Now that the sun was properly up, the town had shaken itself awake. The streets were busy with people shopping, bargaining, hurrying somewhere that mattered to them. Illara and I joined the flow toward the central market.

  This time, I wanted to avoid the iron rations in my pack. Anything had to be better than that rock-hard, salt-cured tack we’d gnawed through on the last journey. If we were going to live on the road, we needed food that didn’t feel like punishment.

  We found a butcher’s shop tucked between two cloth merchants, a permanent building rather than a stall. A painted sausage swung on the sign outside like a promise.

  Inside, the place was cool and dim, the air thick with the smell of smoked fat and spice. A portly man stood behind the counter, apron stretched tight, hands spotless.

  “Welcome, ladies, to my humble shop,” he said, his accent a little strange to my ear. “How may I be of assistance?”

  “We’re after cured meats,” I said. “Something that’ll last a couple of days on the road.”

  The glass counter looked faintly chilled to the touch—some kind of craft at work, no doubt. The butcher nodded as if he’d heard the request a thousand times, then reached beneath the counter and produced a slab of dark bacon.

  “Dry-cured. Keeps well. Good sustenance for travellers.”

  I hadn’t tasted bacon since gaining this body. My mouth betrayed me and started to water.

  “How much?”

  “One silver per kilogram.”

  Pricey, but worth it if it meant meals we could actually enjoy. A kilogram would last us a while, too.

  “We’ll take it.” I passed over a silver coin.

  Illara blinked at me, surprised but saying nothing.

  Outside, as we stepped back into the market bustle, she finally asked, “Isn’t that expensive? We could hunt meat ourselves.”

  “Not where we’re going,” I said. “It’s mostly open plain. Finding game out there will be harder than you think.”

  After that we headed for a fletcher. Illara was running low on arrows, and it didn’t take long to spot a narrow shop with shafts and bowstrings hanging in the doorway.

  A short grey-haired woman greeted us from behind the counter. “Looking for a bow, or ammunition?”

  “Twenty basic arrows, please,” Illara said politely.

  “That’ll be one silver.”

  She fetched a neat bundle from behind the counter. Illara paid from her purse, then slung the arrows across her shoulder with quiet satisfaction.

  The last thing we needed was spell scrolls. I was hoping Norman’s venture had paid off enough that we could afford a few, so we followed the directions Harry had given us to a place called Terry’s Scrolls.

  The shop was every bit as eccentric as Harry had promised. It sat halfway down a dark alley, its windows smoked almost black—yet faintly luminous from within, as if the light couldn’t quite find a way out. I couldn’t imagine how anyone stumbled into a place like this by accident, but perhaps that was the point.

  We stepped inside. The air smelled of ink and old parchment, dry and sharp. No other customers. No noise beyond the soft crackle of something unseen.

  A short man with a red beard and a bald head appeared from behind a curtain, moving with the quick confidence of someone who knew exactly where everything in his cluttered world belonged.

  “Welcome to my shop, ladies,” he said brightly. “How may I be of assistance today?”

  “We’re heading out on the road,” I replied. “Looking for scrolls that’ll help in tight spaces. We’re on a bit of a budget, though.”

  “Ah,” Terry said, rubbing his hands together. “Then you’re in luck. I’ve got a few staples—cheap, practical, and sold often enough that I can keep the price down. One silver each.”

  He opened a cabinet and laid out several scrolls, tapping each as he spoke.

  “This one’s a Stone-Softening charm. Turns packed earth and stone into slurry for a few moments. Useful for getting through a stubborn wall… or making one.”

  He set it down and lifted the next.

  “And here—Revealing Flame. Harmless, but it clings to living things and makes them glow. Good for spotting anything trying to hide.”

  A third scroll followed, its wax seal marked with a simple arrowhead.

  “And this is Guided Bolts. You loose a handful of force-arrows, and they find their way to whatever target you’re thinking of—around obstacles, through cover, no dodging. Where they strike can be a little unpredictable, but they hit.”

  He looked up at us as if waiting for approval.

  “Because these are common, and the craft is well-worn, they’re the cheapest scrolls you’ll find.”

