Chapter 87: A Broken Sanctuary
Convincing Elara was its own kind of battle, one fought with words and withering disdain instead of Ki and clubs. I found her in her workshop, already packing her precious tools with a furious, protective precision.
"So the great adventurer returns," she said without looking up, carefully wrapping a set of calibrated drafting compasses in soft cloth. "Having single-handedly turned my professional life into a traveling circus. I assume you are here to inform me of another catastrophic change of plans?"
"We're leaving Silveridge," I said, getting straight to the point. "Tomorrow. We're taking the project and going back to Torak."
That finally made her stop. She looked up, her pale eyes wide with a fresh wave of horror. "Torak? The grimy frontier fortress? The city that was just overrun by beasts? You cannot be serious. The humidity there will ruin the vellum! The light is all wrong for detailed work!"
"It's that, or we move to a remote estate where Silas Vane's men can find us easily, cut off from any help," I countered, my patience thin. "Or we stay here and wait for the next 'catastrophic change of plan' to involve a firebomb through your window."
She opened her mouth for a scathing retort, but I cut her off.
"Listen," I said, my voice dropping, forcing a calm I didn't feel. "I didn't ask for this either. I took this job to get away from trouble, not dive headfirst into a new pile of it. But it's here. And my only priority right is making sure this project, our project survives. That means putting it somewhere with high walls, vigilant guards, and a guild full of people who know how to fight. That place is Torak."
She scoffed, turning back to her packing. "You overestimate your importance. This is a squabble between a petty crime lord and a pompous art collector. It will blow over."
"It won't," I said firmly. "Kael, the information broker, confirmed it. Silas is backed by nobles from the capital. This is bigger than Silveridge. They see what we're making as a threat. They won't stop."
The mention of capital nobles gave her pause. Her hands stilled on a jar of rare indigo pigment. The political dimension was a language she understood better than street violence.
"Evander has agreed," I pressed, seeing her hesitation. "The funding continues. The partnership stands. The only thing that changes is your workshop address. You'll have better security. More stability. And you'll be away from the man who just tried to have you kidnapped."
She was silent for a long moment, her gaze distant. I could see the calculations running behind her eyes, the risk to her person, the threat to her work, the sheer, unprofessional inconvenience of it all.
"Fine," she bit out, the word a surrender that clearly cost her. "But I am not traveling in a common merchant wagon. I require a sprung carriage for my tools. And I will not be rushed. The pigments are volatile."
A wave of relief washed over me. "A sprung carriage. I'll speak with Laron."
Leaving her to her meticulous, resentful packing, I headed back to The Grumbling Gryphon. The plan was set. We would leave at first light, putting the scheming mess of Silveridge behind us. We'd return to Torak not as refugees, but as entrepreneurs. We'd have the guild's protection. The political tension there was a distant thunderstorm compared to the hurricane I'd just escaped.
The thought was a comfort as I pushed open the door to the inn.
That comfort shattered the moment I stepped into the common room. It was too quiet. The innkeeper was nowhere to be seen. A chair was overturned near the staircase.
My heart hammered against my ribs. I drew a dagger, my Ki flaring to life, sharpening my senses. I took the stairs two at a time, my boots silent on the wood.
The door to our rented rooms was splintered, hanging from a single hinge. I pushed it open slowly, my stomach clenching into a cold, hard knot.
The room was a wreck. The table was smashed. Our packs had been ripped open, clothes and belongings strewn across the floor. The straw from Briza's mattress was scattered like snow. There was no sign of Laron or Briza.
My eyes scanned the devastation, and they landed on the only thing that seemed deliberately placed. A single sheet of high-quality parchment, weighted down in the center of the floor by a heavy, black iron coin. A coin stamped with a coiled serpent.
I walked over, my movements slow and deliberate, the silence screaming in my ears. I picked up the parchment. The message was written in a sharp, elegant script.
**---**
Kaizen,
A pleasure meeting you. It seems our business is unfinished. Your associates are now my guests. They will be treated with the hospitality they deserve, for now.
You have something I want. The artist. The quill. The stories. Bring them to the Serpent's Coil by midnight.
Come alone. If I see a single city guard or one of Evander's lackeys, I will start sending you pieces of your friends. I do so hate messy negotiations.
Don't keep me waiting.
\- S.V.
**---**
The parchment crumpled in my fist. Rage, cold and absolute, flooded the hollow spaces the Ki Blast had left inside me. He hadn't just threatened me. He'd taken them. He'd taken Laron, the nervous, optimistic rabbit who just wanted to share beauty with the world. He'd taken Briza, who was still weak, who had just taken a blow for us.
He'd taken my people.
My plan to run, to find a safe harbor in Torak, lay in ashes around me. Silas Vane had just proven that there was no running. The board was everywhere. And he had just captured my queen and rook.
I stood in the center of the wrecked room, the note clutched in my hand, the serpent-coin cold against my palm. The sun was setting outside the broken window, painting the sky in bloody hues.
Midnight at the Serpent's Coil.
I was out of options. Out of time. And out of patience.
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