. Just sat at the bar, muttering to themselves, saying they needed to drink."
Lucien snorted. "So they've done this before."
Gunthr shrugged. "I told them they wouldn't be able to talk right if they were drunk. Told them to come back after. But they insisted. And insisted they found you first."
As if on cue, the tallest nun, the one with golden eyes and auburn hair, turned toward Sella, clasping her hands together.
"Lady Scowlington, have you—"
Sella grabbed her by the throat.
The nun gasped as the other two immediately tried to pry Sella off, shouting in alarm.
"That's NOT my name!" Sella barked, shaking her slightly. "DON'T LISTEN TO THAT BASTARD LUCIEN!"
Lucien lost it.
He leaned against the counter, howling with laughter as the nuns struggled to separate their sister from Sella's iron grip. The bar, which had initially been dead quiet, erupted into chuckling, cheers, and rowdy commentary.
A man at a nearby table banged his mug against the wood. "This one's got fire!"
A woman near the boxing ring grinned. "Bet ten gold she kills the nun."
Gunthr watched with a bored expression, continuing to mix another drink.
After a moment, Sella finally released the nun, who stumbled backward, coughing.
Lucien was still grinning when Gunthr gave him a sideways glance.
"…It's not like you to have a girlfriend."
Lucien groaned. "Not that shit again."
Sella scoffed loudly, turning away.
Lucien waved a dismissive hand. "I don't do relationships." He grinned as he leaned forward, voice casual but pointed.
Gunthr set another drink on the counter. "And her? What's her purpose?"
Lucien leaned back, tilting his head toward Sella. "Black Chapel. Prodigy Assassin, like I was."
Gunthr's eyes sharpened slightly. "You using her for information?"
Lucien's smirk widened. "Of course."
Then, with expert precision, Gunthr placed down three tankards filled with shimmering, deep blue liquid.
The nuns, having finally recovered from Sella's attempted murder, eyed them warily.
Sella wrinkled her nose. "What the hell is that?"
Gunthr leaned against the counter. "I call it Saint's Mercy. I just came up with it, for these three holy females."
Lucien whistled. "Sounds misleading."
Gunthr smirked. "It is."
By now, the bar was fully invested in the spectacle. People crowded around the table, forming a loose circle around the nuns, whispering bets, commenting loudly.
"She's gonna pass out first."
"Nah, the scarred one looks like she's fought before."
"I'm just here to see someone throw up."
"Make bets!"
Sella, arms crossed, looked around with barely veiled disgust.
'This is actually happening…this is actually my life. But I won't lie to myself…it's entertaining. Better than sitting at the sanctuary all day.'
The nuns, however, looked at each other.
Then, in unison—they reached for their drinks.
Lucien grinned. "Oh, this is gonna be good."
It happened fast.
One moment, the nuns were composed, cautious, and full of religious restraint. The next, after several tankards of Saint's Mercy, their holy discipline collapsed like a cathedral struck by lightning.
Their cheeks flushed, words slurred, and posture loosened as prayers quickly turned into belligerent chanting. The once-dignified priestesses of Ilrion had become rowdy, unpredictable, and dangerously unhinged.
"Holy Ilrion, bless this drink!" The auburn-haired nun slammed her empty tankard onto the table, her golden eyes gleaming with reckless abandon.
"Holy Ilrion, guide our fists!" The scarred nun grinned, cracking her knuckles, already eyeing the nearest unfortunate soul.
The pale-eyed nun, who had seemed the most reserved earlier, suddenly climbed onto her chair, raising a tankard above her head. "Barkeep! We demand more offerings!"
Gunthr barely looked up as he wiped down a glass. "No."
The nuns collectively booed while waving their hands at him.
Lucien leaned against the bar, watching with pure amusement as the priestesses of Ilrion abandoned their piety in record time.
"This is… different," Sella muttered beside him, crossing her arms as she observed the spectacle with barely concealed bewilderment.
"What, never seen nuns drink before? Me either."
Sella scoffed, shaking her head. "I've never seen nuns lose their entire religion in under five minutes."
And then, things got worse.
A gambler at a nearby table, a burly man with burn scars running down his arms, let out a loud, derisive snort, leaning back in his chair. "Damn sisters can't hold their liquor. Shouldn't be down here with the real folk."
The scarred nun turned her head slowly.
The man barely had time to register his mistake before the nun lunged across the table, fist swinging with a wide smile.
Her punch slammed into the gambler's jaw, knocking him clean off his chair. The table tipped, coins spilling onto the floor as a half-played round of cards scattered into the air.
"BOOOM!" The nun laughed.
The chaos didn't stop there.
A hulking man with cybernetic arms, his knuckles wrapped in glowing alchemic etchings, surged forward, his voice booming. "You drunk wench—!"
