The guild hall of Greyspire was quieter in the morning, its high-arched windows letting in long beams of pale light. Eliakim crossed the polished floor with the confidence of someone who belonged there, even if his badge still gleamed too new to most eyes.
The officer on duty was the same man who had first handed him the discreet mission—a wiry figure with sharp features and a voice that could cut through noise without raising its volume. But today, he wasn't alone.
A second man stood beside the desk, his silken black gloves spotless, his posture perfectly straight. His clothes were understated but unmistakably expensive. A noble's son, perhaps—or a court official. His eyes were like two calm wells, but Eliakim could see the faint ripple of interest when their gazes met.
"You returned sooner than expected," the officer said. "Report."
Eliakim recounted everything—his infiltration of the warehouse, the caged creatures, the organized nature of the infestation, and, finally, the sudden attack from the hooded man wielding the thorned whip.
The noble and the officer exchanged a glance. It was subtle, but in that one shared look Eliakim knew they recognized exactly who he was talking about.
"You've seen him, then," the noble murmured, his voice deep and smooth. "And you're still breathing. Fortunate."
"Who is he?" Eliakim asked.
Silence. The officer's expression didn't change, but there was weight behind his next words."That isn't something you need to know at this stage, Darkmoor."
Eliakim's eyes narrowed. "If he's connected to the infestations, then—"
"Enough." The officer cut him off, voice firm but not unkind. "You have your role. Keep to it. Cross him again, and do so with your eyes open."
The noble inclined his head slightly, almost in respect, before stepping away. As he passed Eliakim, he spoke so softly only the boy could hear:"Not all hunters know when they're being hunted in turn."
And then he was gone, leaving the air a little colder in his wake.
Eliakim didn't press further—not here, not with the officer's gaze telling him the walls had ears. He simply nodded, accepted his pay, and left the guild hall. But the rose-scented memory of that whip still lingered in his mind.
Across the city, the forge was alive with the rhythm of labor. Gideon stood at the anvil, sweat glistening on his brow, the twin axe now more magnificent than ever—a blend of its original Ironhew craftsmanship and the golden chitin reinforcement.
Darric Ironhew examined the weapon, turning it in the firelight. "A fine piece. But it's not finished."
Gideon frowned. "What do you mean? It feels ready."
Darric tapped the haft. "Balance is there. Edge is true. But to make it sing—to make it truly yours—it needs something more. A binding element."
Gideon leaned on the anvil. "What kind?"
"A mineral not found in easy reach," Darric said, his voice low as if telling an old secret. "A dual-element stone. Holds both fire and frost within it. When forged into steel, it changes the weapon's nature—it lets the wielder call on both heat and cold at will."
Gideon's eyes lit up. "Where do I find it?"
The blacksmith gave a faint smile. "It's not about where, lad. It's about when. The stone is born where the Emberroot Plains breathe against the Frostfang Hills—when the seasons fight each other. Only then will the mineral form."
"Sounds like you've seen it."
"Aye," Darric said, looking away into the fire. "Once. Long ago. And I'll tell you this—when you go looking, you won't be the only one hunting for it."
Gideon's grip tightened on the axe haft. "Then I'd better be ready."
Outside, the wind shifted, carrying the first whisper of cold from the north.
And somewhere in the Emberroot Plains, two elements were already beginning to clash.