The Drowning Barrel sat in Greyhaven's gut like a tumor—three stories of rotting wood and broken dreams wedged between a tannery and a abandoned slaughterhouse. The kind of place where questions were cheaper than ale and twice as bitter.
Riven pushed through the door just past midnight, the rain finally tapering to a cold drizzle that clung to skin like oil. Inside, the air was thick with pipe smoke, unwashed bodies, and the particular stench of desperation that came from people who'd sold everything they had and were now negotiating the price of what remained.
Perfect.
A dozen eyes tracked him as he moved to the bar. Most looked away quickly—survival instinct recognizing a predator even when they couldn't articulate why. A few held his gaze longer, the kind of hard-eyed criminals who'd killed enough to think themselves dangerous.
They'd learn better if they pushed it.
The bartender was a scarred dwarf named Grimm who'd lost his left eye and three fingers to a blood-debt collection fifteen years back. He took one look at Riven and his remaining hand drifted toward the cudgel under the bar.
"We don't serve your kind here."
"My kind?" Riven's voice was soft. Dangerous soft.
"Whatever the void made you." Grimm's jaw tightened. "This is a neutral house. No Covenant business. No Northern business. No shadow-touched killers making corpses in my establishment."
Riven placed a gold crown on the bar. Then another. Then a third. More money than the Drowning Barrel made in a month.
"I'm not here to kill anyone," he said. "Just buying information. And maybe some of that piss you call whiskey."
Grimm stared at the coins. His fingers twitched. Behind him, bottles clinked as someone shifted in the shadows—probably his wife, Kessa, who kept a loaded crossbow trained on troublemakers from a hidden alcove.
"Information about what?"
"Covenant convoy. Moving in six days. I need the route, the cargo manifest if possible, and anything you know about the Crimson Jackals."
The bar went quiet. That kind of quiet that meant everyone was listening while pretending not to.
Grimm's eye narrowed. "You're planning to hit a Covenant shipment protected by Vex Tallow's boys? That's not information, friend. That's a suicide note."
"The gold's real. The question is whether you're businessman enough to take it."
For a long moment, Grimm just stared. Then he swept the coins off the bar into his palm with practiced efficiency. "Upstairs. Third door. Someone there might know someone who knows. I don't ask details and I don't remember faces."
"Smart dwarf."
"Smart enough to still have my other eye." Grimm poured a shot of something brown and probably toxic. "This one's free. You'll need it."
Riven took the shot, felt it burn down his throat. The void corruption made alcohol mostly pointless—his enhanced metabolism burned through it too fast—but the ritual mattered. Showed he wasn't completely removed from human customs.
He climbed the stairs, noting the loose third step, the blood stains on the landing that someone had tried to scrub away, the murder-holes in the ceiling where defenders could rain crossbow bolts on anyone storming up. The Drowning Barrel pretended to be a simple tavern, but it was built like a fortress.
Third door was reinforced oak with iron bands. Riven knocked twice, paused, knocked once more. The code Grimm's eyes had signaled when he mentioned the room.
"It's open," came a woman's voice. Amused. Dangerous.
Riven entered.
The room was better appointed than he'd expected—actual furniture instead of crates, candles instead of tallow lamps, and a woman who looked like she'd been carved from marble and taught to smile like a knife.
She lounged in a high-backed chair, one leg crossed over the other, wearing black silk that probably cost more than the entire tavern. Her hair was white-blonde, her skin pale as death, her eyes the color of frozen mercury. Elven. But not like the wasting exiles in the Whispering Forests. This one was still vital, still sharp.
"Eclipse," she said, tasting the name. "The Northern Ember's lost child. I wondered when you'd crawl back to civilization."
Riven's hand moved to his blade. "You know me."
"I know of you. There's a difference." She gestured to a chair across from her. "Sit. You're making me nervous, and I do terrible things when I'm nervous."
He sat, but kept his hand near his weapon. "You have a name?"
"Several. You can call me Sylus." Her smile was all teeth. "I'm what you'd call an information broker. I know things. Sell things. Occasionally arrange for things to happen to people who've made poor life choices."
"Like hitting Covenant convoys?"
"Like that, yes." Sylus produced a thin black cigarette from somewhere, lit it with a spark of curse-flame that danced on her fingertip. "Grimm sent word you were asking dangerous questions. I appreciate dangerous questions. They're more profitable than safe ones."
"The convoy," Riven said. "What do you know?"
