The pale light still adorned the sky as Selriph stepped towards the back of the Lodge. His footsteps were muted in a careful stride over the floor planks. He paused at the door, gear slung where it belonged. His pouch was strapped around his shoulder and hung by his side. His estoc and dagger on his belt.

  He gave a quiet knock.

  “Relia?” he called. “It’s me.”

  Muffled fabric rustled beyond the door.. “Yeah… come in.”

  He eased the door open. Relia sat up in the bedroll on the floor. Her hair ruffled from sleep, the bedroll pooled around her legs. The morning’s soft light streamed through a small opening in the room, the rays passing through the stacked loose crates and items in a mix of neatness and haphazardness.

  A faint squint formed in her eyes as she tilted her head with concern. “He came back, didn’t he?”

  Selriph gave a small nod. “Just before sunrise.”

  Her eyes scanned him. The blade, the satchel, like a picture, complete once again. “And he gave it all back?”

  He hesitated. “Yeah… but not without conditions.”

  Then Relia swung her legs out of the bedroll and stood. She stretched with a groan, and she glided over, footsteps inaudible.

  “I take it… you are going with him?” She whispered, her gaze fixed on his estoc.

  “I am. Supply outpost–need information and gear.” He didn’t look at her.

  She watched him for a moment longer, then sighed. “You don’t have to pretend you’re okay with that, you know.”

  “I’m not.”

  The response came sharply, matter-of-fact. She blinked in surprise. But Selriph’s voice didn’t waver. The truth already settled inside him, like cold iron.

  “He thinks I am the reason Vick got captured. That I ran when it mattered.” His voice was low, catching as the last words parted his mouth.

  Relia crossed her arms. “Maybe... But that doesn’t make his reaction right.”

  Selriph lifted his gaze. She continued, gentler now.

  “Remember, Selriph, Hagan‘s desperate, scared. He thought he had lost someone he cared for, hadn’t seen in years.” Relia paused in contemplation. “When he realised he might be alive …then the way you told him? It was like pulling the rug from under him.”

  “I know,” Selriph muttered, a tinge of annoyance in his voice. “That’s the worst part. I know how it looked. But Vick told me to run. If I hadn’t—”

  “You are not wrong in thinking that.” Her voice was uncharacteristically firm, unwavering.

  Selriph sensed a kernel of truth, or perhaps his mind spun a trick to soothe his guilt.

  For a moment, he said nothing, then exhaled. “He told me we’re going in. Met a contact, who said that Vick was captured, dragged off. But still alive. Least until Mikus’s Feast is over.”

  Relia stepped closer, her voice lowering. “You know you don’t have to do this if you don’t want to. You could run; I wouldn’t tell.” As her gaze streamed towards the opening that illuminated the room before it settled back on him.

  Selriph studied her gaze. Her youthfulness betrayed the maturity that pierced through every layer of his turbulent thoughts. “I have to. I owe it to him to at least try.”

  The words wavered. But it came out.

  Relia’s expression tightened, head tilting back. “Then I’m glad you’re going. He would be glad too. When both of you succeed.” Her hand rests on Selriph’s shoulder.

  “Remember this: you are not a coward. You didn’t run because you were afraid—you ran because you trusted your instincts and Vick. The decision you made seemed best.”

  The words settled between them like warm cloth draped over bruised skin.

  “I just want you to remember that,” she finished, voice barely above a whisper. “Especially now.”

  Selriph’s throat tightened. He gave a faint, tired nod.

  “Thanks. I am not entirely sure I did the right thing. But whatever it is… I will do what I can. To get him back.”

  Relia stepped back, letting a smile curl at her lips. “Go get the grumpy woodsman and start moving. You came here to check on me, yes? I will be fine.”

  A small chuckle came out of him. “We’ll be back tomorrow latest. “

  She tilted her head, her voice warming. “Don’t worry. I remember. Stay hidden if anyone comes. Let Emmett do the talking.”

