The Myras marketplace was a living, breathing organism, pulsing with vibrant energy and endless noise. Merchants lined the cobblestone streets, their colorful stalls packed with goods from spices to silks. Children darted between legs, laughter mixing with the occasional frustrated shout. Carts rolled by, their wooden wheels clattering loudly as traders hawked everything from farm tools to rare gemstones. But to Zerutod, the world of color and chaos was meaningless. His pale lavender eyes, clouded from birth, stared straight ahead, unseeing. His connection to the world came from what others overlooked—the vibrations of footsteps, the hum of voices, and the subtleties of tone.

Today, those vibrations painted a darker picture. Beneath the usual market banter, whispers carried the weight of fear.

“Three gone this week. All mages.” A woman’s voice drifted from a nearby stall. “If you’ve got magic, you’d better keep quiet about it.”

“It’s the Order of the Ashen Serpent,” a vendor replied, his voice barely audible. “They’re paying for names—mages, scholars, anyone with rare magic. People who know things they shouldn’t.”

Zerutod’s fists tightened at his sides. The Order wasn’t a distant rumor anymore. They were here, in Marigold, spreading their influence like a venomous snake. He knew their type: ruthless, calculating, and willing to eliminate anyone who stood in their way. Worse, they weren’t just hunting magic—they were hunting people like Aeliana.

The thought of her sent a chill through him. Her healing magic, rare and delicate, made her an obvious target. He imagined her warm smile, her unwavering trust in him, and a pang of fear twisted in his chest. She had no idea how close the danger was.

He moved deeper into the marketplace, his head tilted slightly as he sifted through the ambient noise. It wasn’t just fear that filled the air. There was greed, too.

“...names go for good money. The Order pays better than the Council ever did.”

“What about the risks? They’ll kill you just for hesitating.”

The more he listened, the clearer it became: someone in Marigold was feeding the Order information. A traitor lived among them, selling out their own for a quick profit. Zerutod’s lips pressed into a thin line as he considered his next move. He needed more than whispers—he needed names and locations.

He turned sharply, leaving the noise of the market behind as he walked toward the quieter southern square. There, an elderly merchant known for selling old books and trinkets sat hunched over his wares. His stall was a treasure trove of worn tomes, odd-shaped baubles, and cracked glass figurines. Zerutod approached, his boots tapping lightly on the cobblestones.

“What do you know about the Order of the Ashen Serpent?” Zerutod asked, placing a gold coin on the counter.

The merchant looked up sharply, his weathered face creasing with unease. “Why would you ask about them? They’re dangerous people, boy. The kind you don’t want to cross.”

“I’m not afraid of them,” Zerutod replied calmly. “Tell me what you know.”

The merchant hesitated, then pocketed the coin with a sigh. “They’re paying for information, alright. Names of magic users, artifacts, secrets. Word is there’s someone here in Myras working with them—a broker who’s been selling out mages for months.”

“Who?”

The merchant’s voice dropped to a whisper. “The Broken Lantern. That’s where all the dangerous deals go down. You want answers, you’ll find them there—but be careful. People who ask too many questions tend to vanish.”

Zerutod nodded, the merchant’s warning doing little to dissuade him. As he turned away, the crowd seemed quieter now, the air heavier with the weight of what he had learned. His path was set. If the Broken Lantern held answers, he would find them. And if someone had betrayed Aeliana or any other innocent, he would make sure they paid the price.

The Broken Lantern stood at the edge of Myras’s harbor district, its weathered sign swaying precariously in the sea breeze. Known as a haven for smugglers, mercenaries, and those who thrived in the shadows, it was a place where whispers were currency and secrets bought lives. The building’s cracked facade and grimy windows did little to conceal the dangerous dealings within.

Zerutod pushed open the heavy door, the wood groaning under his touch. Inside, the dimly lit room reeked of stale ale and sweat. The hum of conversation faltered as patrons turned to size up the newcomer, their wary eyes lingering on the katana strapped to his back. For a moment, the tavern seemed to hold its breath. Then, just as quickly, the chatter resumed. No one wanted to linger on a stranger for too long in a place like this.

Zerutod moved to the bar, his boots tapping softly against the warped floorboards. His unseeing gaze remained fixed ahead, but his heightened senses painted a vivid picture of the room. At least two dozen people were scattered among the tables, their voices a mix of drunken revelry and hushed plotting. In the far corner, someone shuffled cards, while another argued over a lost bet. The air was heavy with tension, an undercurrent of violence lurking beneath the surface.

He reached the bar, where a burly man with a thick beard and a scar running down his cheek polished a glass with a rag that was more grime than fabric. The bartender looked up, his eyes narrowing as he studied Zerutod.

“I’m looking for information about the Order of the Ashen Serpent,” Zerutod said, his voice low but firm. He placed a small pouch of coins on the counter, the weight of the gesture unmistakable.

