text: [Themes: grimdark fantasy, superhero, action, anti-hero, fantasy]
  
  Under the cover of night, the Fallen traveled across rooftops. His prey kept to the streets, dodging between buildings like a rat scouring the sewer for scraps of food. Much easier to track rats from above. Silent, like a whisper shared between lovers, he leapt between buildings, landing softly, absorbing the impact through his leg muscles, allowing the momentum to carry his next steps.
  
  They feared him. He knew they feared him. Many months had the Fallen been at it. Someone had to enforce the law. The city watch sure as hell wasn't. Half of them are paid-off by crimelords and guildmasters. No, if the appointed lawmen weren't going to do their job, the Fallen would pick up the slack.
  
  His target tonight, a brigand by the name of Nils Forthan. Wanted in several cities, Nils made the mistake of arriving at Sheol's Passage, to the home of the masked demon. Nils might not know it, but his current location would be his final destination. That's the problem with success. One can escape from the law, getting away with murder (quite literally), and it goes to his head. Success made a man feel invincible as if nothing can touch him. Wise men knew success is temporary. Each situation presented an opportunity for failure as well as success, a lesson that Nils would soon learn.
  
  Nils, walking with his hands stuffed into his pockets, turned down one of the Passage's winding roads. This one in particular led to Gilly's Bathhouse, open late for activities other than bathing. Towel optional. The Fallen watched from above. A hunter learned through observation. Often, prey had certain routines that they liked to keep. It's safe. Their habits hadn't gotten them caught so far. Might as well keep the same ones. A mistake. Routine has a way of putting one's self exactly where another wants them. Across a few more streets, Nils would arrive at Gilly's. He turned down another and ran straight into a masked figure.
  
  The figure wore a dark faceplate, four slits carved into the mask, the edge running above the man's chin, tracing the edge of his jaw. Dressed in a black half cloak reaching to his waist, which one might mistake for a cape, his features underneath blurred together in a swirl of darkness. White teeth shone behind the mask, a warm smile like the way two old friends would greet one another.
  
  "Nice night for a stroll," the Fallen commented, his voice perfectly articulate, although not as rugged as his exterior would indicate.
  
  "I know who you are, freak," Nils replied back, attempting to hide his surprise with aggression. "The others say you're a spirit, a demon escaped from the underworld. Me? I think you're just a freak in a mask."
  
  "And those two are mutually exclusive?" the Fallen pondered, bringing one hand to his chin in thought. "Hmm. Not necessarily. Most likely, yes. Mmm, interesting to think about."
  
  "Outta my way, and I'll forget you interrupted my journey," Nils said, taking a step forward, although clearly stepping around and not through the masked figure.
  
  The Fallen stepped to his left, putting himself directly in Nils' path. Nils then changed direction, moving right. The Fallen followed.
  
  "Strolling and dancing. You and I would get along together nicely," the Fallen spoke. "I wonder what's next on the agenda. A drink, perhaps? I myself am a fan of a good wine. Nothing light, however. Red. Dark red. Full-bodied, with notes of blackberries. What about yourself? You strike me as a warm ale type of fellow."
  
  "I...uh..." Nils started, at a loss for words at the Fallen's line of questioning. Is this really the demon the others spoke about?
  
  "Yes, you, uh," the Fallen cut him off mid "sentence." "I can tell you're not one for small talk. Any talk, really. Someone of your...demeanor is better suited to put on a mean face and act tough. It is a mean face you got there. Bet it scares off lowly criminals. Any woman with half a brain too. Shame. I was really looking forward to our little chat. Seems we'll just have to move past the talking portion and on to the business part."
  
  Nils, finally recovered from his stammering, said, "That's enough. One step closer and I'll have to knock that pretty mask from your face. I am a bit interested to see who lies beneath. There are rumors who could be underneath."
  
  "Oh! Do tell, please," the Fallen answered. "I love rumors."
  
  Realizing he may be playing into the Fallen's game, Nils ignored the prodding. Instead, he focused on more threats. "That's enough, freak. Now move, otherwise you'll be eating your next meal hand-fed at the loony bin."
  
  The Fallen seemed to blink from existence for a brief second, a blur, as if his body was displaced before returning back to its original position, his smile still spread across his face, though shrouded by the mask. Two old friends reuniting. Nils, in front of the Fallen, frozen in place.
  
  "I do hope," the Fallen said, striding forward to Nils. "That they serve a good roast." The Fallen circled Nils, eyeing the knife placed in Nils' spine. "I love a good roast. Even more so than rumors." The Fallen's head turned slightly, gazing at unseen thoughts in the air. "Yes, a good roast isn't appreciated quite enough." The Fallen pulled the knife from Nils' spine. The brigand collapsed to the street, dark stains starting to appear through the back of his shirt. "I am quite famished now. Thank you for the conversation. I think I'll enjoy myself a good roast tonight."
  
