Allen sat on the edge of the cot. The room they'd given him was no more than a stone box with a bed, an alchemy-scarred desk, and a rusted basin. Cracks crawled across the ceiling like ancient scars, and vents high in the stone walls whispered faint voices from somewhere deeper in the enclave- chanting, scraping metal, the hum of arcane energy.
He didn't unpack. He had nothing to unpack. His blades were laid out within arm's reach, always. He never took both boots off at the same time. Trust got people killed.
A faint flicker drew his eyes to the wall. His shadow. Just a moment- slower than it should be, twitching at the edges where it met the cracks in the stone. He stared for half a second longer than he meant to. Then looked away. It didn't matter. Not yet.
****
The halls of the Gray Codex were dimly lit with hovering stones that glowed faintly, never flickering. The walls were etched with sigils and sealed carvings. He moved through them like a ghost- silent, unreadable, invisible by effort. Some of the gray-cloaked figures glanced his way. Most didn't.
He passed rooms that hummed with power and secrets. Doors sealed with glyphs pulsed like heartbeats. Others stood open, revealing chambers of quiet madness.
A silver-tattooed elf sparred with phantom illusions in complete silence, every movement art.
A squat dwarven artificer etched unstable runes on thin stone wafers that smoked and sparked before dissolving.
A robed scribe sat in a room layered with silence wards, whispering into a scroll that wrote itself-his third eye glowing faint violet on his forehead.
And in a hollow-lit corner, a beast-hunter held up the corpse of a shadowhound; half-melted, fur still flickering,while others took notes in whispers.
Allen didn't stop walking. He observed. Measured. And moved on.
****
He mapped the enclave in silence, where he was not restricted from,that is.
The Hall of Dust lay in the lower corridors; a vast library of rotting scrolls, preserved texts, and locked records. The scent of mold and ink lingered like a ghost's breath. He overheard arguments over classification schemes, curses on forbidden tomes, rumors of books that bled when touched.
The Spine was a stretch of underground caverns shaped into training chambers. Sparring took place constantly -brutal, efficient. Newcomers weren't invited. No open arms here. Allen watched from the shadows, noting styles, weaknesses, rhythms. No wasted words.
The Bleeding Lab reeked of acid, herbs, and worse. Poisons boiled in crucibles. One woman was testing a vial on her own veins,watching as her flesh darkened, then healed. Allen didn't linger there.
And then there was The Low Board - a crude slab of wood nailed with handwritten jobs.
>>Shadowbeast gland. Pay by weight.<<
>>Retrieve mossroot from fungal ridge.<<
>>Escort scholar to perimeter ruins.<<
>>Find missing scout. Last seen on patrol outside the enclave. Double pay if returned alive<<
Allen took the ones no one argued for.
His first task was gathering toxin glands from the swamps near the perimeter. It took two days. He didn't speak once. He came back bloodied, silent, with a sack full of what they'd asked.
The second was escorting a wounded scholar. Easy—until they were ambushed by spores that twisted light into hallucination. Allen didn't hesitate. Slashed, burned, dragged the man back. Got a curt nod. Took the silver.
He was recovering.
The wound on his side had sealed into a pale scar. He could breathe without wincing. He trained alone in unused corners- practicing footwork Jake had barked at him once. No formality. No kata. Just cuts and feints, sharpened by instinct.
Others watched. No one approached.
Didn't join their circles.
He wasn't one of them.
****
In the quiet of the Hall of Dust, he listened.
He heard whispers about The Anvil, dwarves whose shipments passed through the enclave without inspection. No one asked what was inside the sealed crates. Smart people didn't.
He overheard curses about the Horns of Urki, fractured orcish tribes demanding tribute to cross their lands. Someone had refused. Their bones were mailed back piece by piece.
The Merchant Alliance was buying up favors again. Gold for secrets. Smiles with blades behind them.
The Knight Families; noble-born enforcers of old order,were campaigning in the courts to have the Codex declared heretical. Dangerous. An affront to divine law.
And the Codex itself? Fractured. Some within spoke of knowledge preservation. Others whispered of preparation—for war, for survival, for something older than both.
Allen listened. He filed it all away.
He was not building alliances. Not gathering trust. He wasn't ready to move.
Not yet.
But when the time came… he'd know who bled, who bargained, and who watched from the dark.
He sat in his stone chamber at night, sharpening his blades in silence, the sound scraping like breath through teeth.
****
The next job on the board was simple. Find the missing scout. No one else had touched it.
The name scribbled on the parchment meant nothing to Allen.
The trail led to the marshlands east of the fungal perimeter;fog-choked, ankle-deep sludge that hissed when disturbed. He moved with practiced ease, silent but swift, senses pricked for movement.
He found the first sign halfway through a sinking ridge. A broken arrow. Standard issue from the Codex guard. Nearby, prints half-swallowed by mud. Drag marks.
He followed.
The beast struck with no warning.
A blur of scaled flesh, long and low like a lizard. Humanoid, two legs,elongated claw limbs, slit eyes, and jaws dripping green vapor. It hissed, exhaled a cone of poisonous breath that turned the moss beneath to black pulp.
Allen rolled sideways, blades already out. No hesitation. No wasted movement.
The creature lunged—he ducked under and slashed its leg tendons, pivoted, caught the tail whip with a forearm block, sliced deep across the flank. It screamed. Poison splattered. His coat hissed.
It turned fast ...too fast. He spun beneath its maw, reversed grip, stabbed up through the jaw and into the skull. It convulsed, thrashed, and collapsed.
Breathing heavy, Allen stepped back.
It twitched. He stabbed again. Twice more. Then it was still.
He set to work with practiced calm. Skinned part of the hide...durable and scale-armored. Cut free the venom gland. Harvested four claws. Everything of value.
Then he found the scout.
Half-dragged beneath a log, legs twisted the wrong way. Face gone. Burned by poison.
Allen checked the pouch—two silver. Twelve copper. His spoils.
Then, unceremoniously, he grabbed the body by the arms and began the long drag back to the enclave.
Hours later, covered in muck, the corpse trailing behind like forgotten cargo, he arrived at the outer watch of the Codex.
They said nothing. Just looked once. Marked it.
He dropped the corpse. Accepted the coin. Walked away.
The enclave whispered.
But Allen remained what he had always been.
A shadow among ghosts.