We entered Cerasis at dusk.
The city sprawled before us like something alive, vast and breathing and impossible to comprehend all at once. Stone buildings rose three and four stories high, their facades carved with symbols and crests I didn't recognize. The streets were paved, not with packed dirt but with actual cobblestones, smooth and fitted so precisely they barely rattled under the horses' hooves. People filled the thoroughfares, more people than I'd ever seen in one place. Merchants closing their stalls, workers heading home, children darting between carts while their mothers shouted warnings.
The air smelled different here. Smoke, yes, but also bread and roasted meat and something floral that might've been perfume. And underneath it all, the faint stench of too many people living too close together. Waste and sweat and the river that cut through the city's heart.
I kept my hand on my sword hilt.
"Stay close," Joss muttered, riding beside me. "This place is a maze."
He wasn't wrong. The streets twisted and branched, narrow alleys splitting off in directions that seemed to lead nowhere. Buildings leaned toward each other, blocking out what little light remained. Every corner held shadows, every doorway a potential threat.
Sael led us through the press, his men forming a loose escort around our group. He moved with the confidence of someone who knew these streets, who'd walked them enough times to understand their rhythms. We turned south, away from the main thoroughfares, into districts where the buildings grew shabbier and the people watched us with wary eyes.
"The River Gate district," Sael said over his shoulder. "We'll find lodging near here. Somewhere defensible."
"And the Split Coin?" I asked.
"Three streets south, like the letter said. But we're not going tonight. Too exposed, too easy to walk into a trap." He glanced back at me. "We rest, we plan, we go in the morning when we can see what we're walking into."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to go now, while we still had momentum. But he was right. We were exhausted, our horses tired, and stumbling into the lower districts in the dark was asking to be ambushed.
"Fine," I said. "But first light. No delays."
"First light," Sael agreed.
We found an inn called the Cracked Bell, a squat building with narrow windows and a stable yard that could be secured. The innkeeper, a broad woman with flour on her apron, took one look at Sael's coin and asked no questions. She showed us to rooms on the second floor, small but clean, with doors that locked and windows that overlooked the street.
I dropped my pack on the bed and crossed to the window. Below, the city continued its evening rhythm. Lamplighters moving down the street, tavern doors opening to spill light and noise, a group of young men laughing as they passed.
So much life. So much motion.
And somewhere in it, the people who'd sent mercenaries to kill us.
A knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts. I opened it to find Maer standing in the hallway, his satchel still slung over one shoulder.
"Mind if I check your shoulder?" he asked.
"It's fine."
"Humor me."
I stepped back and let him in. He set his satchel on the table and gestured for me to sit. I did, shrugging out of my coat while he unwrapped the bandage.
The wound had healed cleanly, the edges pink but no longer inflamed. Maer cleaned it anyway, his touch careful and methodical.
"You've been lucky," he said. "No infection, no complications. Another few days and you won't need the bandage at all."
"Good."
He tied off a fresh strip of linen and sat back. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine."
"Ryn." He caught my gaze. "You just rode into the city where people want you dead. You're about to walk into a tavern looking for a broker who might be a trap. And you're sitting here pretending none of it bothers you."
"It doesn't."
"That's not healthy."
"It's survival."
He was quiet for a moment, then reached out and took my hand. His fingers were warm, calloused from years of work, steady in a way that made something in my chest tighten.
"When this is over," he said quietly, "when you've done what you came here to do, I want you to let me take care of you. Not your wounds. Not your mission. Just you."
"Maer..."
"I know. After. You keep saying after. But I need you to promise me there will be an after. That you're not going to throw yourself into this so completely that there's nothing left when it's done."
I looked at him. At the worry in his eyes, the way his thumb brushed across my knuckles.
"I can't promise that," I said.
"Try."
"Why does it matter so much to you?"
"Because I'm falling for you," he said simply. "And I don't want to watch you burn yourself out for a cause that might not even care if you survive."
The words hit me harder than I'd expected. Not because they were surprising, but because they were true. Because somewhere along the road, between the bandages and the campfires and the quiet moments when he'd offered comfort I hadn't asked for, I'd started to feel something too.
And that terrified me.
"I don't know how to do this," I said quietly. "I don't know how to be what you're asking for."
"I'm not asking you to be anything. I'm just asking you to consider it. To think about what you want, not just what you think you're supposed to do." He lifted my hand to his lips and kissed my knuckles, the same gesture from the night before. "That's all. Just think about it."
He stood, gathering his satchel, and walked to the door. He paused there, looking back.
"Get some rest, Ryn. Tomorrow's going to be difficult."
Then he was gone, leaving me alone with the ache in my chest and the weight of words I didn't know how to answer.
***
I didn't sleep well.
The inn was noisy, sounds of the city filtering through the walls. Voices, laughter, the distant clatter of carts on cobblestones. Every sound pulled me half-awake, my hand reaching for my sword before I remembered where I was.
By the time grey light crept through the window, I was already dressed and armed.
I found Joss in the common room downstairs, eating bread and cheese while he cleaned his blade. He looked up when I sat down.
"You look terrible," he said.
"Good morning to you too."
He pushed a plate toward me. "Eat. We have a long day ahead."
I picked at the food, my stomach too tight to manage much. Across the room, Sael sat with his men, speaking in low tones. Maer appeared a few minutes later, his expression carefully neutral when he met my eyes.