Before he could finish, the pale-eyed nun, still standing on her chair, downed another drink and promptly leapt off it.
With a battle cry that would make Ilrion weep, she tackled the cybernetic giant, slamming both knees into his chest. He stumbled back, knocking into another table, sending drinks flying.
The auburn-haired nun, far calmer than the other two, simply exhaled, grabbed a nearby stool, and cracked it over someone's head.
Lucien and Sella hadn't moved.
Lucien rested his chin in his palm, watching like a spectator at a theater performance.
"…They're surprisingly strong," he mused, tilting his head.
Sella, still processing what she was witnessing, exhaled sharply. "This is… too different."
Lucien gave her a sideways glance. "What is?"
For a moment, she didn't answer. Instead, her mind wandered.
'The Black Chapel was order. Discipline. Silence. I lived in shadows, surrounded by killers who measured every breath, every step, every moment. But now…This is chaos. This is noise. This is reckless, wild, and alive. This is… his world. And I'm intrigued by it.'
Sella pushed the thought aside, and Lucien noticed her.
'What's up with her..? Finally seeing how interesting it is outside of the Black Chapel?'
Meanwhile, the fight raged on.
The pale-eyed nun had somehow managed to suplex a man through a wooden table, while the scarred nun fought off two opponents at once, laughing wildly. The auburn-haired nun, still somewhat composed, continued dismantling anyone who came too close with the precision of a trained brawler.
The bar's gamblers cheered, making bets, while the Inquisition officers in the back pretended not to notice.
Lucien whistled, clearly impressed.
Sella, however, nudged him sharply. "They've had their fun. You need them to talk."
Lucien pouted. "But I'm enjoying this."
Sella shot him a look.
Lucien said silently, "Hmph. You're not the boss of me."
Sighing, Lucien pulled out his revolver and fired a single shot into the ceiling.
BANG.
Everything froze.
The nuns, panting, bruised, their robes now slightly torn, looked up.
Lucien grinned. "Alright, ladies. You're drunk now. Time to talk."
Gunthr, still unimpressed, continued cleaning his glasses. As he wiped the counter, he caught sight of a few coins Lucien had casually left behind.
Gunthr frowned.
It wasn't enough.
Not even close to covering the dozens of drinks the nuns had consumed.
He sighed with a grin. "That Bastard."
Meanwhile, Lucien sat back down at the bar, resting his arms on the counter as he eyed the now extremely inebriated nuns.
"Alright," he drawled, "let's hear it. What's the job?"
The auburn-haired nun squinted at him, trying and failing to focus.
"The… the High Mother… she—"
The scarred one interrupted, slamming her palm onto the table with force. "High Mother Arnalla locked herself in the monastery!"
Sella, her focus sharpening, leaned in. "The Monastery?"
The pale-eyed nun nodded so hard she nearly fell off her chair. "Y-Yeah… after the High Father killed himself! She wants to bring him back!"
Lucien raised a brow at Sella. "That's a stupid wish, right?"
Sella nodded. "A common one."
Lucien groaned. "God, people are so predictable."
Sella turned to the nuns, her tone serious. "Why didn't you go to the Inquisition first?"
The nuns exchanged glances, their drunken state barely dulling their fear.
"We c-came down here hic as fast as we could," the auburn-haired one admitted. "The Inquisition… they aren't strong enough for this."
Lucien scoffed. "Aren't strong enough?"
The scarred nun exhaled. "The Inquisition hunts criminals…o-outlaws! A-and alchemists and abominations, but they're limited! There are very few that can actually stand against witches or gods of the Tarot!" She burped. "But we think the High Mother..she might be talking to someone in there! We felt a-a strong presence! Dark.."
The green-eyed nun nodded dramatically and really fast. "Maybe the Lord Inquisitor Vulthien could, but… that's about it."
Lucien sighed. "So you took a gamble."
The auburn-haired nun grinned lazily. "A holy gamble."
Then, Lucien tilted his head. "What's the price?"
'Hehe. I can get as much money as I want now that they're drunk!'
The nuns stumbled through numbers, each mispronouncing the amount.
"A lottt of coins! Gold ones! And we'll throw in one crown!"
Lucien, smirking, stood up.
"Good enough. Let's go see this 'Mother.'"
As he turned, Sella remained still, watching him.
Lucien didn't care about the story, about the desperation. Only about the price—and the thrill of the fight.
'And yet… he had saved that child at the circus.'
Sella thought, remembering that she saw him do it back then.
Lucien, already heading for the door, tossed a glance at Gunthr. "Watch the nuns. Make sure they don't fuck off anywhere. I'll give you a bonus."
Gunthr sighed. "Bonus? You don't even pay me."
"Ahh you know me too well. This is gonna be fun."
