Hildrebrand was an ordinary city, smaller than Vash'kar, with quiet streets and a modest market square. It cked the bustling energy er hubs, but that made it easier for secrets to hide in pin sight.

  Rael moved through the crowd, his steps measured and his posture unassuming. He wore the appearance of a low-level adventurer—simple leather armor, a worn bow strapped to his back, and a nondescript hood that cast a shadow over his face. He looked like any other traveler passing through Hildrebrand, just another nameless fa the crowd. And that was exactly what he needed.

  The token was long gone, but he hoped to uraces of the operation. Leads, whispers, anything that could point him in the right dire. His goal was clear: figure out who had the resources and audacity to pull off a heist uhe Order's nose.

  He had spent the better part of two days acclimating to Hildrebrand, mapping its districts and the flow of goods and information. The markets were a byrinth of trade, the docks a hive of illicit activity. But it was the lower districts—the part of the city where buildings leaned into one another, casting the streets into perpetual twilight—that held the answers he sought.

  His first lead came from a dockworker, an NPC with a perpetual scowl and a gruff tohe man pined about increased cargo iions, his voice low and wary. Normally, shipments moved smoothly through the docks, but tely, a new set of guards had appeared—not the Order's soldiers, but a private force nondescript grays. Rael observed them from the shadows, his sharp eyes catg the barely visible emblem on their armor, a coiled serpent, its eyes rendered in dark silver thread.

  The serpent emblem wasn't just a random mark—it was the insignia of a supposed mert guild, Silver Coil Trading. On the surface, the guild dealt in spices, fabrics, and rare imports, but Rael knew better. His research had uncovered rumors of the Silver Coil ag as a front for smuggling operations, usiimate trade to hide illicit goods and move assets ued through the Order's watchful eyes.

  He followed the trail to a warehouse by the docks. It stood at the end of a narrow street, its windows barred and its duarded by two of the serpent-marked soldiers. Rael slipped into a side alley, his back against the cold stone as he activated Veil Step, a skill he had acquired from a skill book he'd purchased earlier. The ability rendered him semi-transparent for a few precious seds. He moved quickly, slipping into a drainage el that led beh the warehouse.

  Inside, voices echoed through the stonework. Rael y ft against the grating, peering through into the dimly lit interior. Crates lihe walls, stamped with false insignias from distant cities. People moved among them—borers, by the look of them—but their movements were too coordinated. He he way they lifted the boxes, how they unicated with subtle hand signals. Not random workers, then. Operatives of the Silver Coil.

  Rael's breath slowed as he listened.

  "… shipment goes north. Make sure the markings match the mahis time."

  A gruff voice, the speaker out of sight. Rael squihrough the grate, catg the edge of a shadow.

  "Who's paying for this one?"

  "The same. Doesn't matter. Just get it done."

  The other man didn't respond, merely nodded and moved to oversee the loading process.

  Rael's mind ed. Shipments, disguised goods, and a private force. This wasn't a small-time operation. It ply , hiddeh the guise of everyday erce. Whoever was behind this had deep pockets and a careful hand.

  He stayed until the guards ged, noting the rotation. The warehouse operated under a strict schedule, with shifts that blended into the natural rhythms of the city. By the time he slipped bato the streets, the sun had started its dest, painting Hildrebrand in shades of amber and shadow.

  Rael found a quiet er in a half-abandoned inn, the kind where patroo themselves and the barkeep asked no questions. His room arse, but it offered privacy. He opened his iory, pulling out a small map of the city. With a charcoal stick, he marked the routes he had seehs the crates had taken, the docks, the warehouse. Each line ected to another, and sloattern emerged.

  The shipments moved in a circuit. They never left the city directly but iransferred from one nondescript building to ahe serpent emblem appeared in three pces—warehouses, a mert's office, and a small guard post he city's western gate.

  The m, he shadowed a voy. The guards wray, the same coiled serpent barely visible beh their cloaks. He kept his distance, slipping into crowds, vanishing into alleyways whehey paused. The voy led him through the bustling markets, past the quiet residential blocks, and finally to the guard post he had marked the night before.

  Rael didn't approach. Instead, he circled around, finding a vantage point on a low rooftop. He y ft against the shingles, watg as the crates were unloaded and carried inside. He waited, the miretg into an hour, until the st of the guards disappeared.

  He moved as the sun dipped behind the city walls, shadows pooling ireets. A side window, barred but not reinforced, provided his entrance. He slipped a lockpick from his iory, the tool small and nondescript, and within moments the tch gave with a soft click.

  Ihe air was cool and smelled of old wood and damp stohe building was more of an administrative hub than a guard post, its rooms filled with ledgers and dots. Rael moved silently, his footsteps muffled by the worn carpet.

  He found what he was looking for in a back office. The papers were scattered, as if someone had left in a hurry. Mas, trade agreements, most of them legitimate. But beh them, hidden under a ledger, he found a slip of part marked with the same serpent emblem.

