Chapter 6: A Subtle Theft

I can feel eyes on me from every angle. The camp’s tension crackles like a static charge in the air. Each stall I pass seems to grow quieter as I approach, the traders and scavengers eying my staff—or my hidden, corrupted arm—and weighing their next move. If I linger too long, I’ll be marked as trouble. And trouble never ends well.

Still, the pull of that bone flute won’t let me be. I keep replaying the glimpse of its etched runes in my mind’s eye, so similar to those on the bone map. If it’s crucial to unlocking the Blind Citadel—or even if it just contains a faint link to my past—I can’t leave without it.

Pulling my hood down low, I slip back to the butcher’s stall. The stench of old blood makes my stomach turn, and swarms of black flies dart around the flayed carcasses behind him. He has broad shoulders and arms speckled with scars—each likely a reminder of some brutal life in the wastes. He clocks my approach but doesn’t immediately raise an alarm. Instead, he folds his meaty arms over his chest, frowning at me.

I drop three tarnished silver marks onto the sticky counter. My voice is calm, or at least I hope so.

“Supplies,” I say.

His gaze flicks over me. A flash of recognition might cross his face, but coins are coins. He scoops them up, biting one to test its authenticity. Satisfied, he spits a glob of saliva into the dirt and turns away, rummaging through a moldy crate.

“Dried rat and a canteen of boiled sludge,” he grunts.

My heart thuds as I spot the bone flute inches from my fingertips, half-buried under a greasy pelt. Time feels painfully slow—my senses dialed to the weight of each breath I take. With the butcher’s back turned, I slip the flute into my palm. It’s surprisingly cold, a chill that sends a tremor through my hand. Steady, I remind myself.

The moment my skin touches the flute’s etched runes, the Silver Eye Pendant flares cold against my chest. In the same instant, a discordant note reverberates through my skull—like a half-remembered melody played on shattered glass. It conjures a flash of memory: a pair of massive stone doors engraved with musical symbols, shifting under pale moonlight. I blink, and the image scatters like ash in the wind.

He spins around and slams a sack of what passes for jerky on the table alongside a chipped metal canteen. He didn’t notice. Relief seeps through me like a quiet exhale, but I keep my face impassive.

“Get out,” the butcher growls, turning to bellow at another scavenger. Already, the next soul in line crowds forward, desperate for anything edible. The butcher tosses me a final scowl as I back away. He’s suspicious, I can feel it, but I’m already melting into the thin crowd.

Clutching the flute beneath my robe, I don’t dare look over my shoulder. I weave between tents and wagons, ignoring the reek of decay and the gaze of half-starved wanderers huddling by smoky fires. Keep moving. If the butcher realizes I’ve stolen something, I expect he’ll rally whatever passes for muscle in this camp and come after me. I can’t risk a confrontation—not when I’m already low on strength.

My arm throbs, a punishing reminder of the ward I carved. I catch a glimpse of the sigil glowing through the cloth, the swirling lines flickering with each pulse of my heart. A small, mocking voice slithers at the edge of my mind, urging me to undo the ward, let the shadows feast on my fear. I clench my teeth until they ache. Not now, I think, pressing my hand to my side.

As I near the ragged barricade that marks the camp’s boundary, a voice calls out:

“Do you need protection, traveler? You won’t go far alone in these lands.”

I turn and see a tall man with gaunt features, missing an eye. His exposed skin appears mottled, almost necrotic in places. He grips a battered sword that looks as though it’s seen its share of fights—and likely lost more than a few. I lower my gaze to avoid meeting his.

“No need,” I say, my voice steady, betraying no sign of the flute hidden in my robes.

He purses his lips in a twisted smile. “You’ll die if you go west from here,” he calls out after me, his tone halfway between a warning and a sneer. “There’s a tower out there, guarded by one of the deadliest abominations I’ve ever seen.”

I feel a surge of irony tightening my chest. That abomination died by my hand… or by the Void Glass Dagger’s hunger. But there’s no point revealing that here. I don’t respond. Instead, I duck my head and press onward, through the camp’s outer ring of tattered tents and smoldering fires, careful to keep my hood low.

My pulse thuds in my ears—partly from the tension of the theft, partly from the knowledge that Kael’s gaze could be lurking behind any pair of watchful eyes. That feeling intensifies when a gaunt scavenger steps into my path, her crow squawking a hoarse greeting. She’s so thin I can see the ridges of her collarbones beneath her ragged garments, and her left eye is no ordinary orb—it’s a shard of Void Glass, gleaming with a slick, dark light.

She studies me for a moment, and I sense the faint outline of a sneer beneath her cracked lips. In a voice that rasps like rusted chains, she says, “Kael’s hounds are sniffing the Glass Wastes. They’re hunting you. Best hurry, mage.”

Then, with a sharp motion that sends her crow fluttering in agitation, she spits at my feet—ash and spittle mingling in a dark blot. I feel a spike of anger, or maybe fear, roil in my gut. Before I can react, she slips back into the throng of scavengers, her bird’s caw echoing behind her like some mocking call of triumph.

Instinctively, I reach out with the heightened senses my corrupted arm grants me, hoping to trace a signature of her presence. There it is—the pulsing taint of Kael’s malice embedded in that fragment of Void Glass. A spy? A pawn? I can’t be certain. Either way, I know enough to recognize danger, and she’s already vanished into the crowd, leaving me no time to decide if confrontation is worth the risk.

With a sense of unease gnawing at me, I tug my hood lower. The stolen flute presses against my side, and my arm burns under the ward. It’s time to move on. The longer I linger, the more likely I’ll spark an incident I’m too drained to handle.