Torik woke with a start, arm twitching toward the knife at his hip.
Still there, good.
The light bleeding through the cracks in the boarded window told him more than a bell ever could. Morning. Bright, golden, and far too loud.
He sat up slowly, joints protesting, chest aching like it had been kicked by a horse. Which, in fairness, wasn't far off.
He hadn't meant to fall asleep.
The room was empty. A broken chair. A stack of crates. Dust spiraling through sunlight like drifting ash. No sign of Mox.
"Mox?" he called, voice rough. "You around?"
Nothing.
His chest tightened. Not with pain, but with something worse.
He left. Took off while you were distracting the search crew.
He had taught the boy as such, take what's yours and consider everything yours.
At least this betrayal could be credited to his own teachings.
Torik stood slowly, biting back a groan. He threw up his hood and slipped out into the alley.
The city wore a different face in the daylight.
Torik kept to the shadows, weaving between narrow walkways and tattered cloth awnings. The guard presence had thinned but not vanished. He spotted soldiers near the fountain square, another pair on the old bridge. No patrols down here yet, no one ever patrolled the Wedge this deep, but people were talking.
"Some noble's artifact, they say."
"Stolen, right from the keep!"
"They say it was a spirit. Or a demon."
"More likely one of Varlon's bastards. That whole crew's cursed."
Torik pulled his coat tighter. Every whispered word felt too loud. Too close.
Just get to the alley. Just get to Varlon. If I'm lucky Mox is still there and I can get my reward.
The alley was empty.
That was the first thing Torik noticed. No lookout. No hunched thug smoking by the door. No one sharpening a knife on the stoop.
He frowned. Strange. Even with the city in chaos, Varlon always had someone outside.
Still, the door stood where it always had. Paint peeling. Rusted hinges. Brick wall with that same old missing stone two rows up. He glanced around once more, then knocked. Soft. Just in case.
No response.
He tried the handle.
Unlocked.
He pushed it open.
Silence.
The interior of the hideout smelled of old sweat and damp wood. No voices. No clatter of dice or half-hearted arguments over split coin. No one by the hearth.
Torik stepped inside slowly. The boards creaked beneath his boots.
Chairs were overturned in the common room. One table had been split down the middle, looked like it had been kicked. A bottle lay shattered near the wall. The hearth was cold.
Something was wrong.
He moved down the hall toward Varlon's back room, every step careful. The door at the end was closed. He knocked.
Once.
Twice.
Nothing.
He hesitated. Then turned the knob.
It wasn't locked either.
Varlon's room was empty.
Not just vacant but cleared.
Drawers open. Shelves half-emptied. A travel pack missing from the hook. The desk stripped. A map torn from the wall. On the floor, a pile of broken parchment tubes, like someone had yanked everything out in a hurry.
Torik stepped inside. "You really ran," he muttered. "After all that."
It made sense, didn't it? If word was out, if Varlon caught wind of how much of a commotion he had caused, he'd vanish. Cut his losses. It was what a smart man would do.
Varlon ran a no questions asked business, it meant he took the job and didn't ask why. Why would he care, it's not like he would be the one actually doing the job. Of course, now a job much above his station had bit him in the ass.
Torik moved toward the desk. Maybe there was a note. Something.
And that's when the world went dark.
A sack slammed over his head.
Rough cloth scratched his face. He gasped, but hands wrapped around his arms, tight. Another gripped the sack and pulled, yanking it hard around his throat.
He staggered, reached for his knife, but something heavy struck his arm. Another hand wrapped around his legs, lifting, throwing him sideways.
He hit the floor hard, teeth clacking together.
Torik thrashed. Elbowed. Bit.
Nothing worked.
He tried to scream, but the sack was pulled so tight around his mouth that it just came out as a choking, wheezing grunt.
He fought until the light in his head faded, until the only thing left was the sound of ragged breathing, his own and someone else's, and then…
Nothing.
Torik woke to damp stone and the taste of copper in his mouth.
His head throbbed like a bell ringing inside his skull. The sack was gone, but the bruising around his neck throbbed with every breath. He lay still for a long moment, blinking into the darkness.
Stone walls. Bars. A small patch of musty straw beneath him. Water dripped somewhere nearby, an unhurried rhythm. The air stank of mildew, rot, and something fouler beneath it.
