The rhythmic clatter of hooves echoed through the winding streets of Moudhaz as Zion rode Ardyon with Sol perched behind him, her arms loosely draped around his waist, half for balance, half for mischief. The sun had dipped lower in the sky, casting long, golden beams between the adobe buildings, turning the dust into a haze of amber light. At last, the horse slowed before a structure that stood apart from its surroundings—not for its sheer size, but for its artistry.

  It sprawled before them like a miniature palace, more a public hall than a simple brothel. Ornate columns of pale sandstone supported an upper level laced with latticework balconies. Red and indigo fabrics were draped from the entry arches, which had been painted with intricate geometric designs in gold and lapis. Domes crowned the building like sleeping suns, glazed tiles glittering faintly even in the fading light.

  Sol gestured toward the building with theatrical pride. “Welcome to the Gracious Depths, lion. Best place in town.”

  Zion surveyed the structure with a cautious eye. “It is unexpected.”

  “Better than the skimpy adobe craphole you imagined?”

  “Maybe,” he admitted.

  She hopped off the horse with flair, brushing dust from her dress. “Come. I’ll play my oud.”

  “Oud?”

  “Oh, it’s the local word for lute, darling. Don’t worry, they’re waiting for me.”

  Zion dismounted and tied Ardyon to a hitching post near a small open-air stable, where other merchant steeds stood idly chewing dry brush. His fingers worked quickly, secure but gentle, and with one last pat to the horse’s neck, he turned to follow Sol up the shallow steps.

  “You see,” Sol began, sweeping an arm as they walked up the sandstone stairs, “this place was built by northern merchants. That architecture? Beautiful Hiniard craft, mixed with Amifian flair. It’s perfect really.”

  Zion raised a brow, eyeing the carved archways. “Looks like any other place to me. There are better structures out east.”

  “That is why I’m the bard and you’re the mercenary. You have the stylistic knowledge of a blind goblin.”

  “I like practical structures. Straight walls, strong gates, no ornaments.”

  Sol placed a hand dramatically on her chest. “Oh Zion, Zion. We should enjoy, have fun, have flair, darling!”

  He let out a small growl.

  “Oh, sorry,” she teased, “didn’t mean to harm your serious mercenary bit.”

  They stepped into the Gracious Depths. The scent of incense and warm spices greeted them first—saffron, cardamom, and clove—but beneath that was the ever-present undertone of sweat, perfume, and sex. Ornate carpets covered the floor, and the ceiling was a sea of crimson fabric gathered like the folds of a tent. Lamps hung from chains, casting warm light that danced along the walls in golden flickers. Even in the daylight, the atmosphere buzzed. Laughter, soft music, and the sound of flirtation echoed through the air.

  Zion's eyes shifted through the room, noting the patrons—merchants, travelers, and nobles—and the women who danced for them, their garments loose, their movements suggestive but not overt. It wasn’t debauchery on open display—it was seduction, artfully performed and richly dressed.

  He thought of Arana. He had gone from nights at her side, planning military engagements and sharing quiet moments beneath starlit skies, to this painted carnival of momentary pleasure. He felt no shame, only an ache—like something hollow he refused to name.

  “I love the smell of sex,” Sol said, inhaling deeply. “So vigorous. Makes your blood course through your veins.”

  “You have been cursed by a lust demon.”

  “There is no such thing, you lion. Lust is merely a form of self-expression.”

  “It’s a bad form.”

  Sol rolled her eyes. “Eugh, bore me no more, Zion. Let’s go talk to my dear Carmen.”

  They moved past lounging patrons and veiled performers until they reached a secluded alcove near a low fountain where a hookah pipe lazily spilled fragrant smoke into the air. Reclining on silk cushions, surrounded by soft music and colored glass lanterns, was a tall figure dressed in rich red silk and a flowing white hair wrap. Carmen was striking—not just in beauty, but in presence. Her body blended masculine and feminine traits with ease, her features bold and elegant, her hazel eyes glittering with warmth and control.

  “Oh, Carmen!” Sol beamed as she approached.

  Carmen turned, her smile blooming like fire across her face. “Sol, welcome back, .”

  Sol gestured with pride. “Carmen, this is Zion, my bodyguard.”

  Zion nodded once, stiff and proper. Carmen stood with grace, moving like poured honey, and extended a hand to him. “I always wanted to meet a Lionxi.”

  Zion took her hand, offering a warrior’s grip before leaning in to kiss it lightly.

