Torren Vale slipped through Varnholt's lower wards, the night air thick with the tang of river mud and chimney smoke. The Iron Bridge was behind him, but Lady Elara's sharp green eyes and that mysterious satchel lingered in his mind like a tavern tune he couldn't shake. Smuggling, a baron, and a coded letter tied to Sir Aldric Varn—Torren was neck-deep in a game he didn't fully understand, but he'd be damned if he let it play without him. Profit was out there, and maybe a bit of fun, if he could dodge the blades long enough.
He needed information, and fast. The Iron Bridge had given him a name—Elara—and a place, but names and places were only as good as the coin they could fetch. Torren knew where to go: the Tallow Chandler's Rest, a dingy tavern in the tanners' district where secrets were traded as freely as sour ale. The man he was looking for was Halrik, a fence with a nose for gossip and a ledger full of debts. If anyone knew about Elara or the baron pulling her strings, it was him.
The tavern's sign—a flickering candle carved into warped wood—swung above the door. Torren pushed inside, the air hitting him like a fist: stale beer, sweat, and the greasy stink of tallow. The room was packed with dockhands, cutpurses, and merchants too cheap for the finer inns uptown. A fiddler sawed a tune in the corner, half-drowned by raucous laughter. Torren scanned the crowd, his muddy-ale eyes catching every detail—the dice game in the back, the barmaid dodging a grabby hand, the cloaked figure watching him from a shadowed booth.
Not good, Torren thought, but he kept his grin in place. Shadows had been tailing him since Blackthorn Alley, and he wasn't fool enough to think the Iron Bridge had gone unnoticed. He'd deal with them later. For now, Halrik.
He found the fence at a table near the hearth, nursing a tankard and a scowl. Halrik was a wiry man, past forty, with a face like a crumpled parchment and eyes that missed nothing. His fingers, stained yellow from years of handling tallow and coin, tapped a restless rhythm on the table. "Torren Vale," he said, not looking up. "What's the Fox sniffing after tonight?"
Torren slid into the seat opposite, his grin easy. "Just a friendly chat, Halrik. Heard any good tales lately? Something about, say, a lady and a bridge?"
Halrik's fingers stilled. "You're fishing in dangerous waters, lad. What's this about?"
Torren leaned in, lowering his voice. "A name. Elara. No title, but she's moving cargo that's got the city watch twitchy. And a baron's involved. I need to know who's playing, and what's at stake."
Halrik's eyes flicked to the room, then back to Torren. "You don't pay for my drinks, Fox. Why should I talk?"
Torren slid a copper across the table, palmed from a drunk earlier that night. "Call it a start. There's more if your tongue gets loose."
Halrik pocketed the coin, his scowl softening. "Elara's no lady, not in the noble sense. She's a shadow broker—moves goods, secrets, whatever pays. Word is, she's tied to Baron Corwyn, a snake who'd sell his own kin for a fiefdom. He's been smuggling iron and wine past the Earl's tariffs, but lately, it's bigger. Weapons, maybe. Or something worse."
Torren's pulse quickened. Weapons smuggling could mean rebellion, or war. And Sir Aldric's letter? It might be the key to it all. "Where's Elara now?" he pressed.
Halrik shrugged. "She's a ghost. Shows up, does her deals, vanishes. Try the docks, or the Black Sow Inn. But watch your back, Fox. Corwyn's men are everywhere."
Torren nodded, filing it away. The Black Sow was a dive near the river, a smuggler's den. He was about to push for more when a new figure loomed over the table—a woman, tall and broad-shouldered, with a face like a storm cloud and a sword strapped across her back. Her leathers were patched but well-kept, and her dark braid swung like a rope as she glared down at Torren.
"You're in my seat," she said, her voice rough as gravel.
Torren's grin didn't waver. "Plenty of chairs, love. Why not join us? I'm Torren, by the way."She didn't smile. "Mira, captain of the River Wren. And I don't share tables with street rats." Her hand rested on her sword, casual but threatening.
Halrik chuckled. "Easy, Mira. The Fox is harmless. Mostly."
Torren raised his hands, all innocence. "Harmless as a lamb. You're a ship's captain? Impressive. Got any tales from the river? Maybe about a certain lady with a satchel?"
Mira's eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of interest. "You're bold for a rat. What's this lady to you?"
"Curiosity," Torren said, leaning back. "I like to know who's moving what in my city. Keeps me fed."
Mira snorted, but she sat, her sword clunking against the table. "You're no merchant, and you're no guard. What's your game, Fox?"
"Information," Torren said, his voice smooth. "And maybe a friend or two. You look like you know the river. Ever hear of Elara?"
Mira's jaw tightened, but she didn't look away. "Maybe. Why's it worth my time?"
Torren slid another copper her way, his last. "For your next ale. And my charming company."
She laughed, a short, barking sound, and pocketed the coin. "Elara's trouble. Runs cargo for highborns who don't want their hands dirty. I've seen her at the Black Sow, meeting men with too many swords. That's all you get for a copper."
Torren's grin widened. The Black Sow, again. He was onto something. "You're a gem, Mira. Next round's on me when I'm flush."
"Better be soon," she said, but her scowl softened, and her eyes lingered on him a moment too long. Torren noted it—trouble, yes, but the kind he liked.
He stood, ready to slip out, when the tavern door crashed open. Three men strode in, cloaks bearing the boar sigil of the Earl's guard. The leader, a bull of a man with a scarred jaw, scanned the room. "Torren Vale!" he bellowed. "Show yourself!"
The fiddler stopped, and the tavern went quiet. Torren's heart sank. Not again. He glanced at Halrik, who was already sliding under the table, and Mira, who looked ready to draw her sword. No time for talking this time—he needed out.
"Back door?" he whispered to Mira.
She jerked her head toward the kitchen. "Move fast, Fox."
Torren bolted, weaving through tables as the guards shoved through the crowd. He ducked into the kitchen, the air thick with grease and onion, and found a narrow door leading to an alley. He slipped out, heart pounding, and ran, the guards' shouts echoing behind.
The alley twisted into the tanners' district, where the stink of hides nearly choked him. Torren slowed, catching his breath. The Black Sow was his next stop—he'd find Elara, or at least her trail. But the guards were a problem. Why were they after him? The letter was gone, but someone thought he knew too much. Or maybe Elara had tipped them off. No, he decided. She'd run from the watch too. This was bigger—Baron Corwyn, maybe, or Sir Aldric himself.
He needed a plan, and allies. Mira might be useful—she had a ship, a sword, and a spark in her eye that said she didn't mind a bit of chaos. Lyssa, too, with her sharp mind and sharper tongue. And Elara—dangerous, yes, but Torren had a knack for turning danger into opportunity.
As he melted into the shadows, he didn't see the gray-cloaked figure trailing him, nor the second shadow, closer now, a dagger glinting in their hand. Varnholt's secrets were closing in, and Torren was right in their teeth.