Caster of the Han Li clan had long prepared for the trials of the Dream Realm.
He had studied its terrors, trained for its treacheries, and honed himself into a blade worthy of the name he carried. This was to be his crucible—the proving ground where he would rise above all obstacles, claim victory, and restore the fading influence of his ancient bloodline.
Or so he believed.
That belief shattered the moment he stepped into a place the maps refused to name—an ancient, crumbling city whose identity had long since been devoured by time.
It faltered when he encountered his first Fallen Beast.
And it crumbled entirely when the truth revealed itself in full: that he, the final hope of the Han Li, had been cast into an unexplored death zone.
No warning. No preparation. No mercy.
And yet—he endured.
For seven long days, Caster survived alone amidst the desolation.
He leaned on the battlefield doctrines imparted by his father, summoned the refined swordplay of his mother's venerable Legacy, and called upon the harsh teachings of tutors who had stood over him like judges, not mentors. Even the more distasteful methods—stealth, sabotage, the art of striking unseen—those he had once deemed unworthy of a Legacy's hand, had proven indispensable.
Ironically, it was Sunless who had taught him those.
A fellow assassin. An enigma. A master of misdirection whose reputation had all but been nonexistent —precisely because he had made the world believe there was nothing to speak of. Everyone but Caster had been fooled. The boy still maintained that Sunless was a Mover operating beneath the radar, disguised by his diminutive, forgettable frame.
But even one such as Caster had limits.
And his had arrived—wrapped in lace, leaking hunger from every seam.
The monster was impossibly tall, its frame stretched to an obscene imitation of grace.
Each limb flexed with a boneless fluidity that betrayed speed rather than poise.
It wore the remains of what might once have been tavern garb—a corset, a skirt, frayed lace and faded ruffles—but none of it moved like cloth. It clung. Pulsed. Twitched against the flesh. Not worn, but *grown*, fused into its body like some parasitic bloom.
It moved with mock allure.
Hips swayed. Shoulders rolled. Every motion a rehearsed imitation of seduction.
Its face was worse. A porcelain mask. Delicate. Classical. Beautiful in the way ruins were beautiful—crafted and lifeless. Painted cheeks, glassy lips, a smile frozen mid-invitation. It did not blink. It did not move. And yet... it watched.
A glamour, most likely. Designed to disarm. To entice. To draw prey in.
It might have worked—on someone else.
But not him.
He saw the cracks.
Dainty fingers ended in sharpened bone. The sway became a stuttered lurch the moment it thought itself unseen. And in the crook of its neck, something *twitched*, like a parasite shifting beneath the surface. Something that did not belong. Something not meant to be housed in flesh.
And then, there was the sound.
Not breath. Not truly.
A wet, sucking rhythm, so faint it bordered on silence. It whispered of appetite. Of need. Of a hollow thing wrapped in charm, wearing humanity like stolen silk.
He didn't need to see the truth. He *knew* it.
A parasite draped in beauty. A mimic of love. A predator born from forgotten sins and sharpened teeth.
He could have escaped. Of course he could have. Had his Aspect been available to him, it would have been trivial.
But the memory that governed it had yet to return.
A rare, but costly miscalculation.
And then—without fanfare, without warning—the creature's head was *severed* from its shoulders.
Cleanly. Violently.
A spear, hurled with divine force, tore through the nightmare like a bolt of judgment. It struck with such precision, such finality, that the fight ended before it began.
The spear's wielder was human.
A Sleeper.
A young woman, no older than himself.
She stood where the monster had loomed, poised and motionless. Hazel eyes glinted with latent power beneath the shadow of a simple braid woven from chestnut hair. Her form was the poetry of function—lean, efficient muscle shaped by purpose and polished through trial. Bronze kissed her olive-toned skin where armor gave way to flesh, and every movement, even in stillness, was a whisper of lethal grace.
And then there was her attire.
A short, scandalously cut white tunic, hem barely grazing the tops of her thighs. Bronze greaves at her shins, vambraces at her forearms, and a cuirass encircled with leather pteruges. Armor that offered no true defense, only suggestion. It was performative. Deliberate.
No protection. No shame. No hesitation.
Only strength, unadorned.
A declaration.
And it *worked*.
She radiated physical magnificence—power that did not apologize for its beauty. Vitality that did not hide. A kind of raw, unabashed presence that defied category.
But what struck him—*what truly unnerved him*—was her expression.
She was smiling.
Not cruelly. Not with triumph. Not the smirk of the victorious.
