They rode into Aramoor before sunrise. Torren's coin pouch was nearly empty. Zee hadn't spoken in two days.
Wanted posters followed them now-crude sketches pinned in corners of taverns, stamped with Syndicate blood-seals. The price was going up.
"We need cover," Torren muttered. "And work. Or we'll end up on the wrong end of a rope."
Aramoor wasn't safe, but it wasn't loyal either. The Cult had no temples here. The Syndicate ran no streets. House Vestule did.
The manor stood at the end of a narrow rise-stone, steel, no guards at the gate. Just a single servant waiting with a note.
"The Lady will see you now."
Inside, the hall was quiet. No paintings, no banners. Just trimmed stone and a long table with untouched wine.
She sat at the far end. Sharp eyes. No time wasted.
"You're Zee," she said. "And your friend's the loud one."
Torren gave a dry smile. "Depends on who's asking."
"I need something recovered," the Lady said, sliding a folder across the table. "The Cult holds an artifact. Old. They worship it like it breathes."
Zee flipped the folder open. Layouts. Guard rotations. A rough sketch of a circular chamber.
"You've worked with the Cult before?" Torren asked.
"I avoid them. They're not predictable. That's why I'm hiring you."
Zee studied the documents in silence.
"You won't go in alone," the Lady continued. "Your support is waiting outside. She's handled work for us before."
"Name?" Torren asked.
"Sevi. She doesn't like long introductions."
The meeting ended without a handshake. As they left the manor, a woman leaned against the gate post, arms folded, short blade at her side.
"You're late," Sevi said.
Torren blinked. "We're right on time."
"Then you're slow. Let's go."
She turned and walked without waiting.
Zee adjusted the folder under his arm, said nothing, and followed.