"A single truth rarely wins a summit. Comfortable lies have a way of echoing far louder when power gathers. Only if you're lucky, you'll find someone brave — or foolish — enough to speak above the din."
— Archivist Vane
The heavy doors to Lord Oster's quarters slammed open.
Mia strode in first, her boots striking hard against the stone floor, followed closely by Siegfried. Lord Oster, seated behind a wide oak desk cluttered with correspondence and meticulous stacks of coinage, jolted upright in surprise.
"What is the meaning of this?" he barked, his voice bristling with indignation. "You believe you can storm in here as though—"
"You've been running illicit shipments through Wesmere," Mia cut in coldly, her words like steel. "We have the documentation. And we know the smuggling route runs eastward."
Oster's face flushed deep crimson. "Lies," he spat. "Slander! If I so much as—"
"You'll do nothing," Mia interrupted again, unmoved. "This isn't an accusation brought before your peers, Lord Oster. This is Warden business. You'll answer—or be detained."
His hands balled into fists atop his desk. "You've got no proof."
Siegfried stepped forward, placing a small bound ledger atop the desk with deliberate finality. "We do, in fact. A manifest bearing your signature, with dates that correspond to several irregular transactions."
Oster's eyes flicked to the ledger, then to Mia. "So that's what this is," he grunted. "You believe you've caught a corrupt nobleman with his trousers about his ankles, is that it?"
"I think," Mia said, her voice dangerously calm, "you're holding back information—information you'll give us now, if you've any wish to avoid this being dragged out at the summit."
The silence that followed was taut. Oster stared at them both, breathing hard, jaw working behind clenched teeth.
Then, at last, he sank back into his chair.
"Fine," he huffed. "I did it. I moved a few shipments—minor goods, nothing illicit, I swear… or at least, that's what I was told. It wasn't my idea, more of a side arrangement. I earned a modest profit, but I wasn't smuggling on my own behalf."
Mia folded her arms. "Then for whom?"
Oster hesitated. His gaze drifted past them toward the shuttered window.
"Whitlock," he said at last. "It was Elias Whitlock. We arranged the matter discreetly through a contact—one of his household servants. He said he required quiet routes for transport—never specified what, only that it needed to move without scrutiny, no questions asked. And I... agreed."
Siegfried's brow furrowed. "Where do you think we got the ledger from?"
Lord Oster's mouth opened, closed, then tightened. His eyes narrowed. "Apford," he spat. "It had to be her. I've no idea how she uncovered it, but I can't say I'm surprised. That woman sinks her claws into everything. She's been intent on seeing the Whitlocks buried since before Elias was out of shortpants."
Mia and Siegfried exchanged a glance. They didn't correct him.
Mia stepped forward, her tone leveled but firm. "Have you any other evidence you'd care to present at the summit? I suggest you do—it's in your best interest to lay everything on the table now. Unless, of course, you'd prefer to see Wesmere bound in chains."
Oster scoffed, but there was no fire behind it. "I am not afraid of the Wardens," he said, his words brittle, more an attempt to convince himself than anyone else. Yet, even as he spoke, he crossed the room to a cabinet, withdrew a thick, leather-bound volume, and dropped it onto the desk with a dull thud. "The servant's name is Harwick—an older man, grey hair. The goods were delivered to The Angry Hog Inn, just east of town. That ledger holds the rest."
He jabbed a pudgy finger toward the book. "Take it and get out of my office."
Mia nodded once, collecting the evidence. "We'll see you at the summit."
They turned and left, the heavy door closing behind them with a definitive thud.
The warmth of the midday air hit them as they stepped back out into the cobbled streets of Wesmere. Mia adjusted the documents under her arm. "Head to the east side," she said briskly. "Check out the inn. I'll hand these off to Geoffrey and see if Elias Whitlock has anything worthwhile to say for himself."
Siegfried nodded and turned to depart—only for Mia's gauntleted hand to close over his shoulder.
"Careful," she said, her voice lower now. "It's probably nothing, but if there's another ambush lying in wait, don't let it catch you off guard."
He glanced back at her, an annoyed expression on his face. His hand drifted to the hilt of his broadsword. "It would reflect rather poorly on an Albrecht to be bested by common street thugs."
