There was cold sensation. Faint and slow, as if time itself had paused to breathe.
Soren drifted in and out of consciousness, caught in that hazy space between sleep and wakefulness. His body was heavy, limbs refusing to move. A gentle breeze rustled the curtains of his thoughts, and within it, a voice whispered.
Low. Distant. Velvet-smooth.
"Still awake, I see. How troublesome…"
Soren stirred slightly, lips parting in a soft, near-murmur. "Can we meet… like I met with Greed?"
The voice chuckled, lazy and unbothered.
"Nah... too much work."
Soren blinked slowly in the dark, unsure if he was dreaming or genuinely speaking with something beyond. But the presence—he knew it wasn't imagined.
"...You're Sloth," he said, voice barely audible.
"I am."
Despite himself, Soren smiled faintly. The absurdity of it all was starting to wear on him.
"I wanted to thank you. For helping me… for slowing time when I needed it most."
"Helping you? No." "I was helping myself. Getting dragged into your death was annoying. Better to stall it than deal with the aftermath."
That made Soren pause. This… wasn't like speaking with Greed at all. It felt like talking to a shut-in person who barely go outside their room.
"...Didn't you want something in return?" he asked after a beat. Surely a Primordial Sin wouldn't lend power without a price.
"True.""But I'm too lazy to ask for it."
Soren blinked again.
"...What?"
A soft laugh echoed. Unhurried. Dry.
It was strange—Sloth, in all their lethargy, somehow felt less threatening. Less demanding. Wasn't that... a good thing?
But before he could entertain the thought further, the voice spoke again, more amused than before.
"You've already started paying, haven't you realized? Every time you use our power… you align more with us. You're not borrowing us, Soren. "You're becoming us. Or… we're becoming you." "Isn't that romantic?"
Soren felt a chill bloom beneath his ribs.
The room around him — or whatever space his half-dreaming mind occupied — was silent again.
But Sloth wasn't done.
"Rather than dwelling on this, you should remember other things.Your own colleague want to get rid of you.You also already marked by a dragon. And now, you've caught the attention of a band of fugitive, Black Vow. How exhausting."
A pause. A long, luxurious exhale.
"I've spoken too much. That's enough words for a day. I'm tired."
"Sloth…?" Soren whispered into the void of his mind.
No answer came. Only silence.
And slowly, gently, he drifted fully into sleep.
This time, dreamless.
---
Morning light crept through the wooden blinds, painting soft lines across the living room. The air was calm. Almost deceptively so.
Soren sat on the couch once more, his right hand wrapped loosely around a warm mug. He had slept, though it felt like the world hadn't truly let him rest.
Across from him sat Elara, arms folded, still in her white coat. Lyra lingered near her brother, close enough to reach out.
"I need to ask you something," Soren said quietly. "A favor."
Elara raised an eyebrow. "Go on."
He glanced at Lyra, then back to her. "Can you stay here a little longer? With my sister. Please watch over her in my stead."
Lyra blinked. "Huh? Why?"
Elara tilted her head. "Why?" she echoed, more curious than resistant. "Is something wrong?"
Soren exhaled slowly. He didn't want to lie. Not to Elara.
"I was attacked on the way home," he said, voice even. "By members of the Black Vow."
Both women stiffened.
"What?" Elara said sharply, leaning forward. "The notorious Black Vow? Fugitive elites? Are you sure?"
Soren nodded once. "They knew things only the inner circle would know. I didn't tell anyone I was returning. Only person from academy with both the motive and access to that information."
There was a beat of silence. Then:
"…Vellian," Elara muttered, eyes narrowing.
Soren didn't need to confirm it. His expression said enough.
"I know he's a bastard, but—are you sure he'd go this far?"
"He's done worse behind the curtains," Soren replied. "This is just the first time I'm a direct obstacle. That makes me disposable."
He set the cup down, eyes finally turning to Lyra. She hadn't said anything since the word Black Vow.
"That's why I need to leave again," he said gently. "To find proof. Evidence that he send them to me. But I'm afraid, Lyra."
She looked up at him, wide-eyed, lips trembling.
"I'm afraid the next move he makes… will be against you."
The words struck her harder than she expected.
Her brother — the quiet, steady man she always saw as unshakable — had lived through things she never knew. He had always come home like nothing had happened. Always smiled. Always said he'd be fine.
But he hadn't been fine.
And now he'd lost an arm.
Her eyes brimmed with tears. "Brother…"
She couldn't speak past the lump in her throat. Couldn't offer strength. Couldn't even hold back her shaking fingers.