She was simply... *content*.
As though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. As though slaying a nightmare had been no more disruptive than brushing dust from her shoulder.
That was how Caster of the Han Li first met Lady Athena.
Or as he would soon be reminded—Effie.
In that moment, the conclusion was obvious.
She wasn't rabble. Not one of those gutter-bred parasites who sully the title of Sleeper with delusions of grandeur.
No—*she* was something else.
Something far more dangerous.
She was powerful. The kind of powerful that did not shout. That did not seek permission or recognition. Her spear strike had been swift, efficient, and merciless. No wasted motion. No hesitation.
That alone placed her leagues above the average Sleeper.
But it was her posture—the casual ease with which she stood, hand resting on the haft of her weapon like a staff at court—that chilled him more.
She had not killed an Awakened Monster.
She had swatted an insect.
And danger, it seemed, had forgotten how to touch her.
Her gear—minimal, impractical by conventional standards—was pristine. Maintained not for battle, but for presence. An instrument of theater as much as war.
Her stance—fluid, unstudied. Not the formality of a drilled soldier, but the instinctive balance of a creature who had fought, bled, and survived until violence became her language.
Her face—relaxed. Pleased. Not mad, not numb.
*At home*.
She was at home here.
That was the most dangerous kind of survivor.
His hand found the hilt of his blade, not in threat, but habit. A quiet reassurance. A silent tether.
He could not afford assumptions.
Not here. Not with something this unpredictable before him.
Someone this radiant should have been documented—on a ledger, in a profile, whispered through the information trade like wildfire. But he had seen nothing. No mention. No hint. Nothing from the Han Li's few remaining contacts.
She was a variable.
Unaccounted for.
He hated those.
He exhaled, long and slow, burying the tension in the shoulders of his perfect posture. His face remained composed—noble, cold, unreadable.
But his mind was racing.
This woman was no ordinary Sleeper.
She was a piece on the board.
And Caster, for all his training and lineage, had yet to decide what kind of piece she was.
Knight. Queen.
Or the kind that flipped the board entirely.
'*'
As it turned out, Lady Athena was the kind of piece that wasn't meant to be played at all.
Caster discovered this the day he learned she was forbidden from entering the Bright Castle—the only true bastion free of Nightmare Creatures in the Forgotten Shore. While others took shelter behind gleaming walls and sanctified wards, she remained in the shadow-choked ruins of the Dark City, left to walk among monsters.
The reason was simple: she refused to kneel.
The Host—the ruling body of Sleepers under the Bright Lord—demanded submission. Lady Athena offered none. Her defiance made her dangerous. Unwelcome. Untouchable.
It was also why they had parted ways for three days.
In those three days, Caster learned more than he expected.
First, that the Host's authority rested not on justice or law, but on the singular power of its generals and the enigmatic strength of the Bright Lord. This was no noble court. It was a façade of order, upheld by violence and fear.
Second, that everyone within the Bright Castle was expected to contribute. Reasonable, in theory. But contribution meant payment—and the currency was soul shards.
Third, that the Host was not a united front.
It took a practiced eye to see the cracks. But Caster had spent what little time he had before the winter solstice studying the subtleties of Outskirts culture, hoping to better understand the diverse backgrounds of his fellow assassin.That effort had led him to a strange little book, gifted by a pale, wheezing girl who had pressed it into his hands with a knowing smile.
*New Thorn*, the title read.
It was a florid, sentimental retelling of the rise and fall of a gang of criminals, a phenomenon known as Upstarts—drunk on ambition, clad in scraps of borrowed dignity, and brimming with dysfunction. They had tried to form their own kind of dynasty, a bastardized mimicry of Legacy tradition. And though they burned brightly for a time, they were undone by the flaws of their creators.
By betrayal. Subterfuge. Cowardice.
And, rather unexpectedly, a surprisingly intricate love triangle.
Caster had found the dramatics tedious, but useful. It taught him that even those without noble blood could forge something *like* a Legacy. But that likeness was always fragile. Always cursed to collapse beneath the weight of its own deceit.
The Host, he realized, was no different.
The patterns were already there: factions within factions, secrets buried under fragile smiles, alliances stretched thin by personal ambition.
So he returned to Lady Athena.
He walked the broken streets beside her, learned the rhythm of the Dark City, its codes, its shadows. He honed not just his strength or collection of Memories—but his name. His reputation.
Because when the Host crumbled—and crumble it would—the world would look for someone to take up the mantle.
And Caster Han Li intended it to be him.
