Inside the Guild of Builders, the air was cool and smelled of parchment and expensive oil. Hendrik stood before a long, dark wood counter, with his hands gripping the edge. Behind the desk sat a senior clerk and an armored captain of the City Watch.
"I am telling you, it wasn't a fire or a raid!" Hendrik's voice cracked with exhaustion. He gripped the edge of the counter, his knuckles white.
"The village is a crater. The trees were snapped like dry twigs. Whatever hit Oakhaven... it's still out there. It's probably on its way to Stormholm."
The clerk looked at the captain, then back at Hendrik.
"Master Hendrik, we deal in stone, iron, and timber. We do not deal in falling stars or ghost stories. You have no cargo. You have an expired permit. And now you are telling us that our primary source of oak is gone because the sky fell?"
"Go see for yourselves!" Hendrik pleaded. "Send a scout! People died. My friend—the best carpenter in the valley—he's buried under a pile of stones because of whatever that thing was. You have a responsibility to protect the trade routes."
The captain sighed, his heavy iron gauntlets clacking as he crossed his arms.
"The routes are clear. We had a shipment of coal arrive from the north gate just this morning. If Oakhaven is gone, we will send a surveyor next month. For now, you are a merchant with no wood. Step aside."
"Next month?" Hendrik whispered, his face pale. "By then, it could be here."
The clerk signaled to a pair of guards by the door. "Thank you for your report, Hendrik. Your license is suspended until you can provide a legitimate reason for your breach of contract. Good day."
Hendrik stood frozen, the weight of the rejection pulling at his chest. He wasn't just losing his job; they were letting the monster walk right up to their front door.
"Your report is noted, Hendrik. Now leave before I have the guards escort you to the gate for disturbing the peace." The captain didn't even look up from his ledger.
Hendrik stood paralyzed, his fingers digging into the brim of his hat. His mind raced. He couldn't just go back to the wagon and wait for the monster to arrive.
If the Builders wouldn't act, he had to find someone who dealt in blood and steel. The Adventurers' Guild. It was streets away, but they would listen. He just needed to get back to the wagon, get Kael, and drive.
He took a step back, his eyes darting toward the heavy exit doors, calculating the quickest route through the district.
* * *
Kael took ten shaky steps away from the wagon, his eyes darting toward the corner where the charcoal robe had vanished.
But as the shadows of the tall, soot-stained warehouses began to stretch over him, the bravery he felt inside the wagon evaporated.
The city was too loud. The smell of hot metal and old grease was choking.
What am I doing? He stopped mid-stride. He looked back at the wagon. It looked small and safe—a sturdy wooden island in a sea of grey stone.
Hendrik would be back any second. If the wagon was empty, Hendrik would call the guards. The guards would find the pendant. Everything would be ruined.
"No," Kael whispered, his throat tightening. "I can't."
He spun around, desperate to get back to the safety of the barrels. He ran with his head down, focused only on the path to the horse.
Thud.
He ran straight into something solid—a wall of leather and sour-smelling wool. The impact sent Kael reeling back, his heels skidding on the soot.
"Whoa there, little bird! You're in a fair hurry," a raspy voice chuckled.
Kael didn't look up. His face went hot with shame and terror.
"S-sorry," he mumbled, his voice barely a squeak.
He scrambled to his feet, sidestepped the man, and bolted the last few yards to the wagon.
He hauled himself over the tailboard and scrambled back into the dark corner behind the grain sack.
His heart hammered against his ribs like a panicked drum. He reached up to clutch the pendant—his habit whenever he needed to breathe.
His hand hit his bare chest. The leather cord was gone.
Kael's breath hitched. He frantically patted his shirt, his waist, the floorboards. Nothing. His eyes went wide as he looked back out the rear flap.
The man he had bumped into was standing right where they had collided. He was thick-set, with a grease-stained vest, and he was holding something up—a silver dragon dangling from a black cord. The man wasn't angry. He was smiling—a slow, yellow-toothed grin that didn't reach his eyes.
He didn't say a word. He just turned and walked slowly into a narrow, dark alley adjacent to the Guild Hall.
"Wait!" Kael's voice broke the silent shadow rule he had kept for days.
He didn't think about Hendrik. He didn't think about the fire. That pendant was his mother's last breath. He leaped from the wagon, his feet hitting the ground in a sprint, chasing the man into the corner.
Kael skidded to a stop, his boots kicking up a small cloud of soot. The roar of the main street died instantly, swallowed by the heavy stone walls of the alley. It was barely ten feet wide here, the air smelling of stagnant water and cold iron.
High above, the narrow strip of sky was choked with grey smoke.
Twenty feet ahead, the man stopped. He didn't look like he was running anymore. He stood under a single flickering oil lamp that hissed and sputtered, casting long, dancing shadows against the rusted pipes on the wall.
He turned slowly, the silver dragon dangling from his fist. The metal glinted in the weak light—a tiny, defiant spark in the gloom.
"Please," Kael breathed, his voice trembling. "Give it back."
The man didn't answer. He just tightened his grin, his yellow teeth slick in the lamplight.
A soft scrape of wood on stone came from behind.
Kael spun around. Two shapes emerged from the shadows of the warehouse alcoves. One man, tall and jagged, stepped away from a stack of crates. The second slid out from a recessed doorway, his arms crossed over a heavy leather vest.
They didn't rush him. They simply moved into the center of the path, their bodies blocking the sliver of sunlight at the alley's mouth.
Kael was small, but he knew what a cage looked like.
The man with the pendant finally spoke, his voice a low, wet rattle. "Looking for this, little bird?"
He held the dragon up one last time, then slowly, deliberately, closed his calloused fingers over it, snuffing out the silver glint.
"You shouldn't have left your nest," the man whispered.
The two men behind Kael began to walk forward, their boots making no sound on the soot. Kael looked left, then right. The walls were smooth, windowless stone. The alley dead-ended ten yards past the man with his pendant.
He was alone. The hollow feeling in his chest turned to ice. He realized then that the man hadn't been running away from him—he had been leading him.
Kael's lungs hitched. The air in the alley felt thick, unbreathable. He looked at the two men closing the gap, then back at the man holding his pendant. His chest heaved.
He opened his mouth and drew a sharp breath, his throat tightening to form Hendrik's name.
"Hen—"
No sound came out.
One of the men from behind him lunged. Before the first syllable could leave his lips, a heavy burlap sack came down over Kael's head.
The world went black. The smell of rot and old grain filled his nose and mouth.
Kael thrashed, his small hands clawing at the rough canvas. A massive hand clamped over the sack, pinning his jaw shut. A blunt weight—a club or a fist—slammed into his ribs. The air left him in a muffled wheeze.
"Got the little freak," a voice hissed through the fabric. "Quick, before the merchant comes out. Into the crate."
Kael felt himself lifted off the ground. He kicked, but his boots hit only air. Then he was shoved down, his knees hitting hard timber. A lid slammed shut above him.
Clack. Clack. Clack.
Nails being driven into wood echoed inside his dark prison.
Outside, the alley fell silent. The three men moved with practiced ease, hoisting the crate onto a small hand-cart. They didn't look like kidnappers. They looked like three tired laborers moving a shipment of iron.
They turned the cart and pushed it toward the rear of the alley, disappearing into the maze of the Low-Districts just as the heavy iron doors of the Builders' Guild creaked open three streets away.