  I did the sums in my head. I had about seven silver left. Illara had more. Seven scrolls felt like the right balance between caution and not bankrupting ourselves before we even left the city.

  “We’ll take two Stone-Softening, two Revealing Flame, and three Guided Bolts.”

  Terry beamed as I passed over the coins. “Excellent. May they keep you breathing.”

  I split the scrolls with Illara and tucked my half into my bag. Then we headed back toward the inn.

  “I think it’s time we hit the road and start hunting those kobolds,” I said once we reached the lane.

  “Sounds great,” Illara replied, bright with conviction. “I can’t wait to deal with those creatures.”

  It was good to hear her enthusiasm again—but it didn’t quite quiet the knot of worry in my gut. Ten gold bounties didn’t come from easy jobs.

  After we left the city, the day stayed dry despite the gloom. The air was cold but bearable, and the road was quiet enough that our footsteps felt loud. We followed the route Percy had marked on his map. The directions had been crude, but Drisnil’s memory held them like ink.

  Stolen story; please report.

  About an hour out, we found the first sign.

  A carriage lay on its side in the grass, half-collapsed, its wheels split. The horses were already rotting in their harnesses. The smell hit us before we were close enough to see the flies. No bodies. No blood trail. Just the wreck and a scatter of small, four-toed prints in the mud.

  “I think we’ve found our first clue,” Illara breathed.

  She crouched low, studying the ground with the focus of a hunter. “They didn’t kill the people,” she said after a moment. “Look — the tracks are messy here. Running, not dragging. The caravan fled. But the raiders looted what they could carry.” She tapped a line of deeper impressions. “These ones are heavier. Loaded down.”

  I couldn’t see the difference myself, but I trusted her. Years of hunting had sharpened her eye into something I didn’t want to doubt.

  We followed the heavier trail across the plains for a long stretch. It wound through scrub, dipped into a shallow gully, then vanished into the earth at a low hollow in the ground — a crude opening like a burrow.

  The prints led inside.

  “I think this is it,” I murmured. “Strange there aren’t guards.”

  “Maybe they’re too stupid to bother?” Illara offered, hopeful.

  “I don’t think we’re that lucky.”

  We went in carefully. Illara lit a small torch for herself; my sight didn’t need it, but hers did, and I wasn’t about to let her walk blind.

  The passage was tall enough to stand in, but narrow — too narrow for a real swing. The air tasted stale, steeped with oil and damp stone.

  Then the entrance behind us collapsed.

  The roar of falling earth slammed through the tunnel, and when the dust settled, daylight was gone.

  Illara froze. Fear flared across her face.

  I leaned into Drisnil’s steadier calm, let it settle my breathing before hers could spiral.

  “We push forward,” I said. “They wouldn’t bury their only exit. Not unless they had another way out.”

  Her shoulders lowered a fraction. “Right,” she whispered. “Right.”

  The tunnel kinked into another corridor, then another. Two doors waited at either end, both shut. I started to step through—

  —and had a sharp thought too late.

  Traps.

  Before I could say anything, Illara crossed beside me. Both doors slammed shut at once, sealing us in like a throat swallowing prey.

  Laughter skittered from above us.

  Then a voice — high, vicious, delighted.

  “Burn them alive.”

  The floor was slick. Oil. And over our heads, a faint flicker grew into orange light.

  “Illara—water. Now!” I shouted.

  She snapped her hands forward, panic sharp but controlled. A heavy rush soaked the stones around our feet just as a torch tumbled down through a grate and struck the oil.

  Flame whooshed up the length of the corridor.

  Heat slapped my face. Smoke surged thick enough to claw at the lungs, but the flood Illara had thrown pushed most of the oil away from us, toward the far end.

  “Door behind us!” I coughed. “Help me!”

  We shoved together until the door shifted with a groan. Just enough space to slip through into the first corridor.

  “Close it,” I rasped. “Save the air.”

  We slammed it shut. The roar of fire dulled behind the thick wood.

  I sank to one knee, chest burning. Illara stood trembling, face smeared with soot.

  “We’re alright,” I said, forcing the words steady. “Now we know what we’re dealing with.”

  That confidence was half truth, half necessity. Fear didn’t help us survive.

