Morning arrived quickly, but the members of the Dusk Rose were already awake with the sunrise, sharing breakfast and laughter over each other’s jokes. Lark kept the water and juice flowing as they enjoyed their last bit of rest.

  It was over far too soon. Each member had a little time for some last-minute shopping before the caravan set out again.

  Kae and Colin paired off to visit a blacksmith. Kae was looking to pick up a few more blades to add to his collection and was considering a new pair of gauntlets as well. Colin was mostly along for the ride. He’d promised Kae they’d find some time alone to talk, and this seemed like the perfect chance.

  It wasn’t long before they arrived at the forge. The rhythmic clang of hammers on steel rang out through the relatively quiet marketplace. The shop was small, the main smithy clearly located out back behind the storefront.

  Kae opened the door and stepped inside. Colin followed close behind. The place smelled of leather, oil, and soot. Looking around, it was easy to see why—heaps of leather armor pieces were stacked on shelves, with complete sets displayed on mannequins. There were no steel weapons or armor in sight. Instead, the front room was filled with wooden replicas, staves, and training gear.

  Near the back of the store, a man stood watching them approach. He gave Kae a knowing nod and pulled aside a heavy curtain. A wave of heat rolled over Colin as they stepped through.

  There had to be an enchantment of some kind at work. Behind the curtain, rows of smiths worked in harmony, hammering away at red-hot metal. Despite the activity, the noise wasn’t overwhelming. Colin guessed magic played a part in that too.

  Kae seemed to know exactly where he was going, so Colin followed him closely through the organized chaos.

  Kae leaned in, speaking quietly.

  “Thanks for coming with me. I think we may have trouble brewing within the group, Colin. I didn’t want to drag you into this, but Bram seems to think you can handle it.”

  Colin’s posture stiffened. He hadn’t noticed anything suspicious—aside from the situation with Sskarin.

  “We think someone might be feeding information about the Dusk Rose and the guild to… less reputable sources. It would explain why the caravan was hit so hard.”

  Colin nodded as he walked. He wasn’t familiar with the criminal organizations in this world, but it made sense. A group like theirs probably stepped on a few toes.

  “So far, we’ve narrowed it down to one of the girls,” Kae continued. “But beyond that, we’re stuck. If you notice anything—anything at all—suspicious, let me or Bram know.”

  Colin processed the weight of that. If it wasn’t him, Kae, or Bram, then the list really was short. He opened his mouth to say something, hesitated, and then closed it again.

  Kae didn’t seem to notice.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Kae finished his business in the blacksmith’s shop quickly, purchasing a new sword and a handful of throwing knives to replace those broken or lost in previous skirmishes.

  The man who handed him the items was blue-skinned, like Kae, and the two exchanged what sounded like friendly jabs in a language Colin assumed was Frosk.

  They were just about to leave the shop when Colin felt a heavy hand settle on his shoulder. A smith had stepped away from his station and was openly staring at the sword hanging at Colin’s hip.

  “Excuse me, sir. Can I help you?” Colin asked, trying to maintain some semblance of confidence.

  “May I see your sword?” the man asked, his voice calm—and to Colin’s ears, almost reverent.

  The man was an absolute mountain. At least seven feet tall, his biceps were easily larger than Colin’s head. A thick beard reached down to mid-chest, and his bare arms glistened beneath his smith’s apron.

  Strange, inked markings coiled across his pale skin—tattoos, perhaps—and his bald head only served to emphasize his piercing golden eyes.

  “Of course,” Colin said, drawing the sword from its sheath and offering it hilt-first.

  The smith’s mouth dropped open as his gaze swept from the blade’s tip down to the hilt. His eyes widened even more as they landed on a particular spot near the guard.

  “By the gods… Do you know what you have here, kid?”

  Colin tilted his head, clearly clueless.

  “This is the work of a legend—Meyren Emberforge. Her blades are rare. Mythic, even. It’s said she now forges weapons for the gods themselves. I’ve only seen a few of her pieces in the mortal realm.”

  Colin’s jaw slowly slackened as the man continued, weaving the tale of Meyren’s life and craft. She had specialized in celestial metals during her time among mortals, and the material used for this blade alone could feed a village for years. With her maker’s mark stamped on it, the sword’s worth jumped from treasure to near-legend.

  Finally, the man pointed out a small, nearly imperceptible symbol etched into the hilt—a simple crescent moon over a smithy’s hammer.