  The Fallen turned to leave, but then stopped. "Ah, I almost forgot," he said, reaching inside of his half cloak. A parchment appeared in his hand, quill in the other. "Let's see, here. Hmm. Yes, there it is. That'll do nicely."
  
  He placed the parchment on Nils' unmoving body with his knife, like planting a flag into an unclaimed territory. On it, written in Nils' blood, it read, To my dear friends reading this. One evil man down. Another one you owe me for. It's ok, though. I'm not keeping score, at least officially I'm not. If I were, the total would be at 27. The longer you keep allowing evil men to roam freely, the larger your debt grows. Some help would be appreciated. Oh. The body is Nils Forthan, a wanted man worth 200 pieces. Please address the writ of payment to "justice." Oh. And this is the Fallen if you didn't gather that already. Not the name I would have chosen, but alas, we find ourselves here. Until next time.
  
  [Author's Note: Thoughts appearing as fragments. A mind shattered. Broken. Weak. One of us. Author's Note: Official endings will be titled "Epilogue." There are seven total to discover.]
  
  > The cathedral
  The cathedral. The heart of Sheol's Passage. Quite literally, commonly referred to as "the Heart." The massive structure was placed exactly in the center of the Passage, not unlike the surgeon's depiction of the human heart. Streets lead into the cathedral's campus, streets lead out. Men, searching for divine come in. Holy men, transformed by God's power, leave out. It all flowed through the cathedral.
  
  It was the largest in the land, save for the one in the capital city. The House of the Favored might as well be a castle the way it's built. Its size alone is nearly the same as City Lord Harken's keep. No, there was no shame in being second to the House of the Favored. The Heart served its purpose well, counseling citizens of the Passage, feeding the hungry, teaching God's will. A beacon of hope during strenuous times.
  
  Uriah, Priest of the Second Order, held a simple broom. Its end was a simple collection of straw wound tightly together with string. Lost in his work, the priest almost didn't notice the approaching nobleman. Uriah had started in the back corner of the reception area. Its rows of double doors, placed evenly three feet apart, had a knack for allowing dust into the cathedral. The nobleman's footsteps, and the wind accompanied, sent one of Uriah's dust piles into the air, scattering across the stone floor.
  
  Oblivious to the extra work he just created, the nobleman spoke with a commanding tone, one too direct for Uriah's liking. "You. Priest. Where is Jeremiah? I have a meeting with the bishop."
  
  Uriah didn't answer. He continued to sweep, this time making sure to keep his piles far from common walking pathways.
  
  "You. Priest. Did you hear me?"
  
  Uriah kept his head down, only focused on the task before him.
  
  "Unhelpful inbred," the nobleman mutters underneath his breath, attempting for Uriah not to hear, unsuccessfully. As the nobleman strode past Uriah, meaning to enter the sanctuary, he's stopped in his tracks. Quicker than the man could react to, a broom handle lands in front of the nobleman, lightly rapping his chest, intentionally held back in force, barring his entry from the sanctuary.
  
  "The garden," Uriah spoke, his voice barely louder than a whisper, deep and vibrant.
  
  Shook by the sudden movement, the nobleman hurriedly nodded, and left the reception area back through one set of double doors. As he walked out, he glanced back one more time at the priest holding a broom. The priest's focus was back on his work, the nobleman gone from his mind as if a passing thought.
  
  > City Lord Harken
  City Lord Harken gazed over the city before him. His city. Sheol's Passage. Cool night air lightly touched the top of Harken's head, sending his wavy hair into small movements, like leaves rustling in a tree. From his balcony in the city keep, he could view the entire Passage. Stretched out like a snake, the city expanded from the east in a series of winding roads, most of which interconnected with one another. Once, it had been a key pathway through traversing the Sheol Mountain range, hence the name.
  
  Many lights shone from the Passage, cutting through the night air, spread out as if mirroring the stars above. Yes, Harken would miss this place. Duty called. It's a man's responsibility to fight for king and country. The High King, a distant cousin, called on him personally to aid in the nation's defense. Their neighbors to the south were marching on the High King's land. As if the pesky Verithians could overtake the High King. Verith wasn't known for producing scholars. Still, it's Harken's duty to answer the summoning.
  
  It was about time his younger brother stepped up. In Harken's absence, his brother, Harriam, would act as temporary City Lord. Harken shook a negative thought from his mind. Harriam wasn't known for doing much other than building a hefty tab at the local tavern. But Harriam never had the opportunity to prove himself. Second-borns didn't receive many chances while the first-born still breathed. Both brothers received the same instruction as they grew into men, so Harken quickly replaced his negative thought with a more positive one: he was doing the High King's bidding, and Harriam would have the chance to prove himself.
  
