The clang of metal on metal rang like a heartbeat from Darric Ironhew's forge. Inside, Gideon worked shirtless under the heat, hammer rising and falling in steady rhythm. The twin axe lay across the anvil, its head partially dismantled, golden chitin plates from the Golden Thief Bug already fitted into a reinforcing spine.
"You've a steady hand for a fighter," Darric said, turning a billet in the fire. "Branik taught you?"
"Not the forge work," Gideon admitted. "But I know my way around a weapon's balance."
Eliakim stood in the doorway, arms folded, watching sparks leap into the air. "Branik Ironhew of Yldrahollow is a good man. I take it you're family?"
Darric nodded without looking up. "Great-uncle. Haven't seen him in decades. Ironhew blood still knows its own."
Gideon grinned faintly. "Guess that makes me a pupil of the family, then."
Eliakim stepped forward. "You'll stay here, Gideon. Learn. Build your weapon. Your earnings are yours—use them as you wish. But when I come back, I expect the axe to be ready for whatever's next."
The boy smirked. "I'll make it sing."
Eliakim left the heat of the forge for the sharp air of Greyspire's streets, where noise from vendors and cart wheels masked his thoughts. His covert orders from the guild—no insignia, no public notice—burned in his pocket.
The task was simple in wording, perilous in truth: track the origin of the infestations without tipping off the controlling hand. His first lead lay in the Eastern District warehouses, near the dock roads where goods entered without much scrutiny.
He blended into the crowd, his new earth-toned clothes giving him the look of a young apprentice rather than a hunter. His stride was unhurried, but his eyes missed nothing: watchmen pacing too deliberately, crates stacked where there was no trade scheduled, faint scratches on a shutter that spoke of clawed creatures forcing entry.
He ducked into a side alley and found a locked gate. A quick check confirmed the hinges were rusted—but the padlock was new. Someone had secured this place recently, and not for honest storage.
The Collar of Veyrun twitched under his sleeve.
In the distance, a muffled chittering echoed, low and rhythmic. Not sewer vermin—this was something else, something organized. Eliakim crouched, pulling a small length of copper wire from his pouch, working the lock with careful precision.
It gave way with a soft click.
Inside, the smell hit him first—a mix of damp straw, rotting meat, and something acrid like burning resin. The warehouse was dark save for slivers of light between warped boards, revealing movement in the far corner.
Cages. Half a dozen of them. Two empty. Four still holding their occupants—rats the size of dogs, snakes with scaled hoods, and something that looked disturbingly like the early stages of a chitin-plated beetle.
Eliakim's breath was steady. Whoever was breeding these wasn't doing it for coin alone. This was a buildup, a preparation.
A creak above made him glance upward—just in time to see a shadow shift across the rafters.
Before he could react, a line snapped through the air—crack—and coiled around his wrist. The cord was dark green, almost black, and bristled with small, wicked thorns. It smelled faintly of crushed rose stems.
From the shadows, the hooded man dropped, landing with catlike grace, one hand gripping the whip as it tightened. His movements were quick, precise, meant to bind and disable rather than kill.
Eliakim didn't fight the pull head-on; instead, he pivoted with it, letting the momentum draw him closer to the man before twisting his wrist sharply to loop the whip's end around a jutting beam. The sudden snag forced his opponent to shift his stance.
The hood tilted just enough for Eliakim to catch a glimpse of the jawline beneath—young but hardened, the faintest scar across the cheekbone.
The whip uncoiled in a fluid motion, the thorns missing Eliakim's sleeve by an inch. The man was fast—faster than anyone Eliakim had met outside of trained assassins.
They circled each other in the dim light, Eliakim keeping his distance with sharp footwork, his eyes scanning the environment for an advantage. The hooded figure made no sound save for the low rasp of the whip sliding through his gloved hand.
Then, as suddenly as he had appeared, the man vaulted backward into the shadows, whip snapping free with a hiss. Eliakim darted forward, but the rafters were empty.
The only trace left was a faint smear of rose scent in the air… and the knowledge that this stranger had chosen not to finish the fight.
The mission had only just begun, but the city's shadows were already watching him closely.
And in the forge across town, Gideon brought the twin axe down in a ringing strike, each blow unknowingly counting down the moments until their paths would converge again.