The city of Silvergate was a place that thrived on secrets, a bustling port where conspiracies were traded as readily as spices, and rumors were a more stable currency than gold. In the deepest, smokiest corner of its most disreputable tavern, The Gilded Rat, a man named Corbin nursed a lukewarm ale and listened.
Corbin was a man made of cynicism and scar tissue. He was an information broker of the old school, dealing in blackmail, shipping manifests, and the quiet indiscretions of minor nobles. He had survived for two decades in this business by adhering to one simple rule: if a story sounded too good, too fantastical, or too interesting, it was almost certainly a lie.
And the story that had consumed the city's underworld for the past week was the most interesting one he had ever heard.
"I'm telling you, Grolf, my cousin's wife's brother is a guard in the Duke's household," a portly merchant was saying at the next table, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. "He said the entire legion sent to retrieve the knight was turned into garden gnomes. Gnomes! They've got them lining the Duke's rose bushes now."
His companion, a hulking mercenary with a face like a slapped-together rock pile, snorted. "Gnomes? You're a fool. I heard from a real source that the knight was a demon princess, and the inn is a gateway to the abyss. The Duke's men didn't get turned into gnomes; their souls were sucked out to power the damn thing."
Corbin took a slow sip of his ale, a smirk playing on his scarred lips. Idiots. The rumors grew more outlandish with every telling. Gnomes, soul-sucking abyssal gates… it was the kind of rot-brained fantasy that desperate people told themselves to make a boring world seem more exciting. The truth was always simpler, and usually involved someone getting paid off. The Duke had likely been outmaneuvered in some political scheme and had invented this wild story to save face.
Still, the sheer persistence of the tale was unusual. And the source of the most credible-sounding whispers was what truly intrigued him. They all trickled down from the same, shadowy organization: the network run by the master thief known only as Silas. Silas didn't deal in fairy tales. His information was notoriously, terrifyingly accurate. Which is why Corbin was here, waiting.
A figure slid into the booth opposite him, moving with a silence that was jarring in the noisy tavern. The newcomer was wrapped in a heavy, hooded cloak that concealed their features, a tell-tale sign of one of Silas's 'Whisper Agents.'
"You're late," Corbin grunted.
"Good information takes time to verify," a soft, feminine voice replied from beneath the hood. "You asked about the Carrington Fiasco."
"I asked what really happened," Corbin corrected. "I've heard enough stories about enchanted pastries and gnome armies to last a lifetime."
The hooded figure was still for a moment. "The story about the pastry," she said, her voice dropping lower, "is the most accurate part."
Corbin sighed, rubbing his temples. "Don't waste my time. I'm paying for facts, not fables."
"The facts are these," the Whisper said, her voice a low, steady murmur. "Duke Carrington and Archmage Theron Valerius laid siege to a previously unknown structure in the Greywood Mists. The Archmage, using a Tier-5 Mana Lance and multiple geomantic and entropic spells, failed to make a single scratch on the building's exterior. In response to a final, forbidden-class siege spell called the 'Sun's Anvil,' the structure did not retaliate with force. It legally repossessed the Duke's custom-built, model C-7 magic-tech carriage as compensation for attempted damages."
Corbin stared at her. The level of detail was insane. No one but the Archmage's inner circle should know the names of those spells. No one but the Duke's personal accountant should know the model number of his ridiculous carriage.
"That's impossible," he whispered, his skepticism warring with the cold, hard facts being presented.
"Is it?" the Whisper countered. "Duke Carrington has since put out three separate assassination contracts on the master craftsman who built the C-7, accusing him of installing a faulty defense system. Archmage Valerius has locked himself in his tower at the Royal Spire and has requisitioned every known text on dimensional law and ontological magic. These are not the actions of men who were simply outmaneuvered politically. These are the actions of men who have witnessed the impossible and are desperately trying to comprehend it."
The tavern's usual din seemed to fade away. Corbin leaned forward, his mind racing. A fortress that couldn't be destroyed. A power that didn't fight, but… enforced terms. The implications were staggering.
A grizzled mercenary at the bar, who had clearly been eavesdropping, slammed his mug down. "An untouchable safe house! By the gods, do you know what a place like that would be worth? You could hide anyone in there! Kings, popes, the world's most wanted man!"
"Or it's a trap that eats you alive," another patron countered, shivering. "A place that turns warhammers to bread could turn your bones to dust just as easily."
Fear and greed. The two great motivators. Corbin could feel the atmosphere in the tavern shifting. This wasn't just a story anymore. It was becoming a legend. A place of ultimate safety or ultimate doom. A new, unknown power had just placed itself on the world map.
Corbin looked at the hooded agent, his throat dry. He had to know. He pushed a small, heavy purse of coins across the table. "One last question. The name. What is this place called?"
The Whisper's hidden face seemed to smile. She took the purse, her fingers light and quick. She leaned forward, the smoky air swirling around her hood.
"The rumors call it the Ghost Inn or the Landlord's Fortress," she whispered, her voice barely audible over the tavern's noise. "But its real name, the one that will be worth a fortune a month from now, is The Threshold Inn."
The name hung in the air between them, feeling ancient and full of power. The Threshold Inn.
Corbin leaned back in his booth, the lukewarm ale completely forgotten. His world, which had been a predictable landscape of human greed and political maneuvering, suddenly had a new, impossible feature right in the middle of it. He didn't know if this Threshold Inn was a golden opportunity or a world-ending threat.
But he knew, with the certainty of a man who had staked his life on good information, that he had to find out.