# Chapter 96: The Squire's Devotion
The words hung in the air, a death sentence for anyone who had ever offered them a kind word or a shared meal. Soren's mind raced, a frantic list of faces flashing behind his eyes. Finn. His squire, the boy who idolized him. Elara, his childhood friend, whose belief was his anchor. Captain Bren's safe house suddenly felt less like a sanctuary and more like a quarantine, isolating them while a plague swept through everyone they knew. "We have to warn them," Soren said, his voice tight with a panic he hadn't felt since the caravan attack. "My squire, Finn. He's just a kid. And my friend, Elara. They'll be targets." He turned to Bren, his earlier exhaustion burned away by a surge of adrenaline. "You have to let me send a message. You have to."
Bren's face was a mask of stone, the flickering lantern light carving deep shadows in the lines of his face. He didn't move from his position by the door, his hand resting near the hilt of his sword. "And how do you propose we do that, Vale? Send up a flare? The Synod has Inquisitors who can sniff out a coded message from a mile away. Every runner, every courier, every pigeon loft in this city is being watched. Any contact we make is a thread they can pull, leading them right back to this room."
"So we do nothing?" Soren shot back, taking a step forward. The movement sent a sharp twinge through his ribs, a reminder of his fragility, but he ignored it. "We just hide here while they hunt down everyone who ever knew my name? That's not protection, that's cowardice."
"It's strategy," Nyra interjected, her voice calm but cutting. She stepped between Soren and Bren, a moderating force. "He's right, Soren. A direct message is suicide. But he's also wrong. We can't be completely silent. Information is a weapon, and right now, we're disarmed." She turned her sharp gaze on Bren. "You have channels, Captain. Off-the-books ways to move people and information. You brought us to Grak, didn't you? You didn't just walk us through the front gate."
Bren's jaw tightened. "That was different. Grak is a known asset, compartmentalized. Contacting your squire is a variable, an emotional risk we don't need."
"He's not a variable, he's a person!" Soren's voice rose, the raw emotion cracking through his stoic facade. "He's the one who polishes my gear, who brings me water in the training yard, who looks at me like I'm some kind of hero. I won't let that hero worship get him killed."
The room fell silent, the only sound the distant clatter of a cart on the cobblestones outside and the frantic thumping of Soren's own heart. He could feel the familiar, bitter taste of helplessness, the same feeling he'd had when the raiders descended on his caravan. He was trapped, watching a disaster unfold, unable to act.
Finally, Bren let out a long, slow breath, the sound of a man conceding a difficult point. "One message," he said, his voice low and firm. "To the squire. No names. No locations. A simple warning to lie low. I will choose the courier. I will write the message. You will tell me what it needs to say, and I will decide if it's safe to send. That is the only way this happens."
Soren wanted to argue, to demand more, but he saw the finality in the captain's eyes. It was an offer, not a negotiation. "Fine," he bit out. "Tell him… tell him the well is poisoned. That he needs to stay away from it until the water runs clear."
Bren gave a curt nod. "Cryptic. Good. I'll see what I can do." He looked at Nyra. "And you. You will not attempt to contact your League handler. Your network is compromised by association. We operate on a need-to-know basis, and right now, they don't need to know you're alive."
Nyra's expression was unreadable, but Soren could see the flicker of defiance in her eyes. Her mission, her entire purpose, was tied to that contact. For now, she simply gave a slight, acquiescent nod. "Understood."
The next day was an exercise in agonizing patience. Bren left before dawn, returning hours later with a grim report that the Synod's patrols were thicker than ever. He had dispatched the message, he said, through a chain of street urchins who didn't know the contents of the note they were passing, only the drop point. It was the safest way. But safe wasn't fast enough for Soren. Every creak of the floorboards, every distant shout, sent a jolt of anxiety through him. He paced the confines of the small room, the grey stone walls feeling more like a tomb with every passing hour.
It was Nyra who finally broke the tension. "You're going to wear a hole in the floor," she said, watching him from her seat at a small table where she was meticulously cleaning a set of throwing knives. "Worrying won't make the message travel any faster. We need to think about what comes next."
"What comes next is waiting for Grak," Soren said, his voice flat. "And hoping Finn is smart enough to stay hidden."
"And hoping Rook Marr doesn't sell your family's contract out from under you while you're playing hide-and-seek with the Inquisitors," she added coolly.
Her words struck a nerve. Rook Marr. His patron. The man who had sponsored his entry into the Ladder, who owned his contract, and by extension, held the leash on his family's future. In the chaos of the past few days, he had completely forgotten about the ambitious, ruthless minor noble. Marr would not be pleased by his champion's sudden disappearance from the public eye. It made him look bad. It made his investment look like a failure.
"I need to see him," Soren said, stopping his pacing.
"Absolutely not," Bren's voice came from the doorway where he had just appeared. "Walking into a meeting with a nobleman right now is like walking into a Synod barracks and announcing your name. Marr's estate will be the first place they look for you."
"Not his estate," Soren countered, his mind already working, piecing together a plan. "There's a place. A neutral ground. The Scribe's Nook, in the Old Market. It's a bookshop and a cafe. Marr uses it for discreet meetings. It's always crowded, noisy. Perfect for getting lost in the crowd."