Mia arched her brow. "Mercenaries," she corrected him. "Bloodlines don't block blades."
With a short nod, Siegfried turned and made his way down the winding road toward the east side of town.
The Angry Hog Inn lived up to its name—an honest-to-goodness hovel. The sign above the doorway creaked in protest, lopsided as it half-hanged from a rusted chain. The paint had long since peeled, the wood beneath weathered and warped by the elements. It looked like the kind of place that had more brawls than patrons.
The floorboards groaned as Siegfried stepped through the front door. The scent of sour ale clung to the air like smoke. A few heads turned—a pair of rough-looking men near the back table, hands never far from the hilts of their weapons. At the bar stood a thickset man with a salt-and-pepper beard and a balding crown.
The innkeeper looked up as Siegfried approached. "We're full," he said gruffly, noticing the warden insignia. "Kindly take your business elsewhere."
"I've not come seeking a room," Siegfried said, halting a few paces from the counter. "I'm here for the goods—you know precisely which ones I mean."
The innkeeper blinked. "I'm not sure I do—"
"Spare me the pretense," Siegfried interjected. "The smuggled crates—I want to see where they're being stored."
The innkeeper's polite demeanor vanished, replaced by a hard gaze as he leaned forward, elbows on the counter, arms crossed. "You've got the wrong place."
Siegfried stepped forward. "Do not compel me to draw my blade."
That got a reaction. The two armed men in the back stood, lurching toward him with deliberate languidness. Not charging—just letting him know they were there.
The innkeeper gave them a quick, cautioning look. "Easy now, boys," he said. Then, turning back to Siegfried: "A Warden would never—"
Siegfried's fingers curled tighter around the hilt of his broadsword. His voice dropped low. "Would never what?"
The innkeeper swallowed. One of the thugs, either too stupid or eager to back down, stepped forward anyway.
Siegfried angled his body, hand prepared to unsheathe his sword—a silent dare.
The thug hesitated mid-step at the sight of his stance. The innkeeper let out a long breath, hand raised to halt the advance. "Alright," he said, "no need for blood on the floor."
He leaned back against the wall. "There's a cellar, behind the kitchen. Under the second barrel—the big one. Loose floorboard. That's where it's kept."
Siegfried held his gaze a moment longer, then nodded once and stepped around the bar without another word. He didn't look back. If they followed, they'd regret it.
He stepped into the kitchen, eyes settling on a cluster of barrels in the corner. One stood out, slightly larger than the rest. Moving to its side, he braced his shoulder against it, grunting softly as he slid it aside. Beneath it lay a warped floorboard, its edge already pried loose. He knelt, pulled it free, revealing a concealed hatch, an iron ring flush with the dusty planks.
The hatch groaned open as he pulled the ring, stale air spilling out—heavy with the faint sting of mildew and rot. Siegfried carefully descended, one hand grazing the stone wall for balance as the stairs creaked and shifted beneath him. The cellar greeted him with silence, empty save for bare walls, packed dirt, and the musty smell of a place long abandoned. He scanned the corners, examining the area more closely, but found nothing—not even a scuff mark to suggest any recent activity. Either the information was wrong, or someone had gotten spooked, most likely due to the summit. They'd likely swept the place clean the moment whispers became names.
A small thaumaturgic lamp hung near the stairs, half-buried in shadow and covered in dust. Siegfried thumbed the copper switch—its glow dim, just enough to press back the dark. He moved slowly, sweeping the cellar again with a soldier's caution, checking the corners, the joints in the stone, and the floor for any disturbance. Nothing. Just the echo of his own breath and the low, steady hum of the lamp. He exhaled through his nose and turned toward the stairs.
Then he stopped.
A line from Lady Apford's letter surfaced in his memory. Their parcel was left in the cellar, just as discussed. The remainder is to follow the old root path eastward. He turned, the lamp's glow stretched across the rough masonry of the eastern wall. At first glance, it was no different from the rest of the room: worn stone, mortared seams and cobwebs clinging stubbornly to the upper corners.