  “This is her mark. If you ever find another blade bearing it… buy it. And bring it to me. I’ll pay handsomely.”

  Colin nodded, extending his hand to retrieve the sword.

  “What’s your name?” he asked as the man returned the hilt to him.

  “Grolnak Rip-Jaw,” the smith said with a grin. “Just ask around for the Half-Goliath smithy—you’ll find me quick enough.”

  “I’m Colin. Thank you… for everything.”

  Grolnak gave a respectful nod before turning and making his way back to his forge.

  Kae stood nearby, arms crossed, eyebrows raised.

  “Well,” he said with a smirk, “you certainly make interesting friends, Colin.”

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  The walk back to the caravan was shorter than Colin would have liked. Despite their rocky beginnings, he and Kae got along surprisingly well.

  They were laughing at one of Kae’s jokes when Colin spotted Bram standing near one of the wagons. Bram gave them a wave before turning to let the others know they had returned.

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  Colin caught up with the group just as Bram finished chatting with Lyra. He offered a smile to his friends, mentally preparing himself for the next leg of the journey.

  He sidled up next to Nectarine and nudged her lightly with his elbow.

  “Hey there. Any idea where we’re headed next?”

  She looked up at him and met his gaze with a brilliant smile.

  “Hallowed Deep should be the next stop. It’s a gorgeous city made up of interconnected caves. Pretty religious, though, so not much in the way of debauchery for travelers looking to party. But it’s perfect for those of us who just want to rest. And the food is amazing.”

  Colin smiled as Nectarine continued gushing about the city. He found himself genuinely excited for what lay ahead.

  This was his life now.

  Adventure.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  On the other side of the city, just beyond the walls, a camp filled with cutthroats and killers was slowly packing up their gear. The command tent stood ominously at the center, intentionally avoided by all—though no one could escape the sounds coming from within.

  Veyfeyst’s boot slammed into the messenger’s gut once more, the solid thud cutting off the screams that had filled the tent only moments before. The man wheezed, gasping like a fish out of water.

  “So,” Veyfeyst growled, his voice a low snarl, “you’re telling me that we need to pack up this entire camp and travel twenty miles south?”

  The man at his feet managed a strained breath—just before another vicious kick caught him in the jaw, flipping him onto his back. He stared up at the ceiling, vision blurring at the edges.

  “Sorry, I couldn’t quite hear you,” Veyfeyst sneered. “You said I need to leave my prey… and that our lord”—he spat the word like poison—“needs me to let Bram live?”

  He snapped his fingers toward the healer in the corner. The woman rushed over, casting a restoration spell to keep the messenger conscious, barely holding him together.

  Veyfeyst grabbed the man by the collar and lifted him with ease, forcing their eyes to meet.

  “Y-yes, sir,” the man stammered, trembling. “That’s what the Lord asked me to tell you…”

  The acrid scent of piss hit Veyfeyst’s nostrils. Disgust twisted his lips as he dropped the man. The messenger crumpled to his knees.

  Veyfeyst’s knee shot up, slamming into the man’s chin and sending him flying backward out of the tent.

  The bandit commander followed, stepping into the morning light and dropping to his knees over the sprawled body. Rage simmered in his chest—an unquenchable fire that demanded release.

  This wasn’t his fault. The boy had brought the wrong news. His Lord would understand the loss of a lowly errand runner…

  His fists fell, knuckles cracking with each blow as the man’s face caved in beneath the brutal assault. He didn’t stop when the man stopped breathing. He didn’t stop at the first crack of bone. Only when his hands sank into a gritty mixture of blood, mud, bone fragments, and brain did he finally pause.

  Breathing heavily, Veyfeyst stood, his fury spent. He gave a short whistle. The healer approached, hesitating only a moment before taking his hands in hers.

  “Don’t forget to clean off the filth,” he muttered, voice cool again. “I don’t want any of that disgusting thing left on me.”

  She nodded and cast a low-level cleansing spell, wiping away the gore and grime from his skin.

  By the time Veyfeyst mounted his horse, the command tent had already been dismantled. His crew stood ready, awaiting his word. He nodded to the mage beside him.

  The mage pointed toward the mangled corpse and whispered a brief incantation. A wreath of blue flames enveloped the body, reducing it to ash in seconds.

  The Dusk Rose had been lucky, Veyfeyst thought. Lucky that he was being pulled away. Lucky that some sniveling traitor had whispered into the Lord’s ear about their location—and his plans.

  But he had made a decision.

