Sunlight was a rarity here, and on this day, it didn’t appear at all. Dark clouds, like black wings, descended upon the horizon, looming over the city. Once, this crumbling port belonged to the Nimir—strong, noble, and ruthless. Now it swarmed with wretched vagabonds and those dying from the poison of magic. Stone arches were riddled with cracks, as though a plague was eating them from the inside. Salt and ash hung in the air, clogging lungs, while the sea beyond the city walls whispered as if calling to itself.


    Alara, wrapped in a dark cloak, stood in an alley near a musty tavern. She pressed a piece of cloth to her lips to muffle the stench of death and rot wafting from the gutter beneath her feet. The blade at her hip slid smoothly in its scabbard as she moved, but her left hand clung tightly to the hilt. This place didn’t forgive carelessness.


    Tenfir was late.


    – Damn monster, – she thought, staring into the void ahead. When he had appeared in her life a few weeks ago, she had taken the job solely because of the promised gold. But should she have refused? The mask hid his face, his voice sounded as though it came from the depths of a well, and his presence—so chilling that even the wind seemed to freeze—stirred a primal urge to run. But money spoke louder than instincts, and the job was too tempting: find the Eye of the Abyss, a legendary artifact that, as he claimed, could change the world.


    She didn’t believe Tenfir’s words. She never believed anyone. How could you trust when you were hated for what you were born as? In her veins ran the blood of two peoples who despised each other. The Krahor saw her as weak, too refined to be called one of them. The Nimils, on the other hand, saw her as a savage, a desecration of their noble blood. Alara remembered being shoved out of tribal camps as a child, whispered about behind her back, and met with disdainful looks. Stripped of a home, a family, and even the right to belong to anything, she had learned to rely only on herself. That distrust had become her armor, through which no one could break.


    And yet, something in his words awakened a dull yearning within her. The ancient city of El’Navir, submerged beneath the waves in a magical catastrophe, wasn’t just a chance to get rich. It called to her like an unsolved riddle, one that might hold the truth about her origins. Perhaps there, she would find the key to understanding who she truly was—and why the world had tried so fiercely to break her.


    Barely had this thought surfaced in her mind when a quiet, raspy voice came from the darkness of the alley.


    – You’re still waiting. Surprising.


    Alara turned, not drawing her blade but gripping the hilt with both hands. Tenfir emerged from the shadows as if he had grown out of them. His silhouette was tall, disproportionate: arms too long, back slightly hunched. The mask concealing his face seemed part of him, as though it wasn’t metal but his skin.


    – You left me no choice, – she replied, masking her tension with dryness in her tone. – I don’t get paid if I run.


    Tenfir tilted his head as if studying her.


    – Money is but a drop. Your future is far more valuable.


    Alara scoffed, but something in his voice made her grip tighten.


    – You wanted me to go after the Eye. Speak, what do you know? Or the deal is off.


    His long arm extended from beneath his cloak, and he dropped something that clinked against the stone. Alara crouched and picked it up. It was a silver medallion engraved with an eye. A simple symbol, yet it pulsed with a faint glow as if it were breathing.


    – This will lead you to where you must go, – Tenfir whispered, his voice rustling like dry leaves underfoot. – To the ruins of El’Navir. But before you go, you will need help.


    Alara narrowed her eyes, feeling the medallion continue to throb in her hand as if alive.


    – Help? I work alone.


    Tenfir chuckled, but there was something dark in his gaze, as though he knew something she had yet to grasp.


    – Alone? Perhaps. But the road to El’Navir is harder than you think. Even you will need strong shoulders. Visit the Embri Market. There’s... a specimen who might be of use.


    – A specimen? – she repeated incredulously, barely restraining her irritation.


    – You’ll recognize him, – he added quietly and, without waiting for a reply, vanished into the shadows.


    Alara didn’t move right away. She hated such veiled answers, but deep down, she knew one thing: Tenfir rarely spoke in vain.


    When she finally reached the Embri Market, her gut clenched—not from pity, but from something colder. She had seen places like this before, and they had long ceased to evoke anything but detached indifference. The slave market was like a festering wound in the heart of the city, drawing in those seeking the darkest of deals.


    A filthy platform, where slaves stood or sat bound in chains, loomed over the crowd like an ironic throne adorned with suffering. Their gazes were lifeless, dull, staring into the void. Most of them looked as though their bodies were alive, but their souls had long since vanished.


    Alara lingered at the edge of the crowd, studying the scene. Tenfir''s words echoed in her mind, as irritating as a door left ajar on a windy night. She was about to turn and leave when her eyes caught on one figure.


    He stood straight despite the chains tightly binding his wrists. His skin was sun-kissed and scarred, like carvings etched into an old statue. But it wasn’t his skin or his scars that made her pause. It was his eyes. Bright yellow, burning with a wild fire, they stood out sharply against the lifeless stares of the others. He didn’t look defeated. Even in chains, he stood as though he’d already won. His broad shoulders and powerful arms spoke of years of battles, and his gaze radiated a strength that neither chains nor oppression could crush.


    For a moment, their eyes met, and Alara felt something inside her stir. It wasn’t pity or fear. It was a premonition—quiet, like a whisper, but no less insistent.