"And how do you propose you get there without being spotted?" Bren challenged. "You're a recognizable face, Vale. You're a Ladder fighter."
"Not if I'm not a fighter," Soren said. "I'll go as a laborer. A dockhand. I'll need a change of clothes, a hood. And I'll need a diversion."
Nyra looked up from her knives, a slow smile spreading across her face. "A diversion I can provide. But you'll still need an escort. And you'll need a way to contact your squire to set up the meeting. You can't just walk into the market and hope to find him."
That was the crux of it. He needed Finn. The boy was his eyes and ears on the streets, his only reliable link to the world outside Bren's walls. He was also the very person he was trying to protect. The irony was suffocating. "I'll get a message to him," Soren said, his resolve hardening. "Through the same channels Bren used. I'll tell him to meet me. At the Nook. Tomorrow, midday."
Bren stared at him for a long moment, his expression a mixture of frustration and reluctant admiration. "You're a stubborn bastard, Vale. You know that? Fine. But you go with one of my men. And you have one hour. One. If you're not back by then, we're gone. With or without you."
The agreement was made. The next morning, Soren traded his simple tunic for the rough, stained smock of a dockworker. The coarse wool scratched at his skin, and the smell of brine and fish clung to the fabric, a pungent disguise. He pulled a deep, hooded cloak over his head, the shadow obscuring his face. He looked at his hands, the hands of a fighter, calloused and scarred. He shoved them into his pockets.
The journey through the city was a nerve-wracking ordeal. Every squad of Synod Templars in their polished silver armor sent a jolt of fear through him. He kept his head down, his shoulders hunched, adopting the shuffling gait of a man worn down by a life of hard labor. Bren's man, a wiry, unassuming Wardens scout named Joric, walked a dozen paces ahead, a silent guide through the labyrinthine streets. The air grew thick with the smells of the Old Market: roasting nuts, sizzling meat, damp earth, and the press of too many bodies in a small space. The cacophony of voices, haggling merchants, and crying children was a welcome shield, a wall of sound to hide behind.
The Scribe's Nook was tucked away between a tanner's shop and a cobbler, its weathered wooden sign creaking in the breeze. Soren slipped inside, the bell above the door chiming softly. The air inside was warm and thick with the scent of old paper, brewing tea, and beeswax. Shelves lined every wall, crammed with books of all shapes and sizes. Patrons hunched over small tables, lost in their reading or their conversations. It was exactly as he remembered. A perfect place to disappear.
He took a seat in a shadowed corner, his back to the wall, and ordered a cup of bitter herbal tea. He waited, his heart a steady drum against his ribs. He scanned the room, his eyes flicking from face to face, searching for the familiar, eager features of his squire. Minutes stretched into what felt like hours. Had his warning reached the boy? Had Finn misunderstood? Or worse, had the Synod gotten to him first?
Just as a knot of dread began to tighten in his stomach, a small figure slipped into the chair opposite him. Finn. He looked thinner than Soren remembered, his face pale beneath a layer of street grime. He wore the same livery of House Marr, but it was frayed at the edges. His eyes, however, were wide and alert, and they lit up with a mixture of relief and awe when he saw Soren.
"Sir," he whispered, his voice hoarse. "I got your message. I stayed away, just like you said."
"Good boy, Finn," Soren said, his own voice barely audible. "Very good. I need information. How are they? My mother. My brother."
Finn's expression grew somber. "They're safe, sir. For now. I check on them when I can. They're working in the textile mills. The work is hard, but they're together. But… the debt broker, Mara, she's been asking questions. She says the payments from House Marr have stopped. She's getting impatient."
Soren's stomach clenched. Of course, they had stopped. He wasn't fighting. He wasn't earning Marr any prize money. He was a liability. "Anything else?"
Finn hesitated, his gaze darting around the room. "There's something else, sir. Something bad. Master Marr… he sent for me. Yesterday. He was furious. He's been hearing rumors. That you were seen with the Sable League. That you ran from the Inquisitors. He thinks you're planning to break your contract."
A cold dread washed over Soren. This was worse than he'd imagined. "What did he say, Finn? Exactly."
The boy swallowed hard, his small hands trembling on the table. "He said… he said to find you. To tell you he wants to meet. Immediately. He said he knows places. Places even the Inquisitors don't watch. He said if you don't come to him, he'll… he'll go to the Synod himself. He'll tell them you're a runaway. He said he'd rather see you branded a heretic than lose his investment."
Soren felt the blood drain from his face. It was a threat of the highest order. Being branded a heretic wasn't just about losing the Ladder; it was a death sentence. And it would taint his family by association, sealing their fate in the labor pits forever.
"Where, Finn? Where does he want to meet?"
"He didn't say," the boy whispered, leaning in closer. The smell of cheap soap and fear clung to him. "He just said to tell you he'd be waiting. At the usual place. Tonight. After curfew." Finn's eyes were wide with terror, the reflection of the candlelight dancing in their depths. "He said it's about your contract, sir. And he didn't sound happy."