Vermil Threadwhisker’s ears swiveled at every sound as he hurried down Merchant’s Row, his expensive waistcoat drawing curious glances from the evening crowd. The setting sun cast long shadows between the buildings, and he found himself checking them compulsively, as if expecting to find something. Someone.

  His perfectly groomed fur stood on end. The usual evening bustle of Ironweave’s market district felt oppressive tonight, each passerby a potential threat. He’d been making his routine information gathering rounds when that prickling sensation had started at the base of his tail—the feeling of being watched.

  The ratkin’s steps quickened, his claws clicking against the ground. In his head, he rehearsed his report: “Nothing unusual to report, my lord. The market remains stable, with no significant—”

  The sound of hooves on stone made him freeze. A carriage rounded the corner ahead, its black lacquered surface reflecting the last rays of sunlight. Vermil’s heart hammered against his ribs as it drew closer, moving at a deliberately measured pace.

  Just another merchant’s transport, he told himself. Just another—

  The carriage stopped.

  Before Vermil could process what was happening, the door flew open. A bag descended over his head, rough hands grabbed his arms, and he found himself yanked off his feet. His startled squeak was muffled by the thick fabric as he was bundled into the carriage.

  “Not. One. Word.” The voice was calm, controlled, and carried the promise of immediate violence.

  They lurched forward. Through the bag, Vermil smelled leather upholstery and something else—a metallic tang that made his whiskers curl. He tried to count the turns, to track their route through the city, but soon lost track as the carriage picked up speed.

  Time stretched like cold honey. His tail, usually so carefully groomed and positioned, lay limp against the seat. The fabric of the bag scratched against his nose, carrying traces of previous... occupants. He tried not to think about that.

  Finally, after what felt like hours but was probably closer to one, they stopped. The same rough hands guided him out, their grip professional rather than cruel. The ground beneath his feet changed from stone to something softer—grass? Fallen leaves? The air smelled different too, carrying hints of pine and decay rather than the city’s familiar mix of smoke and spices.

  When they removed the bag, Vermil found himself in a small clearing. Lanterns hung from the surrounding trees, their light arranged to create shadows rather than dispel them. Armed guards stood at strategic points, their armor bearing no identifying marks.

  And there, in the darkest corner of the clearing, stood a figure that made Vermil’s fur stand on end. Wearing an ornate mask that concealed every feature, they watched. They didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Only observed. Whether it was Lord Vale or not, Vermil couldn’t be sure.

  A well-dressed assistant stepped forward, his movements precise and refined. Everything about him spoke of careful cultivation—from his pressed clothes to his meticulously maintained fingernails. When he smiled, it never reached his eyes.

  “Ah, Master Threadwhisker. Do forgive the rather dramatic means of transportation. Lord Vale prefers to maintain certain traditions.” The assistant adjusted his gloves. “You’ll grow accustomed to it, I’m sure.”

  Vermil straightened his back trying to project an air of unruffled professionalism. “Of course, of course! Always an honor to serve his lordship, whatever the circumstances!” His voice came out higher than intended, but he pressed on. “I assume you’d like my report?”

  “Indeed.” The assistant’s smile remained fixed. “Lord Vale is particularly interested in any potential market disruptions. New enterprises that might affect his furniture business, for instance.”

  “Well, as it happens, there is a new establishment. They registered recently! Called ‘Mimic & Co.’ though I couldn’t gather much detail about their intended merchandise.”

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  The assistant’s expression didn’t change, but something in the air shifted. In his corner, Lord Vale remained motionless, the mask’s empty eyes fixed on Vermil.

  “Do tell.”

  “Well, there were two proprietors,” Vermil continued, words tumbling out faster now. “One looked quite nervous—scholarly type, probably the bookkeeper. But his partner...” He swallowed. “Rather intimidating fellow. Made it difficult to conduct a proper investigation.”

  The assistant glanced toward Lord Vale. The masked figure gave no response, no acknowledgment—his presence like a storm about to break.

  “Is that all?” The assistant’s voice had gained an edge.