"Everyone ready?" Sael asked, standing.
"Ready," I said.
"Then let's go. And remember, we're looking for information, not a fight. If things go wrong, we leave. Understood?"
I nodded, though we both knew that if things went wrong, leaving might not be an option.
We walked through the morning streets, fewer people out now but enough to provide cover. The Split Coin sat exactly where the letter had said, a narrow building wedged between a pawnbroker and a closed-up shop. The sign above the door showed a coin split down the middle, one half gold, one half silver.
"Subtle," Joss muttered.
Sael posted two of his men outside, then gestured for the rest of us to follow him in.
The interior was dim and smelled of stale beer and old smoke. A handful of patrons sat scattered at tables, their conversations dying as we entered. Behind the bar, a thin man with greying hair watched us with the careful neutrality of someone who'd learned not to ask questions.
"Help you?" he asked.
"We're looking for Darrik Venn," Sael said.
The bartender's expression didn't change. "Don't know anyone by that name."
"We were told he operates here. Brokering deals. Grey market work."
"Like I said, don't know him."
I stepped forward, pulling the Rothera token from my pocket and setting it on the bar. It caught the dim light, the fox gleaming dull gold.
"Tell him someone wants to talk about these," I said.
The bartender stared at the token for a long moment. Then he picked it up, turned it over, and set it back down.
"Wait here," he said.
He disappeared through a door behind the bar. We stood in silence, the other patrons pretending not to watch us while doing exactly that. Joss shifted his weight, hand near his sword. Maer moved closer to me, his presence a steady warmth at my back.
After what felt like an eternity, the bartender returned.
"Upstairs. Third door on the right. He'll see you. But only you," he said, looking at me. "The rest stay here."
"Not happening," Joss said immediately.
"Then he won't talk."
I looked at Joss, then at Maer. "I'll be fine."
"Ryn—"
"If he wanted me dead, there are easier ways. I'll shout if I need you."
Joss looked like he wanted to argue, but he nodded. Maer's jaw tightened, but he stepped back.
I walked to the stairs and climbed, the wood creaking under my boots. The hallway at the top was narrow and dark, doors on either side. I counted to the third and knocked.
"Come in," a voice called.
I opened the door.
The room was small, furnished with a desk, two chairs, and a window that overlooked the alley. A man sat behind the desk, maybe forty, with dark hair and a face that had seen its share of fights. He looked me over, taking in the Warden insignia, the sword at my hip, the way I held myself.
"You're the one causing trouble," he said.
"I'm the one looking for answers."
"Same thing, in this city." He gestured to the chair across from him. "Sit. Tell me what you want."
I sat, keeping my hand near my sword. "I want to know about the Cast-Runner. About the payments. About who's giving the orders."
Darrik leaned back, his expression unreadable. "That's a lot to ask."
"I have a lot to offer."
"Like what?"
"Information. Evidence. A chance to get out before everything collapses."
He laughed, short and bitter. "You think you're going to collapse the houses? You're one Warden with a folio. They'll bury you before you get within a hundred feet of the court."
"Maybe. But they'll have to work for it. And in the process, a lot of names are going to come out. A lot of people are going to get exposed. Including brokers who thought they were safe."
His smile faded. "What do you want?"
"The Cast-Runner. His real name. Where he operates. Who he reports to."
"And if I tell you?"
"Then when the houses fall, you won't fall with them."
Darrik studied me for a long moment. Then he stood and walked to the window, looking down at the alley below.
"His name is Maros Welle," he said quietly. "He's a logistics man. Moves payments, hires people, coordinates shipments. Works for whoever pays, but lately it's been Rothera and a few of the other houses. Ministers too, though he's careful about that."
"Where can I find him?"
"You can't. He moves constantly, never stays in one place more than a few days. But he has a runner network. Couriers who carry messages and payments. If you can intercept one of them, you might be able to trace it back."
"How?"
"Watch the courier stations. The ones near the palace district. That's where his runners operate. They use coded messages, specific times, specific routes. If you're smart, you can follow the pattern."
I absorbed that, filing it away. "What else?"
"The ministers. Three of them are involved. Maybe more, but three I know for certain. They're taking payments to delay garrison patrols, to redirect resources, to make sure the border stays chaotic." He turned to look at me. "You want to bring down Rothera? Start with them. Cut off their access to the Crown, and the rest will crumble."
"Names?"
He shook his head. "That's all you get. I've already said too much."
"Why are you helping me?"
"Because I'm tired," he said simply. "Tired of watching people die while the houses play games. Tired of being part of it. Maybe you'll fail. Probably you will. But at least you're trying."
He walked to the desk and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. "Courier routes. Times. Patterns. Use it carefully. If Maros figures out you're watching, he'll disappear, and you'll never find him."
I took the parchment and stood. "Thank you."
"Don't thank me yet. You still have to survive long enough to use it."
I left the room and walked back downstairs, the parchment heavy in my pocket, the weight of new information settling over me like a cloak.
Joss met me at the bottom of the stairs. "Well?"
"We have a name," I said. "Maros Welle. And we have a lead."
"What kind of lead?"
"The kind that might get us killed."
Joss almost smiled. "My favorite kind."
We walked out of the Split Coin and back into the morning streets, the city waking up around us, and I thought about courier routes and minister names and the web I was about to step into.
Somewhere in this city, Maros Welle was moving payments and coordinating chaos.
And I was going to find him.