The lanterns outside the alley flickered low as I followed Aile through the narrowing streets. Her stride was purposeful, boots striking cobblestone like she owned the rhythm. I kept my eyes on her back, letting her lead, even as doubt crawled in under my skin.
We were heading toward the same tavern I'd already visited.The same moss-slick stairs.Same half-rotted door.
I'd been here. Asked. Paid. Got nothing.
She was bluffing. She had to be. She—
"You're thinking I'm full of it," Aile said without turning around.
I opened my mouth to deny it—but I didn't. Because she wasn't wrong.
"I've been here already," I said. "They told me nothing. No trace. No noise."
She gave a short, dry laugh. "Yeah. Because you used the wrong knock and the wrong code."
I stopped.
"What?"
She finally turned, raising an eyebrow. "You think the real guild just lets anyone in with a password you got off some street rat during a Red Fang chase? No. That was the surface layer. The pretty illusion for desperate kids and washed-up spies."
My brows furrowed. "So what, this place has... layers?"
"Of course it does," she said, reaching the tavern door. "You think the people who traffic in empire-breaking secrets hand out access like free samples? There's a deeper circle. You need the real phrase to even touch it."
She knocked.
Three beats. One pause. Two slow taps.
The rhythm was... different. Subtle. Intentional.
The door creaked open.
Same barkeep. Same tired face. But this time, he didn't grunt or wave us off. His eyes flicked to Aile, narrowed, then widened just slightly.
She didn't speak right away. Just reached into her coat and dropped a small coin on the bar. Not gold. Not silver.
It was obsidian. With a single carved symbol: an eye, half-closed, half-watching.
She leaned forward and whispered three words.
I couldn't hear them.
But the change was instant.
The barkeep's demeanor shifted like a mask being pulled off. The slouch vanished. The weariness disappeared. He straightened, and when he looked at me, it wasn't with the vague indifference of a tired man.
It was the sharp, assessing stare of a predator behind polished glass.
"Name?" he asked.
"Aile's friend," she said, before I could open my mouth. "One-time inquiry. No trail. He doesn't owe yet."
The man glanced at the coin again. "...Vouched for?"
"I said what I said."
A pause.
Then, with a slow nod, the barkeep reached under the bar and pressed something.
A soft click echoed from the wall behind the ale racks.
Aile stepped toward it, pushing aside a fake panel I hadn't noticed. A narrow stairway curved down into darkness. Not stone—but steel. Reinforced. Old-world tech, hidden under old-world wood.
She looked back once. "Coming?"
I hesitated.
Then I followed.
Each step creaked less than the last, the air changing as we descended—cooler, sharper, dense with a sterile hum. The scent of iron, dust, and something electric hit my nose like ozone after lightning.
Aile didn't speak again until we reached the door.
Or rather—the wall.
It looked solid. Like every other slab of underground foundation.
Until she pressed her palm against the stone and said, "Riddles in daylight leave blood at dusk."
The wall shimmered.
Then vanished.
And behind it—light.
Rows of screens. Scrolls. Glowing runes were pinned between data slates. A long desk. And two figures already waiting there—one masked, one smiling far too calmly for a place like this.
This wasn't just an information hub.
It was a nerve center.
As I stepped into the room, the air shifted.
Not from magic. Not entirely. More like… pressure. A kind of tension that settled into my skin and made me acutely aware of how loud my heartbeat suddenly was.
The space ahead wasn't large, but it was dense. Every surface was covered in layers—notes, crystals, inked maps, torn pages with dates and faces scratched in the margins. Glass vials pulsed with low light from their racks, and strips of enchantment paper fluttered, seemingly untouched by breeze or breath.
Then, with no warning, someone appeared.
One second, the room was still.
A young woman. Late teens, maybe early twenties. Skin the shade of storm-burnished bronze. Sharp eyes. Sharper still was the way she stood—like a person who had never once feared being in the wrong place at the wrong time.
She wore a deep crimson coat, sleeveless and etched with silver wiring that flickered with faint, shifting runes. Her arms were bare, save for a single glove on her left hand—a glove that looked too heavy for fabric, too sleek for armor.
Her eyes—one brown, one pale gray—took us both in at once.Measured. Dissected. Decided.
Her voice was silk stretched tight over steel.
"Names," she said flatly. "And what do you want?"
I stiffened, but before I could answer, Aile shifted beside me and said under her breath, just loud enough for me to hear.
Aile muttered something under her breath. I barely caught it.
"…of course she'd be here today."
I glanced over. "You know her?"
She didn't answer me directly.
