The feeble fingers of dawn, resembling covert agents on a rescue mission, breached the dusty panes of the cramped attic’s narrow window in search of distressed victims in trouble. The antagonist invasion painted delicate, fractured patterns upon Cipher’s unrested freckles, creating a battlefield of illumination in the face of the encroaching army of darkness that sought to reclaim its dominion over his consumed image.
His slumber had been seized by warring factions, each side covered in the impenetrable fog of uncertainty. A clandestine war was being waged, a skirmish of ideas and memories battling for supremacy. He, the reluctant general of his own strife, found himself tasked with subduing the adversaries that threatened to subvert and consume his very identity. Hidden forces, like elusive insurgents, maneuvered within the stretched kingdom of his so-thin mind. Navigating through the minefield of his consciousness, strewn with the ruins of past decisions and the echoes of regrets, he steeled himself for the cold of the day ahead. A more plausible battle loomed—another chapter in the ongoing saga of his unpredictable disgrace.
Cipher awoke with a shudder, his body under the weight of an unshakable malaise. His clammy skin, a pale landscape of ridges and shadows, betrayed the clamorous struggle within—a rebellion of blood and bile, as though his veins pulsated with some ancient curse rather than life. Every breath clinging to the remnants of a fever-slick night, spun with fragments of her—Mother. The word echoed like a toiling bell, resonating with both reverence and dread. The ghostly visage of the cryptic message left him feeling like a pawn in a game of cosmic chess, repressed and restrained, as if she were both progenitor and jailer in an existence fraught with unseen rules. It was a weird one. His nineteenth year brought with it not only the accumulating burdens of adulthood but also the weight of a shattered world. No matter how he tried, he realized he was never in charge. The pieces seemed to be scattered by an indifferent hand, always just out of control.
My chest. It convulsed, each heave tearing through him like an earthquake rattling fragile foundations. He turned sideways to clutch his ribs, his fingers trembling as they traced the contours of his cage-like frame. The coughing fit came like a thief, sudden and mischievous, a reminder that even in dreams, he couldn’t escape the clutches of the sickness that haunted his survival. You can do it Cipher. It wasn’t encouragement; it was a challenge, a dare to defy the forces conspiring against him.
Each attempt to reconcile the two worlds left him suspended in a disorienting limbo. Blinking against the dim awareness of the room, the intrusion of tangible reality was fought against by his eyes, their struggle to adjust reminiscent of a blurred line between the waking and the phantasmal, chasing a mirage in a barren landscape. Move. It was the command of a leader, not the desperate plea of a broken man. Yet his limbs, leaden as if burdened with the weight of his hypnagogic invaders, were resisting the call to rise. They clung to the bed like the gnarled roots of towering deciduous trees. It was as though the persistent vines of the nightmare had acquired physical form and rooted themselves in the quagmire of his psyche, conspiring to steal away any semblance of strength.
Damn it. He struggled against the inertia, his muscles screaming in protest as he pushed himself upright. The effort left him trembling, his breaths shallow and rapid as if even this small victory had exacted a monumental toll. His hands moved instinctively to his ribcage, pressing against it as though seeking proof of his existence. The contact was grounding, anchoring him to the moment as his eyes darted across the room in search of something familiar—something that might offer reprieve from the discomfort.
The rented room, bathed in the pale light of a solitary bulb dangling from a frayed wire, seemed to conspire against his emergence. The air hung heavy with the acrid scent of dust and neglect, a testament to the world outside that had crumbled into desolation. The soft glow outlined the contours of makeshift shelves cluttered with relics of the past—a rusted compass, a cracked photograph, a dog-eared book with pages that whispered forgotten tales.
As Cipher grappled with the aftermath of the disturbed night, his eyes strained to focus on a cracked mirror leaning against a crumbling wall. The reflection revealed a gaunt face, shorter than lads of his age, a palimpsest of youthful features marred by an arduous journey of persistence. He felt like a clock ticking its final hours—or perhaps minutes. Not now. His hands, trembling as if tasked with holding the pieces of a collapsed global sphere together, reached for a nearby water canteen. The cool liquid provided a fleeting respite to his dry throat, a momentary distraction from the elusive meanings that taunted him from the edges of comprehension.
Cipher gaze drifted toward a small, weathered notebook tucked beneath a threadbare pillow. Its pages, a sanctuary for scribbled fragments of memories and musing, beckoned him. As he flipped through the worn parchment, the inked lines seemed to dance with a life of their own—a chronicle of seclusion, a narrative etched in the language of resilience. His fingers traced the edges of a tattered photograph nestled within the folds of the notebook—an image frozen in time, capturing a moment when the world was still whole. His mother’s smile, a beacon of warmth in the sea of dismay, whispered promises of comfort that now seemed like distant echoes.
