Chapter 1: The Forgotten Fragment
The tavern smelled of stale ale and damp wood, its dim candlelight flickering against the smoke-stained walls. Callum Vex sat at a corner table, one boot propped against the wooden leg, a half-finished tankard of mead resting beside his gloved hand. He wasn’t here for the drink. His eyes were locked onto the old man across from him—the one who claimed to have something very valuable.
“I tell you, lad,” the old man rasped, his voice thick with years of regret, “it ain’t no ordinary compass.” His gnarled fingers trembled as he reached into his satchel. “It doesn’t point north. It doesn’t point anywhere a sane man would want to go.”
Callum leaned in slightly, his pulse quickening. He had spent years chasing legends, selling relics to the highest bidder. But something about the old man’s words sent a chill through his spine.
The man placed a small, jagged object on the table. A shattered fragment of a compass, its metal frame cracked, the glass face missing. Faint golden symbols were etched along the edges—letters, maybe, though not from any language Callum recognized. And at its center, an eerie glow pulsed like a heartbeat.
Callum frowned. “Where’s the rest of it?”
The old man let out a dry chuckle. “That’s the problem, ain’t it?” He leaned in closer, his breath heavy with liquor. “The compass was broken for a reason, lad. You put it back together, and you’ll find something the world was never meant to see.”
Callum’s fingers twitched toward the fragment. He had heard stories of artifacts that held power beyond comprehension—cursed relics, forgotten treasures. But this? This was different.
Before he could speak, the tavern door slammed open. A gust of cold wind rushed in, carrying the scent of rain and something else—something metallic, like blood. Three figures stepped inside, their cloaks heavy with moisture. The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across their faces, but Callum could see the symbol embroidered on their chests—a spiral sigil woven in silver thread.
His gut twisted. The Veil.
A secret society. Ruthless. Unforgiving.
They were here for the compass.
Callum had seconds to act. His instinct screamed at him to run, to disappear into the night as he had done so many times before. But his eyes flicked back to the fragment. He had a choice—walk away and forget he ever saw it, or take a risk that could change everything.
He grinned. He had never been good at walking away.
With a swift motion, he grabbed the fragment and knocked over his tankard, spilling mead across the table. The old man cursed, but Callum was already moving. The figures in the doorway lunged toward him, drawing curved daggers from their cloaks.
Callum flipped the table, sending it crashing into the nearest attacker. The tavern erupted into chaos as chairs scraped against the floor and patrons scrambled out of the way. He sprinted for the back exit, his heart pounding.
The night air hit him like a slap, cold and damp with the promise of rain. Footsteps thundered behind him.
He didn’t know where the rest of the compass was. He didn’t know why The Veil wanted it so badly.
But one thing was certain—he was about to find out.