  It was a coded dot, the kind the system wouldn't traomatically. Rael took a quick picture, slipping the part bato its pce.

  The exit was smooth. He retraced his path, slipping through the window and bato the maze of alleyways. His mind raced with the possibilities about the es, the work, the hidden resources that this anization possessed.

  As he reached the retive safety of the crowded market, Rael allowed himself a small, fleeting smile. He had a thread now, something to pull.

  * * *

  Rael returo his rented room at the inn, the dim light filtering through the grime-covered window. He unrolled the part he had photographed, the serpent emblem staring back at him. Deciphering codes wasn't his specialty, but this one was hardly a challe took him less than ten mio crack it.

  The coded dot unraveled slowly, revealing fragmented information. Keywords stood out: "Supply ," "Vault 7," and "Crowsfoot." A few names were listed, none of them signifit on their own, but the repeated mention of "Crowsfoot" piqued his i.

  Rael tapped his fingers rhythmically against the table, his mind ing. He had heard the name "Crowsfoot" before—overheard during a hushed versation at a bar. Back then, it had been nothing more than drunken rambliween two traders, a mention of smuggling routes and discreet dealings. But now, with the coded dot in front of him, the e seemed anything but tal.

  The Crowsfoot were an underground syndicate of NPCs, specializing in logistid bck market trade. They thrived in the shadows, moving goods quietly through city borders, avoiding taxes and iions. If someone o smuggle artifactst these were the people to use.

  With this new lead, Rael pnned his approach. The Crowsfoot operated out of an old distillery in Hildrebrand's southern district. The building itself was a front, a legitimate business by day, a hub of destirade by night. Rael knew he couldn't just walk in and start asking questions. He o slip in, observe, and gather information without drawing attention.

  As night fell, Rael donned a new disguise—this time as a courier. He borrowed the appearance of a on person by equipping a simple brown tunid a cap that shaded his face.

  The distillery loomed ahead, its exterior worn but sturdy. A few carts were lined up outside, barrels being unloaded by workers who moved with a practiced efficy. Rael watched from a shadowed alcove, noting the rotation of guards. Uhe warehouse, these guards were not as well-armed. They relied on blending in with the workers rather than intimidating with force.

  Rael activated Veil Step and slipped through a side entrahe distillery's interior was a maze of barrels, crates, and the heavy st of fermenting grain. He moved quietly, his steps barely disturbing the dust. Deeper inside, voices echoed off the stone walls. Rael edged closer, peering through the gaps between crates.

  A group of NPCs stood around a makeshift table, its surface scarred and stained. At the head of the group was a broad-shouldered man with a red scarf, his presenanding. He leaned over a map of Hildrebrand, his firag routes with practiced precision.

  "Thorne said the shipment o be out before dawn," a wiry man with a perpetual sneer muttered. His voice was low, but it carried, boung off the stone walls. "No mistakes this time."

  Rael's eyes narrowed. Thorhe name hung in the air, sharp and uhe man with the red scarf didn't react, his expression remaining a careful mask. If he was Thorne, he wasn't about to draw attention to it.

  "The moving," the red-scarfed man said, his tone measured. "We don't want a from the Order. Keep the crates covered and make sure no one asks questions. The boss doesn't pay for loose lips."

  The others murmured assent, breaking off into smaller groups. The Crowsfoot weren't just workers—they moved with the ease of practiced routiheir roles ingrained. Rael watched them disperse, eae slipping into the shadows with purpose.

  He crept further into the distillery, guided by instinct. The ste room he found was tucked behind a reinforced door, its lock old but stubborn. His lockpig skill triggered a brief minigame, and within moments the door creaked open.

  Inside, crates were stacked to the ceiling. Rael pried one open, revealing muems—grain, ale, basic supplies. But the crate held something different. Carefully ed in cloth, he found a set of vials filled with shimmering liquid. Unmarked. No trade sigils, no guild stamps. The kind of cargo that would raise questions in official circles.

  He ran his fingers over the vials, noting the weight and the faint hum of magieath the gss. Whoever hese had a reason for avoiding scrutiny. pos, the sneering man had said. The word lingered, not quite fitting into pce.

  A sudden noise snapped Rael from his thoughts. Footsteps, heavy and approag. He tucked the cloth bato pd slipped behind a row of barrels. Two guards ealking in hushed tones.

  "...Thorne's orders. We're moving the special cargo out tonight. The boss doesn't want anythi behind if the Order starts sniffing around."

  Rael's pulse quied. Special cargo. The words were deliberately vague, but the urgency suggested value. He waited until the guards left, then made his escape through the same side door he had entered.

  Back at the inn, Rael poured over his he Crowsfoot's operation was rge, but their secrecy implied caution. There was a line here, thin and nearly invisible, that ected them to something bigger. Rael couldn't act directly, not yet, but he could stir the waters. He drafted a letter, sending an anonymous tip to the Order's local enforcers about illicit activities at the distillery.

  A smile tugged at his lips. "Let's cast a line and see what bites."