It had been a while since Viktor st visited the Emberwood Inn.

  The main hall of the inn was bathed in warmth, thanks to the rge hearth that roared merrily in the far corner and the well-insuted wooden walls that sealed in the heat. At the center stood the same young bard, his fingers strumming the strings of his lute, his voice loud and clear over the crowd, half of whom had joined in the chorus, cheering and singing along between gulps of ale and mead.

  It was no different from the st time, when he had come here to spy on the Dungeon Reavers. Exactly seven weeks ago, he had broken into Azran’s room, digging through the bald man’s belongings and uncovering the secrets that were kept hidden. Then, just a week after he had learned of their pn, Azran and his ever-charming companion, Lahmia, came knocking on the door of his dungeon.

  Now, the man sat in the far corner of the hall, seemingly oblivious to the world around him. He didn’t look at the bard. He didn’t look at the other patrons. He didn’t look at anything, really, except the mug in his hand.

  Viktor had followed him here, keeping a cautious distance, after spotting him on the street. Still the same outfit, bck from head to toe. Still the same attitude, his face as dour as ever. And now, it turned out that the bald man had chosen to stay at the same inn.

  What was he trying to accomplish, though? After all, the Dungeon Reavers’ modus operandi was to locate newly appeared dungeons and move in to steal the Dungeon Core before the locals had any idea what was going on. But Viktor’s dungeon wasn’t exactly a secret anymore. Quite the opposite, in fact. There were adventurers going in and out at every hour of the day. There were guards at the entrance, and anyone who wanted to enter had to register with them. Attempting to steal the Core now would be beyond madness.

  Besides, why was he alone? Last time, he had brought Lahmia, and it didn’t end well for her. Azran himself had barely escaped with his hide intact. So if he truly meant to have another shot at it, he should have brought reinforcements. Stronger allies, and plenty of them. If there were such people, where were they now?

  Or perhaps he just wanted to enter the dungeon as a normal adventurer? Dungeon Reaver or not, Azran was still a Gold-ranked. It was not hard for him to find a party willing to take him in. All he had to do was open his mouth to ask. Ah, maybe that was the problem. He didn’t talk. He didn’t smile. The guy was a loner who avoided other people, so he might have trouble working with strangers.

  Viktor could stay here, spending the whole day watching the bald man stare moodily into his booze. But he had other things to take care of, namely, getting home and cooking lunch for Cire. Maybe he would come back here in the afternoon. There was a chance that he wouldn’t learn anything today, though, so he might need to return tomorrow, and even the days after that. Maybe he would have to break into that damn room one more time.

  Or maybe, just maybe, the best way forward was the simplest, most direct approach. So he made his way across the hall, right up to the man’s table.

  Azran didn’t acknowledge him at first. Only when Viktor stopped beside him did the bald man let out a low growl. “What do you want?”

  Viktor mustered the most innocent expression he could manage, tilting his head slightly as he asked, “You’re Lahmia’s friend, right?”

  He saw a spasm run over Azran’s face. The man turned, staring at him with piercing intensity, his gaze locking onto Viktor’s eyes as if searching for any hidden thought, any unspoken pn. Finally, he spoke, a hint of recognition in his voice. “You... you’re the kid who walked her through the town.”

  “Yes,” Viktor replied with a big smile. “And she gave me a silver coin.”

  “What do you want?” Azran asked again, his tone softer this time.

  “Where is she? Did she come back here with you?”

  The man’s face hardened, his jaw clenched. His eyes darted to the side, avoiding Viktor’s gaze. He shook his head. “No, she didn’t.”

  “Why?” Viktor asked the question to which he already knew the answer.

  “Just forget about her! She’ll never come back here!” Azran snapped. But as soon as the words left his mouth, he seemed to regret them. He stopped, his chest heaving with a slow breath. “She...” His voice was barely a whisper. “She’s retired. Lahmia’s now living with her daughter, in their hometown.”

  “I see,” Viktor said, going along with the lie.

  Now what? He had successfully started a conversation, and that was great. The door had been open, but where should he go from here? Perhaps he could start by asking why the bald man came to Daelin or if he had companions. He needed to keep the conversation light, though. Casual. Like a curious child asking innocent questions—

  “Yo, Azran.”

  Oh?

  As Viktor was pondering the next move, a new voice spoke behind them, with a tone that seemed to invite a punch to the face.

  He turned and saw a man in his thirties, with a lean yet athletic build. He wore a bck sleeveless shirt clinging to his body like a second skin, revealing two muscur arms that looked like they had been chiseled out of granite. Interestingly, the right one appeared noticeably bigger than the left, particurly in the shoulder and bicep. His brown hair was messy, and a smug grin stretched across his unshaven face as he stared at Azran.

  The bald man didn’t reply. Instead, he lifted the mug in his hand to his lips and took a long, loud slurp of wine. Only after the mug was empty did he lower it onto the table, before slowly—very, very slowly—shifting his gaze to the newcomer.

  “Clint.”

  “Well, well, Azran,” the other man said, his grin unwavering. “Such a cold reception. No wonder you have no friends. Well, you had one. Too bad she’s dropped dead.”