  Harken would miss this place. It truly was one of a kind. Despite its winding, serpent-like roads, the Passage still offered sizable buildings, and it boasted the largest cathedral in the High King's land, minus the one in the capital city, that is. All mountain travel flowed through the Passage, and with it, people from every corner of the nation, a lot of which happened to settle down in the Passage. Harken didn't blame them. The city has a certain feel to it. Something adventurous about it, while still holding the benefits of a major metropolis.
  
  As City Lord Harken walked back from his balcony overlooking the city, he mentally prepared himself for the next day. He would be on the road with the bulk of his guard. Harriam would need to hire more security. Harken entered the main chamber of his living quarters, where a map of the city took up an entire wall. Little scribbles and notes on different places were placed on top. The City Lord liked to be well-aware of the happenings in his city.
  
  One image in particular caught his eye, as it always does. Long had The Fallen escaped him. The masked figure was more trouble than he was worth. Barely. The vigilante was deadly effective in murdering criminals, but often that extended to Harken's guards as well.
  
  Some seemed to view masked "demon of the underworld" as an ally; however, an ally doesn't hide his identity. Sure, he stopped criminal scum in their tracks, but Harken would see the man locked in chains. No one was above the law.
  
  The crude sketch on the wall was the fear of thieves and cutthroats. A shroud in the night, the only sense of humanity peering through four thin slits, two for the nose two for the eyes. The shape of the mask curved just above the Fallen's jawline, traveling along the edge. Always wearing a black cape, armed with nothing more than a few daggers and knives.
  
  City Lord Harken would leave in the morning to meet the Verithians. The Passage would need to rely on his brother to survive in his absence.
  
  > Harriam
  God. These meetings were dreadfully boring. Harriam, second-born, only answerable to his city lord brother, sat at the furthest table from the Speaker. The council room, rectangular in shape, had a podium at one end with four rows of tables leading to the exit at the opposite end. Thick mahogany was their build. Dreadfully heavy. Sturdy. Not soft enough to rest your head on, which was exactly what Harriam wanted to do. Only thirty more minutes and he could do so in the comfort of his bed chambers.
  
  The damn room reminded Harriam of his lecture halls at the High King's university. Yes, he'd attended, despite what rumors may be fluttering about on his intelligence. He would have graduated with passing honors...if he actually went to the lectures. Some men just liked to hear their own voices while suppressing others. It's always easy to tell who those people are. Most of the council room was filled with them now. Nobility, people who lived far above others tended to reflect that in their words. Ah, the university. It wasn't all bad. Harriam had courted more than a few women during his five-year stay.
  
  "And what does the acting City Lord think of that?"
  
  A voice drew Harriam from his thoughts of the past. Damn. And he was just getting to the good part. Harriam motioned his hand for the voice to continue, not unlike the way a fisherman reels in a fish.
  
  "It's pretty straightforward, lord," a man from the podium said, his hair, moustache, and garments all black and perfectly in place. The Speaker of the Council, probably took a team of servants to accomplish looking that pristine. All eyes turned toward Harriam, expectantly.
  
  "I'll need to study the transcripts first. You'll have my answer by sunlight tomorrow," Harriam answered, drawing on one of his go-to tactics. Bob and weave. Can't answer incorrectly if you don't give an answer.
  
  The heads turned in Harriam's direction briefly gazed at one another, all looking to gauge the reaction of those nearby. Hmm. That wasn't what Harriam expected. Usually, a "well-thought" decision brought slight nods of approval.
  
  The man at the podium, the Speaker, cleared his throat. The movement didn't draw a single hair out of place. "We'll call it for now, then. Until the lord decides whether or not he'd like to lend some of the city watch to help clear through the rubble left by the factory fire in District 5."
  
  God. The answer should have been yes. Oh well. He'd give it tomorrow. At the very least, his decision ended things early. That, in itself, was a win.
  
  > Kan'balar
  "Boss! There's someone here to meet you."
  
  Kan'balar looked up from his work tallying the books to find Jax'a along with another man. The gambling den was closed currently, but would open again in a few hours. Kan'balar liked to know exactly how much gold he possessed beforehand. His desk in a viewing platform overlooking the game floor was a good place to work. It reminded him to stay focused.
  
  Loyal Jax'a, a good man. Long had he been part of Kan'balar's operation. Kan'balar wouldn't go as far as to call him friend, but he very well may be the closest thing to it. Jax'a, with his beard braided and wearing light leather armor, patted down their guest.
  
