The rain thinned to a steady drizzle by dawn, but the sky stayed gray—low and heavy, like a lid pressed over the city. Lonir walked through the waking slums, streets stirring with the first ragged figures of the day: vendors hawking stale bread, children dodging puddles, guards shaking off night's stupor. No one looked at him twice. His face was scarred now, but in this place, scars were common as breath.
He didn't know where he was headed. Just away from the graveyard, away from the alley where three men lay broken in the mud. The pact anchor at his waist swayed gently with each step, the horned figure on its surface still wearing that quiet, satisfied tilt to its head. He didn't look down at it. He didn't need to. He could feel its attention like damp breath on the back of his neck.
Hunger gnawed at him—dull, distant, but real. He hadn't eaten since before the knife. He turned toward the market square, a muddy clearing where stalls clustered under leaky tarps. The air smelled of wet wood and frying grease. People bartered in low voices, eyes darting.
He stopped at a cart selling grayish porridge. The vendor—an old woman with one eye milky—glanced up.
"Copper for a bowl," she rasped.
Lonir reached into his robes. No coins. Nothing but the fabric itself.
He met her gaze.
She looked away first.
"Move on, then," she muttered.
He didn't.
Something shifted inside him—the same gray bleakness that had settled deeper after the first offering. He could take it. He could call The Bleak, endure the melting, and reflect just enough to make her hand over the bowl without question.
But he didn't.
Not yet.
He turned away.
A voice called from behind.
"Wait."
He stopped.
The speaker was a man leaning against a nearby stall—thin, hooded, clothes patched but cleaner than most. Face unscarred, but eyes sharp. Too sharp for this place.
"You look like you could use a meal," the man said. Smile easy. Too easy.
Lonir stared.
The man straightened. "Name's Kael. Saw you from over there. You got that look—like the world just kicked you one too many times."
Lonir said nothing.
Kael chuckled. "Quiet type. Fair enough. Come on—my treat. Got a spot nearby. Warmer than out here."
Lonir considered.
The pact anchor seemed to tilt slightly—heavier on one side, as though urging him forward.
He followed.
Kael led him through twisting back ways to a small shack tucked behind a warehouse. Inside was dry, lit by a single lantern. A table, two chairs, a pot simmering on a coal stove. Smell of herbs and meat—real meat.
"Sit," Kael said.
Lonir sat.
Kael ladled stew into bowls, slid one across. "Eat. No strings."
Lonir ate. Slow. The warmth spread through him, but it didn't touch the gray inside.
Kael watched him. "You're new to this, aren't you?"
Lonir paused.
Kael leaned forward. "The look. The way you carry yourself—like you just woke up from a bad dream and found it real. I know it. Had it myself once."
Lonir set the spoon down.
Kael's eyes flicked to the pact anchor at Lonir's waist—then back up. "Nice trinket. Where'd you get it?"
The knowledge stirred—implanted certainty tightening around his throat.
Lonir opened his mouth to test it again.
But Kael spoke first.
"Don't bother lying. I can see it. The mark. You made a pact."
Lonir froze.
Kael smiled wider. "Yeah. Thought so. Me too. Long time ago. Mine's with Mercy. Weak one, they say—but it keeps me alive in this shit-hole."
He pulled back his sleeve. On his wrist, a faint white scar shaped like a dove—cracked, incomplete.
Lonir stared.
Kael nodded. "See? We're the same. Not many of us around. The gods don't pick just anyone. You look like… something darker. Bleak eyes. Scarred skin. Fits."
Lonir's hand moved to the pact anchor without thinking.
Kael continued. "The game's simple. Survive. Collect cards. Don't break the pact. Kill another contractor, you get a shot at their cards—three picks, but they have to accept you. Reject 'em, and it twists back on you. And the gods… they watch. Always. Mercy's soft—lets me heal a bit, avoid fights. But yours? That anchor looks nasty. What god claimed you?"
Lonir hesitated. The gray inside him stirred, but no warning came. He spoke—voice low, rasping.
"Despair."
Kael blinked. Then laughed—short, sharp. "Despair? Never heard of that one. You sure? The high ones are rare—Sovereignty, Death, Truth, Madness. Those are the ones that chew you up. But Despair? Sounds made up. Maybe it's a trick. Some gods play games."
Lonir said nothing.
Kael leaned back. "Look, I could help. Show you how to hide better. Avoid the hunters. In return… maybe we team up. Mercy's weak, but it pairs well with stronger ones. I've seen pacts with Love—soft, but good for alliances. Or Violence—that one's all about the Brave card, raw power. We could balance each other."
Lonir looked at the empty bowl. The stew sat heavy in his stomach.
He stood.
"Thank you for the meal," he said. Voice flat. "But no."
Kael frowned. "Why not? We're rare. Better together."
Lonir shook his head. "It feels… wrong. Not compatible. Gods like yours—Mercy, Love—they don't fit."
Kael stood too. "Wait—let me show you. Mercy can help. You look roughed up. Those scars… fresh?"
He reached out, hand glowing faintly white—dove scar pulsing.
Lonir stepped back.
Kael pressed forward. "Just a touch. It'll heal."
His fingers brushed Lonir's arm.
Warmth spread—soft, almost kind. Scars tingled. Black veins faded slightly.
Then stopped.
The pact anchor at Lonir's waist seemed to tighten. The horned figure's thorns looked sharper, face less pleased.
Lonir pulled away.
Kael blinked. "Weird. Usually works better. Your god must be strong. Tell me more about this 'Despair.' How'd it call you? What's your first card like?"
Lonir met his eyes. The gray inside deepened.
"It melts you," he said quietly. "Breaks you open. Then you endure. And reflect."
Kael laughed again—nervous this time. "Melt? Sounds like Madness. Or maybe you got tricked. I've met contractors with Love—gentle bonds, healing hearts. Or the Brave from Violence—raw strength, no melting nonsense. Despair? Probably not real. Just a name for one of the lesser ones."
Lonir turned toward the door.
Kael grabbed his arm. "Wait—think about it. Team up. We could—"
Lonir shook him off.
The gray felt colder now.
He stepped back into the rain.
Kael called after him. "You'll regret going alone!"
Lonir didn't look back.
The city swallowed him.
The pact anchor settled—content again, thorns gleaming wet.
He kept walking.
Deeper into the gray.
The rain kept falling, but fading slowly.
And inside, the other cards flickered—closer now, as though waiting for the next break.