The surface streets of Rome felt like a beautiful cage. Natasha walked along the cobblestone avenues, her boots clicking softly in a city that seemed to be holding its breath. Everywhere she looked, pristine white military uniforms stood out against the ancient stone architecture, the sun glinting off the polished barrels of the guards' rifles. The civilian crowds moved quickly and quietly, eyes glued to the ground, terrified of drawing the gaze of the authorities.
Natasha, however, did the exact opposite.
"Wow," she murmured, her head tilted all the way back as she stared up at a massive, crumbling stone archway that spanned the street. "The masonry is incredible. I wonder how old those columns are—whoa!"
Completely distracted by the ancient architecture, Natasha failed to notice a brightly painted, iron-rimmed wooden barricade cordoning off an old restoration site. Her boot caught the bottom rail. With a startled yelp, she pitched forward, crashing straight through the rotted wood.
But there was no solid ground on the other side. The barricade had been covering a deep, forgotten excavation shaft. Natasha tumbled into the darkness, a loud "Agaaaain?!" echoing down the stone tunnel as she disappeared from the surface world.
Below the surface, the atmosphere was entirely different. This was the underground sector—a labyrinth of damp, shadowy stone tunnels illuminated only by flickering, low-grade lanterns.
Deep within one of these sectors sat The Sunken Anchor, a subterranean tavern and gambling den carved directly into the ancient catacombs. The air was thick with the smell of cheap liquor, stale tobacco, and sweat. A group of heavily scarred, rough-looking thugs were huddled around a central table, watching a high-stakes card game in tense silence. A mountain of a man with a jagged scar across his jaw grinned, throwing down his winning hand. "Pay up, boys," he growled.
CRASH.
The ceiling didn't just cave in; Natasha caved it in. She came bursting through a weak patch of old brickwork above, bringing a shower of dust and debris down with her. She landed squarely in the center of the table, instantly splintering the thick wood into kindling. Cards flew into the air, and a large mug of dark ale flipped perfectly upside down, drenching the scarred giant from head to toe.
The tavern went dead silent. The only sound was the crackle of a stray piece of wood.
Natasha sat amidst the wreckage, blinking away the dust. Her hair was a mess, and her red shirt was covered in plaster. "Ow," she groaned, rubbing the back of her head. She looked around, realizing she was surrounded by a dozen furious, heavily armed outlaws.
"Hey there," she said, offering a weak, trembling smile as she looked up at the dripping giant. "The... structural integrity of your ceiling is a bit lacking. Very unsafe."
"You ruined my hand," the giant rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. He drew a massive, jagged meat cleaver from his belt. "And you ruined my drink. Strip her bag, boys. Then we throw what's left of her into the lower canals."
Three thugs stepped forward, sneering as they lunged at her with brass knuckles and daggers.
"Wait, wait! Let's talk about this!" Natasha squeaked, flailing her arms as she scrambled backward off the broken table.
The first thug swung a heavy fist at her face. Natasha "tripped" backward over a stray chair, her movement looking completely accidental—yet the thug's fist hit nothing but air. As she tumbled backward, her boot shot upward, catching the second thug squarely under the chin with a sickening crack. He was lifted off his feet and sent flying into a wall, completely unconscious before he hit the ground.
The first thug blinked in shock, but before he could react, Natasha scrambled back to her feet, stumbling forward as if losing her balance. Her shoulder slammed directly into his chest. The impact felt like being hit by a runaway train. The air exploded from his lungs, and he collapsed onto the stone floor, gasping and clutching his ribs.
The third thug tried to blindside her from the left, driving a dagger toward her side. Without even turning around, Natasha casually swung her heavy travel bag over her shoulder. The bag, packed tight with her belongings, caught the thug dead in the face like a sack of bricks. He crumpled instantly, his dagger clattering away.
It had taken less than three seconds. Natasha stood in the center of the room, panting slightly, her hands raised defensively. "I really didn't mean to! I'm just a clumsy tourist!"
The rest of the tavern regulars slunk back into the shadows, staring at her with wide, terrified eyes. The giant with the cleaver froze, his jaw hanging open as he looked at his three best men broken on the floor.
From the dark corner of the bar, a slim man wearing a fine, albeit dusty, velvet coat stepped forward. He had been watching the entire spectacle. He didn't look angry; he looked intrigued.
"A tourist, you say?" the man asked, clapping his hands softly. "A tourist who moves like a phantom and hits like a siege weapon. You've got quite the technique, lady."
Natasha dropped her hands, her nervous expression fading slightly. She recognized authority when she saw it. "I'm looking for someone," she said, her voice dropping its high-pitched, frantic edge. She reached into her pocket and pulled out the weathered photograph King Ashveil had given her. She held it out toward the man in the velvet coat. "They told me the underground is where the ghosts hide. Do you know where I can find him?"
The man took a slow step closer, leaning in to look at the blurred image of the man in the photo.
The moment his eyes registered the silhouette, the color completely drained from his face. The casual, smug smirk he wore vanished, replaced by a look of sheer, unadulterated dread. He took a sharp step back, his hands trembling so violently he almost dropped his own drink.
"Where... where did you get that?" the man whispered, his voice cracking.
The entire tavern seemed to drop a few degrees. The thugs who were previously whispering went absolutely silent, staring at the photo as if it were a cursed relic.
"Is he here?" Natasha asked, her eyes narrowing, sharp and focused.
The man in the velvet coat swallowed hard, wiping a cold sweat from his forehead. "You... you don't look for him, girl. You pray to whatever gods you worship that he doesn't look for you. That's Grey Rosanate."