Twelve years had passed since Marinov struck a deal with Yocha. Above, the skies now bled deeper shades of cosmic colours-pink, purple, and dark blue. A giant, iridescent crack cut across the heavens, signalling the invasion of Unreality into the mortal realm.

Marinov's agreement with Yocha had brought him both survival and unending conflict, tying his fate to the ominous world above. Despite the twelve long years that had passed, filled with uneasy peace, Marinov couldn't shake the feeling that the true reckoning was yet to come. He wondered when, or if, Yocha would make her decisive move.

Time had worn down the city state of Yorymh, leaving a shell of the vibrant city Marinov had once known. Nestled in shadowed lanes stood where he currently resided. Runes carved into the walls glimmered faintly, like dying embers-every day, everyone in Yorymh cast these runes, knowing the consequences of forgetting were dire. Each symbol was a spell to hold back the encroachment of the Unreal. At night, they were especially important-a promise to protect against the Unreal's overpowering night time grasp. For so long, they had been a lifeline, a testament of Yorymh's unwavering resolve against the growing darkness.

Marinov's fingertips grazed one such rune, tracing its glowing lines. It hummed softly under his touch, echoing the quiet power that flowed unseen through Yorymh. Despite the facade of safety, the protective glyphs always reminded him of the fragile balance between this world and the one beyond, where the Unreal's whispers lured unwary to their doom.

However, tonight was different. The runes, though powerful, couldn't hold back some threats alone-and a new emergency demanded he head out soon.

Marinov stood alone in the dimly lit room, the silence only broken by the soft sound of cloth as he packed his supplies. His fingers traced the shapes of healing herbs before placing them into neat compartments. Scrolls, inscribed with esoteric knowledge known only to a Sifah, followed. Each item was chosen with care, his movements precise. These items were more than just tools-they were extensions of his will. To be a Sifah was to stand at the boundary between life and the unknown-between the tangible pain of flesh and the invisible wounds inflicted by the Unreal.

Few could claim the title of Sifah, those mysterious figures in white who journeyed where little did. Their knowledge was rare and vital, earned through hard training that tested both mind and spirit. In Yorymh, where the veil to the Unreal grew ever thinner, the presence of a Sifah was a beacon of hope amidst encroaching darkness.

Marinov stood at the doorway. The room, glowing with protective runes, felt like it was holding its breath.

The door creaked open, and Yocha appeared, her presence a sudden weight in the stillness. As she walked toward him, the air thickened, and the shadows on the stone floor stretched out like fingers.

"Mari," Yocha's voice was soft but firm, "are your preparations almost done?"

"Yes, they are," he replied.

"Ah," she said, coming closer and tilting her head to study him. "But are you prepared? The minor sects aren't just facing disturbances. They are afflicted by a cancer that must be excised."

Her words slithered around him, insidious and cold. Marinov felt the familiar clench of unease. He knew the implication that lay within her speech, venomous and biding its time.

"Yocha, I am a Sifah, not an executioner." Marinov felt a tremor in his own defence.

"Of course." Yocha's lips curved into a smile that reached the icy depths of her eyes. "But, consider Hidayat. His very existence is an anomaly, a blight. You've seen the chaos he causes. How many more must suffer before he's stopped?"

Marinov's hand tightened around the strap of his bag. Within it lay tools of healing, not harm. Yet, the suggestion hung between them, threatening to eclipse his purpose with its dark imperative.

"Is this what we've become, then?" he asked, his voice thick with struggle. "Are we just killers now? Pretending to be saviours?"

"Sometimes," Yocha stepped forward, her intensity enveloping him, "salvation requires sacrifice. And sometimes, one must be cast into the abyss for the many to thrive."

Marinov hesitated, caught in the pull of her argument. It was true; Hidayat was dangerous. But as a Sifah sworn to heal and protect, could he bear to end a life?

"Remember," Yocha whispered, her voice laced with urgency, "the greater good often demands hard choices. And should the Unreal spill forth its horrors unchecked, all of Yorymh will pay the price."

Her manipulation was as deft as it was merciless, preying upon his fears and sense of duty. Marinov closed his eyes, grappling with the darkness that sought to claim his heart.

"Enough," he finally said, the word a fragile barrier against the tide. "Leave me. I need time to think."

Yocha's gaze bore into him with a piercing intensity that seemed to strip away his defences layer by later. For a moment, Marinov feared she might refuse his request, that she would continue to weave her web of persuasion until he was entangled beyond escape.

But then, as if conceding to some unseen force, Yocha inclined her head in a gesture that was both regal and dismissive. "Very well, Mari," she said with a hint of something unreadable in her eyes, "take your time. But remember, time does not wait for indecision."

With a final glance, she retreated, leaving him alone with the quiet dread that echoed through the chamber.

Marinov lingered at the threshold, his gaze fixed on the fractured sky where twilight hues blended into darkness. Among the celestial tapestry, the giant iridescent crack split the heavens, a stark reminder of Unreality's chaos. The sight weighed heavily on him, as did the bag slung over his shoulder, filled with runes and remedies. But his mind drifted to the burden within-the silent oath to Nahil.

Memories stirred within him-Nahil, whose noble face held the gravitas of the Haliyun, had trusted him. Marinov felt desperation coil around his heart; failing Nahil would mean forsaking the principles that gave his life purpose.

"Find a way," Nahil's voice echoed, a distant memory. "For my son, for all our sons..." The plea was more than a request-it was hope in a world on the brink of oblivion.

Marinov sighed as he turned from the window, the scars in the sky burned into his mind. Yocha's insidious words tried to weaken his resolve. Yet, Nahil's dignified strength fortified him against such thoughts. Their bond was clear and honest-a beacon in the shadowed paths he walked.

With steady steps, Marinov crossed the room, each footfall a soft thud against the old wood. He paused to secure his bag, ensuring the protective runes inside were safe. The sigils glowed faintly, their light a silent prayer against the darkness.

His hand found the door, heavy oak reinforced with iron, and pushed it open. A gust of chill air greeted him, carrying the scent of impending rain and the indefinable aroma of a world in flux. The night embraced him, and as he stepped from the safety of his home into uncertainty, Marinov embraced his calling.