The Iron Bridge spanned the murky River Tain, its rusted arches looming like the ribs of some ancient beast. By night, Varnholt's underbelly came alive here—smugglers bartering stolen wine, thieves fencing pilfered silver, and lovers stealing moments in the shadows. Torren Vale crouched behind a stack of crates near the bridge's northern end, his breath misting in the chill air. The letter was gone, handed to Sir Aldric's man, but Lyssa's words echoed in his head: smuggling, Lady Elara, the Iron Bridge. If there was a deal happening tonight, Torren meant to see it—and maybe profit from it.
The moon hung low, half-hidden by clouds, casting jagged shadows across the cobblestones. Torren adjusted his cloak, tucking his dagger closer. He wasn't much for fighting—words were his weapon—but the Iron Bridge was no place for an empty hand. He'd slipped out of the weavers' quarter after dusk, dodging the city watch's lanterns. The bridge was a half-hour's walk, and he'd spent it mulling over Lyssa's warning. Deep waters. She wasn't wrong, but Torren had never been one to stay dry.
A flicker of movement caught his eye. Two figures approached the bridge from the southern bank, cloaks billowing in the wind. One was broad-shouldered, moving with a swordsman's swagger; the other was slighter, hooded, their steps quick and cautious. Torren's gut told him this was no lovers' tryst. He edged closer, keeping low, his boots silent on the damp stones.
The broad man stopped at the bridge's center, his hand resting on a sword hilt. "You're late," he growled, his voice carrying over the river's gurgle.
The hooded figure tossed back their cloak, revealing a woman's face—sharp cheekbones, dark hair spilling over her shoulders. "Blame the watch," she said, her voice low, melodic, but edged with steel. "They're sniffing around the docks tonight."
Torren's breath caught. Lady Elara? She didn't look like a noble—her cloak was plain, her boots scuffed—but her bearing screamed confidence. He leaned forward, straining to hear.
"Got the goods?" the man asked, glancing over his shoulder.
The woman—Elara, if that was her—patted a satchel at her hip. "Enough to make the Baron happy. You got the coin?"
The man snorted. "You'll get it when we see the cargo. No tricks, Elara."
Torren's mind raced. Cargo, coin, a baron. This was no petty smuggling run—nobles were involved, maybe even Sir Aldric. The letter must've been a piece of this puzzle, and Torren had handed it off like a fool. But he wasn't out of the game yet. If he could learn more—names, places, plans—he could sell the information to the right buyer. Or blackmail the wrong one.
He crept closer, using the crates as cover, when a pebble skittered under his boot. The sound was faint, but Elara's head snapped toward him, her hand darting to a slender blade at her waist. "Who's there?" she called, her voice sharp enough to cut glass.
Torren froze, his heart pounding. The swordsman spun, drawing his blade with a rasp of steel. "Show yourself, or I'll gut you like a fish!"
Torren's mind whirred. Running would get him chased; fighting would get him skewered. Time for his best trick: talking. He stood slowly, hands raised, his grin as easy as if he were haggling over apples. "Easy, friends," he said, stepping into the moonlight. "Just a lost soul looking for a warm bed. Didn't mean to interrupt."
The swordsman advanced, his blade gleaming. "Lost, eh? You've got a thief's look about you."
"Thief?" Torren clutched his chest, feigning hurt. "I'm wounded, sir. I'm but a humble peddler, seeking the night market." He glanced at Elara, catching her gaze. Her eyes were green, sharp as emeralds, and they sized him up like a hawk eyeing a mouse.
"Peddler, my arse," the swordsman growled, but Elara raised a hand, stopping him.
"Let him talk," she said, her voice calm but curious. "What's your name, peddler?"
"Torren, milady," he said, bowing with a flourish. "Torren Vale, at your service." He kept his tone light, but his eyes flicked to her satchel. Whatever was inside, it was worth killing for—he could feel it.
Elara stepped closer, her blade still drawn but lowered. "You're no peddler," she said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. "You're the Fox of Blackthorn Alley. I've heard of you."
Torren's grin faltered, but only for a heartbeat. She knows me? That was bad—or very good. "Flattered, milady. My reputation precedes me, though it's mostly lies. I'm harmless as a kitten."
"Kittens have claws," Elara said, her smile sharpening. "What are you doing here, Fox?""Taking a stroll," Torren said, shrugging. "The bridge has a fine view." He nodded at the swordsman, who still looked ready to carve him up. "Your friend here seems tense. Bad night?"
The swordsman spat. "I'll show you a bad night—"
"Enough, Gav," Elara snapped, her eyes never leaving Torren. "He's not worth the blood. Not yet." She sheathed her blade, but her posture stayed taut, like a bowstring. "Get lost, Torren Vale. This isn't your game."
Torren bowed again, backing away. "As you wish, milady. Enjoy your evening." He turned, his heart racing, but he hadn't taken three steps when a new sound stopped him—boots, heavy and many, clattering from the southern bank. Torchlight flickered, and shouts broke the night. The city watch.
"Damn it," Elara hissed, grabbing her satchel. "Gav, move!"
The swordsman cursed, sprinting toward the northern bank. Elara followed, but her eyes flicked to Torren, a split-second calculation. "You," she said. "Run, or you're dead."
Torren didn't need telling twice. He bolted after her, his legs pumping as the watch's shouts grew louder. "Halt! In the Earl's name!" The guards were closing, their mail clinking, swords drawn. Torren glanced back—six men, maybe seven, with torches and steel. No chance of talking his way out of this.
Elara led them into a warren of alleys beyond the bridge, her movements swift and sure. Gav lumbered behind, his sword still out. Torren kept pace, his mind spinning. Why's she letting me follow? Either she trusted him, or she planned to slit his throat once they were clear. Both seemed equally likely.
They ducked into a narrow street, the walls so close Torren's shoulders brushed stone. Elara stopped, pressing against a wall, her breath steady despite the run. "Quiet," she whispered, as the watch's boots echoed past.
Torren crouched beside her, his own breath ragged. Gav glared at him, but Elara's hand on the swordsman's arm kept him still. In the dim light, Torren saw her face clearly—fierce, beautiful, and dangerous. Definitely trouble, he thought, but his grin crept back. Trouble was his specialty.
"Who are you really?" Elara asked, her voice low. "And don't lie. I hate liars."
Torren weighed his options. The truth was risky, but so was lying to a woman with a blade. "I'm a man who knows things," he said. "And I know you're mixed up in something big. Smuggling, maybe? With a baron pulling strings?"
Her eyes flashed, but she didn't deny it. "You're too curious for your own good, Fox."
"Curiosity's kept me alive," Torren said, leaning closer. "Maybe I can help you. For a price."
Elara laughed, soft and sharp. "You're bold. I like that. But you're in over your head." She stepped back, her satchel clutched tight. "Stay out of my way, Torren Vale. Next time, I won't be so kind."
She turned to leave, Gav following, but Torren called after her. "What's in the satchel, milady? Gold? Secrets? A girl's got to share if she wants to keep friends."
Elara paused, glancing back with that dangerous smile. "Keep pushing, Fox, and you'll find out the hard way." She vanished into the shadows, Gav at her heels.
Torren stood alone, the watch's shouts fading in the distance. He'd lost the letter, but he'd gained something better: a name, a face, and a lead. Lady Elara was no ordinary smuggler, and the Iron Bridge was just the start. He'd find her again, and when he did, he'd be ready to play the game.
Unseen, the gray-cloaked figure watched from a rooftop, their sword glinting faintly. Another shadow lingered in the alley, closer now, their eyes fixed on Torren. The night was far from over.