Chapter 1 Who Turned Off The Lights?

Caspian spat a mouthful of blood onto the filthy floor. If he took another hit like that, it would be lights out.

The taste of iron flooded his mouth, and his vision swam from the gash above his brow, blood dripping into his eyes.

Around him the room, dimly lit and reeking of sweat and ale, pulsed with the sound of rowdy drunks betting their hard-earned coins.

"Duck!" someone from the crowd jeered, trying to throw him off. Caspian ignored the prick, keeping his focus on the hulking brute across from him.

The man was built like a brick wall and grinning like he'd already won.

The giant charged again, lumbering forward with the grace of a charging bull. Caspian dodged, twisting his torso and sending an uppercut straight to the man's chin.

His knuckles thudded against bone, and for a split second, the behemoth froze. So did the crowd.

Without missing a beat, Caspian spun on his heel, his leg whipping around to deliver a sharp kick to the man's temple. He shuddered, wavering on his feet.

Caspian could feel the surge of power in his veins. It was like chopping down a tree. If only he could yell "timber."

The brute's lights flickered back on, but it was already too late. Riding the momentum, Caspian planted his left foot firmly and sent a brutal kick straight into the man's solar plexus.

He felt the satisfying crunch of bone beneath his heel. The man's roar of pain echoed through the room as he stumbled, trying to crush Caspian beneath his weight.

"Idiot," Caspian muttered, sidestepping as the brute collapsed to the ground in a heap of muscle and blood.

"MAPLE WINS AGAIN!" someone in the crowd shouted, their voice swallowed by the roar of onlookers.

Caspian straightened up, muscles protesting, but the adrenaline still burned in his veins. He cut through the crowd, ignoring the slaps on his back and the dismayed grunts from those who had bet against him.

Enough of this. It was time to collect. He slipped into the backroom, where the real business took place.

The backroom was just as dismal as the rest of the tavern, but quieter, with low ceilings that made the space feel claustrophobic. Dim oil lamps cast weak, flickering light across the grimy walls, stained with years of smoke and neglect.

The air smelled faintly of damp wood, sour ale, and something metallic, like blood or rust.

Old John sat hunched over a rickety table, its surface cluttered with coins and notes of varying value, all smeared with grease and grime.

He was a man who wore his years like a heavy cloak, his skin sagging and his eyes dull, but his fingers moved with surprising speed. He was counting coins with the precision of a seasoned gambler.

His bulk, perched precariously on a creaking chair, made him look like he'd been carved from a lump of lard, but he had a sharpness to him, a predator's instinct buried under all that flesh.

He grinned up at Caspian's approach, flashing a gold tooth that caught the dim light.

"Bloody hell, Maple! You nearly gave me a heart attack! Thought that wall of muscle was gonna flatten you."

Caspian wiped the blood from his brow with a grimace. "As if. Don't tell me you bet against me, John."

Old John chuckled, the sound rough and wet, like he had phlegm lodged deep in his throat. "Wish I could say I didn't. But look at that bloke, you'd bet against you too! You were outmatched."

"You should know better by now," Caspian shot back, holding out his hand. "Where's my money?"

John leaned back in his creaking chair, sighing dramatically. "Ah, can't a man catch a break? I lost big tonight, lad."

"Piss off, John. That might've worked when I was a kid, but I'm not falling for that now."

John grumbled, fumbling through the pile of coins in front of him. "Fine, fine… You kids grow up too fast, I swear." He paused, then with a theatrical flourish, tossed something across the table.

Caspian snatched it mid-air, a ring. Tarnished and black, it looked like worn silver, cold to the touch. An opal crescent gleamed faintly from the center, reflecting the dim light of the oil lamps. He narrowed his eyes.

"What the hell is this?"

Old John shrugged, scratching at his thinning hair. "Worth at least thirty pounds. You should be grateful, brat."

Caspian turned the ring over in his hand, a strange feeling crawling up his spine. There was something off about it , a hum of energy beneath the metal, a whisper of magic. He'd seen relics before, but nothing like this. This thing felt alive, feral, like it was calling to him.

"This isn't just any relic..." he muttered under his breath.

John chuckled. "Of course not. I'm a man of quality, after all."

Caspian shook his head, pocketing the ring. "I'll take the ring... and five pounds. Gotta eat."

John scowled but handed him a crumpled note. "You're bleeding me dry, kid."

Without another word, Caspian turned and pushed through the tavern's door. The cold night air slapped him in the face as he stepped out into the streets of Menthil City.

Fog blanketed the slums like a filthy shroud, muffling the usual clamor of the city. Crumbling stone walls loomed over narrow alleyways, each corner a potential hiding spot for trouble.

As he moved through the streets, the weight of the ring in his pocket seemed to grow. The relic hummed with an eerie energy. Maybe this would be his way out of the slums, a path to something bigger.

His thoughts were interrupted as he reached his apartment, a tiny, rotting room barely large enough for a bed and a table. The stench of mold hit him as soon as he opened the door.

He tossed his coat onto the lumpy mattress and pulled the ring from his pocket, inspecting it once more under the weak lamplight.

There was a soft knock on the door. Caspian's heart skipped a beat. He wasn't expecting visitors. Pocketing the ring, he approached the door cautiously.

"Just a second," he called, trying to keep his voice steady.

When he cracked the door open, a man in uniform stood before him, flashing a badge. The officer's expression was neutral, almost too neutral.

"Evening," the officer began, his voice casual but firm. "I'm looking into some recent... disturbances. Thought I'd ask a few folks around. You mind if I come in?"

Caspian's stomach tightened. Something about the man's demeanor set off alarm bells. He was fishing, testing the waters before revealing his hand. "What's this about?" Caspian asked, keeping his voice light.

The officer's eyes flicked briefly to the interior of the room before settling back on Caspian. "Old John. You familiar with him?"

Caspian's pulse quickened. He nodded. "Yeah, I know him. Why?"

The officer leaned in slightly, his tone still conversational. "Heard you were with him tonight. Had yourself a bit of a win, eh?"

"Yeah, picked up some winnings." Caspian forced a laugh. "Is this about a brawl or something? Nothing serious happened."

The officer smiled, but there was no warmth in it. "Oh, it's a bit more serious than that. Old John's dead."

Caspian blinked. "What?"

"Found him a few hours ago. We're investigating." The officer's tone was suddenly sharper, cutting through the casual veneer. "And word is, there was something valuable involved. Something that might've caused trouble."

Caspian's heart pounded in his chest. He forced his face to remain neutral. "I don't know anything about that. Just came to collect my winnings and left."

The officer's gaze lingered on him, as if weighing his words. After a long pause, he finally nodded. "If you hear anything, let us know."

He handed Caspian a card, then turned and walked away, leaving behind a cold sense of dread.

Caspian closed the door slowly, leaning against it as his mind raced. Old John was dead. And with the relic still sitting in his pocket, it felt like trouble was only beginning.