Date: March 30, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
Ligra lived by a schedule, like a huge clock wound by a master's hand. But deep within these clocks, there were always those who watched over the oiling of the gears. Horn, the senior patrolman of the northern sector, sat in his small office at the "Onion Yard" guard post. The room was saturated with the smell of old parchment, cold iron, and strong tobacco. On the rough oak table before the veteran lay two items: a report on yesterday's elimination of the poachers and a heavy copper token stamped with the image of a soaring eagle—the symbol of Ligra's city guard intelligence service.
When Dur entered the office, Horn didn't even look up. He was methodically sharpening a short dagger on a wide whetstone. The sound of "wheek-wheek" cut through the silence like a warning.
"Sit down, forest man," Horn finally set aside the dagger and fixed Dur with his steely gaze. "Yesterday's business in Rot Hollow caused a stir at the Administration. The Agrim Estate doesn't like it when strangers butcher their sheep, but they like it even less when their guard can't find the culprits for months. You made my men look like fools, but you did their job. And in Ligra, that's valued more than politeness."
Horn slid the copper token towards Dur.
"Official freelance tracker contract. Three silver a month—that's the base. For every saboteur's head, every dangerous beast's hide, every Alvost cache you find—bonuses. You're granted the right to carry weapons in any quarter except the Estate's Inner Circle, and the right to demand assistance from any junior patrolman."
Dur looked at the token. The eagle looked back at him. This wasn't just metal—it was the "Shadow of the Eagle," a status that in Ligra separated a valuable specialist from a potential victim.
"Why me?" Dur asked. "You have hundreds of guardsmen."
"I have hundreds of soldiers who know how to march and beat their shields in formation," Horn cut him off. "But I don't have a single one who can hear the moss breathe under a poacher's foot. Lately, things have been unsettled on the outskirts. Alvost—the Alliance of Eastern States—aren't fools. They won't go for the walls. They send 'Shadows.' Small saboteurs who poison wells, burn warehouses, and recruit the disgruntled on Grumbler's Street. I need eyes in the forest. Your eyes."
Dur didn't take the token immediately. He felt Torm standing invisibly behind him, shaking his head disapprovingly. "Freedom is when you have no master, boy." But Ligra wasn't the forest.
"I need to consult," said Dur.
Horn smirked almost imperceptibly. "With that clever lad who overturned the cabbage cart so you could get away? Maël, was it?" Horn leaned forward, his voice dropping. "I'm an old dog, Dur. I know this city. And I know who Maël is… at least, I know he's not who he pretends to be. But I don't care, as long as you're useful to Ligra. Go. You have until sunset."
Returning to the attic, Dur found Maël studying a map of the sewage canals. Seeing the copper token in Dur's hands, Maël froze. His face went pale for an instant, then a complex range of emotions crossed it: from fear to cold, calculating interest.
"Shadow of the Eagle…" Maël whispered, taking the token and biting it. "Horn isn't joking. This is the elite of the 'externals.' Dur, do you realize what this means? It's not just a job. It's a pass behind the scenes of Ligra."
"He wants me to catch Alvost saboteurs," said Dur, sitting down opposite. "He knows about you, Maël. Well, or suspects you're not just a market thief. He's offering protection in exchange for my skills."
Maël began pacing the room, nervously rubbing his chin. "Protection… In this city, protection is the most expensive commodity. If you agree, you'll become part of the system. But—and this is important—a freelance part. You'll be on the border."
He suddenly stopped and slapped his palm on the table. "Accept! This is our best chance. Listen to my plan: you're Horn's 'eyes.' You walk the forests, patrol the outskirts, receive official information about troop movements and Estate orders. And I… I'll be your 'city agent.'"
"Agent?" Dur repeated.
"Exactly!" Maël's eyes lit up. "You're a hunter; you see tracks on the ground. But you don't understand what those tracks mean in politics. If Horn sends you to look for saboteurs near the southern warehouses, it means something big is being prepared in the north that he wants to hide. I'll analyze your data. We'll know the Agrim plans before they're read out in the square. We'll get resources, money, and legal status, while remaining… ourselves."
Dur looked at his friend. At that moment, Maël didn't look like a hunted beast. He looked like a chess player who had seen a path to victory in a hopeless game. His mind, used to intrigue and calculation, was already slotting Dur into a complex survival scheme.
"Are you sure this is safe for you?" Dur asked. "Being so close to the guard?"
"The closest place to the light is the deepest shadow," Maël replied seriously. "If I'm your official assistant, a 'scribe' or 'supplier,' I'll be the last person they look for among criminals. We'll hide in plain sight."
Dur slowly nodded. Maël's logic was ironclad, even if it smacked of urban cunning. He himself needed the silver to buy proper gear, and the token to avoid feeling like an outsider at every encounter with a patrol.
"Alright," said Dur. "I'll take the contract. But remember: if Horn or the Agrim family demand something from me that goes against my conscience… I'll leave. And the token won't help them."
"Agreed," Maël extended his hand. "Welcome to the service, tracker. Let's go to the Worn Cauldron and celebrate this. We need to get used to our new roles."
That evening, Dur returned to Horn. He silently took the token and attached it to his leather belt. The copper glinted dully in the torchlight.
"Smart choice," Horn nodded. "Your first task will be tomorrow. Word has it someone's 'stirring' in the old drainage tunnels under the eastern wall. Alvost saboteurs love places like that—damp, dark, and it stinks. Check it all out. But don't be a hero—if you find them, come back and report. I need live information, not a dead hero."
Dur left the guardhouse, feeling the unfamiliar weight of metal on his hip. Above Ligra, a lone eagle circled, scanning for prey in the twilight. Dur looked up and adjusted his bow. Now he was no longer just Dur from the forest. He was a Shadow, who had begun to serve Order in order to preserve his Freedom.