The Vein's tunnels twisted in ways Alaric could no longer map in his head.
Corren led the way without hesitation, torchlight casting flickering shadows across the carved walls. At times, they passed through open caverns bustling with trade; other times, they walked in oppressive silence, the air heavy with damp stone and the faint tang of blood.
They had been walking for almost an hour before Corren finally slowed.
"This is it," he murmured, nodding toward a carved arch ahead. The stone was inlaid with strips of gold, though most had been pried out. Two guards stood at the entrance, faces hidden behind bronze masks shaped like snarling wolves.
"The Bandit-King doesn't see just anyone," Corren added, "and he doesn't like being bored. So keep your mouth sharp and your eyes sharper."
Alaric frowned. "And if I don't?"
"Then he'll smile at you," Corren said. "And you won't like what comes after."
The guards let them through without a word, their gaze lingering on Alaric.
Beyond the arch, the space opened into a vast hall.
It was like stepping into a dragon's hoard.
Pillars wrapped in silks of mismatched colors. Tables piled with silverware and goblets, each from a different place and time. Faded banners from old wars hung alongside the pelts of beasts Alaric couldn't name. In one corner, a heap of weapons lay — swords, axes, spears — all looted, none matching.
And at the center, lounging in a chair too crooked to be called a throne, sat the Bandit-King.
He was younger than Alaric had imagined — perhaps only a few years older than himself — but carried himself with the ease of someone who knew every eye in the room was watching him. His dark hair was tied back with a strip of red cloth, and his coat was stitched from pieces of other garments, each one stolen or claimed from someone defeated.
When he smiled, it was with the slow certainty of a predator that didn't need to chase to catch its prey.
"Corren," the Bandit-King drawled, voice smooth but edged. "And you've brought me… a boy."
Corren inclined his head. "Not just any boy. This is Alaric."
The Bandit-King's eyes flicked to him, sharp and assessing. "And what makes an Alaric worth interrupting my afternoon?"
Alaric met his gaze. "I'm not here to entertain you."
The Bandit-King's smile widened. "Good. I hate clowns. But I like people who think they can talk to me like that. It means I get to decide if they're brave or just stupid."
Laughter rippled through the hall — not warm laughter, but the kind that made the hair on the back of Alaric's neck rise.
The Bandit-King rose from his chair and descended the short steps toward them. His boots were polished black, but the soles were worn thin — a thief's boots, made for quiet movement.
He stopped a few feet away, looking Alaric over like a merchant weighing goods. "You've got a look to you. Like someone who's run through fire and lived. Tell me, do you smile when you kill?"
Alaric didn't answer.
The Bandit-King chuckled. "That's all right. I do."
Without warning, he clapped Alaric on the shoulder and turned away, gesturing for them to follow.
"I like to know my guests," he said, leading them through a side passage. "The Vein isn't run by those who fight hardest. It's run by those who can make others want to fight for them. That's where the smile comes in."
Corren shot Alaric a warning glance.
They entered a smaller room — less gaudy, but no less dangerous. A round table sat in the center, scattered with cards, dice, and small piles of coins. A half-dozen men and women lounged around it, each armed and watching with the alertness of predators.
The Bandit-King sat, tossing a dagger idly from hand to hand. "Let's play."
Alaric frowned. "Play?"
"A game," the Bandit-King said. "Simple rules. Win, and you leave with something you didn't have before. Lose… and I take something from you. Something worth taking."
"What kind of game?"
The Bandit-King grinned. "One where the rules change when I say so."
It started with dice.
The others at the table rolled easily, laughing and trading insults. Alaric rolled a seven, then an eleven, then another seven. The Bandit-King rolled once — a perfect twelve — and grinned like a man who already knew how the night would end.
They switched to cards.
Corren played cautiously, but Alaric noticed something: the Bandit-King never seemed to look at his hand. He played based on the others' reactions, reading them like open books.
And every time he won, his smile grew just a little wider.
By the third game, Alaric understood.
It wasn't about winning. It was about seeing. About making the others believe they'd been seen too deeply to hide.
When it was Alaric's turn, he didn't look at his cards either. He looked at the Bandit-King.
And he smiled.
The Bandit-King's eyes narrowed — just slightly — before he returned the expression. "Interesting."
They played one last round. This time, Alaric won.
The table went quiet.
The Bandit-King leaned back in his chair, considering him. "So, the boy bites back. I like that."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small object — a coin, blackened with age, stamped with the image of a serpent coiled around a sun. He slid it across the table.
"Your prize," he said.
Alaric picked it up. The metal was warm, almost uncomfortably so. "What is it?"
"Call it… an invitation," the Bandit-King replied. "There are places in the Vein you can't walk without it. Now you can. If you live long enough to try."
Corren shifted uneasily. "And what do you want in return?"
The Bandit-King's smile returned — the same one he'd worn when they walked in. "Oh, I'll collect. Sooner or later."
When they left the room, Alaric could still feel the warmth of the coin in his palm.
Corren waited until they were back in the main hall before speaking. "You handled yourself well. But don't mistake that smile for friendship. The Bandit-King doesn't have friends. Only people he hasn't had reason to kill yet."
Alaric looked back once, just in time to see the Bandit-King watching from his crooked throne, smile fixed in place.
It wasn't a friendly smile.
It was a promise.