  She gave him a cheeky salute, then added more softly, “Be careful, Selriph, not just with the dangers lurking in the forest. But with yourself.”

  He looked at her for a beat, then nodded again as he walked towards the door.

  As the sun dipped below the horizon, Selriph and Hagan emerged from the dense forest, having skilfully avoided the occasional hollowed-out bandit and hostile creature. Selriph could not shake the feeling of eyes on him, although he could not be sure if it stemmed from his unease. Either way, he maintained his keen watchfulness as they travelled south.

  His worries eased as the trading post came into view—a modest, two-story wooden building three times the size of Hagan’s lodge, nestled at the forest’s edge.

  Smoke curled from the chimney, smelling of pine. Merchants closed up for the night. They stowed wares and loaded carts. Cool air carried the smells of woodsmoke, spices, and damp earth. The scent was a blend of forest and settlement. Hagan nodded and pushed open the half-closed door.

  “Evenin’,” he greeted the burly man seated inside, who looked up from his ledger with narrowed eyes.

  Hagan approached the counter, his stride confident. “Got any supplies left for today?”

  The man behind the counter turned, his face framed by a salt-and-pepper beard. He eyed his surroundings cautiously, a grunt escaping his lips as he put down his quill. “Picked an interesting time to come in. We are already closin up for the day,” he said, voice low and clipped. “Good stuff’s gone, maybe some dried rations for ya, basic gear. Nothin more till the next shipment.”

  His eyes traced to Selriph, lingering a beat too long. The right brow of the man’s face furrowed imperceptibly before he settled his gaze back on Hagan.

  “We’ll take three days’ dried rations,” Hagan said with his voice flat. “Healing kits, runestone powder.”

  He hesitated for a second.

  “And information.”

  The merchant’s expression sharpened, a flicker of interest quickly tempered by the ingrained wariness of a man who had spent years navigating the trade.

  “That’s a hefty list to be asking from someone with no stock,” he intoned. “Especially with someone like that in tow.”

  His eyes flicked once more to Selriph. His appraising gaze did not go unnoticed by Selriph.. As he stared back down at Hagan.

  The air chilled. A subtle shift—tension in it, like a taut string drawn too tight.

  Hagan didn’t flinch in the face of that,

  “We’re not here for trouble, Tamros,” he said coolly. “Just supplies. And a few answers.”

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  “Answers don’t come cheap,” the merchant growled. “Especially not when others have been poking around for the same ones. Makes people like me nervous.”

  “I know it does. Comes with the territory.” Hagan murmured, “But it’s important. And the boy here is the only other ear for whatever I need out of you.”

  “Ah. I see.” A flicker of understanding passed through his eyes.

  He pulled his hands back, palms up, in mock surrender.

  “But it’s still going to cost you,” the merchant said. “And not just coin.”

  Hagan’s smirk was faint. “Then name your price.”

  The merchant leaned forward. His voice roughened to a whisper. “Tell me about your little shadow here.” His eyes lingered on Selriph, the way one might on a stack of gold. “Looks... familiar. Like someone, a few interested parties have been describing...”

  Selriph’s pulse quickened. This was the information they were going to trade.

  “Looks like something I have seen in charcoal, if ya catch my drift.” He gestured to a loose pile of parchments on the desk behind the counter. A grin formed on his face, one that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “You want a thread of whatever you are lookin for? Then let’s start with the one beside you.” He raised an eyebrow, a silent invitation to respond.

  Before Selriph could speak, Hagan’s voice cut through, low and firm. “We’re after someone. The boy here is merely assisting me with it.” He leaned forward, ignoring the brewing protest from Tamros. “They’ve taken someone, informed courtesy of Kera. We want to know where he is for certain, need supplies to get him out.”

  Recognition flickered in the merchant’s eyes, followed by something colder. He leaned back again, fingers drumming once on the wood before stroking his beard.

