Wolf’s Bane stood just outside the Citadel, nestled deep within Sheer Cold’s heartland. An hour’s walk, give or take.

  A city split in two.

  The first half belonged to the Bloodclaw clan—lychen scholars, mages, intellectuals. This part of the city was a place of knowledge and refinement. Libraries, research facilities, and spellcraft workshops dominated the skyline. The greatest of them all was the Muskwater Library, named after the river that curled protectively around it. It held the largest collection of knowledge in the territory. The Bloodclaws were masters of arcane magic, especially illusion. They were dangerous, but not in the way most warriors thought.

  Then there was the other side of Wolf’s Bane.

  Razorclaw territory.

  Where the Bloodclaws built halls of knowledge, the Razorclaws built arenas. Where the Bloodclaws studied ancient texts, the Razorclaws drank and fought. This part of the city was all sharp angles and rough edges—bars, fighting pits, and strange, haphazard homes thrown together with little thought for beauty.

  At its center stood Prey House.

  A looming, brutalist mansion belonging to Fang himself. It wasn’t just a home. It was a legend.

  Here, the most dangerous bounties in the world were posted. Some came from rulers, others from criminal syndicates, but all of them were deadly. Bounty hunters from every nation visited, drawn by the high stakes and high rewards.

  But I wasn’t here for that.

  I was here for breakfast.

  Coldians were warriors, strategists, perfectionists—but we couldn’t cook for shit. Food in our ranks was utilitarian at best, abysmal at worst. That’s why we imported it.

  And in Wolf’s Bane, there was a market stall in Bloodclaw territory that sold northern food—dried fish and delicate pastries. Simple. Satisfying. Edible.

  As I walked, my thoughts drifted back to the job.

  I needed to find Manach.

  Whatever we did next, we had to do it together.

  Even if we met Rechna, we couldn’t question her without approval. The letter was clear. We were only authorized to track down Sioh and conduct business outside Sheer Cold’s borders. Anything beyond that? We needed permission.

  Which meant I needed to rethink our approach.

  I made a slight detour, hoping to intercept Manach before he disappeared on some errand.

  For once, luck was on my side.

  I spotted him up ahead, talking to a few men. By the time I got closer, they had already gone, leaving him alone—waiting.

  He saw me before I even opened my mouth.

  “You’re done already?” he asked, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Or did you get lost?”

  I scowled. “Shut up and walk with me. You wouldn’t believe what just happened.”

  I grabbed his arm and pulled him along.

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “Wolf’s Bane. We’re eating first.”

  He yanked his arm free, frowning. “And the letter? The job?”

  “I’ll explain on the way,” I said, my voice serious.

  Something in my tone made him pause. He studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Fine.”

  And with that, we walked.

  As we made our way to Wolf’s Bane, I told him everything.

  “What the actual fuck.” Manach laughed, shaking his head. “You were gone for half an hour.”

  “It’s not funny,” I said flatly.

  “Oh, it is funny.” He grinned. “Big bad Koch—off to get a letter signed, comes back with soiled pants.” He chuckled again. “That’s comedy.”

  “Like you would’ve handled it better,” I muttered.

  Manach smirked. “No, no—trust me. I’d have gotten the signature, wrapped up the job, grabbed us food, and still had time to wait for you while you were still charting the path on a damn map.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Speaking of which—did you finish charting the path?”

  He stopped walking. “Doesn’t matter.”

  That meant no.

  I exhaled, but before I could call him out, the treeline ahead thinned. The sight of Wolf’s Bane stretched before us.

  The city pulsed with life.

  Lychen bustled about their business, running errands, moving supplies. Coldians walked among them, their rigid discipline at odds with the casual, almost chaotic flow of the Bloodclaw streets. Stalls stood open, traders barking offers, the scent of fresh-baked goods and smoked meat curling through the air.

  No danger. No threats.

  A rare moment of peace.

  We made a straight line for our target—a simple market stall in Bloodclaw territory, the one place where you could get real food instead of the rations we suffered back home.

  We paid, took our food, and settled at an outer table.

  Manach cut his meal into neat little portions with his dagger, stabbing a piece and popping it into his mouth with exaggerated refinement. A noble’s performance—mocking, but precise.

  I rolled my eyes and muttered through a mouthful of food, “So, what’s the plan now?”

  “We can’t leave without approval. Would be pointless. There’s more to this job than we know.” He twirled his dagger absently before spearing another bite.

  “I know that. But with the Council ongoing and this whole war effort… who’s even left to give us approval?”

  Manach shrugged. “Can’t we just wait for the Council to finish?”

  Could we?

  I frowned. “We could, but we’d still need to find someone after that.”

  Manach studied me, his expression shifting. He knew what I was thinking. The real problem wasn’t waiting—the real problem was access.

  The top brass? Impossible to reach. The chain of command? A bureaucratic nightmare.

  But Manach—he always had a way.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “I know a guy,” he said finally.

  I stopped him right there. “I don’t like it.”

  He smirked. “You never do.”

  “Because every time you ‘know a guy,’ one of us ends up needing a healer.”