Avexetius claymore. As he tried to etch the mark of the occurrence onto the pages, a sharp twitch in his nose disconnected him from the past. The intimate conversation with his mother, different from other ones, eluded his attempt to anchor it in the waking words. His senses, rattled by the unpredictable spasms, rebelled against the solace he sought in the recesses of recognition. Even the simplest act of drawing breath metamorphosed into a labyrinth of congestion, with each inhalation a struggle through a forest of thorns.
Strike them. Deceivers. Uncle Frank. Disjointed thoughts collided in the hushed corridors of his mind, each particle seeking to untangle the enigma of his own existence. What the hell is wrong with me? A realization dawned upon his mental elevation: there was no escape from the cruel destiny imposed on him. His uncle held the answers to his disorder, even if extracting them might require tearing off the layers of lies. The dream told him and settled a tinge of culpability associated with Frank, linking to the source of his suffering.
His inner monologue roared, a turbulent stream of elusive questions overflowing as a thin liquid dripped down his nose. The repetitive whispers persisted, a chorus of disquiet, projecting paranoia that manifested the specter of mortality itself. A raspy cough erupted from deep within his throat, a visceral expulsion that echoed through the quietude. A macabre, small ball of clotted blood ended up in his hand, offering a strange respite to his beleaguered throat. It was as if the very fabric of his being resonated with an impending sense of doom. An ominous presence that drew nearer with each passing day, as if consuming him from the inside out at a slow pace. Revenant. The word surfaced unbidden, clawing its way from the recesses of his mind.
Cipher’s languid stretch, an attempt to reclaim a semblance of control, revealed a room that resisted the intrusion of morning. The dim light clung to the corners that seemed to dance with scattered boxes overflowing with the belongings of people who succumbed to the unpredictable chaos of the blight. Cipher’s fingers fumbled, seeking solace in the form of a tissue. The aged fabric cradled in his hand bore witness to the routine of a ritualized struggle against his disturbance. With detached resignation, he pressed the tissue to his nose, staving off the drip. He confronted the tangible evidence of finality, and a grotesque mosaic of mucus stared back at him. The room seemed to hold its breath as his gaze lingered on the cloth, transfixed by the natural dance of blood clotting before his eyes. Time, a silent accomplice in the passage toward an unstoppable fate, played witness to the morose spectacle, a transformation out of control, a physical manifestation of the ominous presence within a body tired of fighting.
Cipher closed his eyes, seeking refuge in the enveloping darkness. The act of shutting out the external stimulation was his meager defense to muffle the internal disquiet that clung to him like the oppressive bars of a mental prison. He found himself suffocating beneath the weight of anxiety in recent days. He could sense his immune system was faltering, the cells succumbing to an adversary that made the process of maintaining his body challenging hour after hour. He had never glimpsed the sterile halls of a doctor’s domain, nor had he undergone the solace of medical treatment. The ailing, however, knew no reprieve within the confines of financial plight, an indomitable sentence that precluded any dalliance with the realm of healers. He bore the weight of his verdict with stoic acceptance, the inevitability of endure woven into the fabric of his existence.
Frank, despite the spark of doubt that had crept into Cipher’s thoughts, had been a constant presence by his side. Through the trials and difficulties, he had been a pillar of support, helping him navigate the harsh reality of their despicable situation. However, the revelation about a potential cure came not from him but from another, a man whose offer had become a fragile alliance—the only thread of hope that kept Cipher tethered to a semblance of optimism.
As he lay his head back on the bed, wrestling with the shadows that danced upon the ceiling, Cipher turned inward, contemplating the grim visage of his own doom. The echoes of his past, like ghostly apparitions whispered in the gloom, haunted his subconscious with the specter of a life unfulfilled. As if remembering him about his compelling duties, a figure materialized on the side wall, a silhouette holding a tenuous link to a potential escape from the prison of his own despair.
“Pierce,” he murmured, the name a solemn invocation, a plea to be saved. The fragility he had been hiding so well began to surface as if the past had crippled time, revealing a defenseless child he didn’t recognize anymore but was not distant, a younger version from years ago that couldn’t even make his own decisions without asking for permission. “How am I to feel?” The words were absorbed by the dim light, disappearing into the recesses of his solitude. Cipher had been working with Pierce for the last year, a partnership forged in the crucible of necessity. In exchange for specialized medical treatment, he engaged in tasks, not always fulfilling Pierce’s demand but holding onto the promise that somehow the influential man could gather information about his complicated past. He clung to the belief that his mentor held the key to his salvation.