    “You’ll recognize him,” Tenfir’s words echoed in her mind.


    She bit her lip but didn’t look away. Maybe he really was the one she needed. Or... the one who would become her greatest mistake.


    Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.


    – Gonna keep staring? Or are you planning to help? – His voice was low and rough, but it held neither plea nor fear.


    – Help? – she asked coldly. – If you wanted someone to pity you, you chose the wrong tone.


    – Pity? From you? That’s funny. People like you killed pity a long time ago.


    Alara narrowed her eyes. He was right. Pity had died. Burned away by wars, loss, and the filth she’d lived through. She turned to leave, but his gaze and his words froze her in place.


    – You know nothing about me, – she said without turning around.


    – And you know nothing about me, – he replied. – You’re already thinking, aren’t you? Well, keep thinking. But understand this: the question isn’t what I need from you. The question is how far you’re willing to sink to realize you need me.


    Her silence was heavy, like embers smoldering under ashes. The magical scars on her skin faintly glowed, like an old wound that never healed.


    – You see, – he added, tugging at the chain binding his wrists. – Even in iron, I’m free. And you? You walk without chains, but you’ve long been a prisoner of your own fear.


    She felt a flare of irritation but also something deeper. He was different from the rest. His defiance, the fire in his eyes, reminded her of herself—of who she’d been before the world had taken everything from her. Maybe he was the one who could remind her that she still had a choice. A choice not to be alone.


    Her decision was impulsive, almost spiteful. She stepped closer to the platform and gestured to the slaver. The man, fat and greasy, looked at her with a sycophantic smile.


    – That one, – she said curtly, pointing to the man in chains.


    The slaver smirked and nodded. – Good choice. Former gladiator. A bit mouthy, but that can be fixed. Strong, knows his trade. Only twenty gold.


    – And the armor? – she asked, noticing the slaver glancing at the breastplate and massive two-handed sword lying nearby.


    – That’s his, – the slaver snorted. – Considering you’re taking him, I can sell the lot for thirty. A good deal, girl.


    The armor had seen better days, with cracks and battle marks, but it still retained its power. The massive sword, covered with a light patina, looked as though it could cleave a man in half with one swing.


    She grimaced at the price but pulled out her coin pouch. The sound of gold coins falling into the slaver’s palm made her wince slightly—money was slipping away too quickly.


    When the chains were removed, the man stretched his shoulders as if savoring his first taste of freedom. He looked at her with the same defiant smirk.


    – I’m impressed, – he said, picking up his armor and sword. – Never thought my buyer would look so… intimidating.


    – Be thankful I bought your junk along with you, – she replied coldly. – I hope you’re worth it.


    – We’ll see, – he smirked, fastening the breastplate. His voice was confident, almost condescending. – But don’t think you can control me. Your money bought time. What you do with that time is up to you.


    – What’s your name, anyway? – Alara asked, watching him closely as he adjusted the armor and picked up the two-handed sword.


    For a moment, the man froze, as though the question had caught him off guard. His yellow eyes darkened briefly, and then he smirked, as if deciding there was no point in hiding the truth.


    – I lost my name a long time ago, – he said, a hint of bitterness in his voice that was quickly buried beneath his usual defiance. – Just call me Shegren. And you?


    – Alara, – she said shortly, glancing down at his sword.


    – Well then, Alara, – his voice softened unexpectedly, which only made it more irritating. – How about buying me lunch? I don’t have money, but you…


    He smirked wider, tilting his head slightly, as though testing how far he could push.


    Alara raised an eyebrow, her gaze darkening with barely restrained irritation.


    – You were just standing in chains, and now you’re already demanding lunch? Is arrogance your second nature?


    – First, – he replied calmly, resting the sword on his shoulder. – I prefer honesty. Besides, you can afford it.


    – And if I refuse? – she said, sarcasm lacing her voice.


    – Then I’ll still find a way to eat, but it’ll be… less civilized, – he said, glancing at a nearby stall where the owner was laying out flatbreads.


    – Just try, – Alara replied coldly, though the corner of her mouth twitched in a faint smirk. – Fine, let’s go. But if you try to sell yourself as more valuable than you are, I’ll return you to the platform.


    Shegren laughed, a hoarse sound like dry branches snapping.


    – Oh, I’m already worth more than you think. But I won’t argue. Over lunch.


    She gave a curt nod and headed for the nearest tavern, her feet instinctively knowing the way. Shegren followed with heavy steps, carrying his massive sword with ease, as if it were a toy.


    The tavern was just as grim as everything else around them. The dim light of a single lamp barely illuminated the old stains on the walls and the crudely made tables. The air was thick with the smell of damp wood and cheap ale.


    Alara chose a table in the corner, away from the other patrons. She nodded to the innkeeper, tossing a couple of copper coins onto the table. The man muttered something under his breath and headed off to prepare their food.


    Shegren sat across from her, stretching out his legs and leaning back in his chair. His gaze lingered on her, and he said casually,


    – I have to say, this is the fastest transition from a slave market to lunch I’ve ever experienced.


