The night was thick with silence as the three of them sat in the dimly lit corner of The Foghound. The muffled hum of other patrons faded into the background as Rhett leaned forward, their eyes glinting like a predator’s in the faint light of the lantern hanging above. 

"Let’s get one thing straight," Rhett began, their voice low but cutting. "I’m not doing this because I like you, Caedric. I’m doing it because the Masquerade has taken too much from me already." 

Caedric didn’t flinch, his expression unreadable. "I wouldn’t dream of mistaking your motives for charity." 

Rhett smirked, leaning back in their chair. "Good. Now, let me tell you a little story." 

They reached into the folds of their cloak, pulling out a small, weathered journal. The leather binding was cracked and faded, the pages frayed with age. Rhett placed it on the table, their fingers lingering on the cover as if it were something precious. 

"I wasn’t always a mercenary," Rhett said, their tone softer now, tinged with something that might have been regret. "Once upon a time, I was like you, Caedric—a student of the old ways. An archivist, hungry for knowledge. I studied the Masquerade’s texts, pieced together their rituals, thought I understood their secrets." 

Caedric’s eyes widened slightly, though he said nothing. 

"But I was naive," Rhett continued, their voice hardening. "I thought the Masquerade’s power could be controlled. That I could use it to… fix things. Bring back what I’d lost." They paused, their gaze dropping to the journal. "I was wrong." 

"What happened?" Sioux asked, their voice cutting through the heavy silence. 

Rhett looked at them, their expression grim. "The sigil happened. Or rather, one of its fragments. I found it during an excavation—an ancient shard, just like the one you’re tangled up with now. At first, I thought I could resist its pull. That I was strong enough to bend it to my will." 

Sioux’s stomach tightened. They didn’t like where this was going. 

"But the sigil doesn’t play fair," Rhett said, their lips curling into a bitter smile. "It whispered to me, showed me things I thought I wanted. Promises of power, of redemption. And I believed it." They let out a hollow laugh. "Before I knew it, the sigil had twisted me into something I barely recognized. It used me, and when I’d outlived my usefulness, it cast me aside." 

Caedric’s jaw tightened. "And now you’re looking for revenge." 

"Not just revenge," Rhett said, their gaze sharp. "Answers. The sigil is ancient—older than the Masquerade itself. It wasn’t created by them, but they’ve been using it for centuries. Twisting it into their rituals, binding it to their power. But the sigil’s true nature is… different. It’s not just a tool. It’s alive, in a way. And it has a purpose." 

"What kind of purpose?" Sioux asked, leaning forward. 

Rhett hesitated, their fingers drumming against the table. "That’s the part I haven’t figured out yet. But I do know this: every time the sigil chooses someone, it’s not random. It wants something from you, Sioux. And if you don’t give it what it wants, it’ll take it by force." 

Sioux frowned, the weight of Rhett’s words settling heavily on their shoulders. "What does it want from me?" 

Rhett shrugged, their expression dark. "That’s for you to figure out. But you’d better do it quickly. The sigil doesn’t like to wait." 

Caedric reached for the journal, his movements cautious. "And this?" he asked, his fingers brushing the worn leather cover. 

Rhett nodded. "It’s everything I’ve learned about the sigil and its fragments. Rituals, histories, accounts from those who’ve come into contact with it. Most of them didn’t survive long enough to leave behind much of a legacy." 

"And you’re just giving this to us?" Caedric asked, his tone skeptical. 

"Consider it a down payment," Rhett said, their grin returning. "If you want the rest, you’ll help me take down the Masquerade’s next gathering. They’re holding a ritual in three nights’ time, and I have every intention of crashing their party." 

Sioux exchanged a glance with Caedric, their unease growing. "You’re asking us to pick a fight with the Masquerade? After everything we’ve just been through?" 

Rhett shrugged. "You’ve already got their attention. Might as well make it worth their while." 

Caedric’s gaze hardened. "This isn’t just about revenge, is it? You’re after something specific." 

Rhett’s smile didn’t waver, but there was a flicker of something colder in their eyes. "Let’s just say there’s something I need from their archives. Something that might tip the scales in our favor." 

"And what happens if we say no?" Sioux asked. 

Rhett’s grin widened. "Then you’re on your own. And trust me, Sioux—you don’t want to face the sigil without me." 

The tension at the table was palpable, the air thick with unspoken doubts and mistrust. Finally, Caedric closed the journal and pushed it toward Sioux. 

"We’ll consider it," he said, his tone cautious. "But if we’re going to work together, Rhett, there will be no games. No secrets." 

Rhett chuckled, rising to their feet. "No secrets? That’s rich, coming from you." They gave a mock salute and turned toward the door. "Three nights, Caedric. Don’t be late." 

As the door swung shut behind them, Sioux let out a breath they hadn’t realized they were holding. "I don’t trust them," they said flatly. 

"Neither do I," Caedric replied, his eyes fixed on the journal. "But if they’re telling the truth about the Masquerade’s gathering, it’s too important to ignore." 

"And if they’re lying?" 

Caedric’s expression darkened. "Then we’ll deal with it. Together." 

Sioux nodded, their resolve hardening. Whatever lay ahead, they knew one thing for certain: they couldn’t afford to fail. Not with the sigil’s pull growing stronger by the day.