The fog clung to the narrow alleyways of Lioren's ancient quarter, veiling the city's secrets in a silvery hush. Liora moved through the mist like a shadow herself, her cloak fluttering around her ankles. The lamplight glowed softly, revealing cobblestones slick with last night's rain.
She paused at the foot of an iron gate, the sigils etched into the metal thrumming faintly with power. Runes of warding — ancient glyphs that had protected the city's bloodlines for centuries. She traced one with her gloved fingertip, feeling its quiet strength.
A whisper reached her ears — a voice that wasn't hers, threading through the fog.
"Liora…"
She turned sharply, her hand instinctively reaching for the small dagger hidden in her sleeve. The blade was silver, etched with binding runes — a relic of her grandmother's house, a family heirloom she had never parted with.
But there was no one there — only the glint of the gemstone she wore around her throat, a gift from her grandmother: a deep blue moonstone that pulsed with her magic. It was the source of her power, a wellspring that let her weave shadows like silk.
She pressed her palm to the gate, and the magic in her veins answered the call. Threads of darkness seeped from her skin, curling around the iron like living smoke. The gate creaked open, revealing the courtyard of an old manor long abandoned by any family with sense.
The manor's roof was half-collapsed, and ivy crawled up the walls like grasping fingers. Broken statues lined the path to the front doors — the stone visages of ancestors long dead, their eyes hollow with judgment.
This was the Forsaken Quarter — the oldest district in Lioren, where the city's magic ran deep and wild. Here, the echoes of the past still whispered through the stones, and those who listened could hear them.
Liora had come here for a job. A noble's daughter gone missing, lured by the promise of forbidden magic. Such things were common enough — the cults of Lioren were always eager for new blood, and the city's youth were hungry for power.
But as she moved deeper into the manor, she felt a weight in the air — something older than any girl's foolishness. The stones beneath her feet hummed with power, and the shadows seemed to lean closer, as if listening.
She paused at the threshold of a grand hall. Here, the tapestries still clung to the walls, though their colors were faded to ghosts. Each depicted the history of Lioren — the rise of the Mage-Lords, the wars fought in the name of magic, the binding of the old gods beneath the city's heart.
Magic in Lioren was never simple. There were the Weavers, like Liora, who shaped magic into physical forms: shadows, illusions, binding spells. There were the Binders, who could trap spirits in glass and stone. And there were the Seers, who read the threads of fate itself.
Liora was a Weaver, her power rooted in darkness and memory. The shadows obeyed her, twisting and coiling at her will — but only if she held them close. Let them slip too far, and they would consume her.
A faint glow beckoned her down a side corridor. She followed it, her footsteps silent on the cracked marble. The air grew colder, heavy with the scent of old incense and damp stone.
She found the girl — Liliane D'Maris, the youngest daughter of House D'Maris — in a small chapel at the end of the hall. The chapel was dedicated to the old gods, the ones who had ruled the city before the Mage-Lords rose. Their statues still watched from niches in the walls, their faces worn smooth by centuries of prayers.
Liliane knelt before the altar, her pale hair a silver halo in the moonlight streaming through the shattered windows. Her lips moved in a silent prayer, her eyes glazed and unfocused.
"Liliane," Liora whispered. She stepped forward, her magic gathering in her palms. Shadows pooled around her feet, ready to strike if needed.
The girl flinched, as though waking from a dream. "He said… he said he could show me the future."
Liora's brow furrowed. "Who? Who did you see?"
Before the girl could answer, a noise behind them — the soft scrape of a boot against stone. Liora spun, her dagger raised, the shadows around her thickening like a cloak.
A man stood in the doorway. He was tall, his features hidden by the hood of his dark cloak. But his eyes — they glowed faintly in the gloom, a predator's gaze that sent a shiver down her spine.
"You shouldn't be here, spellweaver," he said softly, his voice like silk over steel. "The girl is mine."
Liora's magic surged in her veins. "She's not a prize to be claimed," she said, her voice steady.
The man tilted his head, as though considering her words. "Everything in this city is a prize — or a sacrifice," he murmured.
He stepped forward, and Liora let the shadows flow from her fingertips. They coiled around her like living things, lashing out at the intruder. But he moved with impossible speed, slipping through the darkness as though it were smoke.
A hand closed around her wrist, iron-strong, and she gasped as her magic faltered. His face was inches from hers now, and she saw the faint trace of a scar across his cheek, half-hidden by the hood. His breath smelled of spice and cold air.
"Your power won't save you tonight," he said, his voice low.
"I don't need saving," she snapped, twisting her wrist free. She ducked under his arm, pulling Liliane with her. The girl stumbled, still half-entranced, but Liora didn't let her fall.
They fled down the corridor, the shadows bending to hide them. Her heart pounded in her chest, her magic thrumming with fear and adrenaline.
They burst into the night air, the fog swallowing them whole. Liora didn't stop until they reached the Whispering Bridge, an ancient span of black stone that arched over the River Ceryn. The water below was dark and fast, reflecting the glimmer of the city's lights like scattered stars.
She let go of Liliane's hand and turned to face the city. Lioren's spires rose above them, wreathed in mist and secrets. Somewhere in those towers, the ruling Council of Thirteen plotted their endless games of power. And somewhere beneath the streets, the Cult of the Shadowheart grew bolder by the day.
The man who had spoken to her in the manor — he was no ordinary cultist. She had seen the way he moved, the strength in his touch. He was something else. And she would find him.
Liliane shivered beside her. "I'm sorry," she whispered. "I didn't mean for any of this…"
Liora softened her voice. "It's not your fault. The city preys on those who want more than it will give."
She would bring Liliane back to her family — but she knew this was only the beginning. The cult's reach was spreading, and the man in the manor had spoken of sacrifices. She needed to know what they planned — and what lay at the heart of the city's darkness.
She touched the moonstone at her throat, feeling its cool pulse. Her grandmother had warned her that every gift came with a cost. In Lioren, nothing was free. Not even magic.
And yet… as she looked back at the manor's dark silhouette, she felt a thrill deep in her chest. The city's secrets called to her, and she would not turn away.