Eliakim pushed open the great oak doors of the Greyspire Adventurers' Guild. The warm lamplight spilled across the polished stone floor, and the smell of parchment, oil, and steel filled the air. His new clothes—freshly bought after the messenger's tactful suggestion—still felt stiff against his shoulders. They gave him the sharp, wise look he'd hoped for, without the needless frills of enchantment. His boots left faint marks of damp earth across the rugs as he crossed the hall.
The place was quieter than usual. Only a few hunters lingered over their ale in the far corner, and the scribe at the front desk glanced up just once before burying himself in a ledger. The hush was broken by raised voices coming from down the side corridor—one of them belonging to the Guild Officer.
Eliakim slowed his pace, catching the muffled edge of an argument.
"…you have no authority to meddle in my affairs!" a deep, measured voice snapped.
"Your affairs are spilling into our streets," the Officer shot back. "And now, our sewers. If we hadn't sent men—"
Eliakim edged closer until the officer's door came into view. The voices were clear now, and the words were heavy with restrained fury.
He stepped into the doorway just enough to see the other man in the room. The officer stood behind his desk, arms crossed, facing a tall figure wrapped in a deep crimson cloak lined with gold thread. The newcomer's posture was perfect, every movement controlled, his gloved hands resting on the desk's edge. A signet ring caught the lamplight with each gesture—three interlocked crescents, a crest Eliakim did not recognize. His jaw was sharp, his gaze sharper still.
"I've told you before," the noble said, voice like a blade's edge. "My business brings coin to your city. You'd do well not to interfere."
"When 'business' leaves dead creatures bleeding in our alleys, it becomes our business," the officer replied coldly.
The noble's eyes shifted toward the doorway, landing squarely on Eliakim. For the briefest instant, a flicker of recognition crossed his face, as though he had seen the boy somewhere before—perhaps on the day of the parade.
"Eliakim," the officer said, seizing the moment. "Back from your assignment?"
"Yes, sir," he answered evenly. "And I found something you'll want to see."
The noble's lip curled faintly. "Another sewer rat for your trouble?"
Eliakim ignored him, stepping forward to lay a cloth-wrapped shard on the desk along with his notes. The noble's gaze lingered too long on the fragment before sliding away.
"Blackened sigils in a ruined watchtower," Eliakim said. "Same smoke as before—the kind only I can see. Varek, the dire wolves, the Golden Thief Bug… it all leads back to the same hand. And there were footprints—fresh, but not from any guards or hunters."
"Marks," the noble murmured, "or superstition?"
"He's the one who's been in the thick of it, not you," the officer snapped.
As they spoke, movement in the far corridor caught Eliakim's eye. Through the slightly open door, beyond the lamplight's reach, a hooded figure stood half-hidden by a support beam. Motionless. Watching. The same stillness as the one in the ruined tower. The same silent presence from the parade.
The figure tilted their head just slightly toward him—a deliberate gesture—before fading back into the shadows.
The noble straightened his cloak. "Keep your… boy out of my affairs, officer. The city needs coin more than it needs ghost stories." With that, he turned and strode past Eliakim, the faint scent of spiced cologne trailing behind. His boots struck the floor in perfect rhythm, as if even his footsteps were trained.
"That man's trouble," the officer muttered once they were alone. "And not the kind you meet on a battlefield."
He closed the door, leaning forward across the desk. "I want you to quietly look into his movements. We can't accuse him without proof, and you—being an outsider—will draw less attention."
"And if I do?" Eliakim asked.
"Then I didn't send you."
The officer slid a sealed envelope across the desk. As Eliakim took it, the Collar of Veyrun at his thumb twitched. Once. Twice. The sensation pulsed like a heartbeat, in time with something out there in the city. A faint wisp of phantom smoke curled at the edge of his thoughts.
It was reacting again. Always closer when the trail led to whoever was pulling the strings.
Eliakim stepped out into the cool Greyspire night. The streets were almost empty, save for the occasional patrol. A distant bell marked the late hour. From a rooftop across the way, the hooded watcher was there again—silent, still—until the faintest curl of smoke rose and vanished into the darkness.
Eliakim adjusted the envelope in his hand, his mind already turning to the hunt.