____________________________________________
Lucien walked with a lazy, confident stride, boots tapping against the damp cobblestone as they exited the bar, the underground's filth and smoke still clinging to the air. The heavy metal door swung shut behind them, cutting off the lingering sounds of drunken cheers, broken furniture, and a very unhappy bartender calculating his losses.
Sella walked beside him, her arms folded, her expression skeptical.
"Are you even familiar with their faith?" she asked, her tone dry, amused. "How do you plan to find this monastery? The nuns were so drunk they barely remembered their own names."
Lucien scoffed, flicking a loose strand of hair from his face as he turned to her with his ever-present grin. "Won't be hard to find. Monasteries aren't exactly subtle. And we'll be able to find the commotion surrounding it. If this High Mother Arnalla locked herself in it, There's gotta be people trying to open it or get in. That's just common sense. I'm drawn to the world's chaos, it won't be hard to find. Literally. And it's hard to explain. At least..that's what the goddess said."
"What is the name of this goddess?"
"Artemis. Tarot of the Chaos Maiden."
"So you got a contract with her? But usually if one dies while they have a contract with a Tarot, the god of the Tarot controls their body.."
"Trust me, if I knew the lore and loophole of this contract thing, I'd scam Artemis in a heartbeat."
"If something kills you, then she might take over your body. And that's another problem I have to deal with.."
'Shit. I didn't think this through. If I end up finding his fatal weakness, killing him..I'd have to deal with a Tarot goddess. She has to be strong…'
She kept walking, but as they reached a set of stairs that led up to the surface of Drakehelm, a thought slithered into her mind again—one that tightened in her chest like an unseen noose.
'I can't be seen outside with Lucien. The Black Chapel could be watching. They could already be tracking my movements, waiting for me to slip. If I were to be caught just trailing behind Lucien and not trying to kill him, if word ever reached the Exarch, my loyalty would be questioned—my purpose cast into doubt. I couldn't use the excuse of me trying to figure out his weakness. That'll be a terrible excuse.'
She slowed her steps, exhaling sharply. "I..I can't go with you."
Lucien stopped at the top of the stairs, tilting his head in mock curiosity. "Oh? Scared? Not like you."
Sella remained one step below him, shadows clinging to her like an afterthought. "Tch! It's not that! I'm not scared of anything. I'll watch from a distance. The Black Chapel could be watching."
Lucien's grin widened, something dangerous flashing behind his eyes. "You've already broken an oath, Huntress. Your lips were on my neck." He leaned slightly, voice mocking. "Might as well get caught in fashion."
"You know it wasn't my doing…I don't know what got into me then.." Sella's fingers twitched, resisting the urge to draw a blade. She let her voice dip into something soft, something laced with venom. "I can't let the Exarch down. You'll go down one of these days, Lucien."
Then, she tilted her head, studying him like a predator would a wounded beast pretending to be strong. "Besides… I plan to study you during this fight. Every movement. Every mistake." She ran a single, gloved finger down his chest, smirking as she whispered, "I want to know all your weaknesses. If there's any way to halt or stop that regeneration of yours."
Lucien didn't flinch, didn't move, "You know that's a great idea! They always taught us to study strong opponents before a fight."
And then, without another word, he walked away, adding, "Just don't go running off or going missing, I still need you."
"I might be waiting for the right moment to strike."
"Hope so."
….
The streets of Drakehlem were never truly silent. The city was a living beast, a machine of whispers, paranoia, and flickering gaslight. Yet, as Lucien strode forward, a different kind of silence followed.
People watched.
People moved away.
Some staggered into alleyways, hiding behind crates and tattered curtains. Others turned their heads, pretending not to see. A few whispered his name—the infamous hunter who walked freely when he should have rotted in the grave.
Then, the whispers turned to shouts.
"Inquisitors! Inquisitors!"
A door slammed shut. Someone ran.
Lucien kept walking, hands in his pockets, smiling.
His mind drifted, slanted thoughts unraveling in the rhythm of his steps.
'This feeling—this anticipation—is the only thing that keeps me from becoming hollow. The hunger for battle. The thrill of the hunt. The promise of violence. That's why I always smile. Not because life is good. Not because there's anything left in this world to love. No. It's because everything else is dead. The world is hollow. And in a lot of ways..I relate to it. I hate it..but it's the only thing making me feel like I belong in this fucked up world..I'm alone. A world where no one is like me, a world where I'm alone and I don't know if I hate it, despise it, or love it. My mind is conflicted, I want to stay on solid ground.'
The monastery loomed ahead, its towering silhouette shrouded in mist and the ever-present grey of Drakehelm's skies.
Lucien tilted his head, cracking his neck.
'But something in me..is making me feel so uneasy…anxious…like that one time…'