A dungeon.
He pushed himself upright. His coat was gone. Boots too. Just his sweat-stained shirt and roughspun pants.
The cell was barely large enough for him to stretch his legs. To his left, another cell, also barred, also dark. A wheezing breath came from within.
Then a cough.
Low. Wet.
Torik squinted. There was a shape hunched on the bench in the corner. Round. Slumped.
Then it moved. A turn of the head, a gleam of blood on skin.
"Varlon?"
The man blinked slowly. His face was a mess… one eye swollen shut, nose crusted with blood, a cut along his cheekbone still trickling.
"Well, well," Varlon rasped. "The little thief lives. You sure killed us all this time."
Torik stood, wobbled, and gripped the bars. "You gave me the job."
"Didn't give you permission to light the whole damn city on fire," Varlon snapped, his voice cracked and raw. "What did you do, boy? Set the Faith ablaze while you were at it? The fanatics were going nuts on my way to this damn dungeon."
Torik's knuckles whitened against the bars. "What I did? You set this in motion. You passed me the contract."
Varlon gave a wheezing laugh that turned into a cough. He spat something dark onto the floor. "Didn't know what it was. Nobody knew. Artifact job, I figured, some noble trinket… worth a lot of chains, not a manhunt."
"They came for you?"
"Middle of the night," Varlon growled. "Half the guard, it felt like. They tore down the door, killed three of my boys before they got a word in. Put me face-first into the floor. Asked about you."
Torik's stomach sank.
"You told them."
Varlon turned, slow and deliberate. "I gave them a name, you fool. You think that's all it takes? Names are smoke. You can change a name in a tavern. Burn your old one and take a new. But your face…"
He lifted a bruised finger, tapping beneath his one good eye.
"…your face doesn't lie. Unless you plan to carve it up or grow a beard like one of the Bound, they're gone' find you. Sooner or later."
Torik leaned his head against the bars, nausea swirling. "You bastard."
"And you," Varlon said, coughing, "are an idiot. A talented one. But dumb. You think you know how this works? You don't even know who you stole from, should've dropped the job when you realized the danger."
That brought Torik's head up. "Oh yeah, and you would've been right happy about that, I'm sure. I know enough about that crown now."
"Do you?" Varlon smirked, his bloody lips cracking. "Because I'm still not sure what the hell you stole. Something important, aye, but what, exactly? They never said. Just that it was crucial to their task, and it needed fetching."
Torik stared at him. "You mean you didn't know it was belonged to the king?"
Varlon blinked once. Then again. "To who now?"
"The king," Torik said. "I overheard Galrick and Ysara talk about the crown, they mentioned something about a seal."
For a moment, Varlon just sat there, breathing heavy. Then he gave another raspy laugh. "You really stole that?"
"I didn't know what it was either," Torik muttered.
"Great," Varlon said. "Perfect. Absolutely perfect."
Then he leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "So where is it?"
Torik tilted his head. "You tell me. Mox gave it to you."
Varlon froze. "What?"
"You know. Mox. He took it from me when we split. We were supposed to meet, he didn't show so I assume he gave it to you to collect the reward for himself."
"I haven't seen your damned friend."
"But-"
"I haven't seen anyone, boy!" Varlon shouted, a little spit flying. "You think they let me stroll around and gather my crew for a reunion? I've been in this stinking hole since before dawn!"
Torik's thoughts raced. Then where is Mox?
Whatever the truth, he didn't have the crown now and Varlon didn't either.
Before Torik could speak, the hallway beyond the cells lit up.
A clank. Then another.
Bootsteps. Heavy. Purposeful.
Light spilled into the dungeon as the door creaked open. A tall man stepped through, flanked by two guards in city blacksteel.
His face was clean-shaven, square-jawed, cold as carved stone. A crimson sash marked his rank.
Torik recognized him immediately.
Captain Kell.
The same man who called to take him alive, probably to torture.
His eyes swept over the cells, settling on Torik.
"You," Kell said, voice like steel on ice. "Bring him."
The guards moved fast, keys rattling. Torik braced himself as the door creaked open. Hands seized his arms, pulling him out into the light.
Behind him, Varlon muttered, "Gods help you, boy. If they're asking questions, they already know the answers."