The next town was a shadow of its former self. Crooked lampposts flickered weakly in the dim evening fog, and the air carried the acrid scent of burnt wood. The streets were barren, save for the occasional silhouette that darted from one doorway to another, shrouded in cloaks and distrust. 

Sioux and Caedric had entered the town without fanfare, their pace slow and deliberate. Sioux could feel the weight of their exhaustion—the soreness in their legs, the sting of bruises hidden beneath layers of clothing—but their senses remained sharp. After the encounter in the catacombs, they trusted nothing. 

"Welcome to Darkwater," Caedric muttered, his voice low as they stepped past a dilapidated fountain in the center of the square. A dry trickle of water spilled from its cracked edges, pooling in the grime below. "It’s one of the few places left where the Masquerade’s influence hasn’t fully rooted itself. But don’t mistake it for safety. This town has its own shadows." 

Sioux’s eyes scanned the crumbling facades of the buildings. "I noticed. Feels like everyone here’s just waiting for something bad to happen." 

"They are," Caedric said simply, adjusting the strap of his satchel. 

A faint noise caught Sioux’s attention—a rustle, barely audible over the distant hum of the wind. Their hand instinctively went to Bonnie at their hip. 

Caedric raised a hand, motioning for calm. "Careful. Darkwater isn’t a place to draw first blood. Let’s keep moving." 

They made their way to a tavern tucked away at the edge of the square. Its wooden sign swung creakily in the breeze, the words The Foghound barely legible beneath layers of peeling paint. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of stale ale and damp wood. A handful of patrons sat scattered at tables, their faces obscured by hoods or shadow. 

As they entered, a burly man behind the bar shot them a glance. His left eye was milky white, scarred over, but the other was sharp and alert. "New faces," he rumbled, his voice low and gravelly. "Not many of those around here." 

"We’re just passing through," Caedric said, his tone even. "Looking for food and a place to rest." 

The man’s good eye lingered on them for a moment before he nodded toward a table in the corner. "Sit. I’ll bring something out. But keep your weapons holstered, and your business your own." 

Sioux followed Caedric to the table, their back to the wall as they sat. "Friendly," they murmured under their breath. 

"This is friendly for Darkwater," Caedric replied, resting his hands on the table. His eyes scanned the room, taking in every detail—the patrons, the exits, the way the floorboards creaked underfoot. 

Sioux let out a soft sigh, leaning back in their chair. "So, what’s the plan? We keep running until the sigil gets bored?" 

"The sigil doesn’t get bored," Caedric said. "It adapts. It’ll send something—or someone—after us. We need allies, Sioux. People who know what we’re up against." 

"Do you have anyone in mind?" 

Before Caedric could answer, the door to the tavern creaked open. A figure stepped inside, their presence commanding immediate attention. They were tall and lean, wrapped in a dark, hooded cloak that billowed slightly as they moved. A pair of gleaming daggers rested at their hips, and their eyes—bright and piercing—scanned the room with calculated precision. 

The room fell silent. Even the bartender froze, his one good eye narrowing. 

"Well, well," the newcomer said, their voice smooth and laced with amusement. "It seems I’ve stumbled into quite the gathering of ghosts." 

Caedric tensed, his hand moving subtly toward his blade. "Rhett," he muttered under his breath. 

Sioux raised an eyebrow. "Friend of yours?" 

"Not exactly." 

The newcomer—Rhett—strolled toward their table, their movements fluid and deliberate. They stopped just short of the table, their gaze flicking between Caedric and Sioux. "Caedric Korrin," Rhett said, a sly smile tugging at their lips. "Still playing the noble archivist, I see. And who’s this? Your latest… project?" 

Sioux bristled at the comment, their fingers twitching toward their pistols. "Who’s asking?" 

Rhett’s smile widened. "Relax, kid. If I wanted you dead, you’d already know it." 

"Rhett," Caedric said, his tone sharp. "What are you doing here?" 

"Same thing as you, I imagine," Rhett replied, pulling out a chair and sitting down uninvited. "Running, hiding, looking for answers in all the wrong places. Except I’m a little better at it than you." 

Sioux frowned, their unease growing. "You’re not exactly selling yourself as an ally." 

Rhett leaned back in their chair, crossing their arms. "Ally? Oh, no. I’m not here to play hero. But I do have information—valuable information. About the sigil, its origins, and what’s coming for you next." 

Caedric’s eyes narrowed. "And what do you want in return?" 

Rhett’s smile turned predatory. "Let’s just say I have my own score to settle with the Masquerade. Help me with that, and I’ll make sure you live long enough to regret it." 

Sioux exchanged a glance with Caedric, their instincts screaming at them not to trust Rhett. But the mention of the sigil’s origins was too tempting to ignore. 

"Your call," Sioux said quietly. 

Caedric hesitated, his jaw tight. Finally, he gave a curt nod. "We’ll hear you out." 

Rhett’s grin widened. "Smart choice. But you’d better keep up. The game we’re playing doesn’t take kindly to the slow or the foolish." 

As the tension in the room eased slightly, Sioux couldn’t shake the feeling that their journey had just taken a darker turn. Whether Rhett would prove to be an ally or a traitor remained to be seen, but one thing was certain—the stakes had never been higher.