Threads of Fate

Nolan Grieve(Lark): Year 930

The town of Black Hollow sat nestled against the foothills, a grimy, weather-beaten place where secrets and lies festered in every dark corner. Lark had chosen it precisely for these qualities. It was easy to blend in, to become just another shadow among the tavern-goers and swindlers. He'd been here nearly two years now, living under the alias "Nolan Grieve," running small-time gambling games and betting rings that rarely drew attention.

Tonight, the Crow's Perch Tavern was alive with the clamor of drunken arguments and the rattle of dice on tabletops. Lark sat at his usual corner booth, eyes scanning the room with practiced ease. His long coat hung over his shoulders, hiding the fine cards and charms he'd tucked away within. He'd grown sharper over the years, more guarded. The thrill of a high-stakes gamble still stirred in him, but experience had taught him to keep his ambitions in check.

Across the room, a scruffy-looking dealer stood beside a dice game, explaining the rules with exaggerated hand gestures. A group of miners leaned in, hanging on his every word, oblivious to the stacked odds against them. Lark smirked and took a sip of his watered-down ale. "Fools," he muttered under his breath. "They never learn."

His gaze drifted toward a corner where an old man sat hunched over a pile of books, scribbling notes by candlelight. One of the books caught Lark's eye—its title read: The Shadow of Aldric: Chronicles of the Nine Flames. The name Aldric struck a chord, an echo of ancient legends Lark had heard whispered across gambling dens and seedy inns. He vaguely remembered a story of a king who had turned to dark magic, seeking power at the cost of his kingdom's ruin. The faintest smile tugged at his lips; history had a funny way of repeating itself, especially in places like Black Hollow.

He shook off the thought, focusing back on the tavern's bustle. His hand idly shuffled a set of cards, a habit he'd picked up to keep his mind sharp. The game tonight was simple: three-card bluff. Low stakes, minimal risk. Just the way he liked it these days. But as he scanned the room, something tightened in his chest—a feeling of foreboding that made his fingers itch.

"Fancy a hand, mister?" A raspy voice broke his concentration. Lark looked up to see a young man, barely out of his teens, standing nervously beside his booth. The kid's eyes darted around the room before settling on Lark with a mix of awe and caution.

"Depends," Lark replied, narrowing his eyes. "Are you here to play or to pay?"

The boy's face flushed, and he stammered, "N-neither, actually. I-I've got a message for you. From... an old friend."

Lark's heart skipped a beat, though his expression remained impassive. He motioned for the boy to sit. "Go on, then. What's this message?"

The boy fidgeted, glancing over his shoulder before leaning in. "They say the King of Dust is on the move again. He knows where you are, Mr. Grieve—" He caught himself, eyes widening. "I mean... Lark."

A cold knot formed in Lark's stomach. It had been years since he'd heard that name spoken in Black Hollow. He forced a grin, though it didn't reach his eyes. "The King of Dust, you say? Must be mistaken, lad. I'm no one of importance here."

The boy shook his head vehemently. "No, it's you. And he... he's offering you a chance. One game, they said. High stakes, but if you win... you clear your debts for good."

Lark leaned back, drumming his fingers against the table as he weighed the boy's words. A surge of adrenaline mixed with dread coursed through him. It was a trap, surely. The King of Dust never let anyone go so easily. Yet the lure of wiping his debts clean was hard to ignore. For ten years, he'd lived under assumed names, always looking over his shoulder, never staying in one place for too long. The thought of finally being free was intoxicating.