The transient escape proved ephemeral. The anticipation of an unknown nemesis continued to seep through the crevices of his mind. Each step toward the prospect of involving Pierce felt akin to traversing a tightrope in the dizzying heights of a circus tent. Blindly following the frayed threads of his instincts, he navigated the precarious path, unsure of whether it led to revelation or peril. In this self-made tribunal, every decision carried the weight of a sentence yet to be pronounced.
In the heart of Azalea, a city shrouded by an aura of pauperism, nestled his meager abode, a forsaken nook that clung to life like a beggar’s hope in a world of opulence. Barely managing to scrape enough to rent it, every creaking floorboard and drafty window resounded with his destitution. It was a suffocating, woebegone husk, borne from the darkest brown bark of distant forests lost in the mists of remembrance. Each stud, bearing the deliberate marks of diagonal incisions, stood as a macabre underbelly exhibit that lurked within the bowels of the infamous Amahd Waqar’s antique emporium. A man whose smile exuded both shrewdness and a flicker of warmth, a deceptive veneer that concealed layers of unattainable affluence and untold duality that begged to be unraveled. Cipher learned to mold and blend with his discordant energies by wearing and changing personas like a second skin. His essence remained guarded, shielded from the tumultuous currents of Amahd’s chaotic mind.
“Are you suggesting your prices are flexible?” The customer’s expression shifted from mild curiosity to a calculated mix of interest and, perhaps, a hint of wariness. His face, a canvas of concealment, wore a two-faced mask with seamless grace, moving with a well-calculated step in an enemy field. The scent of burnt wood and smoky notes wafted from his attire and blended with ancient papers, wrapping him in a rich masculine aroma that clung to the air like an agreement waiting to be forged in the stage of subterfuge.
Behind the polished wooden counter of his quaint shop, Mr. Waqar met the visitor’s gaze with a knowing nod. His demeanor projected the air of a seasoned merchant who had honed skills that only years of bargaining and trading could bestow. For he was a well-acquainted man with mastery in the art of negotiation, fully aware that a hesitant buyer had the potential to return as an avid collector in the seasons to come.
“Quite perceptive” Amahd responded with a confident twinkle in his eyes. “You’ve clearly got a keen eye, my friend. My collection of rare manuscripts isn’t for the average passerby. It takes a certain… refinement to appreciate their value.” Each syllable that flowed from his lips and each subtle intonation were designed to achieve his ultimate goal.
“There’s an air of history in this place,” the visitor mused, almost offhand, weighted with an undertone of reverence. His presence exuded the deceiving aura of a newcomer, a veneer designed to mask the precision of his intent. His focus locked on a particular artifact—an aged tome resting atop the dust-coated shelf. Bound in faded leather like the vestiges of memory on the edge of slipping away, the book seemed more relic than record, its surface etched with the texture of forgotten epochs.
Emblazoned upon the cracked cover, in delicate letters that seemed to cling to existence with the tenacity of unspoken authority, were the title Vahros, the bloodson ascension. Down the words in smaller letters, read the subtitle, Developing the path of dominance. An opening invitation—a seductive overture offering glimpses on how the murky chaos of existence could be reined in, tamed, and bent to the will of those bold enough to seek its truth. The very essence of understanding seemed to stir within those timeworn characters, beckoning the inquisitive mind to delve into the realms of predictability and clarity hidden in their pages.
The volume was no mere manuscript; it was a vessel of forbidden conjury and insights into the arts of mentalism that challenged the ossified doctrines of the dissident capital. Its very presence on Amahd’s hand was an affront to the rigid boundaries of acceptable thought, a defiance against the sanctioned order that governed the populace. To hold it, to even read its title, was to flirt with treason.
The transaction teetered precariously on the edge of legality, though in a city like Azalea, such distinctions had long since lost their meaning. The small trade post, condemned by the unstoppable tide of miasma reaching from the boreal wastes, existed as a fractured shadow of its former self. The federal authority, apathetic to the plight of its citizens, had all but abandoned them to the chaotic machinations of those bold enough to seize the reins of power.
At the heart of this crumbling landscape was Colodrio Argento, a name that reverberated through the halls of revolution like the tolling of a cathedral bell. An irreverent strategist with an aura of impenetrable resolve, Argento had carved a precarious equilibrium within the fractured alliances of the region. His deft diplomacy had forged vital, yet inherently unstable, ties with two powerful but diametrically opposed forces: the enigmatic Steelmane twins, whose secrets whispered of forbidden rites and unyielding dominance, and the Doggasted Jackals, a radical order of fervent religious zealots who saw themselves as the divine stewards of progress and order.
