The Endless Balance of an Ancient Sorrow Volume 2 GC Prologue

  Copyright © 2025 by Ryan Melrose 

 All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the prior written permission of the author. 

This is a work of fiction. 

 All names, characters, places, organizations, and events are either products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictional manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, real-world locations, corporations, or institutions is entirely coincidental. If you genuinely believe any character in this book is secretly based on you, you might be reading a bit too deep—or just hunting for a payout. Either way, this story isn’t about you. Maybe talk to someone about that. 

This is the first publication, written and illustrated by Ryan Melrose, and published in Australia. 

The Endless Balance of an Ancient Sorrow Gavern Codex (GC) Volume 2 

 

 

 

 

 

PROLOGUE 

Fraid City—an advanced jewel hidden within the metropolitan sprawl of Brisbane, Australia. So well disguised that you could walk its streets without ever realizing you’ve stepped into an entirely different world. 

But you know what they say: the brighter the picture, the darker the negative. 

A peculiar white van rolled through the quiet backstreets, drawing attention without even trying. One glance and you’d know: trouble. It had that air of cliché—like something out of a badly plotted movie. 

 Only this time, the cliché was the danger. 

The van pulled to a stop near an abandoned stretch of industrial slums—just outside the ruins of Fraid’s old railway system. The tunnel stood like a yawning wound. This area had long been forgotten, officially closed off and practically unpoliced. Call it negligence… or intentional oversight. 

The van doors creaked open. 

Two figures in black ski masks stepped out. 

They looked like robbers—but this wasn’t about money. 

There were no jewelry stores, no banks, no residents to rob. Just rot and concrete. The cliché ended here. 

Then they dragged the body out. 

A young boy in a school uniform. Unconscious. Limp. 

One of the masked men grunted. 

 "Seriously, dude, I don’t like this. Why are we doing jobs like this? I’d rather rob a house any day." 

The other pulled him forward. 

 "Shut up, Kamis. I don’t like it either. But we gotta pay rent." 

"Yeah, and now we’re kidnapping people. Kids, Jilough. What does the client even want with them?" 

"I don’t know. I don’t wanna know. I don’t care. I don’t even know who hired us. We do the job. We get paid. That’s all I need to know. That’s all you need to know." 

He glanced over his shoulder toward the tunnel. 

 "And rule number one—you don’t ask questions. Never ask questions."  

They moved deeper into the abandoned tunnels—footsteps echoing against rusted steel and graffiti-choked walls. 

Jilough’s phone buzzed in his pocket. Unknown number. One message. 

Tunnel 5. Proceed. 

“Hmm. Okay. Same as usual, I suppose,” he muttered. 

Kamis glanced over. “What are you talking about, Jilough?” 

“Means we do what I usually do alone,” Jilough snapped. “Now shut it. Help me move him.” 

The unconscious boy groaned as they dragged him through the filth. 

“I really don’t like this, man,” Kamis whispered, voice trembling. “It’s creepy in here. Doesn’t feel right.” 

“OH, SHUT UP, KAMIS,” Jilough growled. “Do you want your cut or not? Then shut your mouth, help me chain him up, and let’s get out of here.” 

They reached the edge of Tunnel 5. 

Jilough’s phone buzzed again. 

Continue to Section 3. Two segments ahead. Five minutes. 

They walked in silence—just the sound of echoing footsteps and the wheeze of an ancient ventilation fan from somewhere deep in the dark. 

When they arrived at Section 3, the message made sense. 

Shackles. 

Heavy iron restraints embedded in the rusted train track. Arms. Legs. Fixed in place. 

“Here we are,” Jilough said. 

He knelt. “Come on, Kamis. Help me lock him down.” 

Kamis froze. “No, Jilough. I… I can’t. I’m not doing this. Chaining some teenage kid to train tracks? I can’t be part of that.” 

“Fine. Turn around,” Jilough muttered. “But I’m taking 50% of your cut. Your choice.” 

“Damn it…” Kamis swore, face pale, as he moved to help. 

The restraints clicked into place. 

Jilough’s phone buzzed a third time. 

Payment sent. $5000. You have 20 minutes to clear out. Til next time it came with a wink face emoji. 

Kamis read the message over his shoulder. 

“Oh god… what do they mean ‘til next time’?” 

Jilough stood. “Let’s go.” 

“You’re not seriously just leaving him here…” 

“Yes. We are. We’ve done our part. We get out.” 

And without another word, the two men vanished into the darkness, leaving behind only silence, shackles.  

Minutes later, the teenage boy woke to darkness. 

No bed. No walls. No ceiling fan humming overhead. 

Just cold, rusted steel pressed against his back. 

His arms and legs—restrained. 

 His mouth—taped shut. 

 This wasn’t a dream. This wasn’t even a kidnapping he could understand. 

It was a setup. 

Because he was shackled to a railway track. 

Panic seized him. 

He squirmed, kicked, tried to scream—but all that came out was breath and muffled agony. The metal cuffs clanged against the track, unmoving. 

And then… the sound. 

HHOOOOONK. 

A train horn. 

No. 

No, no, no— 

Chgga-chgga-chgga. 

The tremor of wheels rolling deep from within the tunnel. A light flared into view at the far end—small, then bigger, then blinding. 

And through it all, a hum. 

Sweet. Feminine. Cheerful. 

The kind of tune you'd hear from a skipping little girl playing hopscotch, not someone piloting a train toward a bound, helpless target. 

Then he saw her. 

Through the locomotive’s windshield stood a young woman—blonde, masked in porcelain white. Calm. Focused. painted smile a black and white type of out fit with puffy white short sleeves. The train didn’t brake. Didn’t swerve. She was aiming. 

And he knew. 

That smile was the last thing he’d ever see. 

“Yes! I got him!” she chirped into her comms. “Smeared him perfectly!” 

Her voice was laced with glee. Not dark and vengeful—just plain delighted. 

“Tee hee~ It never gets old running them over. Splatter marks and all! That crunch?.” 

A buzz from her phone. Another payment. 

Transfer confirmed. $5000. Thanks. New one ready tomorrow? Winky face emoji 

She twirled in her seat. Giddy. Weightless. 

“Eeee~ yes! Set one up for me again, Jilough. Make sure he’s cute. I’ll pay extra if he’s cute as a button. Tee. Hee.” 

She wasn’t a killer in the traditional sense. 

She was a collector. 

And the tracks weren’t for transport anymore. 

They were her canvas.