She hated it.
Soren reached over with his remaining hand and brushed her head softly.
"It's okay. You're safe."
Elara broke the silence.
"Alright," she said, voice firmer now. "You do what you need to do."
Soren looked to her, surprised.
"I'll stay," she continued. "I'll protect her. But it's going to cost me a few vacation days, you know."
Soren smiled, touched. "I'll repay you, Miss Elara. Every kindness. I swear it."
"You better," she said, folding her arms again but unable to hide the warmth behind her words.
Soren stood, picked up his cloak, and turned toward the door.
The morning light had brightened.
And yet, it felt like he was walking deeper into the shadows.
---
The city of Arcanum rose like a monument of knowledge and ambition — spires of the Astralis Academy piercing the sky like ivory daggers, their crystalline wards gleaming under morning sun.
But Soren wasn't heading there.
He walked with measured steps down into the underbelly — Lowtown. A quarter the Academy preferred not to acknowledge. Rot crept through its bricks, and magic twisted not for learning but for concealment, smuggling, and darker trades.
He moved past boarded-up taverns, flickering alchemical lamps, and half-awake hawkers muttering deals in hushed tones. The stink of damp stone and pipe smoke hung in the air like a second skin.
Eventually, he stopped before a half-collapsed structure buried between two crumbling tenements. Its faded signage had long since rotted away. Only those who knew what to look for would ever knock on that warped, splintered door.
Soren entered without knocking.
A dull bell rang above him.
The inside was cramped — narrow aisles filled with cracked shelves, odd baubles and trinkets exuding faint magical residue. And at the back, behind a fogged-up counter, sat a man.
Broad-shouldered. Greasy hair slicked back. Eyes yellowed like old parchment. A jagged scar stretched across one cheek like a wicked grin that never healed.
He looked up. His gaze locked onto Soren.
One blind eye. One shut eye.
He tensed. "You lost, cripple?"
Soren didn't answer.
He stepped forward and placed something on the counter — small, unassuming. It clinked lightly.
The shopkeeper glanced down.
Then froze.
The black coin lay on the counter, catching the dim light like oil on water. Its engraving was unmistakable:A lone figure kneeling in vow — head bowed, hands clasped in solemn prayer. Behind them, a towering devil loomed, horns casting shadows like a cathedral gate, wings curled inward in a silhouette of silent damnation.
The color drained from the man's face. His jaw slackened.
"I–Is this real…?" he whispered.
Soren said nothing.
Slowly, reverently, the man picked up the coin like it was a holy relic. His hands trembled as he brought out a thin lens etched with obscure runes and examined the edge, the weight, the engraving's subtle magic.
Then, without warning, he dropped to one knee.
"Forgive my insolence. I did not know one bearing this would step into my shop."
"…What I need is simple," Soren said quietly.
The shopkeeper looked up, eyes gleaming with fanatic devotion. "Command me, honored bearer. What would you have me do?"
"One of their members gave me that," Soren said. "I want to meet them again. I want to know where to go."
The shopkeeper recoiled slightly, like he'd been asked to summon a god.
"You're joking!" he hissed. "I'm just a gutter rat, an insect crawling beneath their shadows. You think I can contact them?"
He waved one shaking hand, gesturing helplessly. "People like me don't call upon the Vow. We pray not to be noticed."
Soren's expression didn't change.
The man licked his lips, then hesitated — his eyes flicking down to the coin he had appraised moments earlier. Slowly, as if realizing something, he leaned closer.
"But… I did examine it, sir. The engraving, the magic woven into its shape — it's not just a symbol." His voice dropped to a reverent whisper. "This item contains a signal trigger. A delayed emission mark. If you use it… maybe they'll come to you."
That caught Soren's attention.
A silent beat passed. He nodded once. "That's good to know."
He extended a hand. The shopkeeper carefully placed the coin back into Soren's palm like he was returning a crown jewel. He couldn't even look directly at it.
"How much?" Soren asked.
The man blinked. "For this? N-No charge, sir. You've been marked by them. That alone is worth more than coin. Serving you is my… honor."
"No," Soren said firmly. His tone wasn't harsh — just resolute. "I don't like unpaid debts."
Without waiting for argument, he reached into his cloak and placed a heavy pouch of coin on the counter. The sound of metal striking wood was final.
"Take it. I won't take no."
He turned to leave.
The shopkeeper stood still, overwhelmed, bowing deeply. "Of course. As you command. May your path be... unseen."
The door creaked shut behind Soren.
And once more, the shadow of the Vow shifted quietly through the veins of Lowtown.