The Jackals, with their unrelenting grip on immigration to Gadenna, wielded their power with righteous fury throughout the northeastern expanse. They alone dictated who would cross the desiccated wastes to drink from the life-giving waters of the Bloodmoney River and who would perish, parched and desperate, in the arid expanse of the Algehbran desert. Their leader, Reverend Volker, ruled with the precision of a shepherd and the ruthlessness of a predator, said to be guided by the pronouncements of Puthna, his word shaped the fates of multitudes with an ease that bordered on divine.
Dictated by the ebb and flow of the city’s lawless economy, Amahd was unshackled by allegiance yet bound by opportunity. He had long opposed the Argento family’s revolutionary politics, finding their ideals too weighted by unfettered liberty. Instead, his inclinations lay with the Jackals, whose rigid principles provided fertile ground for his own moralistic ventures and exploitation of desperate migrants.
Azalea’s free trade policies—a construct engineered by the calculated political pressure of Volker and the herd—stood as a loophole in an otherwise collapsing society. What Colodrio derided as a harbinger of dwindling taxes, Amahd regarded as the cornerstone of limitless opportunity. While others grappled with survival, he thrived, his dealings fueled by a mercenary pragmatism that saw opportunity in every upheaval. Each transaction, no matter how morally dubious, was another piece of nite in his coffers, another testament to his unyielding belief that chaos was the crucible of fortune.
As Pierce laid his eyes on the tome, a palpable weight of stolen histories pressed upon him. Yet, his attention was abruptly diverted by a wholly magnetic curiosity. His hooded, blue eyes were drawn to a lonesome figure, a flowing river, unrestricted and predictable. A young boy of unspoiled innocence, with unruly locks of fiery red hair and meandering eyes that shimmered like precious emeralds, held a dynamic gaze that sparkled with recognition from the very moment he had set foot along the banks. It was as if the unhurried pace and the melancholic aura beckoned him, a numen inviting him to partake in its darkest secrets, wondering about how many other souls its treacherous waters had drowned them in. His lips found themselves thirsty to drink from the fountain. It could be everything or nothing, a taste of victory or defeat; he would not mind regretting it.
Bearing a bundle of books in tow, Cipher traversed the space, ever vigilant, ferrying them from one desk to another. At the center of the table, an old effigy of Ambehros, the sun god painted in hues of yellow and red, held its sentinel stance, brutally honest, as if standing up for the right thing, a guardian of the liquid state itself. As Cipher settled the tomes, a single volume slipped from his grasp. The thud of the top edge against the hallux left a faint, imperceptible bruise, leading him to gently caress the statue’s feet with his small, diligent hands. “Do not damage anything, or you will have to pay for it.” The shopkeeper's stern warning on his very first day on the job echoed in his memory. Cipher couldn’t afford any losses, and for that, he safeguarded these priceless antiquities with care and reverence that belied his youth. The effigy, an embodiment of ancient wisdom and watchful protection, seemed to oversee Cipher’s meticulous efforts. Each book found its place under the gaze of the sun god.
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Amahd's eyes widened, and without invitation, he felt compelled to offer an explanation, his words revealing a layer of compassion beneath his gruff exterior. “Oh, he works for me!” he stated, his voice holding a soft undercurrent of pride, as though to extol his own generosity. “Good kid, intelligent for his age—though not always the quickest, if you catch my drift!” He chuckled, slapping his knee. “Truth be told, most youngsters these days are running into trouble, no sense of direction, no future. But this one? His uncle practically begged me to take him in! He entrusted me with this important task.”
“I’m intrigued,” Pierce said smoothly, the smoldering column balanced delicately between two fingers. “How’d they manage to get here? Seems like quite the journey.”
Amahd leaned forward, his booming laugh filling the space as his wide hand slapped the table with a thud. “His uncle’s a huckster! A damn good one, from what he stated. They’re from the east. Johan sent him—oh, you know Johan. Man’s got a reputation as clean as a new blade, always sharp, always reliable.” Amahd grinned, showing a row of uneven teeth. “Colodrio recommended the trader himself years ago.”
Pierce raised a skeptical brow, the corner of his mouth twitching in faint amusement. “And that’s how they slipped past the Jackals?” His words came slow and deliberate, as he tapped the column lightly against the edge of the ashtray.