  The bald man’s entire body stiffened, his hand tightening around the mug in his grip. For a moment, Viktor thought he might lunge at Clint, strangling him on the spot. But Azran just took a deep breath, and said in a low voice, “What do you want? State your business, then get lost.”

  The other man smirked. “State my business? Shouldn’t it be me asking about yours? After all, you’re the one who followed us here.”

  Followed us?

  “I go wherever I please. Daelin doesn’t belong to you.”

  “You stay in the same inn.”

  “This is the best inn in town.”

  “Come on,” Clint said. “We all know what you’re after, and we all know you can’t achieve it by yourself. Drop the damn pride. Bjorn’s offer still stands. There’s still a spot for you.”

  The man jerked his head toward a table by the wall, where Viktor saw a group of three sitting. One was a burly man wearing a metal helmet, his braided beard flowing down to his chest, who raised a mug as they looked at him. The second man, cd in a simple tunic, was bent over his pte, his mouth full as he chewed with the ferocity of someone who had been starving for days. The st one, hooded in a cloak, features invisible, sat motionless, more statue than man. That was a table for four. One seat was empty, probably the one Clint had just vacated, and next to it was a hunter’s bow leaning against the wall.

  Viktor’s gaze returned to the brown-haired man. He still couldn’t figure out whether this guy was trying to pick a fight or act like a diplomat. Either option was fine, but doing both at the same time was just pin stupid.

  Azran took the jug from the table and poured the wine into his empty mug, again at an excruciatingly slow pace. It felt like an eternity had passed before the damn thing was finally filled. Once he was done, he raised the mug, looking at Clint over its rim.

  “Fuck off.”

  “You’ll regret it,” the other man said as he stormed away.

  Azran didn’t spare him another gnce. He finished the remaining wine in one great slurp. “I’ll go back to my room to sleep,” he said, standing up. “Just... forget about Lahmia.” Then, he made his way toward the stairs.

  Viktor sat down in the empty seat, gazing at Clint’s table. The brown-haired man had gotten back there, drink in hand like nothing had happened. The man with the braided beard cast a brief gnce at Azran as he headed upstairs, before he returned to his group, resuming whatever conversation they had been having. Of course, Viktor couldn’t hear a word from here.

  Who are they? Are they Dungeon Reavers too?

  Clearly, they were not friends with Azran. But the Reavers were not one monolithic group. There were many different factions, each one essentially a competitor with the other. They knew Lahmia, they knew she was dead, and they knew what Azran wanted. The possibility that they were also Dungeon Reavers was very high.

  But why? Why here? Why now?

  That was not how the Reavers operated. They were supposed to steal Dungeon Cores without anyone noticing anything. If a group of high-ranking adventurers came to Daelin and the dungeon was gone the next day, everyone would know that it was their doing. Their names, their faces, and their ranks were all known, logged in the Guild’s records. So even if they managed to get away, the Guild in Daelin would just file a petition to the Concve, and a bounty would be put on their heads. Every adventurer in the world would hunt them down.

  As Viktor was deep in thought, he felt a tap on his shoulder.

  “Quinn.”

  He looked up, raising a surprised brow. “Cedric? What are you doing here?”

  The bck-haired boy shrugged. “I always have lunch here with Fiora. She likes listening to that bard’s songs.”

  Was that the reason why they never ate at the Guild’s mess hall with Lucian and Noi’ri? Since he was so focused on Azran, he didn’t realize they were also in this hall.

  “So, what are you doing here? Was that bald man your acquaintance?”

  Viktor nodded. “Yes, he’s a Gold-ranked adventurer who was here several weeks ago. I haven’t talked with him before, though. Only with his companion.”

  “A Gold?” Cedric blinked, taken aback, before turning to the group of four with a frown. “That fool... he actually tried to pick a fight with a Gold?”

  The boy probably couldn’t hear their conversation from his table, but anyone watching could easily interpret their body nguage.

  “Maybe he’s a Gold as well,” Viktor said.

  “No, his rank is Bronze.”

  “What?”

  “I saw them in the Guild this morning. When they registered with Rhea, they told her that they were all Bronze.”

  That... doesn’t make any sense.

  Clint knew everything about Azran, so he must also have known that he was a Gold-ranked adventurer. There was no way he could act so cocky in front of the bald man if he were merely a Bronze.

  Did they lie to Rhea? But she must have checked their license. And while forgery wasn’t impossible, it would be extremely difficult to pull off without the help of someone very high-ranking in the Guild—

  It was Clovis.

  Yes, Clovis. That fat Guildmaster from Iskora. He was certainly capable of this. And he had a very good reason to do so.

  He was willing to throw two million gold to buy the dungeon. It was clear that he wanted it badly. He wasn’t going to give up just because the town said no. And if he couldn’t get the Dungeon Core legally, what was the most obvious alternative?

  Viktor stared at the four men who were scheming to steal Celeste from him. Once again, his dungeon was under threat from the Reavers. And this time, he wouldn’t have one week to prepare. The attack could happen tomorrow.

  Or, even today.