  He waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t wor—”

  “Nope.”

  “Listen—”

  I sighed. “Yup. One of us is going to need a healer.”

  Manach leaned forward. “Look, let’s stock up. Then we meet the guy. You get final say. After that, we figure out our next move once we have approval.”

  I opened my mouth to argue.

  Didn’t get the chance.

  “Awesome!” Manach shot up from his seat, already moving. He strode to the stall and started ordering supplies—food, water, rations—paying in gold and silver like it was nothing.

  I watched him work, exhaling slowly.

  Maybe this was the day I died. Wouldn’t be the first time I had that feeling around him.

  But still—I followed.

  As he loaded up, I asked, “At least tell me the guy’s name.”

  Manach grinned.

  “Ruhk.”

  We walked for hours.

  Neither of us spoke much. Just the basics—travel, terrain, distance.

  The Ashridden Forest stretched around us, vast and undisturbed. A gentle breeze whispered through the trees, rustling the canopy in a way that settled my nerves. The tension from earlier still lingered, but the walk was almost peaceful. Almost.

  The deeper we went, the more my mind wandered.

  Who was Ruhk?

  The name had Coldian weight to it, but why was he so far north? There were no settlements here—just wilderness. My gut, always sharper than I gave it credit for, supplied the answer.

  Manach was shady. Always had been. That meant the people he associated with were worse. This Ruhk, whoever he was, had to be hiding something—something bad. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be out here, far beyond where anyone could stumble upon him by accident.

  I felt it in my bones.

  But I followed anyway.

  We pressed on in silence until I finally broke it.

  “Is this guy really this far north?”

  Manach didn’t even slow down. “No idea.”

  I stopped walking. “Wait, then why the fuck are we heading this way?”

  He turned, grinning. “We don’t find him. He finds us.”

  I stared at him.

  “Come on, Koch—have a little faith.”

  Faith. Faith.

  The last time Manach told me to have faith, we were in the Hinterlands. He had me jump a cliff in full armor. Said I’d make it. Said it was easy.

  I missed.

  Broke my leg, my ribs, both arms. Three weeks of urgent care. I still didn’t remember most of it.

  And now he was asking for faith again?

  I sighed.

  But I followed.

  Eventually, we reached a clearing.

  Tall trees loomed overhead, their trunks marked with carved sigils—Ancient Reaper script, complex and unfamiliar. I recognized the language but couldn’t read it. My primary tongue was Elven, my secondary was modern Reaper, but Ancient Reaper? That was another beast entirely. Too convoluted. Too intricate.

  Still, I knew one thing.

  These weren’t just markers.

  They were ritual sigils.

  “What do they say?” I asked.

  Manach shrugged. “No clue. But there’s a treehouse nearby. Look for a ladder.”

  He pushed forward, moving between the trees like he already knew the way. I didn’t like this—any of it—but I was already here.

  A few minutes later, I found it. A wooden ladder, nailed into the trunk of a massive tree, stretching up into the branches.

  “Over here,” I called.

  Manach clapped his hands. “Then don’t just stand there—climb.”

  I gritted my teeth and started up.

  The ladder led to a small trapdoor, shut but not locked. I pushed it open and pulled myself inside.

  The room was cluttered.

  Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with tomes, scrolls, and scattered, half-destroyed notes. Loose parchment littered the floor—some so worn and brittle they crumbled underfoot. Arcane items sat haphazardly on tables, their glow faint but wrong. The air itself felt charged, like the residue of a spell still clung to the wood.

  I exhaled, glancing around.

  I knew what this was.

  “Coldian mage,” I muttered. “Forbidden arts. Ritual magic. Anything I’m missing?”

  Manach hauled himself up through the trapdoor and dusted off his coat. He gave me an approving nod. “Actually, no. I’m impressed.”

  I smirked. “You should be.”

  “Don’t push it.”

  He glanced around, scanning the room, then spoke as he started searching.

  “Look for a book. No writing on the cover, but it’ll have an arcane seal on it.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Why?”

  Manach rifled through a stack of scrolls. “If we touch it, Ruhk will come. He doesn’t like people messing with it, so he put some kind of spell on it.”

  I froze. “What kind of spell?”

  Manach hesitated. Just for a second. Then, too quickly—

  “No idea. I don’t mess with magic.”

  Liar.

  He knew something. And for him to be this cagey, it meant the spell wasn’t some harmless little warning rune. It was something worse.

  Still, I exhaled and started searching.

  Because whether I liked it or not, we were already here.

  We still hadn’t found the book when we heard it—rustling outside.

  Manach and I locked eyes. No words, no hesitation. He drew his daggers. I unsheathed my sword, shield up over my arm. The climbing noises grew louder.

  Then the trapdoor creaked.

  Manach moved first. The moment it cracked open, he kicked it up, yanking whoever was climbing through. I seized them, locked their arms behind their back, and pinned them hard. Manach’s dagger kissed the stranger’s throat.

  “Who the hell are you?” Manach whispered.

  The intruder didn’t struggle. Heavy armor, no weapons. Coldian.

  A mage.