Instead, in the lowest whisper I'd heard from her yet, Aile said:
"That's Horus. Head of the guild."
I blinked. "She's… she looks younger than you."
Aile didn't smile. "Then don't say that out loud."
I turned back to the young woman, Horus. She was still watching. Still waiting. Not impatient. Just… unconcerned.
She would wait five seconds or five hours. We weren't the ones in control here.
"I'm Eamond," I said slowly. "I'm from Saint Marla Orphanage."
For the first time, her expression changed.
Not by much—just a flicker. The slight widening of her eyes. The breath she didn't quite take.
But it was enough.
I don't think Aile noticed.
But I did.
A beat passed.
Then Horus tilted her head, recovering her neutral tone.
She stepped forward slightly, her presence cutting through the room like a scalpel. "And what information does a Saint Marla orphan think he can afford?"
Her tone wasn't mocking.
It was curious. Coldly curious. Like she was already calculating what I might be worth, and whether it was worth wasting words.
"I'm looking for someone," I said. "A boy. Kidnapped. Yesterday, during the festival. No trail. No witnesses. No magic residue."
Horus tilted her head. "The boy you're looking for wasn't taken by coincidence."
The words hit me harder than I expected.
My shoulders straightened, breath catching in my chest. "You know where he is?"
"I know who took him," she replied, voice even.
I didn't dare speak. I waited. I needed her to say it.
She did.
"He was mistakenly captured by the House of Lilith."
Aile swore under her breath. "Shit."
I stared at Horus, not fully understanding. "Who?"
"The number one slave trading ring in the empire," Aile answered for her, her tone uncharacteristically cold. "Discreet. Ruthless. Old money. They deal in nobles, mages, rarebloods—anything with a pulse and a price tag."
My stomach twisted. The air felt heavier. Thicker. I couldn't breathe properly.
Horus stepped closer, continuing calmly. "Your friend wasn't the target. But he was in the wrong place. Wrong seat. So they took him."
"You're sure?" I asked, hoarse.
"I'm never unsure," she said simply. "And if he's still alive—which he is—he won't be for long. House of Lilith moves merchandise quickly. Erases trails faster."
I didn't realize my hands had balled into fists. "Then how do I stop them? How do I find him?"
"That's the problem," Aile muttered. "They don't have one base. They operate out of multiple black sites. Each hidden. Each guarded like a royal vault. It's not like Red Fang. You can't just punch your way in."
The dread curled inside my chest like smoke.
This was too big.
Too fast.
I wasn't prepared for this.
I swallowed hard. "So… what do I do?"
Horus didn't answer with words. She reached into the folds of her coat and produced a single envelope, sealed in crimson wax marked with the same half-eye symbol as the obsidian coin from earlier.
She held it out.
"Open this when you're back home. With everyone present."
I didn't move.
"What's in it?"
Her lips curved, just slightly. "The location of the site he's being held in… and a list."
I frowned. "A list?"
"A list of people who would very much like to see the House of Lilith gone."
That made me blink.
"You mean… people who'll help?"
"People who'll benefit," she corrected. "That's close enough."
I reached forward and took the envelope. It was heavier than it looked.
Heavier not just with paper, but with everything it might mean.
I hesitated. "And the cost?"
Horus studied me with those two-toned eyes.
Then, surprisingly, she shrugged.
"First-timers get one free."
I stared.
Aile did too. "What?"
"Let's call it… a test run," Horus said, turning away and already sifting through another tray of documents. "Besides. He's from Saint Marla."
I didn't know what that meant. But Horus did.
And she didn't explain further.
Instead, she looked over her shoulder.
"Aile."
"Yeah?"
"Give him the password."
"…Seriously?"
Horus didn't answer. She didn't need to.
Aile sighed like a cat being told to fetch something and waved me toward the door. "Come on. Before she changes her mind."
We walked back up in silence, the corridor returning to normal behind us as the false wall shimmered shut.
When we emerged back into the tavern cellar, the door clicked softly behind us.
No one else was there.
Even the bartender was gone.
Outside, the alley was still dusky with late festival twilight. The air smelled like fried batter and distant smoke.
Aile walked a few paces before speaking again.
"That was weird," she muttered.
"What?"
"She never gives extra info," Aile said. "Not unless you ask. And she never gives anything away for free. Hell, she didn't even glare at me this time."
I looked down at the envelope in my hand.
Yeah.
It was strange.
But I didn't have time to question it.
Not now.
Garret was alive.
And now, maybe—just maybe—we had a way to bring him home.
No matter what it took.