He stepped closer and ran a hand along the wall, fingers probing the gaps, feeling for irregularities. Stone, stone, stone—then a faint indent gave beneath his palm. He paused, adjusted his grip, and pressed again. Something shifted.
A hidden seam split open along the edge of the wall, followed by the soft grind of gears buried deep within the masonry. With a hiss of settling dust, a section of the wall folded inward, revealing a narrow passage beyond. The tunnel stretched into darkness, its walls reinforced with wooden beams like the supports of a crude mine shaft. Roots jutted from the ceiling in places, and the air that drifted out was cool and damp.
Siegfried stared into the passage for a moment, the faint glow of the thaumaturgic lamp struggled to penetrate the gloom ahead. However long this tunnel had been here, it hadn't been designed for convenience—only necessity, with cramped walls and uneven footing. It was a smuggler's path, meant to conceal the comings and goings of illicit contraband.
He stepped forward, the hidden door whispering shut behind him with a soft click.
The tunnel stretched on, its damp walls closing in the farther he walked. He took great care not to disturb the loose dirt beneath his boots, minimizing any noise. After a while, he noticed a faint glow flickering ahead—lamplight. Siegfried halted. He quickly switched off his lamp and knelt, placing it gently against the wall.
Voices echoed from deeper within, low and indistinct, muffled by distance and the curve of the tunnel. He crept forward, spine low, breath held. Then—ping. A sharp metallic note rang out, unnaturally clear.
He froze.
A heartbeat later came the screech—a rising whine, high-pitched and piercing. A well hidden thaumic sensor. His teeth clenched. The voices ahead cut off.
No time now.
Siegfried surged forward, fingers locking around the hilt of his broadsword. With a sharp exhale and a flash of motion, he boat-stepped down the passage—his figure blurring as he launched ahead in a whirlwind of speed. He couldn't let them escape.
He landed in a half-crouch, boots kicking up a swirl of dust as he slid into the chamber. The glow of lanterns cast long shadows across the walls, illuminating crates stacked high and barrels tucked into alcoves. He had found what he was searching for.
Sudden movement caught his attention as one of the smugglers barreled toward him, axe raised high. Siegfried didn't hesitate. His broadsword flashing upward in a smooth arc, catching the axe on its downswing and knocking it wide. He twisted his wrist, turned the blade, and drove the pommel hard into the man's jaw. The smuggler crumpled in a heap, limp before he even hit the floor.
He didn't spare the man a glance, instead returning to a ready stance.
His eyes swept the room—just in time to catch a glint from the shadows. A crossbow bolt sang through the air. It was too late to dodge, but he didn't need to. Spira pulsed through his limbs, allowing him to stance shift with unnatural speed. His blade snapped up, reflecting dully in the light of the lamps, deflecting the bolt mid-flight. It clattered harmlessly to the ground, sliding across the stone with a sharp rattle.
An echo of a footstep behind.
He turned his hips and stepped aside, letting the spear thrust sail past his ribs. The attacker stumbled from the miss, off balance for a second too long. Siegfried's blade hooked the shaft of the spear and yanked it low, dragging the smuggler forward. His boot connected with the man's chest and sent him sprawling backward—straight into a stack of crates that splintered with a loud crack.
The crossbowman fired again. Siegfried lunged sideways, the bolt skimming past his shoulder. He followed through, boat-stepping and closing the gap in an instant.The smuggler fumbled to reload, but Siegfried's blade struck the crossbow from his hands before he could finish, then swept upward in a clean arc. The hilt cracked under the man's chin, sending him reeling. With one final spin the broadsword's flat slammed across his temple—dropping him.
Silence.
The only sound now was the distant whine of the still-blaring alarm, its echo reverberating down the tunnel.
Siegfried exhaled slowly and turned away from the last of the fallen smugglers, his bootfalls quiet against the packed ground as he made his way back to the center of the chamber. He took a moment, gaze flicking once more across the room, wary of further assailants—satisfied that was all of them, he slid his broadsword back into its sheath with a muted click. Now came the tedious part. Three unconscious men. His eyes landed on a coil of rope draped over a nearby crate. With a quiet sigh, he grabbed it, rolling his shoulders as he knelt beside the nearest smuggler.