  “I... that is...” Vermil’s tail curled defensively. “It’s early days yet, but I’m sure with more time—”

  The assistant moved faster than Vermil’s eyes could track. Suddenly, those manicured fingers were around his throat, lifting him a few inches off the ground. The grip was precise and controlled.

  “Are you certain,” the assistant’s voice remained conversational, “that you’re not simply inventing threats to justify your fee?”

  Vermil gasped, paws scrabbling at the iron grip. “Eight!” he wheezed. “Eight Merchant’s End! That’s their address! I swear it!”

  The assistant’s fingers tightened a bit. “And these proprietors?”

  “Two of them!” Vermil trembled. “The tall one—must be six feet—he’s got this wild brown hair, maybe twenty-five? Carries himself like he’s used to fighting. Handsome enough to be trouble.”

  “Go on.”

  “The other one’s shorter, quiet type. Black hair, keeps it neat unlike his friend. Same age but carries himself different—more reserved, like he’s always thinking things through. Some kind of scholar or healer, from what I gathered.”

  The pressure vanished. Vermil dropped to his knees, coughing, as the assistant calmly adjusted his gloves.

  “There now, that wasn’t so difficult, was it?” The assistant’s tone had returned to its usual pleasant register. “We do appreciate your diligence, Master Threadwhisker.” A pouch of coins landed at Vermil’s feet. “For your troubles.”

  Still massaging his throat, Vermil looked around the clearing. Everyone was starting to leave.

  “How... how am I supposed to get back?” Vermil asked, hating the tremor in his voice. “I don’t even know where we are.”

  “Ah.” The assistant’s smile widened fractionally. “I’m afraid Lord Vale has an appointment.”

  It was such an obvious lie that Vermil almost laughed. Almost. The kind of lie that existed purely to demonstrate that truth was irrelevant—that explanations were a courtesy Lord Vale’s organization no longer felt the need to extend.

  Vermil stood alone in the clearing, his waistcoat now rumpled, his waxed whiskers askew. Somewhere in the darkness, an owl called—once, twice, three times. Vermil’s ears twitched at each sound, tracking their direction, trying to determine if they were real or another message he wasn’t meant to understand.

  The pouch of coins felt heavy in his pocket as he started walking, following what he hoped was a path back to civilization. Each step crunched against leaves, the sound impossibly loud in the gathering dark. He had no idea where he was going, but anywhere was better than where he was.

  He broke into a run, no longer caring about direction or dignity. His clothes caught on thorns, but he barely noticed the tears.

  Another branch snapped behind him. Vermil ran faster, his perfect posture forgotten, his whiskers flattened against his face. He ran until the trees began to thin, until the ground began to slope downward, until—

  He burst out of the forest onto a road. An actual road, with wheel ruts and hoof prints and signs of civilization. Vermil collapsed against a milestone, gasping for breath, his fur matted with sweat and leaves.

  The milestone’s weathered surface bore an arrow pointing east: “IRONWEAVE - 3 MILES”

  Vermil laughed, the sound high with a hint of hysteria. Three miles. He could walk that in his sleep. Had walked it many times, gathering information for various clients.

  His whiskers were ruined without proper wax, but that seemed trivial now.

  As he walked, Vermil couldn’t help but question everything. Why the bag if they were going to let him figure out his way back? Was it some kind of psychological torture, a way to keep him off balance? Or was it simply another demonstration of Lord Vale’s power, a reminder that even the smallest details were controlled by forces beyond his understanding?

  The more he thought about it, the more he realized how little he truly knew. The bag, the carriage, the clearing—it all felt like an orchestrated performance, designed to keep him guessing, to keep him afraid. And it had worked. Every step he took was haunted by the memory of that mask, those hands, that voice.

  Vermil’s mind raced with possibilities, each more unsettling than the last. Was this all a test? A way to see how far he could be pushed before he broke? Or was there something more sinister at play, something he couldn’t even begin to comprehend?

  He shook his head, trying to dispel the thoughts, but they clung to him like the shadows in the forest. No matter how far he walked, he couldn’t shake the sense of unseen eyes tracking him, that every step was being measured, every move calculated.