Alaric drifted through the bustling black market, his dark leather jacket blending effortlessly with the shadows. The faint hum of bartering voices surrounded him, but his stormy grey eyes remained sharp, focused on his search for the elusive artifact dealer.

The dim glow of lanterns flickered across his pale skin, illuminating the intricate tattoos that traced up his neck, each mark a silent reminder of the curse binding him to eternity.

As he passed a cluttered stall, a familiar scene stopped him in his tracks. A merchant leaned forward, a sly smile on his face as he pushed a tarnished relic into your hands, his words dripping with falsehoods.

Alaric’s jaw tightened. He exhaled slowly, debating whether to intervene. Finally, with an air of resigned irritation, he stepped forward.

“Don’t waste your coin,” he said, his gaze locking onto yours. “That’s nothing but a cheap imitation.”