Greyspire was alive before they even reached its gates.
The smell hit first—spice markets, forge smoke, the tang of sea air drifting in from the western docks. Then the sound, a roar of thousands of voices, clashing metal, clattering wheels on cobblestone, and the ever-present hawkers shouting prices above the chaos. Towering walls rose above them, each banded with iron and carved with old warding runes that seemed half ceremonial, half functional.
A line of caravans and travelers choked the main road leading to the gatehouse. Steel-helmed guards worked with brisk efficiency, inspecting packs, scanning writs, and waving the cleared through.
When it was their turn, a tall gate sergeant with a scar across his cheek blocked their path with an outstretched halberd."Names and papers."
Eliakim produced his Adventurer's Guild identification, the brass seal glinting in the morning sun. Gideon did the same, though his card looked as if it had been through a minor war.
The sergeant took Eliakim's first, reading over it with a squint. Then his eyes widened slightly."…Eliakim Darkmoor?"
"Yes," Eliakim replied, calm but measured.
The sergeant glanced at his fellow guards, a slow grin creeping onto his face."You're the one from the Golden Thief Bug incident. Didn't think I'd see you walking through my gate alive."
From behind Eliakim, Skyling gave a curious chirp. The guard's grin faltered when his eyes fell on her—avian creatures were rarely welcomed in Greyspire, especially ones of unusual breed.
"No exotic beasts inside city walls without a bonded permit," he began automatically.
Another guard, younger and sharper-eyed, leaned over."That's Skyling, right? The one that pulled civilians out during the Bug rampage? She's bonded to him."
The sergeant paused, then waved them through with a shrug."Fine. But keep her close. You've got a bit of a name here, Darkmoor. Try not to add to it."
The moment they stepped through the gates, the press of Greyspire swallowed them whole.
Merchants brushed past with carts piled high with glittering minerals from the northern ranges. Street performers danced in the plazas between patrols of the City Guard, each armored in lacquered black plate. Above the chaos, massive spires of glass and stone pierced the clouds, the upper tiers veiled in a permanent halo of mist.
Their destination loomed straight ahead: the Guild Enclave, a sprawling complex of towers and courts that dominated the heart of the trade district.
Inside, the air changed. The noise of the streets gave way to a layered hum—voices in measured tones, the rustle of paper, the clink of gold counters being tallied. Every corridor of the Enclave was lined with banners of the major guild factions, their colors vivid against the cold marble:
The Argent Pact, who controlled mercenary contracts in the northern provinces.
The Emberwright Syndicate, monopolists of all fire-forged goods.
The Crystal Ledger, who handled high-value magical trade… and made sure everyone paid for the privilege.
An ongoing argument drew their attention in the central chamber—a tense negotiation between two guildmasters over rights to a recent mineral discovery. Neither spoke above a polite volume, but the venom in their words was unmistakable. Here, open shouting was for amateurs.
Gideon muttered, "Feels like the whole world's trying to sell us something… or buy us."
Eliakim kept moving, scanning the crowd with quiet precision.
Then he saw it.
A wisp—barely there—threading between the market stalls of the inner court like smoke from a dying fire. It shouldn't have stood out in a city choking with scents and fumes, but it did. The black was wrong. It didn't drift with the wind; it moved with purpose, snaking along the edge of the square toward the Enclave's main doors.
He stopped in his tracks. Skyling followed his gaze, feathers rising along her neck.
"Eliakim?" Gideon asked.
But Eliakim didn't answer. Across the chamber, in the momentary gap between two passing scribes, Nathaniel Blackthorn stood in the Enclave's shadow. His eyes were fixed not on them, but on the same trail of black smoke.
The smoke coiled, shifting unnaturally, and then poured into the center of the chamber—forming a vaguely human shape. Its "face" was a hollow void, but the air around it carried the faint echo of words in a language no one here spoke.
Guild guards reacted instantly, spears lowered, but the thing ignored them. It turned toward Eliakim and Nathaniel as if recognizing them.
"Not here," Nathaniel's voice cut through the chamber, sharp enough to make two nearby scribes flinch.
The smoke being extended one formless arm, and for a heartbeat, Eliakim felt the faintest pull in his chest—like something inside him answering.
Skyling screeched, breaking the moment.
The shadow figure dissipated into black motes, scattering into the rafters and vanishing between the spire's upper beams. But the political room had already shifted—half the guildmasters were staring at Eliakim, whispering. He knew without a doubt that his name was about to become much more complicated inside these walls.