“Most likely,” Amahd said with a shrug, his laughter bubbling up again. “But between you and me?” He leaned in conspiratorially, his grin widening. “His uncle’s got money. Real money. There’s no way they crossed that desert without greasing the Reverend’s holy palms. You know how it works.” He chuckled, his voice thick with amusement. “But you want to know, I couldn’t say no when they showed up asking for rooms. I need guarantees, so I charged them in advance!” Amahd let out a hearty laugh, his hands gesturing wildly. “Obvious, eh?”
Cipher, standing awkwardly near the doorway, shifted uneasily, feeling out of place. At that age, his shyness was palpable, sensing the dialogue veering into unexpected territory and struggling to recall his employer's hidden agenda, he hesitated for a moment.
“How long do they intend to stay?” Pierce asked, cutting through the haze of smoke that curled between them. His hand moved the fiery column to his mouth with a glint of curiosity, his gaze locking on Amahd with quiet intensity.
Cipher’s eyes flickered across the room, seeking an anchor. A book caught his attention at the top of the pile: “The Unvarnished Truth of Puthna”. As if searching for a suitable hole, the apprehensive rabbit descended some steps straight to his inner self, a subtle nervous habit to redirect his unease into an innocuous act, offering some distraction from the unpredicted shift of focus in the men’s conversation.
Ahmad, ever the loudmouth, leaned back with a grin that seemed to stretch beyond the limits of his face. “Six months,” he said with a booming laugh, slapping the table for emphasis. “Six months of good business. And now that you mention it, it’s almost time to collect again!”
Cipher picked up the small tome and opened the book’s hardcover. “Drifting through the Primordial Energy Sphere.” It offered a window into an unfamiliar realm, a potential guide to beat the forces at play in the hunter’s field.
The old man clapped his hands together, the sound reverberating through the dim room. “Ha! I’ll need to have a chat with that strange fellow soon. You know the type—migrants, always a bit... peculiar. No offense, of course.” He winked at Pierce, his grin widening further. “But I’ll say this—money speaks every language, doesn’t it?”
Pierce’s expression remained impassive, though he exhaled another slow plume of smoke, the thin veil of gray swirling between them. “And you’re certain about the uncle? Johan’s reputation only goes so far, especially when the Jackals are involved.”
Ahmad shrugged, his shoulders rising and falling like a lazy tide. “Certain enough,” he said, his voice dropping slightly, as though letting Pierce in on a private joke. “The uncle’s got deep pockets—how else do you cross a desert and a pack of Jackals without the Reverend getting his share? Between us, it’s all greased palms and whispered deals. But hey, they paid in advance, and that’s what matters to me.” He laughed again, the sound almost defiant in its boldness.
The atmosphere seemed to shift as Cipher delved into the text. His senses heightened while the conversation around him faded into the background, replaced by the vivid imagery conjured by the book’s prose. The nexus of raw power, as described within, was a place where the fundamental forces of the universe converged and intertwined. To harness its energy was to wield a power beyond comprehension, a tool that could tip the balance in any struggle.
“You only call me when you’re lost, huh” the deep, intimate voice echoed, its whisper a soothing balm to Cipher’s ears, a lifeline tethering to sanity amidst the tempestuous storm that was forming.
“That’s not true.” Cipher pleaded, as though his inaudible tone were directed at an unseen presence beyond the visible spectrum, at a shadow rather than a man.
“Of course it is.” The mysterious silhouette, concealed in a sleeveless black hood, emerged from the gloom of a parallel corridor without revealing itself. His arms crossed in disdain. “You’ve convinced yourself of your own lies, haven’t you?” His stance was firm and carried a weight of solemnity and wounded pride. A year of silence between them since their bitter departure from Alternno.
Cipher hesitated, his words fragile. “You show up when I least expect,” he said, seeking a temporary reprieve from the specter of past grievances. He passed the corridor towards an opposite table. “But I’m glad you’re back, Za’ayd.” His voice softened, surrendering to the waves of a nostalgic feeling.
Za’ayd’s lips curled into a scornful smirk, his tone colder than the Azalea night. “Spare me the sentiment, boy. You’ve always been too soft for your own good. Your soppiness is... exhausting.”
“I mean it,” Cipher pressed, his hands tightening around the worn cover of the book before gently setting it aside. He turned to look up at Za’ayd, hoping to find some spark of camaraderie beneath the man’s unrelenting veneer. “What do you think?”
Za’ayd snorted, his expression betraying mild irritation. “Same dull presence as before. A year’s passed, but nothing’s changed,” a hint of concern lacing his words as he referred to the stranger whose arrival had evoked his resurgence and disrupted the fragile balance of their existence. “You’re still letting strangers invade your space—still naive enough to think everyone’s worth trusting.” His voice dipped into a growl. “The man you’ve welcomed here, whoever he is, reeks of trouble. I’d recognize his kind anywhere.”