Not because he lusted for power. But because power in the wrong hands turned cities into ruins, and ruins into graves.
What the Forgotten Shore needed was not another imitation.
It needed a Legacy.
'*'
At least that were his plans.
But Caster should have known better than to plan before all players were present.
'*'
"Shining," she said, her voice cutting through the tension. "You ready to head out again? I'm kinda starving, you know."
The words had become a refrain, one that Caster had grown all too familiar with over the past month. Lady Athena—Effie, as she preferred—was undoubtedly a formidable force, and though Caster himself had struggled in their previous encounters, their hunting expeditions together were not for the faint of heart.
The streets of the Dark City, once a proud testament to an ancient civilization, had since become a haunting battleground. Winding alleys and crumbling passageways—some once crafted for the masses, others built for the narrow, secretive paths of the locals—now stood empty, save for the prowling Nightmare Creatures of the Awakened and Fallen Ranks. The very streets themselves felt as though they whispered of ruin and death, a warning to all who dared venture there.
Each step taken within the city's shattered heart felt like a step closer to oblivion. These creatures—horrific, lethal, and singularly capable of ending a life without hesitation—were always waiting. They were the predators, and Caster and Effie were the hunted.
Thus, stealth was imperative. But a true hunter was not just one who could move unseen. A true hunter was one who knew how to strike—who understood what prey to pursue and when to strike with precision.
As they moved, Caster listened, distracted for the moment by Effie's observations, which she voiced with her usual irreverence.
A towering creature loomed in the distance—a grotesque, obese humanoid with thick, muscular legs, a stumpy torso, and arms ending in misshapen stumps. Its face, or what could be considered a face, was nearly all mouth, an enormous, gaping maw that seemed to stretch impossibly wide.
Effie clicked her tongue in disdain. "Too oily if you ask me, but it's got a lot of meat."
Her tone was casual, as if they were discussing a meal, rather than the prospect of fighting a nightmare. But Caster said nothing. There was truth to her words.
Her gaze shifted, and she gestured toward a quadrupedal beast—a canine creature, disturbingly disproportionate, its limbs twisted at unnatural angles.
"Hmm, tastes like cheap synth steaks," she said with a note of distaste, "but with more ligaments and joints. Real chewy stuff, you know?"
Caster raised an eyebrow, offering a thin smile despite himself. "Can't say I do."
It wasn't the time for banter, but the comment—typical of Effie—was almost comforting in its familiarity.
They continued scanning the shadows, always aware that danger lurked in every corner, in every crack between the buildings. They found themselves in a narrow back alley, the type where larger creatures would have difficulty navigating, yet perfect for smaller, stealthy predators to spring an ambush.
And then, the sound came—a whisper of words too deliberate to be anything but a lure. An ambush predator, trying to draw them in.
"They're not far," Effie murmured, her voice shifting slightly. The thrill of the hunt in her tone was unmistakable.
Caster remained silent, focused on the task at hand, until the unmistakable voice reached his ears.
"Hey, Casanova, long time no see."
The voice sliced through the atmosphere with unsettling familiarity. Sunless. The assassin who had once orchestrated the misdirection of the entire academy. He had found his way into the Dark City.
And he was not alone.
A young woman, brown hair falling in loose strands, clung to an Echo like it was her beloved child.
A blonde young miss was following with unsure steps —her expression distant, eyes unfocused. And behind them, unmistakable, was Nephis— Changing Star of the Immortal Flame clan. The target.
Caster's muscles tensed, his mind instantly working to assess the situation. The odds were shifting, the variables multiplying. Sunless's presence, his unparalleled skill in misdirection, was enough to complicate any plans he might have had. But it was Nephis—their target—that truly shifted the scales.
Effie, of course, seemed less concerned. "Well, isn't this a cozy little reunion? I *love* running into old friends in places like this."
Her grin was playful, she may have not known these people but they seemed to know Caster.
Caster, however, took no pleasure in the surprise. This was not an encounter he had planned for, and the stakes were now higher than ever. He could not afford to underestimate any of them, not now.
With a measured exhale, Caster's hand brushed the hilt of his sword, his grip steady, as his mind began to formulate his next move. The balance had shifted, and he would need to adapt quickly.
Effie, still nonchalant, shifted slightly, her hand resting casually on the haft of her weapon as if the mere appearance of Sunless and the others was of little consequence to her.
But Caster knew better. This was no ordinary reunion. And the game had just become far more complicated. He had recorded with an allie , and at the same time was reminded of his true objective.