In Good Hands

The city of Ys, where demons thrived off chaos, a web of whispers and shadows stretched across its sprawling streets. For me, Jaren Dusk, this was the only home I’d ever known—a place where the elk of sin navigated between the cracks of morality, where danger lurked at every corner. I’d heard of The Hidden Hand all my life, their name spoken in hushed tones, half myth, half terror. They were the true ghosts of the Aion, puppeteers of secrets and shadows. And I was determined to join their ranks.

My heart raced as I stood before the old stone archway that led into the bowels of the city—Devil Mae’s. This was no ordinary shop but a maze of hidden dealings and veiled intentions. Somewhere in its labyrinthine corridors, I would find my first challenge.

“You lost, kid?” A grizzled voice stopped me in my tracks. I turned to see a merchant hunched over a table laden with glittering knives. His face was obscured by a hood, but his sharp eyes glinted from beneath the shadow.

“Not lost,” I said, forcing my voice to sound steady. “Looking for The Hidden Hand.”

The air grew heavier, the buzz of the bazaar fading as those nearby turned their attention to me. The merchant’s lips curled into a grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

“The Hand doesn’t take to strangers knocking on their door,” he said. “What makes you think you’re worthy?”

I reached into my satchel and pulled out a trinket: a small golden coin etched with the symbol of a hand. I’d risked my life stealing it from a petty thief who boasted of his connections to the guild. The merchant’s grin vanished.

“Follow me,” he growled, sweeping his knives into a pouch with practiced efficiency.

The passageway beneath the shop was damp and narrow, the air thick with the scent of mildew. My guide’s footsteps were eerily silent, his presence as unnerving as the whispers that seemed to echo from the walls themselves. Finally, we emerged into a dimly lit chamber where five masked figures sat in a half-circle.

“A would-be initiate,” my guide announced, shoving me forward.

The figure at the center leaned forward, their mask—a polished black visage—catching the faint light. “Name?” their voice was distorted, mechanical.

“Jaren Dusk,” I replied, my throat dry.

The masked figure gestured, and a soft chime echoed through the chamber. A woman stepped forward from the shadows, her lithe form cloaked in black. She carried a single dagger, its edge gleaming unnaturally.

“The trial is simple,” the masked figure said. “Survive.”

The woman attacked without warning, her movements swift and precise. I barely dodged the first strike, the dagger slicing the air where my throat had been a moment earlier. I rolled to the side, drawing the short sword I kept strapped to my back. It felt inadequate in my grip, a child’s toy against her lethal precision.

“Is this all?” she taunted, her voice low and smooth. She lunged again, and this time I parried, the clash of metal ringing in my ears.

My mind raced. Strength wouldn’t win this fight; I had to think. She pressed her attack, her strikes relentless. With every swing, I analyzed her movements, looking for a pattern, an opening. Then I saw it—a subtle shift in her stance before each lunge.

When she struck again, I was ready. I sidestepped, letting her momentum carry her past me, and struck out with the hilt of my sword. It connected with the back of her head, and she stumbled, dropping to one knee. I pointed my blade at her throat, breathing heavily.

“Enough,” the masked figure said, their voice slicing through the tension. “You’ve proven your resourcefulness, Jaren Dusk. Welcome to The Hidden Hand.”

The woman rose to her feet, rubbing the back of her head with a smirk. “Not bad,” she said. “But don’t get cocky. The real work starts now.”

The masked figure gestured again, and the chamber’s walls shifted, revealing a hidden passage that led deeper into the guild’s stronghold.

“You will start as a scout,” the masked figure continued. “Your eyes and ears will be your greatest tools. Prove your worth, and you may yet rise within our ranks.” “Seek a man in red.”

I nodded, swallowing the lump in my throat. The trial had been only the beginning.

There was a soiree at Darkron’s Tavern. A rare moment of celebration, It seemed King Arzhur had secured a victory against his rival Queen Dione. for someone like me, this was the first time I had seen such a grand feast. Noble Demons and their comrades boasted, and danced as I sat at a corner table, the golden coin of passage safely tucked in my pocket, reveling in the sense of accomplishment. The ale flowed freely, the dimly lit room filled with laughter and song. For once, the weight of the shadows seemed to lift.

Then I saw him—my merchant friend who had inducted me into the guild. He stood at the entrance, his crimson hood pulled back to reveal a warm, sincere smile. He waved as he approached, carrying a flagon of ale in one hand. His eyes crinkled with genuine warmth, and for a moment, I felt a sense of camaraderie.

“Thought I’d join you for a drink, kid,” he said, setting the ale down in front of me with a friendly grin. "Not every day you get to celebrate, right?" His tone was light, disarming. We talked for a while, his stories full of wit and charm, and I found myself relaxing, even laughing. Then, without warning, my breaths shortened, the air felt cold, and his blade thrust deep into my gut. The blood slowly trickled in the dim light as it leaked out of me. The laughter in the room vanished as though sucked into a void.

Before I could react, the merchant’s smile had vanished, his hands searching for the coin. His movements were swift and calculated as he wanted to draw no attention to us.

“You were never joining the Hand,” he sneered. “That coin belongs to us.”

I sunk deeper into the seat, my heart pounding, but it was clear I was outsmarted. He targeted me with a predator’s grace, and I fell into his trap. I glared back at him to see the deadly intent in his eyes. This was the end.

Then, a shadow moved. A figure sat across from us, their blade catching the light for only a moment before slashing the merchant’s throat. The merchant’s eyes widened in shock before he collapsed, lifeless, onto the table.

The figure turned to me, their face obscured by a mask. They spoke in a voice calm and unwavering. “You cannot search for The Hidden Hand,” they said. “They must reach out to you.” as they confiscated the coin.

Without another word, the figure disappeared into the shadows, leaving me shaken and alone. The truth hit me like a blow. I had been naive, drawn into a deadly game I didn’t understand. The Hidden Hand wasn’t something I could chase. It was a force that moved unseen, choosing its own.

The shadows of Aion were darker than I had ever imagined, and I had only just begun to understand their depth.