  From Kan'balar's aerial view, their guest was a man in all black. Black tunic, black trousers, black boots, even black rings accompanied his fingers. His clothing was perfectly in place. Not a single crease or ruffle could be found. The same could be said for his hair. Not a single stray hair stuck out from either his head or moustache.
  
  "Nothing. Not even a dagger? I'm disappointed," Jax'a commented. "He's clean, boss."
  
  "If you knew who I work for... My employer's protection is far greater than any simple crafted weapon. In time, you'll learn that," their guest replied.
  
  Kan'balar waved Jax'a off. "Thank you. I'll be able to take it from here. And just who is your employer?"
  
  The guest looked around. "Aren't you going to invite me up? Some words should be shared with lower volume. Listening ears, after all, are everywhere."
  
  "I'm comfortable where you are," Kan'balar replied. "Now, just who is your employer?"
  
  "Very well then. I work for a man interested in freedom. That interest has seen the fall of guilds, business, and even a few monarchies. That interest has brought him here, to Sheol's Passage. You see, the citizens of the Passage aren't truly free. They're but playthings for nobility. Who did they put in charge while City Lord Harken is off doing the High King's bidding? His worthless brother, who was named acting City Lord not by merit, not by vote, but by privilege."
  
  "No offense, friend. But you look pretty privileged to me," Kan'balar answered, gesturing to the man's attire and jewelry.
  
  "Earned. And a necessity of my current position."
  
  "Which is?"
  
  "Speaker."
  
  "Of the council?"
  
  The guest, the Speaker, nodded. "My employer deemed it necessary to influence from within as well as seek you out. He takes no chances and likes to account for every possibility." The Speaker reached inside of his pocket and pulled a small bag from within. He tossed it up to Kan'balar's position.
  
  The small bag clinked softly landing on Kan'balar's desk. "Didn't my man just search you," Kan'balar wondered aloud. "He didn't say anything about a bag..."
  
  "He found what I wanted him to find," the Speaker replied.
  
  "I have words to share with that man... What's this? A vial?" Kan'balar said, taking a small glass vial from within the bag's contents. "There's a powder inside. White. Finely ground."
  
  "That," the Speaker began. "Is the newest ingredient for your spice. See, we know you run the highest quality spice operation in the Passage. Some of the more prominent members of the city have been known to partake. Whose spice do they acquire? Yours, top quality at top price. I'll send details. Your only job is to keep moving product with our new recipe, of course. My employer is a fair man, and you will be well compensated for your services and your discretion. My employer will match your spice sales. Whatever you make selling with our powder, you'll be paid double."
  
  "And if I refuse?"
  
  The Speaker laughed. "Ha. You're a smart man. You know that's not an option."
  
  Kan'balar moved the vial up to his eye for a closer look, holding it between his thumb and forefinger. "I'll consider it then. I'm sure your employer doesn't want employees who blindly follow orders without thinking for themselves. From what you've told me, he sounds like a man who values competence. And if he truly is interested in freedom, he'd extend it to those he employs."
  
  The Speaker's laughter and subsequent smile disappeared at the obvious hint towards his intelligence, knowing that he may have overplayed his hand. "Very well. You have one day to muster a response. I do hope you know what's best for you and your establishment."
  
  As the Speaker turned to leave, Kan'balar continued staring into the vial. What could lie within? This was turning out to be a very interesting day. Of course he couldn't refuse. One doesn't refuse a master who uses one of the most powerful men in the city as a simple errand boy. Still, Kan'balar had a feeling he could squeeze a little more from the man. When you pick a ripe apple, you don't stop there. More often than not, others lie nearby. Kan'balar intended to pick all that his arms could hold.
  
  > Harriam and the Passage
  God. Was it morning already? Harriam rolled over, taking the bedcovers with him. The woman next to him didn't seem to notice, or mind, being fully exposed. He stretched out an arm to the curtains hanging loosely open. They'd spent a bit of time on the balcony overlooking the Passage. Harriam must have forgotten to close the window completely. As he moved, his long blonde curls dropped in front of his eyes. God. Where was that bit of string he tied his hair back with?
  
  Harriam slipped out from the covers, dropping them to the white marble floor instead of throwing them back on Diana. Or was it Elise? No, those sound nothing alike. Ella! That was it. Harriam made his way to relieve himself in the other room. It was an interesting thing, relieving yourself in a chamber pot worth more than the common man earned in a year. Perks of one's bloodline.
  
  Mind still hazy from the events of the previous night, Harriam decided to clear it. Wash the cobwebs away. Grease the cogs. His hand wrapped around the wine pitcher. Dark red. Full-bodied with hints of blackberry. Harriam poured a cup with a hand littered with rings. Then he poured another. And another. Finally. Like his eyes could see colors for the first time, Harriam's mind felt alive. Clarity was finally his.
  
