The room was vast, but its dim lanterns made it feel like a cavern. Shadows clung to the stone walls, and at the far end, upon a jagged throne of blackened iron, sat a figure whose face was swallowed in darkness.
Before him, a man in a Deen officer's coat knelt, head bowed low.
The figure on the throne spoke in a voice like grinding stone.
"So… Gorran is dead. And his… possession—" he drew the word out as though tasting it, "—has been stolen by some unknown mage?"
The officer flinched at the tone. "Yes, my lord."
The figure leaned forward, the light barely catching the curve of a cruel smile.
"I need that damned chest found. Any way necessary. Any cost."
---
Morning broke clean and cold, the kind of air that tastes new. Ahead of us, the green town of Maltoon shimmered under the first light.
Me, Elhaan, and the two kids slipped off the ship and onto the harbor.
The Deens were there. On guard. Their posture stiff, eyes scanning the docks.
Had they been told we'd escaped? Or were they just unsure enough to keep watch?
We didn't wait to find out. Keeping our heads low, we moved quietly past the crates and fishermen, until the scent of pine and wet grass told me we'd left the docks behind.
Maltoon was unlike any place I'd seen. Great green trees towered over streets so clean they almost shone. Even the houses seemed alive, their walls grown from mossy roots and vines, blending into the forest like they'd grown there themselves.
Elhaan glanced at me with a small smile.
"Here," he said. "We'll find our first crew member."
---
Somewhere deeper in Maltoon, trouble was already brewing.
Ten men stood outside a small house built snug against the trunk of an enormous oak. Their voices carried across the street, sharp with challenge.
"Come out and fight!" one barked.
"Hand over the judo!" another roared.
Swords hung at their sides, but their knuckles were white, ready to draw. The leaves above rustled in the wind—right before the door creaked open.
What stepped into the doorway wasn't human.
A huge, hulking shadow stretched across the ground, its form distorted in the morning light. The men tensed, some taking half a step back.
Then the figure stepped forward into the sun.
It was… a spider.
Small—barely waist-high—but wearing a tiny satchel strapped across its back. Its black eyes glittered, unblinking, and thin metal needles jutted from a loop on its belt.
One of the men spat in the dirt. "For your own good, hand this place over."
The spider tilted its head, voice clicking low and cold.
"If you can take it… it's yours."
Five swords flashed in the sunlight as they charged.
The spider moved first.
Its front legs blurred, and six needles hissed through the air. Each one found its mark—a sharp thunk into a forehead. The men collapsed instantly, eyes rolling back as they hit the dirt in a heap.
The remaining five roared and rushed in.
The first swung high; the spider ducked under the blade and drove a punch into his gut. The impact sounded like a hammer hitting wet wood, folding the man over before he crumpled.
Another came from the side—his sword was caught mid-swing by two spindly legs, twisted aside, and followed by a sharp elbow to the jaw that sent him staggering into the wall.
A third attacker's slash was parried with the spider's satchel strap, the blade snagging long enough for the spider to snap a leg across his temple. He dropped like a stone.
Only two remained.
The spider caught one by the collar and yanked him clean off his feet. Without a word, it began slamming him into the cobblestones—left, right, left—until the man went limp.
The last fighter froze. His courage shattered, he turned to run—only to feel a needle kiss the back of his neck. He dropped instantly.
The spider stood alone amid the unconscious heap, its breathing steady. One leg brushed the dust from its satchel, and it turned toward the doorway without another word.
Maltoon in the afternoon was a living maze.
The sun blazed down on tiled rooftops, making the air shimmer. The narrow streets were swollen with merchants shouting over each other, the scent of saffron and roasting lamb clinging to the heat. Stalls spilled into the road, their awnings striped in bright dyes, the vendors' hands moving fast to weigh spices, cut fruit, and count coins.
We kept moving, hidden in plain sight.
Elhaan was no longer Elhaan — today, he was a travelling merchant from the eastern steppe, his broad frame wrapped in loose beige robes. A threadbare sash cinched his waist, and a dust-worn turban shadowed his face. The disguise suited him, and the little touches — the smudge of soot along his jaw, the frayed edge of his sleeve — made him believable.
I walked a half-step behind him, just another dusty-faced youth in plain linen, pretending to be his son. The others played their parts too. We looked like a family, and families rarely drew suspicion.
But the Deens were out in force.
From a rooftop, a pair of guards swept the street with their gaze. The glint of their armor caught my eye, and then I saw it — a folded parchment in one guard's hand. The sketch was rough, but I recognized the curve of Elhaan's jawline and my own shadowed eyes.
We didn't linger.
At a food stall, the cook was turning thick steaks on a flat iron plate, the meat sizzling in its own fat. The smell made my stomach twist in hunger. Elhaan muttered about supplies for the road to Takhbay, and we bought what we could — flatbread, salted fish, dried figs, and a skin of spiced wine.
That was when I noticed him.
A man in a black robe, the hem stained from travel. His sword was long and slightly curved, sheathed in black lacquer carved with faint dragons. His face was shadowed beneath a wide straw hat, the kind worn in the far eastern kingdoms. He stood utterly still, watching the crowd with the patience of a hunter.
For a heartbeat, our eyes met.
Then he turned, disappearing into a narrow alley.
I was still staring after him when the crowd shifted again, and that's when I saw the merchant.
He was large — the sort of man who seemed to fill whatever space he stepped into. His round belly strained the silk of his tunic, and his many rings flashed in the sun as he waved impatiently for his guards to follow. They were six in number, each armed with short spears and curved sabers, their eyes scanning the street for threats.
At his side walked a girl — slim, perhaps sixteen, her steps quick to match his. She kept her head down, but there was tension in her movements, a stiffness that told me she was no leisurely companion.
Without breaking stride, the merchant and his guards turned into a narrow street, then vanished into a heavy-doored house. They moved with the speed of people who feared something was already behind them.
I didn't yet know how right that fear was.
Far across the city, the harbor groaned under the weight of a new arrival.
The black-hulled ship slid into its berth like a predator into shallow water. Its sails were dyed the color of night, and the warriors on deck wore matching black garb, their faces hidden behind strips of cloth. They moved with precise discipline, speaking little.
In the captain's quarters, lit by the harsh afternoon sun slanting through narrow windows, a man sat at the head of a low table. His clothing was black, but his skin was pale as bleached bone, and his eyes were a flat, sightless white.
"Bring me that man," he said, his voice low and sharp. "No matter the cost."
A second man stood in the corner — a merchant by the cut of his fine robes, his turban wound in gold-threaded cloth. A rounded moustache curled above his lips, and his smile was the sort that came only from betrayal well in motion.
"And my work?" the merchant asked.
"Do it quickly," the white-eyed captain replied. "I'll lend you some of my men."
The merchant's smile deepened.