Zero didn't sleep. Sleep implied a cessation of thought, a surrender to quiet oblivion, and his mind was currently a maelstrom of panicked calculations and grandiose, self-contradictory plans. Back in the dubious safety of his cramped room, the adrenaline high of his nocturnal escapade had curdled into a thick paste of anxiety.
They're out there, he thought, pacing the small space between his bed and the table, wearing a groove in the already worn floorboards. The notices. My… invitations. He pictured them tacked up in the damp alleys, nestled amongst grime and refuse – pathetic, flimsy things. Who would possibly take them seriously?
Someone desperate, a traitorous whisper of hope answered. Someone broken. Someone looking for anything to grasp onto. Like Anya.
He froze mid-pace, the image of the silver-haired swordswoman sharp in his mind. Her focused intensity, the barely contained violence in her practice katas. Had she seen him? Had she found the notice pinned to that derelict shed door? The thought sent a fresh wave of nausea through him.
Okay, okay, calm down. He forced himself to take a deep breath, mimicking the "Shadow Breathing" technique he'd invented. It didn't help. Think like the Master. What would the Master do now?
The Master wouldn't panic. The Master would be serene, prepared, radiating an aura of ancient knowledge and untouchable confidence. The Master would have a hidden sanctuary, a place befitting his station, not a dingy room above a tavern.
Zero looked around his squalid surroundings. Dust motes danced in the single shaft of weak morning light penetrating the grimy window. Old noodle containers were stacked precariously on a crate. His "library" of borrowed books leaned against one wall. This wasn't a shadow sanctum; it was a hovel.
Right. Base of operations. He needed to create the illusion of preparedness, at least. If, by some miracle, someone did respond, he couldn't meet them here. He needed… ambiance. Mystery.
He started clearing a corner of the room with frantic energy, shoving aside clutter. He draped his threadbare blanket over the crate, attempting to fashion a makeshift, shadowed alcove. It looked… like a blanket draped over a crate.
No, no. Needs more… shadow. He considered extinguishing the single candle stub providing meagre light but realized he wouldn't be able to see his own hands, let alone project enigmatic authority. Maybe a cloak? A cloak always helped. Mysterious figures wore cloaks. He made a mental note to scour the second-hand stalls later for something cheap and preferably dark.
His eyes fell on the meticulously crafted lore documents spread across his table. The fake history, the nonsensical philosophies, the symbol of the Bleeding Eye. This was his only real asset. If someone came, he'd need to embody this. He'd need to speak cryptically, offer vague wisdom, hint at immense power held in reserve. He picked up a sheet detailing the "Five Veils of Shadow." Utter gibberish he'd concocted one sleepless night. Could he recite it with a straight face?
"The First Veil is Ignorance, blinding the profane… The Second, Fear, paralyzing the unworthy…" He practiced muttering the lines in what he hoped was a deep, resonant tone. His voice cracked on the word "unworthy." He sounded less like a shadow master and more like a pubescent boy trying to frighten his siblings.
This is impossible, the panic surged again. It's a joke. I'm a joke. He sank onto his narrow bed, burying his face in his hands. What had he been thinking? He was Clerk Zero, the archivist, the nobody. Not the Crimson God.
***
Meanwhile, in the perpetually shadowed alley behind the Stone Masons' guild house, the chill morning air carried the faint scent of damp stone and distant coal smoke. Anya moved through her sword forms, the worn leather grip of her longsword familiar and grounding in her hands. Each slice through the air was precise, economical, driven by a cold, simmering rage that had been her constant companion for three years.
Faster. Cleaner. More precise. Her internal litany never ceased. She visualized the faces – the smirking captain of the guard, the treacherous guild master, the indifferent noble who signed the order. The ones who had destroyed her family, her order, her life, all for coin and fleeting political advantage. They had left her for dead in the burning wreckage of the chapter house, a mistake they would learn to regret.