  We waited in the dark until the hiss of burning oil gave way to silence. First twenty minutes. Then another fifteen to let the heat die.

  “When we open it,” I said quietly, “douse the whole floor again. Thin layer. I don’t want sparks rekindling anything.”

  Illara nodded, swallowing. “I can, but I won’t have much left after.”

  We opened the door. She poured water across the stones in a broad sweep. The corridor hissed as steam rose.

  “Good.” I wedged the door open with an iron spike. “No surprises behind us.”

  After that I went slowly, using my sword to tap stones, check edges, listen for hollow spots. It was tedious — but pain was worse.

  At the end of the hallway, the door was wrong. Too clean. Too solid.

  A decoy.

  I searched the wall beside it and found a loose stone. When I pressed, part of the wall shifted inward with a soft grind.

  “Typical,” I muttered. “Designed so desperate people run into the fake door while the fire eats them.”

  Beyond the secret panel the tunnel widened and sloped down. Little holes lined the walls at knee height.

  Murder holes.

  Torchlight flickered ahead, pooling on the floor.

  “Kobolds don’t need light,” I said.

  Illara frowned. “Maybe something else lives with them?”

  “Or they want us to see exactly what they want us to see.”

  We took three steps.

  A bowstring twanged to my left.

  I dove without thinking. An arrow scraped the air where my head had been.

  “Archers!” I shouted.

  Illara wasn’t fast enough to follow my instinct. A bolt punched into her side; she gasped, staggered, but kept her feet.

  I couldn’t see the shooters, only hear their laughter and the rustle behind the holes.

  I tore a scroll loose, focused on the voices, and released its power.

  Four guided force-bolts ripped down the hall and vanished into four separate gaps. Wet impacts answered — the kind you feel more than hear.

  But while I was casting, another arrow hit my right leg. Pain flared, and my knee buckled for a heartbeat.

  Drisnil’s rage surged up hot.

  I drove my rapier through one of the holes. I felt it bite flesh. Heard a squeal cut off mid-breath.

  “Move!” I snarled.

  We ran down the slope toward the chamber below.

  The last step shifted under my boot.

  Trap.

  The floor dropped away into a pit of spikes, crusted with filth.

  I caught the edge with both hands, heart hammering. Illara skidded to a halt behind me, just out of reach of the collapse.

  I hauled myself back up, shaking.

  The arrows had stopped — for now.

  Illara was pale, one hand pressed to the bolt in her side. My leg was already going numb.

  “We need to retreat,” I said, hating the defeat in my voice.

  Illara nodded instantly, teeth clenched. “We can’t fight like this.”

  “We’ll cut a way out.” I pulled another scroll free. “The stone-softening one.”

  We backed up the slope, step by careful step. A few arrows hissed past from new holes; I dodged most, but Illara took one in her left arm with a cry that made my stomach twist.

  I sent a second volley of guided bolts toward their laughter. It didn’t feel like victory. It felt like spite.

  We reached the hidden panel, shoved it open, and sprinted for the blocked entrance.

  I read the scroll. Stone turned to slurry under my palm, sagging away in wet silence. Cold air spilled in.

  Night sky.

  Freedom.

  We crawled out and collapsed on the grass, gasping like we’d been underwater.

  Illara didn’t waste time. She snapped the arrow from her side, bit back a scream, and poured healing warmth into the wound. The metal hole closed, but a bruise remained like a reminder.

  “Your leg,” she said, voice tight. “This will hurt. The arrows are barbed.”

  She wrenched the shaft free. White pain shot up my spine.

  Then her hands were on the wound, heat flooding in, sealing flesh almost faster than I could stagger a breath.

  “Can you—” She glanced at her arm, where another bolt protruded. “Please.”

  I gripped the arrow and pulled. The tearing sound was worse than her cry. She shook, eyes shining, then pressed her palm to the injury and healed herself through clenched teeth.

  We sat there in the cold, bleeding seconds ago and whole again now, breathing hard.

  Defeated — but alive.

  Now I understood why this job paid ten gold.

  And the worse realisation followed immediately after:

  We had no choice but to succeed…

  and we had no idea how to finish what we’d started.

  That was more terrifying than the tunnels.