  “Ah, I see how this is…” he muttered. “You’re talking about the man they nabbed in the tunnels. Caused a real ruckus.”

  “We’ll get him back.” Hagan, “with your information and help, Tamros.”

  “Ah, but you haven’t paid me in full. What’s this person to you?” His finger moved to the point.

  “You don’t need to know what he is to me, just—” Hagan protested

  “Not the old sod, him.” His finger landed on Selriph.

  Selriph flinched. “He’s…—look, it’s complicated.”

  A dry laugh rattled from Tamros. “He’s what, a caretaker? Your daddy? Took care of a stray little pup like you?”

  He leaned in again, tapping a finger lightly on the counter.

  “Word is, there was a real mess. Inquisitor came back, all beaten up. No one saw it, mind you, but word travels fast. Apparently, a boy gave that inquisitor a reason to limp.” His voice was low and conspiratorial.

  Varos…? That wasn’t me. Must have been Vick’s handiwork…

  The youth turned his attention to the query that hung in the air: “He helped me when I needed it. I helped him a little. That’s all.” Selriph said flatly.

  Tamros’s smile thinned. “Then maybe you ought to think real hard about who is on your tail, boy. Who might be bait here?” His voice inflected with emphasis.

  His eyes flicked to Hagan. “Let’s just say you better make sure your swimmin can break the fishin line.” He trailed off.

  Hagan’s hand came down gently on Selriph’s shoulder—silent, steadying.

  “Bringing a boy into this,” the merchant said, voice sharp.

  “We don’t have the luxury of better options,” Hagan replied. “He matters.”

  “To whom?” the merchant asked. “To you? Or your mission?”

  Hagan’s silence was brief, but it hung heavy.

  “It’s complicated.”

  The merchant gave a soft grunt. “Always is with you.”

  He studied them for a long moment. Then: “So what was your plan? Play dress up? Climb up the walls in the dark? You’d be lost sheep in there; you’d sooner find a turd than your man hol’d up in the west block on the second floor.”

  Selriph blinked. The casual revelation did not go unnoticed.

  Hagan hadn’t asked for the specifics, but the information? It came now that the payment had been made.

  He stared at Selriph. “Curious?” he said mockingly. “Wondering how I already know that? You’ve got lots to learn, boy. I trade information. “

  He laughed again, low and humourless, eyes never leaving Selriph.

  Hagan’s eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.

  The merchant grinned. “Even if you made it in, guards every corner. Go in there yerselves. You are just addin’ to the population.”

  Selriph’s thoughts raced. Tamros spoke the truth. The memory of the place flashed in his mind, part of a training tour. It was a fortress, with stone walls and endless stairs.

  Breaking in? Madness.

  “And if the Templars don’t spot you,” he added darkly, “the Holy Knights will. They’re already sniffing. Asking questions.”

  The merchant leaned forward.

  “Last I checked, you ain’t ghosts. You don’t leave no footprints.”

  Hagan met Selriph’s eyes. Determination, not hesitation, shone in his eyes; a silent agreement followed.

  “Tamros speaks truth,” Hagan said quietly. “A frontal approach is suicide.”

  He turned to the merchant. “But there should be another way.”

  “Another way?” The merchant raised a thick brow, arms crossed over his broad chest. “Even if you get in, getting out will be your real problem.”

  “There are always ways,” Hagan said. “If you know where to look, if not, we will make one.” His eyes lingered on the merchant.

  Hagan’s fingers drifted to his belt, brushing the surface of a smooth piece of stone engraved with runes.

  The merchant leaned back, watching them with an unreadable stare. “Never took you for being brave and foolish.”

  “Been that way, a long time ago,” Hagan replied.

  Silence fell over the shop, disturbed only by the soft hiss of the lanterns. Swaying golden light from their flames stretched clawing shadows across the cluttered floor, highlighting the shelves.

  Selriph’s chest tightened. The reality of the insurmountable task of the plan had started to loom over his psyche.