  "Slow down there. Save some for me." Ella's voice whispered from the bed, a soft purr.
  
  "My dear, I have work to do," Harriam answered, pouring another cup and setting it on the nightstand next to Ella. "Take some breakfast for the road. Keep the cup."
  
  She eyed the cup. Pure gold, embroidered with bright rubies and emeralds. It was part of a set, one that was almost considered priceless. But there are no priceless artifacts in life. Only offers made not high enough. Without another word, for fear of Harriam changing his mind or using the gift as a sick joke, she scooped up her gown, downed the cup's contents, and left the room in a hurry.
  
  "My brother won't be happy at that," Harriam commented to himself. "Then again, he wouldn't be happy returning to a crumbling city either. Come, my friend, we have much to accomplish today."
  
  Harriam grabbed the wine pitcher by the handle, and strode into the open hallway.
  
  He wandered down the hallways of the city keep, not bothering to hide the wine jug, not concerned with anyone mentioning how early it was to start drinking. Harriam wore only a simple robe, which flowed out behind him like the colors flown on a ship. Those in his way, the bureaucrats, politicians, men of nobility, ducked out of his way. They knew who he was. More importantly, they knew who his brother was. Good. Let them all see. Let them take it in. They'd never suspect him of...
  
  Ah. Here we are.
  
  Harriam's journey led him to a lesser populated wing of the keep. It was a place servants dwelled. They kept their mouths shut. Firsthand witnesses of the lower class accusing someone of nobility didn't tend to hold up in court. If anything, all it did was paint a target on their own back. Most tended to stay quiet. The others, well, they were quickly dealt with. Whatever they thought of him, Harriam didn't care. They could spread rumors of the drunken acting City Lord visits, likely meeting with the better-looking servants. Good. Let them think that.
  
  After glancing to both ends of the hallway and finding no one, Harriam stopped, checking once more. The hallway was lit with candlesticks. They were fastened to the walls three feet apart, only breaking cadence to allow room for a portrait or two. Harriam set the wine down and reached for the nearest candlestick, bending it down like a lever. Muted through the stone wall, mechanisms creaked, metal pieces finding their position. He pressed his fingers into two of the stones on the walls, revealing a hidden doorway.
  
  Harriam slipped inside, and as the door was almost shut completely, his hand reached back out to pull the wine pitcher inside. Darkness. Harriam picked up a dead torch hanging on the wall and the flint next to it. For the first few months, he stumbled around here in darkness. Taryn was the one who suggested leaving a light by the door. Taryn, his childhood friend, the only one who knew Harriam's true identity. A single flight of stony stairs led straight down into the darkness. Torch in hand, Harriam climbed to the bottom.
  
  As he took the final step, a woman's voice greeted him. "About time. You seem to enjoy your cover as a whoring drunkard a little too much."
  
  Harriam laughed, fixing the blonde curl that fell in front of his left eye. Damn hair tie. "Taryn, I am just exceptionally gifted at subterfuge. If you remember, the whole idea was yours."
  
  Taryn's silvery-blonde hair moved as she replied."Oh please. You practically begged for it. My first idea was to join the eunuch ranks."
  
  "While I commend your creative thinking, that idea felt just a little too...final."
  
  Harriam walked into the small room, taking a seat at the table and eyed the map sitting on top. Their meeting place was just a small room, a crevice really, in a secret passage in and out of the keep. As childhood friends, they discovered the passage. As adults, they plotted to save the city.
  
  > Taryn
  Daughter of nobility, troublemaker behind a pretty smile. It was always the three of them growing up: Taryn, Harriam, and Harken. Their parents used to joke that one day she'd marry one of the two brothers. Not seriously, though. While her family was nobility, it still wasn't high enough status for a City Lord. Then when she revealed her interest in women, that really solidified the fact.
  
  Now she spent her time as, what did she call it, a "Scholastic Researcher of Humanity." Whatever that meant, she was able to spend her time doing whatever she pleased in the name of "research." She did manage to publish a book. It made about as much sense as her title. Harriam tried the first few pages, and then let it serve as a useful coaster for his goblets.
  
  Taryn applauded the masked figure's work. Silently she was a fan, only voicing it in quiet moments in quiet places. Those who spoke highly of the vigilante were quickly tried and jailed for disloyalty to the city. Taryn's research allowed her to conduct investigations and gather information for their cause. Sure, it wasn't subtle, but most people didn't know what the information was really for. Besides, who's going to refuse a beautiful woman of nobility? Especially one who knew how to use her looks in manipulation. It wasn't the most prideful of things, but neither was the cover they agreed on for Harriam.
  
