Narrator: Faurgar

  Priorin dives into the hatch first—a dull splash, thick grime spraying against the brickwork. I follow, moving softly to avoid making a ripple; my palm slides over slick bricks coated in years of saltpeter. Behind me, Flint mutters something under his breath—a pale sphere of magical light blooms over his shoulder. The glow crawls along the vaulted ceiling like dull scales, catching droplets of condensation that look like sweat on a dead man's brow. Gellia is the last to descend, leaning heavily on her sword as if it were a staff.

  The stench hits instantly: sour rot, heavy dampness, and the suffocating trail of sewer gas. Even Priorin’s lip twitches, baring a fang.

  "If death had a scent," he grumbles, "it would smell exactly like this."

  "Don't be dramatic," Flint mumbles, his ears twitching nervously. "For some in Caesarca, this is a cozy enough home."

  "Only for the rats," Gellia replies, pressing her gauntlet tight against her face.

  I listen as the low echo chews on their voices. My job isn't to complain; it’s to read. I pace the width of the stone trough. Water up to the ankles, pits in places. Fresh scuffs on the edge of the stone, dark, greasy smears left here and there.

  "Stay to the right," I say in a low voice. "The sound of water is deeper on the left; there could be a drop. Stick to the right wall. Keep the light low, Flint—the reflection will give us away before we see the enemy."

  The Hadozi obediently lowers the sphere to chest level, and the shadows around us grow longer and more honest.

  "Any tracks?" Priorin growls. "Or are we just here to enjoy the Lazarius 'bouquet'?"

  "Filth is also a track," I reply, crouching at the edge of the trough. "Get used to it. In this city, there’s always a trail; you just have to know which pigment to look for."

  I run a finger along the edge of a stone. A thin film of varnish stays on my skin. I bring it to my nose: wet wood, the tartness of expensive joiner's glue. Not a local scent. Not from these drains.

  "They pushed furniture through here," I conclude. "The varnish is fresh. The wood is imported oak. Lord Lair’s chairs and dressers were rolled down this conduit."

  Priorin snorts, adjusting his axe strap. "Listen, Artist, why this circus? Furniture in the muck—it's a questionable haul."

  "To make us think of nonsense," Gellia answers for me. Her voice rings hollow and stern in the tunnel. "Or to drown out the sound of their own footsteps with the crash of wood against stone."

  "Or to send a signal," I add. "The screech of wood on brick is heard three levels up. Their people know where to wait for the cargo. All that chaos in the manor wasn't just a smokescreen; it was a route marker."

  We move further. To the left, a side inflow gurgles faintly. I sharply raise my hand.

  "Quiet. Listen."

  We freeze. In the distance, through the hum of flowing water, come two dull thuds: thump... thump... As if heavy wood is lazily nudging stone. I listen to the air. Beyond the usual stench, a faint, barely perceptible thread of burnt oil hits my nose. Not a torch. Not a lamp. Weapon grease. Someone recently checked a bolt or wiped a blade. That means ahead aren't just porters, but "teeth."

  "There's a scent," I whisper. "Gun oil. Very fresh."

  Gellia adjusts her grip on the sword hilt. "Then we follow the trail of those who left by water."

  "And who are now sitting somewhere ahead," Priorin throws in. "Enough sniffing stones, move."

  We move in a wedge. At the next turn, the water grows deeper. On a stone's edge—a long scrape of varnish, then a pause, then short, jagged nicks.

  "They stumbled here," I note. "Got stuck, jerked, then moved in fits. They’ve started to hurry. Nerves."

  Again—thump... thump... closer now. Flint’s light slides over the oily surface, and a dull angle flashes in the reflection—the edge of a chair floating in the sewage like a dead fish.

  "You mean someone was pushing them?" Flint bites his lip, his sphere beginning to tremble slightly.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  "Either someone was waiting ahead, or our observer from above gave the word," I answer. "Forward. Don't be led by sounds; watch your feet."

  The tunnel splits into three branches fifty paces ahead. I crouch, studying the fork.

  "Three, maybe four," I say. "One carried something heavy. The right path is a decoy; the mud was spread intentionally. They want us to take the wide road."

  I close my eyes, mentally reconstructing the map of Caesarca’s drains.

  "There," I point to the narrowest passage. "Sulphur and metal. The foulest place—professionals choose exactly that to cut off extra ears."

  The passage is so low even I have to stoop. The tunnel spills into a circular distribution hall. Here the scent becomes dense: sulphur, wet felt, and fresh notes of leather. They passed an hour, maybe an hour and a half ago. I crouch by the sluice and run my finger through the water. A rainbow film remains on my skin.

  "The oil is very fresh," I whisper. "Thickest at the northern wall. There’s either a post there or an exit into the Belbin Quarter."