The bartender raised an eyebrow, his hand pausing mid-polish. “That’s dangerous talk, blind man. People asking questions like that tend to disappear.”

“I don’t disappear easily,” Zerutod replied. “Start talking, or point me to someone who will.”

The bartender’s lips twisted into a faint smirk. He pocketed the coins with a practiced motion, then nodded toward a door at the back of the room. “Try the back. Couple of folks back there know things, if you’re willing to pay the price. Just be careful. Not everyone here plays nice.”

Zerutod nodded and turned toward the door. His every step was deliberate, his senses on high alert. He pushed the door open and stepped into a smaller, dimly lit room. The heavy scent of pipe smoke hung in the air, and a single flickering lantern cast long shadows across the walls. Two figures sat at a round table, their conversation halting as Zerutod entered.

One was a wiry man with darting eyes that never seemed to settle, his hands twitching nervously at his sides. The other was a scarred woman leaning back in her chair with an air of practiced menace, her sharp gaze locking onto Zerutod like a predator sizing up prey.

“I hear you know something about the Order’s informants,” Zerutod began, his tone calm yet edged with authority. He dropped another pouch of coins onto the table. “This should be enough to jog your memory.”

The wiry man snatched up the pouch greedily, his nervous energy briefly replaced by a glint of greed. “You’re looking for Torren. Broker down at the docks. Been working with the Order for months.”

“He sells names,” the scarred woman added, her voice a low rasp. “Mages, scholars, healers—anyone with rare magic. The Order pays him handsomely for it. But don’t expect him to talk willingly. He’s always got muscle around him.”

Zerutod’s grip on his katana tightened. “Where exactly can I find him?”

“Warehouse near the east pier. Midnight is when he makes his moves,” the wiry man replied. “But be careful. If he sees you coming, he won’t hesitate to run—or worse.”

Zerutod nodded, the information fitting together like pieces of a puzzle. “Thanks for the warning,” he said, his voice steady. “I’ll take it from here.”

As he left the room, the scarred woman called after him. “You’d better watch yourself, blind man. The Order doesn’t like loose ends.”

The words hung in the air as Zerutod stepped back into the main tavern. He could feel the eyes of the patrons following him as he made his way toward the exit, their gazes filled with curiosity, suspicion, or perhaps fear. The cool night air greeted him as he emerged onto the street, his mind racing with possibilities.

Torren’s betrayal would end tonight.

The docks of Myras  took on a sinister air at night, the moonlight reflecting off the still water like shards of broken glass. The faint creak of moored ships and the occasional squawk of seabirds were the only sounds breaking the eerie silence. Zerutod moved like a shadow among the towering warehouses and stacked crates, his senses attuned to every vibration around him. Each step brought him closer to the heart of the docks, where a faint hum of voices guided him toward his target.

The warehouse near the east pier stood apart from the others, its outline illuminated by a single lantern swinging gently in the sea breeze. Through a gap in the wooden slats, Zerutod could see his quarry: Torren. The stout man stood at the center of a group of armed guards, his rotund figure cloaked in an air of arrogance. Torren’s voice carried clearly in the still night, dripping with smug satisfaction.

“The Order’s paying top coin for this one,” Torren said, holding up a parchment. “A healer, rare magic. The kind they love.”

Zerutod’s stomach tightened. Aeliana. The realization hit him like a blow to the chest. They had her name. The thought of her warm smile twisted with fear or pain filled him with a cold fury. His grip on the hilt of his katana tightened, the polished leather warm beneath his fingers.

“Torren,” Zerutod called, stepping into the open. His voice cut through the night like a blade. “Your betrayal ends here.”

The conversation ceased instantly, the guards turning toward him with weapons drawn. Torren took a step back, his eyes narrowing as he studied the figure before him. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded. “This doesn’t concern you.”

“You’ve sold out innocents to the Order. You’ll answer for that,” Zerutod replied, his tone cold.

One of the guards snorted, stepping forward with a sneer. “You think you’re walking out of here alive, blind man?”

Before the words had fully left his mouth, Zerutod moved. Channeling his time magic, he slowed the world around him to a crawl. The guard’s movements became sluggish, his blade inching through the air as Zerutod sidestepped the strike effortlessly. With a single, fluid motion, he drew his katana and dispatched the man with a clean slash.

The second guard hesitated, his confidence shaken by his comrade’s swift defeat. “I-I’m not dying for this,” he stammered, dropping his weapon and bolting into the shadows.

Torren stumbled backward, his bluster replaced with panic. “Wait!” he stammered. “Let’s talk! I can give you information, anything you want! Just don’t kill me!”

Zerutod advanced slowly, his katana glinting in the dim lantern light. “You’ve been feeding the Order names,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “How many lives have you destroyed for a handful of gold?”