"Everything. The route, the cargo, the protection detail, probably what Vex Tallow had for breakfast." She took a long drag, exhaled smoke that smelled like burnt roses. "Question is what you're willing to trade for it."
"I have gold."
"Gold's boring. I have gold. What I don't have is entertainment." Her mercury eyes fixed on him. "So here's my offer. I give you everything you need to intercept that convoy. In exchange, you let me watch."
Riven went still. "Watch?"
"I've heard stories about Eclipse. The void-touched assassin who killed a blood-court champion in single combat. Who walked through a wraith-infested ruin and emerged carrying a demon's head. Who made the Northern Ember's kill-list look like a children's counting rhyme." She leaned forward. "I want to see if the stories are true. I want to watch you work."
"No witnesses."
"I'm not a witness. I'm a... connoisseur." Her smile widened. "Besides, if you're planning to wage war on The Covenant, you'll need friends. I could be a very useful friend, Eclipse. I know things. Secret things. Ugly things. Things that could help you hurt them where it matters most."
Riven studied her. Every instinct screamed trap. Information brokers didn't offer help—they sold it. And the price was always higher than advertised.
But she was right about one thing: he couldn't do this alone. Not against an organization that spanned the continent. He'd need contacts. Resources. People who understood the underworld's architecture.
"Just watch," he said. "No interference. No warnings to anyone. You compromise the operation and I'll kill you regardless of what you know."
"Fair." Sylus stood, moved to a cabinet, withdrew a rolled map. She spread it on the table between them. "The convoy leaves from here"—she tapped a location in the Heartlands—"travels west toward the Iron Coast. They'll use the Old Mining Road through the Thornback Hills. Isolated. Perfect for ambush if you know where to hit them."
"How many guards?"
"Vex Tallow plus eleven Crimson Jackals. All veterans. All enhanced with minor blood-runes. They're escorting three wagons, each one warded against scrying and forced entry."
"What's in the wagons?"
Sylus's smile faded slightly. "That's where it gets interesting. Official manifest says 'alchemical supplies.' But I have a source who saw them loading the cargo." She paused. "Children. Maybe twenty of them. Bound for Morghul's blood-sport arenas in the Ashen Plains."
Something cold settled in Riven's chest. "Children."
"The Covenant's most profitable export. They train the ones with talent as fighters. The rest... entertainment for people with specific appetites." She watched his reaction. "Does that change your calculations? Make you more eager? Or does it complicate things—knowing that if you hit the convoy too hard, those children might die in the crossfire?"
Riven was quiet for a long moment. Tactical problems scrolled through his mind. Three wagons. Twelve enhanced mercenaries. Unknown wards on the cargo. And twenty innocent lives caught in the middle.
He could kill the mercenaries. That was easy. But keeping the children alive while doing it? That required precision. Planning. Possibly help.
"You said you wanted to watch," he said slowly. "Can you do more than watch?"
Sylus raised an eyebrow. "Depends on what you're asking."
"The children. When the fighting starts, someone needs to keep them safe. Get them clear of the kill zone." He met her mercury eyes. "You want to see me work? Earn it. Help me save them."
For the first time, Sylus looked genuinely surprised. "You actually care. How... inefficient."
"Do we have a deal or not?"
She studied him for several heartbeats. Then laughed—a sound like breaking glass. "You're either the most honorable monster I've ever met, or the most monstrous hero. I haven't decided which." She extended her hand. "Deal. I'll secure the children. You paint the road red with Crimson Jackal blood."
Riven took her hand. Her skin was cold as ice. The handshake of predators recognizing mutual benefit.
"The convoy moves in six days," she said. "I'll meet you at the ambush point. Don't be late, Eclipse. I hate missing good theater."
She released his hand, rolled up the map, and handed it to him. "One more thing. Vex Tallow isn't just muscle. He's a true believer. Thinks The Covenant brings order to chaos. He'll die before surrendering, and he'll take as many with him as possible."
"Good," Riven said. "I'm not offering surrender."
Sylus's smile returned. "This is going to be beautiful."
Riven left the way he came, the map tucked inside his coat, a new alliance forged in the darkness. Grimm pretended not to see him leave. Kessa's crossbow tracked him until the door closed.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The streets gleamed like wet obsidian under lamplight.
Six days until the convoy. Six days to prepare. Six days until he showed The Covenant that their untouchable empire had cracks.
And he was the wedge that would split it apart.
Riven disappeared into the shadows, already planning the ambush.
The Thornback Hills were about to run red.