  I stand and look at my companions.

  "We split up. Three paths—three pairs of eyes. The three-hour delay Trudius gave us is a chance, and we must make it count."

  Priorin and Flint go northeast. Gellia takes the left path toward the river. I head north, into the Belbin Quarter. To the place where Anakiss’s shadow might wait for me around any corner.

  The Crooked Dagger hums just like it did ten years ago. I walk in—and the roar dips for a half-beat. I am remembered here. And not particularly welcomed. In Caesarca, there are no former shadows—they are either in the ground or in the crown's pocket.

  Belbin is as he was: grizzled, wiry, as if woven from ship's cables. His hands, covered in knife scars, seem to have grown into the oak table.

  "You're the last person I expected," he rasps. "The head of intelligence has paid a visit. What do you want, Faurgar?"

  "There's a tunnel under your quarter," I begin. "The people who left Lair’s Manor went through it. They moved clean, but on their wrists—the wolf mark over your own guild sign. I need the exit. And the name of the man holding the door."

  Belbin narrows his eyes. "A name costs dearly. And friendship is a limited stock."

  "I'll pay with silence," I snap. "And the fact that this story won't become your collective grave. If 'Wolves' start bossing around your drains, tomorrow won't bring 'shadows'—it'll bring boots, chains, and red-hot irons."

  The deal is struck. "The name is Rorg," Belbin says. "Been hanging around lately with his crew. He's at the old docks by the river. They hired him from the outside, Faurgar. He's no brother of ours."

  As I leave, Belbin adds: "If you meet her... your 'cat'. Tell Anakiss not to flash her tail in the Dagger. She makes my boys nervous."

  At the breach in the embankment, the wind blows a damp chill from the underground. Below, by the mouth where the drains meet the river, a fire dances.

  There are four of them at the fire. The leader—tall, lean, with a scar across his cheek that looks like a deep black crack in the firelight. This is Rorg. Beside him—a bald brute with an axe. Further off—a nimble archer. The fourth is a young mage.

  Target order: Mage, Archer, Rorg, Meat.

  Priorin and Gellia step out into the moonlight. Rorg rises.

  "There you are," he draws out. "The crown pays better for a return than for loyalty. Where's my gold, holy one?"

  Gellia’s hand closes on the sword guard. "Your pay is steel. There is no haggling here."

  The fight flares up like spilled oil. The bald brute rushes Priorin. I squeeze the trigger of my hand-crossbow—the first bolt hits the mage in the knee. The second takes the archer in the shoulder.

  And then Flint—or whatever has taken over his body—tears from the reeds.

  It’s not just aggression; it’s suicidal rage. Cold, deathly fire flares in his eyes. He lunges into the center of the fray, his magic literally biting into the enemies' flesh. A bolt thumps into Flint’s shoulder. He doesn't even scream; he just keeps clawing at the air.

  Gellia, meanwhile, tramples the mage. She sees the wounded Flint, sees him choking on blood just a few paces away, but she doesn't even slow down. She simply steps over him to reach Rorg. To her, we are merely expendable.

  I press my palm to the Hadozi’s chest. I whisper a short, forbidden spell—"The Stolen Spark". Warm, borrowed life flows under Flint’s skin, plugging the breach.

  Two dry clicks. My bolts finish the mage and the archer.

  I weave the "Shadow Crown" around the brute's head. His gaze blurs. His axe, aimed at the Leonin a second ago, jerks and bites into Rorg’s collarbone. Rorg falls into the water without a sound.

  Silence returns instantly. Gellia is breathing hard, but her gaze is fixed on the document tube. She doesn't look at us. She wipes her sword, the very essence of her "mercy."

  "The documents are ours," I say, helping Flint up.

  I open the tube. The parchment is damp, smelling of the cellar. On the very edge, I notice a faint strip. I run a finger—a clear, coal-black soot mark remains. Ink. Too new. Too clean.

  A swap, the thought hits like a crossbow click.

  This wasn't a theft of an artifact. It was an exchange. Rorg and his men didn't just steal papers—they replaced them with a copy made very recently. Perhaps this morning. And Alexander, my mentor, must have known. He sent us not for the truth, but for a well-executed lie.

  I say nothing. In our trade, an extra question is an extra reason for staff reduction.

  "To the city," Gellia says, sheathing her sword.

  "Rest," Priorin snorts, smoothing his singed mane. "I nearly lost half my mane to these rats."

  "And I, my life," Flint rasps, holding his shoulder. His face is the color of spoiled curd, a void in his eyes.

  We move toward Caesarca. Behind us, the fire slowly dies, leaving a thick, cloying smell of smoke, blood, and charred wood. The work is done.

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