  If this wasn’t Ruhk, then who the fuck was he?

  He didn’t answer, so I tightened my grip. “Would be wise to talk,” I murmured.

  No fear. No hesitation.

  “My name is Nacht.”

  Manach got close, too close. “Nacht? What are you doing here?”

  “Master sent me.”

  I felt my stomach tighten. Master? Coldians didn’t have masters. That wasn’t their way. This wasn’t right. A spell, maybe? A binding ritual?

  “Who’s your master?” I asked.

  Manach chuckled. I shot him a look. He raised his hands in mock apology.

  “Ruhk,” Nacht said simply.

  I frowned. “Why did he send you?”

  Nacht’s face was unreadable. “To ask if the intruders can speak the Volume of Three.”

  The what?

  Before I could even process it, Manach answered, “We can.”

  Of course he could. Code words, secret dealings. Typical shady bullshit. I hated it.

  I let Nacht go. He didn’t react—just dusted himself off and started cleaning the room like we hadn’t nearly killed him.

  I turned to Manach. “Volume of Three?”

  “A code of trust,” he said.

  Then, without hesitation, he knocked on wood three times, whistled seven, and coughed once.

  The air twisted.

  A portal tore itself open.

  I felt my stomach churn.

  I hated portals. I hated teleportation. The sensation of being unmade and reassembled—like your soul took a moment to catch up with your body. Coldians used it all the time, jumping between realms, but I could never get used to it.

  And then—he stepped through.

  No armor.

  Pale Coldian features, red eyes burning like embers, a black leather tunic. A short staff in his hand, surrounded by floating arcane crystals humming with energy. His hair, short and silver, shimmered unnaturally—magic radiating from him like heat from a forge.

  Manach grinned. “Ruhk, you’re a hard man to find, but an easy one to lure.”

  So this was Ruhk.

  The mage’s expression didn’t change. His voice was smooth, wise, but laced with steel.

  “I should have known a pathetic swindler like you would come crawling back.” He folded his arms. “You owe me five thousand gold, Manach. I assume you came to pay your debt.”

  Five thousand?

  How the hell did Manach rack up that kind of money?

  “Don’t worry, Vizier Ruhk. The debt will be paid. But first—business.” He motioned toward me. “Meet my associate, Koch.”

  Vizier. That meant something. A Coldian mage of power—someone who carried the same weight as a captain of a regiment.

  I nodded. “A pleasure.”

  Ruhk barely looked at me. “You are unimportant, soldier.” His eyes didn’t leave Manach. “Now. Give me my money. Then we talk.”

  As we spoke, Nacht slipped out. Just left. No words, no acknowledgment. Just gone.

  I wanted to ask about him—what the hell he was—but now wasn’t the time. I kept my mouth shut.

  Manach sighed, pulled a heavy bag from his pack, and tossed it to Ruhk. It hit the floor with the dull clink of a lot of coin.

  “Then sit,” Ruhk said.

  And just like that, a table and three chairs materialized in the middle of the room.

  Magic. I fucking hated magic.

  We sat.

  Ruhk leaned back, fingers tapping against his staff. The air shifted.

  “I don’t want this to take long. Tell me what you want, so I can tell you to fuck off and get back to real business.”

  His tone had changed. The wisdom in his voice faded, replaced by something rougher. Meaner.

  Manach grinned, flicking one of his daggers between his fingers. A tell. He always did that when he had something planned.

  “Simple,” he said. “We need five thousand gold. I’ll be in your debt. And we need an approval seal, or a meeting with someone higher up.”

  The silence stretched.

  Then—

  “Fuck off,” Ruhk said, standing up.

  “Gladly,” Manach replied, still grinning. “But not without those things.”

  Ruhk narrowed his eyes. “You insult me, Manach. That’s unlike you.”

  Manach leaned forward. “I don’t insult. I negotiate.”

  “You just paid your debt, and now you’re asking for the money back—plus a favor?”

  “Yeah.”

  Ruhk studied him. Then, slowly—too slowly—he nodded.

  “What do I get in return?”

  Manach tilted his head. “What do you want?”

  How the hell had this gone from fuck off to let’s make a deal?

  Ruhk’s expression darkened. “A head.”

  Manach didn’t blink. “Whose?”

  “We have a deal?”

  “We do.”

  Ruhk extended a hand. “Then give me the letter.”

  I slid it over.

  He barely glanced at it before pressing a seal onto it—an approval seal. From Athion.

  The Chaos Archon.

  I felt something tighten in my chest.

  How the fuck did Ruhk have a direct seal from Athion?

  Didn’t matter. I wasn’t about to ask.

  Ruhk met Manach’s gaze. “Once you deliver, you get the gold. If you fail, I hunt you both down.”

  Manach just smirked. “Wouldn’t expect anything less.”

  I finally spoke. “Who’s the target?”

  Manach raised a finger, pressed it to my lips. “Shh.”

  I glared at him. Furious. But I knew this wasn’t my conversation.

  “Why don’t you step outside,” Manach said smoothly, “and let the big boys talk?”

  I wanted to kill them both.

  But I knew better.

  I turned and left.