  > The map
  It was an overhead view of Sheol's Passage. The city held winding, serpent-like roads that twisted their way through the buildings. At the very center stood the Heart, a massive cathedral, second largest in the High King's land. Physically the center of the city, it also was the main attraction for parties, events, you name it. Harriam didn't understand why the Archbishop allowed such secular events to take place in his holy building.
  
  Red pins with tiny flags were scattered on specific sections of the city, near the cathedral, Gilly's bathhouse, some dangerously close to the city keep. Red, signifying deaths confirmed to be at the hands of the Fallen.
  
  Long had their prey escaped the city watch. The capture of the Fallen was the City Lord's main focus before being summoned to war. The Fallen's actions undermined his authority. Those who take the law into their own hands, by implication, do so because the proper authorities can't handle it themselves. It brings an air of distrust. It spreads disloyalty between citizens. The Fallen must be captured and brought to justice.
  
  > The plan
  "So listen here," Taryn started. Harriam learned long ago not to interrupt her when she gets riled up like this. The last time he did, she had cut him with a letter opener. It was a small cut, didn't even need stitches, but her point was driven home. "You know the tainted spice we found? I think I located the source, a gambling den owned by one of those sand-skinned fellows. Nalet'bar? No, let me check here." Taryn ruffled through a few papers and finally produced the one she was looking for. "Kan'balar. That's it."
  
  "And just how did you discover this?" Harriam asked.
  
  "It wasn't easy, I'll tell you that."
  
  "Taryn, I know when you want to gloat."
  
  The woman laughed. "Ha ha. Ok you caught me. Remember the initial stuff we found by accident?" Harriam nodded. He wasn't even wearing a mask at the time. One of the council members overdosed on the stuff not two months ago. The other members chalked it up as overindulgence. Harriam, knowing the man's tendencies, knew he lived carefully. Hell, the man even tracked the amount of water he drank per day. No, it wasn't as simple as taking too much. The spice was altered somehow. He knew it. After stealing some from city watch evidence, Taryn's research confirmed it.
  
  "Well," Taryn continued. "It's all pouring from Kan'balar's den. I've confirmed it, thrice over with randomized samples. "The things men will share once you stuff incriminating letters of bribery and blackmail in their face."
  
  "You blackmailed others with proof of their own blackmail?" Harriam asked.
  
  "In a manner of speaking. I didn't technically have proof. Those with something to hide rarely fixate on anything but. All it took were a few vague threats of knowing 'what they're up to' and wanting to hide it from 'him.' Their minds filled in the rest."
  
  "So it all stems from Kan'balar's den," Harriam thought out loud. "I've been there once. Nice place. Lots of games. The owner felt like one of those ambitious types. Though I much prefer the ower who treats the establishment as a game it itself."
  
  "Tonight you don't," Taryn answered. "I'll let you decide how to approach the den, masked or with," she swirled her hand in front of Harriam's face. "That thing. Just as scary if you ask me. If you decide on that please, please, please don't overindulge."
  
  "Come now; it's me we're talking about," Harriam said with a smile. "Tonight then. We discover the secret of the source."
  
  > don the mask
  Harriam left the secret passage knowing full-well what he'd do. His position as acting City Lord didn't offer him much in this case other than providing limitless resources in their cause. Ok, perhaps it did offer something. But it wouldn't tonight unless he wanted to draw attention by blowing money at the gambling tables. No, his nightly activity covering his face and chasing criminals is what got them this far. It'd be more difficult, but he could have accomplished the same without the city's coffers at his disposal.
  
  After napping his way through council meetings the rest of the day, it was finally time. Harriam made his way back to the secret passage, putting on a show for the keep's inhabitants. Wine in hand, slightly slurred speech, and a few strategic stumbles, they'd assume he was on his way to visit another woman before blacking out. It was another cover, one that he used to hide his...true identity? Did he even know what that was anymore?
  
  Click! Torchlight. Stairs.
  
  It hung in an armoire against the wall, just behind the table with the map resting on top. Harriam swung open the twin doors to reveal his second identity for the night, third if you counted his real one, whatever that was. Black material, almost unseen in the low light, the fabric was lightweight, molding to Harriam's body; he didn't need loose clothing to catch on anything.
  
  The mask met his gaze. It looked like the one a stage performer would wear. Rough features were carved into the human-like face, open to interpretation. To some, it appeared as a joyful smile, bright, full of life. To others, it was the face of tragedy, pain visible in the expression. The latter appeared to Harriam.
  