Cipher winced but didn’t argue. Recent memories of the blight-ridden Alternno town lingered, a grim backdrop to their relocation to Azalea, forced by the advance of destruction that had ravaged the small city and left its populace destitute and hopeless long before.
“He’s dangerous,” Cipher admitted, his eyes closing as though to shield himself from the truth.
Za’ayd’s eyes narrowed, his tone dripping with challenge. “Then we must act. No more second-guessing.”
“Not yet.” Cipher’s voice, though quiet, was a firm rebuttal, his intuition sharp in a world of imminent peril. He opened his eyes, their emerald depths unwavering that belied his otherwise soft demeanor. “It’s not the time.”
Za’ayd exhaled sharply, casting a chilling shiver over Cipher’s skin and an unsettling sense of uncertainty. “You’re always waiting. Waiting for the right moment. Waiting for someone else to act. One day, you’ll wait too long—and there won’t be anyone left to save you, my boy.”
Cipher held his ground, his silence speaking louder than any retort could. The tension between them coiled tighter, a taut wire threatening to snap.
Za’ayd’s expression shifted into something unreadable, a faint smirk ghosting across his lips as he turned to leave. “We’ll see,” he murmured with a hint of disobedience in his tone. And then, as if swallowed by the shadows themselves, he vanished in the blink of an eye. The weight of unknowable dangers pressed upon Cipher like a heavy cloak, and the absence of Za’ayd left him to navigate the treacherous terrain once again.
“I’m sure you offer purpose and meaning in his humble life.” The man acknowledged, disrupting Cipher’s trance and steering the discussion in an unforeseen direction. The genuine interest was disarming, prompting a subtle glance between the natural rhythm of Cipher’s indomitable emotions and the ever-expansive Amahd’s frequency. Pierce noticed the boy’s wandering gaze and quirked a brow, though his voice stayed measured. “And the boy? What’s his place in all of this?”
Ahmad waved a dismissive hand, his loud laugh echoing once more. “The kid? Just a tagalong, I’d wager. These types always need a spare hand to carry the load. Nothing to worry about.” His grin stretched again as he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “But if you’re asking me, there’s always more to these things than meets the eye, eh? Keeps it interesting.”
Pierce’s lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smile, his short cheroot glowing briefly as he took another drag. “Interesting,” he murmured, his gaze flickering back to Cipher. “Always.”
The dealer, taken aback by the level of interest, responded with an open smile. As he continued the narrative, the chain smoker leaned in, his attention captured by the fabricated tale of tribulations and resilience that Cipher’s uncle had occasionally shared with the speaker. The stories spun by Frank were carefully crafted, with each word selected to obscure any suspicion surrounding their questionable actions.
The listener took a moment to puff on the stogie lodged between his golden-stained teeth, savoring the pungent cedar flavor that swirled on his taste buds. His gaze remained locked on the boy, who returned the stare with a spark of curiosity, as if intuiting that there was more to this visitor than met the eye, but nothing transpired as Cipher expected it to. Instead, there was only the uncanny sensation of having already vaguely seen him, though he could not place where or when. The man’s silent intentions, blinded behind the coral eyes, remained inscrutable, covering a shattered and cold desert kernel inside his proud chest.
Mr. Waqar’s fingers graced the artifact, tapping it with a touch that seemed to linger as if caressing its value. He dragged the man’s attention back to the treasure trove, a mere breath of wind enough to prevent the endearing waters from reaching the rough ground. “These relics,” he began, his words having a slow and deliberate cadence, assuming the tenor of a skilled auctioneer, “are like the stars in the sky, unreachable for most folks, but for those who understand their worth, well, they’re within reach.” Amahd's smile widened, revealing a glint of conspiracy beneath the congenial facade.
The man, his watchful eyes now lingering on the reason for his mental commotion, replied, “I know someone who will treasure this.” His fingers, at a snail’s pace, grazed his lustrous blonde hair to the back of his head for a second time, the top perfectly undercut with a gradual fade on the sides, giving him the air of someone in his late twenties.
Unable to resist the temptation, the purveyor inquired further, recapturing the divided attention once more. “Forgive my curiosity, but does this person know you’re here?” The question of Amahd was a careful probing aimed at deciphering the man’s allegiance. Judging by his appearance—pallid complexion, a square-jawed face, and a well-worn overcoat slung over his broad shoulders—one might easily mistake him for a hardened operative of the Steelmane brothers, a presence hardly seen at that unassuming place, but not impossible. However, the prospect of him having ties with local factions could not be discarded. His battle-honed countenance would pose a challenge to any potential adversaries. In those uncertain times, insurgents stood more prepared to confront their rivals, including the national army, than in years past. The final price of the interaction would hinge on the answer.