  Then Hagan’s voice cut through, steady and low. “Fine, suppose you could try your luck. Sewers run below the city; even they gotta dump what comes out of their bowels.”

  The merchant didn’t laugh. Didn’t scoff. He simply raised an eyebrow, then nodded slowly.

  “But those passages might not be as quiet as you think,” he said offhandedly, as if noting the weather. “Not recently.”

  Selriph’s head tilted. “What do you mean?”

  “Just chatter,” the merchant replied, reaching beneath the counter. “Let’s say that the tunnels are... Noisier than usual.”

  He pulled out a scroll—a fresh piece of parchment wrapped in leather—and unrolled it on the table with deliberate care. The sound was like dry leaves scraping stone.

  “Here,” he said, pointing to the northeastern edge. “A couple of exits near the prison, no direct entrance, at least. Not yet.”

  Intricate ink work mapped the city’s veins in fine, thick lines—cisterns, channels, maintenance tunnels. Some marked, others crossed out, scrawled over in a marking, seemingly from different hands.

  Selriph leaned in, eyes scanning every junction and break. An oddity began to present itself—if we were to envision the city that lay above. He could not be certain; it seemed many of the markings centred on squares and plazas.

  “Some of these are marked,” Selriph murmured.

  The merchant didn’t look up. “Notes from Travellers. Curious types.”

  Selriph’s eyes narrowed, prepared to protest. He glanced at Hagan, who gave a subtle shake of the head.

  The merchant traced a route with a thick finger, pausing in a collapsed corridor.

  “You’ll want to avoid this section. Just flooded last week. Many folks didn’t make it out.”

  “Folks?” Hagan asked.

  “Yeh folks, curious ones,” he said casually.

  The merchant rolled the scroll up with care and tucked it back into the leather. “I’ll get you what you need.”

  “Ropes, pickaxe, anything we need to make this work,” Hagan said.

  Is he thinking of digging his way into the prison…?

  “And vermin repellent,” the merchant added with a wink. “Trust me.”

  The merchant grunted and disappeared into the back room, the curtain swaying closed behind him. Selriph glanced around the now-dim shop. The dust hung in the air, coating the walls, which were stacked with gear: lanterns, ropes, jars of reagents. A wall-mounted rack held an assortment of weapons, which he wouldn’t trade for his blade.

  Selriph’s mind drifted to the rolled-up piece of parchment; his fully focused on the image he conjured in his mind: the tunnels below Caer Eldralis, superimposed over features of the city he was all too familiar with. Where each tunnel passed under a corresponding street, monument, and shop.

  No doubt a copy was being included in what was to be provided, but having it mentally mapped? would not hurt.

  Just then, heavy footsteps creaked on the floorboards. The curtain pulled back.

  The merchant reemerged, a large satchel slung over one shoulder and a smaller one dangling from his hand. He set them both on the counter with a muted thud.

  “Fifty gold for the lot,” he stated as he gestured at the counter. He added, “plus a couple of extra things for your little excursion. Consider it a gesture of goodwill for the interesting company you brought.” He nodded towards Selriph with a sideways glance, tone gruff but not unkind.

  Hagan opened the large pack, his face calm, his eyes darting around the contents. He then opened the smaller satchel and peered inside. His eyes widened slightly, just for a second. Enough to register surprise.

  “Didn’t expect this much generosity,” he muttered. He reached into his satchel and pulled out a pouch of coins.

  The merchant shrugged. “Not generosity. Call it insurance. If you two get yourselves into a pickle, I don’t want your ghosts blaming me for cheapin’ out on ya.”

  Hagan gave a faint smirk as he settled the pouch down, the contents spilling over onto the counter. Gold coins.

  The merchant gave a knowing glance as Hagan swung the pack over his shoulder. The absence of any struggle, despite the bulk of the pack.

  “C’mon, lad, got what we need.” As he turned to leave, Selriph trailed after him, sneaking one last look at the figure that disappeared behind the counter.