  They called him Shifting Shadow. Not the name he would have chosen, but the one they give you rarely is. Little did City Lord Harken know, his own brother was sitting at number 8 of the city's most wanted criminals, one of two vigilantes on the list.
  
  No one saw him leave the keep. The secret passage was exactly that. Harriam traveled by rooftop. Only scum kept to the streets. The narrowly built buildings of Sheol's Passage allowed him to jump between structures with ease. He found a vantage point directly across from Kan'balar's den. From the outside, it didn't look like much. A single door with a sizable man sitting outside. More would be inside, all likely armed.
  
  "I do wonder what your goal is. I assure you, there are finer things to view on the inside."
  
  Harriam turned to find a masked figure sitting behind him on a chimney, casually swinging his legs in the air. Four small slits carved into a faceplate, the demon of the underworld, the Fallen.
  
  "I...how did you..."
  
  "You...I, uh," the Fallen mocked. "Not this again. Take your medicine before opening your mouth with me." He tossed a flask to Harriam who caught it with a single gloved hand. He ripped open the top and took a swig. "Now start from the beginning..."
  
  Clearing his throat, Harriam said, "Tainted spice. It all leads to Kan'balar and his den. The 'sickness' that is spreading among the city's nobility. Well, it's not exactly a disease. Only those who partake in spice have (ahem) fallen ill. It will be a 100% death rate once Councilman Sarys passes. His condition is critical."
  
  "My investigation, too, has brought me here. Two of us meeting like this. Next time send in your RSVP for the masquerade ball. It all leads here. I wonder if he's made an agreement with..." the Fallen wondered aloud, scratching his head in thought, which ends up just being his mask. "Ah. Nevermind that. Mmm. How would you like the offer of a lifetime, my masked friend?"
  
  "And just what would that be?"
  
  "Join me."
  
  > Yes
  "Fine," Harriam answered.
  
  "Fine what?"
  
  "Fine, I'll join you."
  
  "Excellent!" the Fallen said, hopping from his chimney seat. He strode next to Harriam in a manner that made Harriam think the masked figure forgot all about him. "There's an entrance on the rooftop. Kan'balar's office is on a balcony of sorts overlooking the gambling floor. Once we arrive there, let me handle the talking. Unless you have a drink in hand, I think you should keep your mouth shut. Can't have you stumbling over your words, no. That would ruin the mood I think. Hmm."
  
  "I'm not some child to be directed," Harriam started.
  
  The Fallen cocked an ear towards Harriam, motioning for him to continue, his gloved hand acting as a funnel for sound.
  
  "...ok, I see your point."
  
  The two of them, faces behind masks, leaped from the building hopping between structures to reach Kan'balar's rooftop. The Fallen seemed to glide, his feet a whisper on the clay roof tiles. Harriam's were a bit more labored, his steps heavy, comparatively speaking. Several hours a day he trained. How is he this outclassed? Finally reaching their destination, the Fallen paused, glancing at the small trap door leading to the roof.
  
  "Is there something I'm missing...?" Shifting Shadow asked.
  
  "Huh? Oh! I forgot you were there," the Fallen answered with a muted voice. "Doors are a magnificent thing, are they not? You can learn a lot about a person by their door, the color, craftsmanship, the quality of the piece. Typically, this is where I have a strong inner debate. But for your sake, I'll postpone it for a later date."
  
  "What does this one say?"
  
  "Trap," the Fallen replied, swinging open the door and jumping through. Sighing, Shifting Shadow followed suit. Immediately they were met with hired muscle, bodyguards of Kan'balar. There were several of them, six to be exact, armed with maces and small bucklers. Shifting Shadow drew his rapier. The Fallen kept to his bare hands, meeting his opposition with gleeful ferocity. Small quips backed up his attack, tiny insults thrown with each blow landing. Shifting Shadow took a more serious approach, parrying strikes aside then countering with his own. He felled one, then another, then... that's it?
  
  Shifting Shadow glanced up to see four of Kan'balar's men at the feet of the Fallen, who sat on one of their bodies, nonchalantly, examining one of his fingernails. Seeing that Shifting Shadow was done, he jumped to his feet and waved to be followed. Another sigh escaped Shifting Shadow's mask. Their path led them directly to Kan'balar's office.
  
  The man sat behind a desk overlooking the gambling floor. His back was turned, shoulders hunched over a tally book resting on the desk. Noticing their arrival, a man dressed in leather armor with a braided beard charged the two masked men. The Fallen turned towards Shifting Shadow, holding his palm up as if allowing the man to walk through a doorway first. The mask of tragedy nodded, running the man through mid-charge with his rapier. As Shifting Shadow cleaned his blade, the Fallen took a seat next to Kan'balar, sitting on the table, crossing his legs over one another like the way a father would scold a son.
  
