Hope awoke with a sharp intake of breath, body stiff and breath shallow, as if dragged from a place far deeper than sleep. His heart pounded in his chest, eyes darting around in the heavy dark that now smothered the temple's interior. Only after a few seconds did he register where he was—slumped against the cold stone wall of his sanctuary, one arm lazily wrapped around his torso, the dried meat he'd half-eaten still on the ground beside him.
A sigh escaped him, low and gravelly. He stood slowly, joints creaking and muscles groaning in protest. The silence around him had grown thicker, and the creeping shadows that lived within the ruined temple seemed to have deepened, moving ever so slightly at the corners of his vision. It was about that time again—the hour he slipped out into the Citadel under the cover of night.
"Parrot," he muttered.
As if summoned by nothing but his voice, a soft flutter of feathers echoed through the chamber. In a blink, the little creature materialized in the air with a shimmer of light, wings catching the faintest of ghostly gleams. It flapped twice, circled once, and landed gracefully on his shoulder.
"We going to the Citadel tonight?" it asked excitedly, tilting its head as if it already knew the answer.
Hope gave a tired, lopsided smile. "Yeah... but I'll have to dismiss you."
"What!" the bird squawked, voice pitched somewhere between outrage and pure betrayal. "We made a deal!"
Hope paused mid-step, brows knitting. "What deal?"
The parrot puffed up. "Don't lie to me, Hope! We made a deal yesterday! You couldn't have forgotten that fast—don't gaslight me!"
Hope blinked, then winced. A faint throb pulsed behind his temples as the memory clicked into place like a jigsaw piece. "Ah… damn."
The bird was right.
Last night, after their brief talk and before Hope drifted into unplanned sleep, he had coaxed the parrot into distracting a few Citadel guards by mimicking an officer's voice—just so he could steal a crate of preserved food they'd been hoarding. It wasn't a noble act. More of a petty one, really. Annoying the guards was sport for him. But in exchange, he'd promised the bird a trip to the Citadel the next day.
And now… here they were.
Veins pulsed at his temple, but he didn't argue. Instead, he grunted, muttering curses beneath his breath as the parrot chirped smugly, fluffing its feathers in satisfaction.
"You better behave," he said as they stepped out of the temple.
The ruins gave way to the cold outer fringe of the Ashlands—where mist coiled like living things, and ruined buildings stood like jagged teeth. Ahead, the Citadel's massive black gate towered, its ancient walls reinforced with sigils and soul-bound wards. Hope didn't bother approaching directly. With a breath, he summoned the Void.
Dark tendrils swirled up from beneath his feet, shadows devouring his outline until he dissolved into nothingness.
—
He reappeared in the narrow alley behind a familiar establishment—The Hollow Flask, a rickety but lively bar built into a partially collapsed tower near the heart of the Citadel's lower district. The moment his boots touched cobblestone, the parrot flapped twice, still perched proudly on his shoulder, eyes darting excitedly.
Hope didn't say a word as he stepped forward, pushing the half-hinged door open. The smell of stale alcohol, scorched spices, and ash smoke hit him immediately. Voices buzzed low like a swarm of flies—mercenaries, traders, and half-mad survivors exchanging gossip, bets, and lies.
Heads turned when he entered.
He didn't need to look to know what they were thinking.
He was known here. Not famous, no—but recognized. Hopeless, they called him. The guy who lived outside the Citadel, who hunted alone in the Ashlands and came back with wounds but never tales. An Awakened who didn't pledge allegiance, didn't join a faction, didn't even live like the rest of them.
To most, he was mad. A ghost with skin.
He didn't mind. He liked it that way.
The bartender looked up as he approached. She was a mundane—non-Awakened, but shrewd and tough in her own way. She'd seen her share of blood and ruin, which was likely why she didn't flinch when Hope entered. Her expression didn't change much, but she gave him a small nod before reaching behind the counter.
She slid a steaming mug toward him. It was thick, dark, and smelled faintly like disappointment. A poor imitation of coffee, brewed from some half-burnt Ashroot or whatever substitute they'd found in the wastelands.
Hope took it without a word and sat near the far end of the bar, his usual spot—back to the wall, one side clear, exits in sight. He took a cautious sip.
The bitterness hit his tongue like ash and dirt.
He grimaced.
It wasn't good. But it was… familiar. The first time he'd tasted coffee had been in a hospital bed back in the waking world, long before all this Veil-bound madness. Ever since, he'd hunted that same bitter taste in every cup he found. It never quite matched.
Still, he drank.
Beside him, the parrot ruffled its feathers and leaned forward. "Hope, get something for me," it said, voice much too cheerful for the gloom around them. "Tell her to give me my favorites!"
Hope paused mid-sip, lowering the cup slowly.
He turned to stare at the bird perched on his shoulder, a blank expression on his face.
The parrot stared back, undeterred, tail twitching as if this was perfectly normal.
Hope set the mug down with a small clack, eyes narrowing.
"Your favorites?" he repeated flatly.
And then he sighed. Because of course. Of course the bird had "favorites."