"The best umbromancer in Valombre, where is he hiding?"
The word umbromancer echoed strangely in Gaël's ears, sparking his curiosity, but he knew this wasn't the time to ask questions.
Joric let out a short sigh, then leaned down to grab a yellowed scrap of parchment. Dipping a quill into dark ink, he scribbled a few swift words and handed the note to Brann.
Brann took it, scanned the content briefly, then summoned a shadowy energy into his palm. The parchment curled into a wisp of black smoke and vanished.
"Anything else I should know?" he asked.
Joric gave a crooked grin, revealing teeth stained by time. "Don't try climbing back up to the high city. The Archon still hasn't forgiven you for that little 'borrowing' last time."
Brann chuckled dryly. "No danger of that. I've no plans to set foot up there anytime soon. Right, this'll do for today."
"Wait…" Joric leaned forward slightly, his voice lowering. "As a friend… you weren't supposed to linger in Valombre. Your legend still haunts the arena."
Brann froze in place.
"The arena?" he muttered.
Joric nodded, his expression suddenly sober.
"Draven Loth. Ring a bell?"
Brann said nothing, but Gaël saw his mentor's eyes narrow. He knew the name.
"He's declared himself the heir to your technique. Calls himself The Howling Blade now. Mimics your stances, your strikes... claims he won't fight again until he's faced you. Says you left out of fear, afraid to tarnish your legacy."
Joric straightened a little, resting his elbows on the counter.
"And he's not the only one. Maera the Blooded's been talking about you too. She says you abandoned the arena, let it rot in chaos when you gave up your throne. And there are others… the so-called Brothers of Fenris. Admirers. Disciples of your style. They wield rough-cut blades shaped like yours, trying to imitate your movements. It's starting to piss off the Archon. You'll probably see them around if you walk the streets, hell, merchants even sell knockoffs now."
Brann didn't flinch. His interest had clearly faded.
"They claim to be my rivals? My heirs?" He scoffed. "Shadows mimicking the shape… but lacking the essence. I've no time for those who want to shine by imitation. Let them chase ghosts. It's a waste."
Joric raised a brow."Maybe. But they care about you. You'll see the posters, they're plastered all over the place. Valombre wants to see you fight again. But be careful, Brann. The legend you left behind? Some want to shatter it. Others want to steal it. And a few... want to make sure you never come back."
Brann didn't reply right away.He took a slow breath, as if savoring the scent of blood on the wind.
"Valombre wants me back. Not to see me win... but to see me fall?"
A smirk flickered on his lips, a smile without warmth, without humor.
"Interesting…"
Turning with quiet confidence, Brann headed for the exit, Gaël close behind. As they passed, Gaël's unwieldy blade scraped against a table, releasing a sharp screech that earned him a chorus of indignant groans.
"Hey, kid!" Joric called out with a mischievous glint in his voice. "If you're still breathing next time, let's do business! There's always a discount for Brann's friends!"
Gaël didn't answer. The thought of ever stepping back into that dark, suffocating place sent a chill down his spine.
Brann, for his part, paid no attention to the commotion behind him. He stepped through the door with steady, measured strides, his Umbra-woven coat trailing softly in his wake.
Once outside, he made straight for the Severance Shard, his determined footsteps echoing on the damp cobblestones.
Gaël hurried to keep up, trying not to lose sight of him. Around them sprawled the lower city of Lameclaire, a maze of crumbling archways and shadowy alleys where glances were guarded and whispers traded like coin. The deeper they went, the livelier the streets became. The air grew thick with torch smoke, sweat, and spices.
As they neared the Severance Shard, the atmosphere grew even more charged. Towering over the main crossroads of the lower city, where thieves, mercenaries, and fame-hungry fighters converged, stood a massive circular structure, half-shrouded in the Shard's looming silhouette.
The Arena of ValOmbre.
Around its entrance, torn and wind-tattered posters fluttered like wounded flags, bearing goading messages:
"Brann the Fallen: Come prove you're not just a faded legend."
"The Howling Blade awaits. Don't miss the fight of the decade, only at the Arena of ValOmbre!"
Gaël felt his heartbeat quicken. Joric had been right.
There were other posters too, grizzled fighters, each more fearsome than the last. Creatures from the Rift, their images drawn with brutal artistry, each offering a bounty to anyone bold enough to challenge them in single combat.And there, among them, was the one of Brann the Umbra-Drinker. Though Gaël recognized the name, the figure on the poster looked far more monstrous than the man he'd come to know. Perhaps it was the crude exaggeration of the illustration… or maybe Gaël's perception had been colored by the strange sense of familiarity that had grown these past days.
Brann didn't slow. He didn't so much as glance at the taunts plastered across the walls.
His path led elsewhere.
Without a word, he turned down a narrow side street toward a modest building, inconspicuous at first glance, nestled in the arena's shadow. Its cracked façade bore no sign, only a shattered violet lantern spilling a dim, spectral glow.
Brann stopped before the door and knocked, three firm raps.
Silence. Then the door creaked open, slowly, like it wasn't quite sure whether to welcome them or not.
Inside, the shop was dim, lit only by a few Umbra lanterns that cast flickering violet light across the shelves. The air was thick, spiced and metallic, reeking of simmering potions and dried blood.
Brann stepped through the threshold without a word. Gaël followed, closing the door behind him.
The shop looked less like a place of commerce and more like a profane sanctuary. Shelves sagged under the weight of age-blackened glass vials, the walls were adorned with the masks of fallen warriors, and at the back, a wide basin filled with shadow-water pulsed faintly, as though breathing.
At the center of the room, perched casually on the edge of a rough stone counter, a woman awaited them.
A deadly beauty.
She wore a night-colored slit dress that revealed a leg wrapped in black silk and curves sculpted to ensnare weak souls. Her deep-black hair fell in smooth waves across her shoulders, framing a pale, perfectly-carved face where two amber eyes gleamed with wicked intelligence.
She idly twirled a slender dagger between her fingers, the motion precise and fluid.
"Well now… Early visitors. What can I do for you?" she purred.
"I'm here to see Valérian Ombrelac. Tell him Brann, Umbra-Drinker, is calling."
"Oh, a visitor who does more than just drop gold on the counter," she murmured with a predatory smile, revealing teeth of immaculate white.
Her gaze drifted to Gaël, then returned to Brann. She studied him at length, one elegant brow arching ever so slightly, before she sighed with mock disappointment.
"I've heard this one before," she murmured, feigning boredom. "Dozens of mercs and battered sellswords claiming to be Brann the Fallen. But you..."
She let the tip of her blade slide slowly across the stone counter.
"...you don't look like a legend."
Gaël held his breath. He glanced at Brann, expecting a sharp retort or a flare of anger. But the former Swordbother remained motionless, his face unreadable, his shadow stretching under the pale lantern light.
The woman raised a brow, intrigued by his silence.
"Valérian Ombrelac doesn't speak to strangers," she said softly. "He's a… cautious man."
She rose with feline grace and sauntered toward Brann, trailing an invisible line down his chest with a sharpened fingernail, as if testing his reaction.
"But if you truly want to meet the master umbromancer…" her voice dipped to a sultry whisper,"…you'll have to prove your worth."
Gaël felt his muscles tense.
"A fight in the arena," she finished, voice smooth as silk.
She stepped back slightly, arms crossing beneath her generous chest, a playful smile curving her lips.
"Brann the Fallen wouldn't refuse a good fight… would he?"
A chill rippled down Gaël's spine.
Brann simply smiled.
A smile without joy. A smile that promised carnage.