But regret required power. Vengeance required strength she did not yet possess. Her skill with the blade was considerable, honed through years of rigorous training since childhood and sharpened by hatred in the years since the massacre. But they had numbers, influence, resources. She had only her sword and a burning desire for retribution that gnawed at her soul.
She finished a complex sequence, her breath pluming slightly in the cold. It was during the brief pause, as she centered herself for the next set, that her eyes caught something out of place. Something pinned to the rotting door of the old storage shed at the alley's dead end, half-hidden by debris. A scrap of cheap paper, stark against the dark wood.
Curiosity, a rare visitor, warred with ingrained caution. Traps were common in the city's underbelly. Yet, this felt… different. Less like a lure, more like… discarded refuse? Sheathing her sword, she moved silently towards it, her senses alert.
Her eyes scanned the blocky, almost childish script. "ARE YOU LOST IN THE MUNDANE? DOES THE DAYLIGHT BLIND YOU TO THE TRUTH?..." It read like the opening lines of a third-rate prophecy from a street corner lunatic. Anya almost dismissed it.
Then she saw the symbol drawn beneath the text. Intersecting crescent moons, forming the outline of an eye. An eye drawn with ink that held a faint, unsettling crimson tint, making it look as though it were weeping blood. The "BLEEDING EYE."
Something cold trickled down her spine. It wasn't the symbol itself – she didn't recognize it from any known order or guild, legitimate or otherwise. It was the convergence. The words, while crude, spoke directly to the suffocating normalcy she despised, the "daylight" of the corrupt world that ignored the true darkness festering beneath. Lost in the mundane? Gods, yes. Every day was a fight against suffocating irrelevance while her enemies thrived. Truth hidden by daylight? Their crimes were committed under the veneer of law and order.
And the symbol… "Seek the Bleeding Eye in the deepest shadow." This alley was one of the deepest shadows in this part of the city. "Where silence screams…" Her own silent screams for justice echoed in this desolate space every dawn as she practiced.
Coincidence? Possible. Veridia was full of charlatans, cultists, and madmen peddling hope and delusion. But the phrasing, the symbol, the placement… it felt targeted. Deliberate.
"The Crimson Path begins." Crimson. The colour of blood spilled. The colour of conviction needed for the path she walked.
Her analytical mind, usually so quick to dissect and dismiss, found itself snagged. The message was amateurish, yet resonant. Was it a test? A coded message from an unknown faction? Some new player in the city's shadowed games? Or… something older? Something genuinely hidden, using this crude method to find suitable acolytes?
The part of her forged in betrayal screamed caution. But the part forged in the fires of the massacre, the part that yearned for any edge, any power to achieve her vengeance, felt a flicker of dangerous interest. The established paths – the guilds, the orders, even the criminal syndicates – were closed to her or offered nothing she could use. What if this… this "Crimson Path"… offered something different? Something potent enough to shatter the walls of impossibility surrounding her goal?
She carefully detached the notice from the door, the cheap paper rough beneath her calloused fingertips. She folded it precisely and tucked it into a hidden pocket within her worn tunic.
The notice mentioned seeking the Bleeding Eye. Was this symbol displayed elsewhere? Was it a sign to watch for? Or was the instruction more metaphorical – to look for the meaning behind it? "Where silence screams…" Perhaps the Path revealed itself not through overt signs, but through moments of quiet desperation, in the places forgotten by the light.
Anya's expression remained impassive, her silver eyes colder than the morning air. But inside, a decision settled. She would watch. She would listen to the silence. She would seek the Bleeding Eye, whether it was a physical mark or a pattern in the city's dark tapestry. This Path, whatever it was, had issued a challenge.
And Anya never backed down from a challenge. Especially one that whispered of shadows and power. She drew her sword again, the scrape of steel echoing softly in the quiet alley. Her practice resumed, but now, a new layer of awareness sharpened her senses, searching the shadows for a hint of crimson.