    – Maybe you’re lucky, – she replied with a slight smirk.


    – Maybe you’re unlucky, – he countered, his yellow eyes flickering with a spark of amusement.


    – I haven’t decided yet, – Alara said, leaning back in her chair. – But if you keep talking this much, my coin pouch will regret it very quickly.


    Shegren laughed. This time, the sound was warmer, almost genuine.


    – Fine, I’ll shut up while the foods on its way. But I warn you, it won’t last long.


    – And I warn you, patience isn’t one of my strengths, – her tone was cold, but a faint smile flickered across her face.


    The innkeeper returned, setting a tray of food in front of them and roughly slamming two wooden mugs onto the table, spilling something murky and viscous over the sides. Alara gave a curt nod of thanks, trying to ignore his gaze lingering on her longer than she liked.


    In front of them were two deep clay bowls filled with thick meat stew, its aroma overpowering even the musty air of the tavern. Shegren immediately grabbed a spoon and began eating with the speed of someone who hadn’t seen food in days.


    Alara watched as he attacked the food, paying little attention to manners. His movements were rough, each bite accompanied by the loud clink of his spoon against the edge of the bowl. She slowly sipped from her mug, watching him with quiet disdain.


    – Do you always eat like a wild animal, or am I just lucky to witness it? – her voice was cold, though her gaze remained calm.


    Shegren didn’t stop eating, only let out a short grunt.


    – When you spend a long time in chains, you learn to value every chance to eat. Besides, who here cares about manners? – He wiped his mouth with his hand and downed half the mug in one go. – Though... I imagine your habits are a little different.


    Alara stiffened, her spoon freezing midair.


    – What are you trying to say? – her voice carried a sharp edge of warning.


    He set the mug down, his yellow eyes studying her face intently.


    – You don’t look like someone used to treading in the mud. There’s something... odd about your posture. Like you’re always expecting a knife in the back but refuse to let it make you bow.


    She stared at him for a long moment before quietly saying,


    – You talk a lot for someone who was just slurping soup like a starving dog.


    Shegren laughed, a hoarse sound that echoed through the empty tavern hall.


    – Maybe so. But you didn’t answer.


    Alara placed her spoon down and clasped her fingers together on the table, barely tightening them, as if trying to contain a flicker of anger.


    – My origins are none of your concern, – she snapped, though her voice betrayed a faint hint of hesitation, so subtle even she barely noticed it.


    Shegren leaned back in his chair, resting his hand lightly on the hilt of his sword, clearly enjoying the conversation.


    – Oh, but it concerns everyone, doesn’t it? Half-blood... – He drew out the word deliberately, as if tasting it. – Your people despise you, and those who aren’t yours despise you too. That’s a heavy burden.


    – Shut up, – her voice was sharp, but she didn’t move from her seat. A green glint flashed in her eyes, the magic within her threatening to surface.


    He raised his hands in feigned surrender, though the smirk never left his face.


    – Easy, easy. I’m just trying to understand who I’m sharing a meal with. These days, you never know who you can trust.


    Alara remained silent, her teeth clenched as his words burrowed into her mind. He was right, but that only made it worse. The Nimiri, the Krahor—both worlds had rejected her, and now even this stranger dared to question her origins.


    Her thoughts flowed like a poisonous stream until she finally spoke, her voice low, almost a whisper.


    – Trust ended a long time ago. In this world, if you live long enough, the only choice you have left is deciding who to betray first.


    Shegren looked at her with newfound interest.


    – See? We’re already starting to understand each other.


    – Unfortunately, I don’t think I’ll ever understand people like you, – Alara shot back, raising her mug and taking a long drink. – But you’d do well to remember: those who dig too deeply usually meet the same end.


    Shegren smirked, picking up his spoon again.


    – Well, at least if the end is near, I’ll face it with a full stomach. – He licked his lips and motioned to the innkeeper. – So, you won’t mind if I order more food and drink, will you?


    Alara glanced up, narrowing her eyes.


    – You’re quick to forget who’s paying.


    Shegren grinned, running his finger along the rim of his empty mug.


    – Don’t think about it. You won’t even feel a few more coins missing, and I... I might just stop annoying you with my hungry looks, at least for a while.


    – Or you’ll annoy me even more if you make a mess, – she noted coldly, but still waved at the innkeeper in agreement. – Just this time, nothing strong. I’m not dragging your drunk ass around.


    Shegren snorted, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips as he glanced at the innkeeper, who wasn’t in any rush to approach.


    – Drunk, I’d only become more interesting, trust me. Though, perhaps not today.


    – Don’t flatter yourself, – Alara cut in, leaning back against the chair. – I’m not one to endure for the sake of fun.


    – And yet, you endure, – he retorted with a challenge, his yellow eyes glinting with mockery. – Which means you see something useful in me.


    Alara turned her gaze away, hiding her irritation behind a mask of indifference.


    – So far, you’re just an expensive burden. But who knows, maybe there is some use to you. Although, to be honest, I doubt it.


    Shegren laughed, his hoarse chuckle once again echoing through the tavern.


    – Oh, I’ll surprise you. Just give me time... and a couple more bowls of stew.