“He does, and you can call me Pierce,” came the reply, delivered with a dense cloud of acrid smoke that curled up his sculpted chevron. Stretched across his upper lips with precision, each dark blonde bristle seemed to be a carefully chosen member of an elite squadron, standing in perfect formation, as if hiding his motivations within their very follicles. Smaller in size compared to Amahd’s imposing handlebars, the mustache, impeccably groomed, gave Pierce an air of rugged individualism, a silent rebellion against the constraints of conformity, and an unspoken danger that whispered of a clandestine life.
Amahd chuckled, his laugh carrying the boisterous warmth of a man who thrived on the drama of the marketplace. “Pierce, eh?” he said, his voice rich and loud, almost bouncing off the walls of the shop. “Well, I hope you’re not planning to swipe this little gem for yourself. Ha ha! It’d be a crime to deprive the rightful owner.”
Pierce tilted his head slightly, his orbs narrowing as if gauging the weight of Amahd’s words. He took another leisurely puff of his stogie, the tip glowing like a smoldering ember, before answering. “No, not for me,” he said, his voice smooth, measured, and carrying a faint rasp, as though shaped by years of whispered negotiations and unspoken bargains. “It’s for Lesse Steelmane. You know him, I take it?”
“Of course,” Mr. Waqar asserted with pride, puffing out his chest as if he’d been asked to recite the names of royalty, “Oh, he has been a loyal patron for many years, a true gentleman, that one!” recalling the substantial transactions that had graced his shop whenever the dizzying figure visited Azalea. “A thoughtful gift, this,” Amahd added, running his fingers over the artifact with an almost paternal affection. “He’ll be flattered, no doubt about it. A man of taste, like his uncle, no?” Amahd poked, a joyful smile crossing his fortunate face.
Pierce smirked, his lips curling upward beneath the shadow of his mustache. “I’d say I know Lesse’s tastes better than most,” he acknowledged, memories of shared moments with Lesse’s companion flooding back, well-versed in his obsessions and passions, as if he had studied his peculiarities all too well.
Amahd waved a hand, his loud laughter filling the shop again. “Ha ha! No need for all that modesty, my friend. Lesse’s got his quirks, sure, but we all know it’s you who’ll be footing the bill this time.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “And between us, I’d wager you’re just as much a man of taste. Ha ha!”
Pierce chuckled softly, a sound that barely escaped his lips, and tapped the ash from his cheroot onto the nearby tray. “Perhaps,” he said, the word lingering like the smoke curling from the smoldering column.
The answers to the inquiries Cipher was silently formulating crashed upon him abruptly. Azalea was no longer a safe place, but worse, it turned into a perilous trap. His intuition, a reliable compass, hardly ever led him astray. Cal Cassidy, the dreaded leader of the Rattlesnake Marauders, was revealed as the right hand of the notorious Ramie Steelmane. In stark contrast to the unassuming Amahd, Pierce appeared to be a subordinate of Ramie’s fraternal brother, Lesse. The lack of a father’s family name indicated a lower hierarchy in the convoluted conventions of the Bloodson Ascension, but not a mere paw. Lesse’s affair likely meant he was sent to accomplish what Cassidy had failed in their last encounter in Suzanno. Cipher regretted the fact that the enemy had slipped away with his life.
“Let me put an end to this swine,” Za’ayd gowled, his voice a low snarl, his eyes ablaze with a fervor Cipher had never seen before. The tension in the barn was palpable, the scent of hay and blood mingling with the oppressive weight of impending violence.
“That’s enough,” Cipher interjected, his tone steady but strained, his hand poised in the air, holding Za’ayd back from striking Cal’s bloodied, scarred face. Despite his pitiful state, Cipher knew the answers to Declan’s kidnapping lay in the man’s swollen lips. His defeated visage bore witness to a life filled with turmoil and strife, but at that moment in time he registered disbelief at the unfolding events, a mixture of dishonor and defiance swirling within his gaze. The other two marauders lay scattered on the ground, their forms dismembered and unrecognizable, silent witnesses to the violence that had erupted. Cal stood as a solitary figure, poised on the brink of demise, awaiting the inevitable. Against the monstrous force before him, there was little hope of survival. His fate seemed sealed, destined to be ripped apart and to have his blood drained in a fraction of seconds, mirroring the same cruel death imposed on his helpless comrades.
