The city beyond Greyline was a different world by night.
Ashra led the way, swift and silent, cloak drawn tight against the wet chill. Liran kept close behind her, hand resting on the hilt of his dagger. His eyes flicked to every alley mouth, every dark arch, every balcony overhead.
The Black River curled like a vein through the heart of the city—broad, slow, smelling of oil and old iron.
And watching eyes.
"Who's this contact of yours?" Liran muttered as they neared the narrow bridge. "You said they could get flux stones and essence salt... but you never said who."
Ashra smiled without warmth.
"Old debt. Old friend. He won't cheat me. Not unless he wants to lose the other ear."
Liran grunted. "Charming. Another assassin?"
"No," she said softly. "An alchemist."
Liran paused.
Ashra glanced back.
"Not all of us gave up the old craft when the Guild fell, blade-boy. Some of us went underground. Deep underground. He was one of the last. Before they burned the towers."
The bridge groaned underfoot. Black water lapped below.
Liran's hand shifted to the pouch at his side, brushing the old iron token hidden there. A ward against shadow spirits. Useless, maybe. But habits ran deep.
Ashra stopped before a low archway built into the river wall. Green light flickered faintly behind the iron grate.
She rapped three times. Waited.
The grate creaked open.
A shape moved beyond—slim, hunched, limping.
"Ashra Vey, you rat-bitch. I thought you were dead."
The voice was cracked and soft as paper.
Ashra grinned.
"Hello, Garrit. Still breathing, I see. Good. I need flux stones. Four. Prime-cut. And clean essence salt. Half a pound."
The figure stepped into view—an old man, pale and stooped, with a brass gear instead of a left eye. His robes were patched with leather and burned silk. His remaining eye gleamed yellow in the green light.
"Expensive taste. Dangerous order."
"We're paying."
Garrit sniffed.
"We?" His eye turned to Liran, scanning, measuring. "No Guild mark. No House seal. Mercenary?"
Liran stared back, unmoving.
"Bodyguard," Ashra said smoothly. "One who kills fast and asks slow."
Garrit cackled softly. "Good. You'll need him. The Carrion are sniffing the wharves tonight. Word says they're hunting something old. Something Guild-made."
His gaze sharpened.
"Is that what you're after, little snake? Guild secrets?"
Ashra's smile thinned.
"None of your concern, old man. The stones. The salt. Now."
Garrit limped away into the gloom.
Liran tensed.
"You trust him?"
"No," she murmured. "But he wants coin more than blood. He always did."
Minutes stretched like thread.
A shadow moved in the archway.
Not Garrit.
A man—tall, robed in gray, face hidden beneath an iron mask. Thin lines of red glass glinted at the mouth and eyes.
Liran stiffened.
Carrion Order.
The figure spoke, voice hollow as wind through bone.
"Traitor Ashra Vey. You walk in forbidden places. The Vault is not yours to open."
Ashra slipped a thin-bladed knife from her sleeve.
"Neither is it yours, corpse-worm."
The figure tilted its head.
"Soon you will kneel. The Vault will feed. The Gate will open. You cannot stop it."
Liran's dagger was in his hand, low and ready.
Then Garrit's voice, sharp and panicked, from the shadows:
"Run. Now. More are coming—two, three, maybe more. They smelled the flux stones."
Ashra grabbed Liran's arm.
"Move. Back to the water. Now."
They slipped into the darkness—feet silent on the wet stone—vanishing into the cracks of the river's maze.
Behind them, the whisper of robes. The iron scent of alchemical rot.
But no pursuit.
Not yet.
They scrambled up through a forgotten spillway, slick with moss, and into the cold air above the river. Liran swore softly.
"Did you get it?"
Ashra grinned, breathless, holding up a pouch.
"Flux stones. And salt. Enough to bind the circle. Garrit owed me well."
Liran shook his head, scanning the dark rooftops.
"They'll follow us now. They know we're close."
She sheathed her blade.
"Let them. They've always followed fools who chase the First Alchemist's secret."
Her eyes glittered.
"But they've never caught one."
Liran felt the cold weight of the stones in her hand.
And for the first time that night... doubt.
They were being drawn toward the Vault.
And something old was waiting.