  Whoever had betrayed him would die.

  And it would be far less merciful than what the messenger had endured.

  ____________________________________________________________________________

  Colin and his group exited the city just as the last stragglers of Veyfeyst’s gang rode off into the bright midday sun. The warm breeze shifted, carrying a strange scent that curled into Colin’s nostrils.

  It almost smelled like barbecue… but there was an acrid edge to it, something bitter and wrong.

  He glanced at Nectarine—and froze.

  She’d gone pale. Not just pale—ashen. Her lips were pressed into a tight line, and she’d stopped walking entirely, staring after the riders with the hollow look of someone watching ghosts gallop away.

  “Hey… you alright, Nectar?” Colin asked, stepping a little closer. She didn’t seem to hear him at first.

  Her eyes flicked toward him slowly, like surfacing from deep underwater.

  “You know those guys or something?” he pressed, concern creeping into his voice.

  “No. It’s nothing,” she said quickly. Too quickly. “Just… don’t like that smell, you know? Turns my stomach.”

  She looked down, trying to muster a smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

  “I’m gonna ride in the wagon for a bit.”

  “Yeah, of course,” Colin said, gently helping her up into the moving vehicle.

  It was strange. The smell, sure—but her reaction had been visceral. Almost like fear. But maybe it was just something from her past. He wasn’t about to press her. Everyone had things they didn’t want to talk about.

  He knew all about that.

  Pushing the thought aside, he made his way over to Lyra and struck up a conversation. She welcomed it, launching into stories from her travels—some wild, some impossible, all full of life. Their banter kept his mind off darker things.

  By the time the sun dipped beneath the horizon and dinner was being prepared by the roadside, Colin realized he wasn’t even tired. In fact, he felt energized—buzzing from a good day, good company. He asked Sskarin if she’d spar.

  She didn’t hesitate.

  Their blades clashed under the dimming sky. Colin gave everything he had, and Sskarin—silent, focused, almost predatory—met him with graceful brutality. Every strike of hers was calculated, like she was testing his limits… or holding back something deeper.

  When they finished, Colin’s muscles burned with fatigue, and he welcomed it like an old friend. It was the ache of effort. The kind that made him feel alive.

  He sat by a small fire he’d built himself. Most of the others had turned in, the road’s weariness pulling them into tents and wagons.

  To his right, Grayne and Crel were sharing a bottle, laughing in low tones, their camaraderie easy and natural. Colin watched them for a while, smiling faintly—until he realized he wasn’t alone.

  Bram sat down beside him without a word. The fire crackled between them.

  “So. Kae talked t’ ye, aye?” Bram said, eyes fixed on the flames.

  “Yeah. He did.” Colin hesitated, then asked, “You think it’s one of the girls?”

  Bram gave a grim nod, his mouth tightening beneath his beard.

  “Right now, it’s Sskarin we think has the best chance o’ bein’ the spy. She snuck out one night. No one knew where.”

  Colin shifted uncomfortably.

  “Yeah… I saw her when she came back. She was covered in blood. Rushed right past me like I wasn’t even there. We talked the next morning, but she insisted it wasn’t anything bad.”

  Bram’s head snapped up. His eyes locked onto Colin’s with sudden intensity.

  “Ye saw her, lad? Why didn’t ye say anythin’?”

  Colin didn’t answer right away. His thoughts raced, tangled.

  “I trust her,” he said finally. “Bram, if she wanted to kill me… she could’ve. Easily. But she didn’t. Whatever that was—it didn’t feel like treachery. It felt personal. Like something she couldn’t tell anyone.”

  Bram exhaled slowly, the firelight catching the tired lines on his face.

  “Still… I gotta talk to her, kid. Secrets’ll kill us faster than blades ever will. Can’t have a Dusk Rose member walkin’ into an inn soaked in blood with no one askin’ questions.”

  Colin nodded, jaw tight. “Understood. I’ll let you know if anything else feels off. I promise.”

  Bram stood, resting a heavy hand on Colin’s shoulder.

  “I know ye will, Colin. Yer a good lad. Better than we deserve, fer sure.”

  And with that, the dwarf disappeared into the darkness, leaving Colin alone with the fire—and too many unanswered questions.

  He glanced toward the wagon where Nectarine had gone quiet hours ago, then toward the tent where Sskarin slept like nothing had happened.

  And for the first time on this journey, he felt the cold nudge of paranoia settle in at the edges of his thoughts.