Za’ayd didn’t wait for further permission, as Cassidy saw the opportunity shine and began to move from his prior state. Before Cipher could react, Za’ayd’s clenched fist shot forward with force and found its mark, crashing into his chin. Pain exploded like a detonation, sending Cipher sprawling to the ground. The world tilted violently, the barn’s wooden beams spinning in a disorienting whirl. In the haze, Cipher caught a fleeting glimpse of Declan’s face—gaunt, but unmistakably alive. Safe. Worried.
“I’m here, Cipher.” his cousin said, his voice wavering with relief. The image dissolved into darkness, the details of what happened next were obscured by the blow. When he woke seven days later, the stale, cold air of Alternno greeted him. He barely remembered what happened after the events.
The laughter of the twin brothers on the back of Cipher’s brain was loud and clear, a stark reminder of the risks inherited in their carefully laid plans. Uncle Frank’s meticulous schemes hung in the balance, threatened by the possibility of discovery. If Amahd knew the truth of their actions and identities, he would undoubtedly betray them to Pierce. The vivid colors of his imagination painted realistic scenes that would chill any observer to the bone.
Za’ayd’s voice broke through the mental storm, calm but cutting. “Sooner or later, you will need me again.”
Cipher’s resolve hardened like tempered steel: “We’re not doing that again.” Yet, beneath the steely facade, a flicker of doubt lingered. If it came down to it—if the tides turned against them—he could still rely on his support.
Za’ayd smirked, his expression one of infuriating confidence, as though he could see straight through Cipher’s defenses. “I doubt that, flat kid.” His words hung in the air long after his shadow melted into the dark once more.
Cipher bit his lips, forcing himself to his feet. With a measured stride, he exited the hall with the Puthna’s religious pronouncements under the arm. Pierce's watchful, predatory stare, was fixed on his getaway, a persistent sentinel in the shifting sands of destiny.
“So, what might that cost be?” Pierce ventured, studying the owner as if he were sizing up a formidable opponent. Amahd’s fingers tapped the artifact’s surface again. “Ah, I see, but let me assure you, a figure less than four is simply out of question,” he replied in a sotto voce laced with a knowing chuckle. “Finding treasures like these elsewhere?” He paused, spreading his hands in a theatrical gesture. “A fool’s errand, my friend. Such unique pieces mirror not just their rarity but also the journey they’ve undertaken to land here. Who’s to say what arrangement we might come to, though?”
The outsider seized the dark brown, smoldering column with a firm grip, and his lips curled upward. “Three nites,” he declared, his words resonating with suspense, as if the invisible gavel were about to fall, sealing a deal that would alter fate. “That’s my number.”.
Mr. Waqar’s eyes glinted with satisfaction, and there was silent laughter in his depths. “And with that, it’s yours,” he confirmed, his hand moving toward an arrangement of translucent scales nearby. With the dexterity of a magician in the throes of a captivating trick, his hand performed an elegant, deft movement, and the chips vanished, tucked away into his pocket with the smoothness of a masterful bid accepted by the finesse of a virtuoso.
“Please, do send my compliments to Mr. Steelmane,” came Amahd’s parting words as the visitor adjusted the collar of his coat snugly around his neck. His stroll out of the establishment was marked by the lingering tendrils of smoke and a peculiar impression that he had left on Cipher—a trail that led him to be involved in unsuspecting undertakings.
The outcome of the negotiation proved even better than expected—a mere one nite was all it took for what might appear, at first glance, as a trinket, but one that held the potent promise of unexpected joy for an unsuspecting bidder. What a buyer could not perceive on the surface, Cipher began to understand as he grew accustomed to Amahd’s artful maneuvers, even learning a trick or two in the process.
“Quit your gawking and lend me a hand with these boxes.” The command was clear. Cipher was only sixteen when he arrived, and at nineteen, the rhythm remained unchanged. The days melded within his attic, where both the tokens of antiquity and the treacheries began to reveal their interplay.
Notorious for its lack of equitable pricing and the insatiable appetite of its owner for forgotten relics, the forlorn establishment was nestled precariously among the rocky crags of the city. The giant sentinels, resolute guardians of its timeworn facade, cared naught in steadfast disregard for the plight of its customers, offering a stark epitomized backdrop of nature’s grandeur to a different kind of drama scene that played out in its shadows.
From the precise moment when Cipher laid eyes on Pierce, an uncanny sensation loitered in the air, as if the dense smoke billowing from the soldier’s mouth wove a spectral fog, obscuring his true designs. It was an ineffable resonance that echoed within his bloodstream, a discordant melody in the symphony of their intertwined fates.