  "I think you know why I'm here."
  
  Kan'balar looked up at the Fallen, not noticing Shifting Shadow standing behind him or reacting to his dead bodyguard. "Did you bring the compensation we discussed?"
  
  "You'll receive everything you asked for," the Fallen answered. "Just as long as you pony up the information we discussed. And I would like that." He pointed at a small figurine resting on Kan'balar's shelves. It was a bronze sculpture of an overturned hand, not very detailed, not very expensive-looking.
  
  "That?" Kan'balar questioned before quickly regathering himself, likely so the Fallen wouldn't add anything else to their agreement. "Deal. Done. It's yours." Kan'balar stretched a hand out to shake on it.
  
  The Fallen, humming, dropped down from his seated position and grabbed the sculpture before returning back. Angling the overturned palm, he slapped it across Kan'balar's hand. "It's a deal set in stone. Ha!"
  
  Ignoring the outburst, Kan'balar spoke through a lowered voice. "The men that approached me. I can't tell you their organization's name because they never mentioned it. There's no telling how many prominent figures in the city are under their control. The damn Speaker of the Council is who approached me. For all we know the City Lord is in on it!"
  
  Stepping in before Shifting Shadow could interject, the Fallen said, "Oh I highly doubt that's the case. Do continue. I love a good story."
  
  Kan'balar nodded. "They are tainting my spice with something dangerous. My cooks can't describe the ingredient. It's nothing they've seen before. I don't need to tell you only the wealthy can afford my product. It'll soon wipe out the entire nobility population. Then who will I sell to?"
  
  "Hmm. You sound like the true victim here. Mmm. I'm sure they made you lace the spice free of charge, huh? I need a location. A clue to find your 'business partners.'"
  
  "I was given this, a symbol of sorts. Well, I stumbled upon it. I haven't found anyone who can identify it." Kan'balar set a piece of cloth on the table. It was an image of an animal skull with two jagged tusks, a pair of human femurs creating crossbones behind it. "Do you recognize it?"
  
  "Mmm," the Fallen wondered aloud. One gloved hand scratched at the side of his mask. "I have an idea of someone who may know. Dangerous allies you've found, exponentially so by going behind their back like this."
  
  "I'm an opportunist," Kan'balar corrected, a smile beginning to show at the corner of his lips. "Now, my payment as discussed. You will reveal your identity and allow me to turn you in?"
  
  "Mmm. In a manner of speaking."
  
  > Epilogue: In a Manner of Speaking
  Harriam could use a drink. The effects from the flask were beginning to wear off. He hated when this happened. It all was going well and then...numbness. Nothing felt the way it should. Apathy rushed through his blood instead of wine. He kept a small amount on him at all times just for situations like this. Luckily, he didn't need to use it earlier on the rooftop. Harriam reached inside his boot and came up empty handed.
  
  "Tsk," the Fallen clicked his lips disapprovingly. "Looking for this?" He waved a small flask in front of him like a hypnotist putting a patient to sleep.
  
  "You...why?"
  
  "Meee?" the Fallen stretched the vowel out from the word in apparent surprise. "It's simple, really. This man needs to be paid."
  
  "And you're turning yourself in?"
  
  The Fallen lamented, placing the back of the bronze sculpture's palm against his forehead. "Alas. That is the only thing anyone ever asks of me. The suspense is too great for them to bear. It is a tremendous burden. Everyone wants a glimpse behind the mask. And they'll receive it." His body shifted suddenly, as if a translucent copy of his image blinked into existence.
  
  Harriam found himself staring into his own mask, the one a stage performer would wear. To some, it appeared joyful. To others, tragedy. The face now was different somehow, a mix between the two. Harriam horrified couldn't move his body, the knife from the Fallen paralyzed him in place. Understanding crept into Harriam's mind: this was the face of pure, unadulterated madness.
  
  "May I present to you," the Fallen, wearing the face of madness, said with a bow. "The Fallen, masked vigilante of the Passage, City Lord Harken's most wanted criminal, demon of the underworld."
  
  Harriam couldn't move. Couldn't speak. His fate became apparent. He would take the fall for the demon's crimes. What would his brother say? He would be betrayed in the deepest manner. The others, father, mother... Paralyzed, a single tear ran down his face, revealing itself underneath the faceplate the Fallen had placed on him. His family would be ruined.
  
  "Oh hush now," the Fallen whispered, using the sculpture's hand to caress the side of Harriam's face. "This is the most you could ever do for the city. Your little nightly escapades never amounted to much. I'll take it from here."
  
  Harriam shut his eyes. His fate was sealed. God. Harriam could use a drink.