Torren dropped to his knees, his hands raised in supplication. “I didn’t have a choice! They would’ve killed me if I didn’t cooperate! Please, I’ll disappear! You’ll never see me again!”

Zerutod’s jaw tightened as he stared down at the sniveling man. Raigaloth’s voice whispered in the back of his mind, cold and insistent. “He’s lying. Cowards like him always lie. He’ll sell out more innocents the moment you turn your back.”

The weight of the decision pressed down on Zerutod. He thought of Aeliana, of the lives this man had endangered, and the lives he might continue to endanger. His grip on the hilt of his katana tightened.

“I can help you!” Torren pleaded. “I know the Order’s next move! There’s an artifact they’re after, hidden near the ruins of Talaz Lagaar! I can tell you where!”

The name of the ruins sent a ripple of tension through Zerutod. The location was infamous for its ancient magic, and if the Order was seeking something there, the stakes were even higher than he’d realized. But could he trust a word from this man?

Raigaloth’s whisper came again, more forceful. “Eliminate him. If you leave him alive, you’ll regret it.”

Torren’s knees hit the ground with a dull thud, his hands raised as though surrender alone could save him. The man’s entire frame trembled under Zerutod’s unflinching gaze, the sharp edge of the katana mere inches from his throat. The lantern’s dim light painted his sweat-streaked face with shadows that only deepened his desperation.

“Please!” Torren stammered, his voice cracking. “I didn’t have a choice! The Order would’ve killed me if I didn’t cooperate! I was just trying to survive!”

Zerutod didn’t move, the katana steady in his grip. “You betrayed innocent people,” he said coldly. “How many lives have been lost because of your greed?”

Torren shook his head frantically, his words spilling out like a dam had broken. “You don’t understand! They’d have killed me and my family! I didn’t want to do it, but they left me no choice! I can make it right—I swear! Just let me go, and I’ll disappear!”

Zerutod’s grip on his katana tightened. Torren’s words scraped at the edges of his resolve, but they couldn’t erase the weight of the names Torren had sold. The weight of Aeliana’s name, spoken so casually, as if it were just another transaction. His mind drifted to her for a moment—the warmth of her laughter, her unshakable faith in him. What would she think of what he was about to do?

Raigaloth’s voice slithered into his mind, cold and calculating. “He’s lying. You know he is. Cowards like him always find another excuse. Another name to sell. Another coin to collect. This is your chance to stop him. Permanently.”

Zerutod inhaled deeply, his thoughts a storm of conflicting emotions. Killing in battle was one thing—an act of survival, a necessity. But this? Torren was defenseless, kneeling before him. Would ending his life be justice, or would it make Zerutod no better than the Order he despised?

“You don’t have time for this moral hand-wringing,” Raigaloth whispered, its tone sharper now. “Think of Aeliana. Think of the lives you’ll save by ensuring this man can’t betray anyone else. Do what needs to be done.”

Torren’s voice cut through the haze of Zerutod’s thoughts. “I know where the Order’s going next! There’s an artifact hidden near Talaz Lagaar! A relic of immense power—they’re mobilizing their forces to retrieve it! You need me alive to tell you more!”

Zerutod’s jaw tightened. The ruins of Talaz Lagaar were infamous for their ancient magic, a place steeped in danger and legend. If Torren was telling the truth, the artifact could amplify the Order’s power beyond anything Zerutod could imagine. But truth from Torren’s lips was a gamble, and gambling wasn’t a luxury Zerutod could afford.

“You’ve already heard enough,” Raigaloth urged, its voice like ice. “You know where they’re going. You don’t need him alive to confirm it. Act now, or regret it later.”

Zerutod stared at the man before him, his katana unwavering. Torren’s pleading eyes locked with his pale ones, but Zerutod saw no redemption there—only fear. The memory of Aeliana’s name being offered up like a commodity pushed him over the edge.

“You’ve made your choice,” Zerutod said, his voice low and final. With a single, precise motion, his katana struck true. Torren crumpled to the ground, his wide eyes staring into nothingness.

The silence that followed was deafening. Zerutod stood over the lifeless body, his katana still in his grip. He wiped the blade clean on the edge of his coat, his hands trembling slightly despite his resolve. The cold night air pressed down on him, heavy with the weight of what he had done.

“It was necessary,” Raigaloth murmured, its tone almost soothing now. “You’ve protected her. You’ve protected countless others. This is the cost of ensuring the future.”

Zerutod sheathed his katana, his mind a whirlwind of conflicting emotions. The logic was sound. Torren’s death meant fewer betrayals, fewer names sold to the Order. But no matter how much he justified it, the image of Torren’s terrified face lingered in his mind, seared into his conscience.

As he turned to leave the docks, the faint sound of the waves lapping against the pier seemed almost mocking in their calm. Each step away from the warehouse felt heavier than the last, the weight of his choice pressing down on him like a physical burden.