  “I bet you have a very long tongue, Zion,” Carmen said with a sultry grin. “Ever thought of putting it to a more pleasurable employment? I know many women who would line up for such services.”

  Zion remained expressionless. “I prefer the blade. That is the nature of my labour.”

  “But is it the fire in your soul?”

  “Yes.”

  Carmen's smile grew even wider. “I see. Then I must say, our women do love a young mercenary around these parts.”

  “I’m afraid I’m not available.”

  “Oh? You have a special lady?”

  “Why isn’t she here?”

  “We had to part ways. But she’s in my heart.”

  Carmen’s voice softened. “What a romantic mercenary. Are you certain you’re not a poet?”

  “I’ll leave the service of words to others.”

  “Oh, Sol,” Carmen said, turning to the bard. “He’s adorable.”

  “Yes, he’s one of a kind,” Sol said, resting a hand on Zion’s shoulder with a teasing smile. “Right, lion?”

  “Everyone is one of a kind,” he muttered.

  Carmen laughed brightly. “By , he’s absolutely divine. Please, feel welcomed at the Gracious Depths. We have ale, women, and games.”

  Zion’s eyebrow lifted ever so slightly—his first genuine reaction since arriving in Amif.

  “Games?”

  Carmen clapped her hands. “I knew you’d fit right in, dear.” She rose and moved to his side, her hand slipping casually around his waist as she guided him toward a velvet curtain beyond the main hall. “We have dice, goblin and hunter—called kurak and guard around here. And we have the newest sensation sweeping the Republic and the south—chess. Only for the sharp of mind.”

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  “I’ve never played it.”

  “I highly recommend it,” she said with a wink. “But go easy on the bets. It’s not a game of chance. If you’re unskilled, you’ll toss more coin than you’d like.”

  “I see.”

  Carmen paused, looking between them. “Will you stay with Sol?”

  Zion turned to the bard, his eyes unreadable. Sol smiled wide, already adjusting the strap of her lute.

  “Yes, he will,” she answered for him. “He’s my bodyguard, after all.”

  Zion glanced back toward the door, then nodded once, brow furrowed.

  “Then I will.”

  "Great, I'd love to talk, but now if you excuse me dears. I have a very picky client to take care of." Carmen said as man with regal clothes walked up the room, he was rather stocky, with a thick black moustache and an almost doughy face grinning widely.

  After a couple minutes the atmosphere in the Gracious Depths had settled into its languid evening rhythm—music humming faintly beneath laughter, the scent of clove smoke wafting through the air, and dancers tracing sensual paths across silk-draped floors. Zion sat beside Sol at the bar, his posture still rigid despite the velvet cushions beneath him, while Sol leaned into the counter with casual elegance, one boot up on the stool’s footrest, elbow resting near her drink.

  “Alright, Sol, you’re up shortly,” came a call from the back, the voice smooth but assertive, belonging to a dusky-skinned woman in dark velvet robes who passed behind them without slowing.

  “How shortly?” Sol asked, twisting slightly in her seat.

  “Two or three songs,” the woman replied before vanishing behind a curtain.

  “I see.” Sol turned to Zion with a smile that danced in her pale eyes. “Alright, Zion. Let’s have fun. I’m paying for the kumus.”

  Zion raised a brow. “What is that?”

  “A fermented dairy drink. Not sure how they get milk around here—maybe camel milk.” She shrugged. “But it’s good. Stuporous if you drink enough of it.”

  “Is it strong?”

  “If you drink it like water, yes. But maybe they have something fancier. Vellarazzan wine, or—ooh—better yet, Plainlline reds.”

  “Are you from Plainllin?”

  “Oh yes.” Sol raised her chin proudly.

  “I don’t speak it.”

  “Tragic. One day it will be more common than .”

  “It’s not the prevailing language on the Silk Coast.”

  “No,” she sighed dramatically. “Common is. But our tongue is more refined. It’s a romantic language. Far better than , with its harsh consonants and boredom.”

  Zion didn’t answer, his ears subtly flicking as they moved toward the bar. They sat on two cushioned stools with legs carved to resemble lion paws and dolphin tails. The bar was manned by a young man with bronzed skin, a simple headscarf, and a calm, practiced air. Sol raised two fingers.

  “, two... please.”

  The barkeep nodded and turned toward a squat clay barrel resting in a cradle of coiled rope. He poured the white liquid into two wooden cups, steam curling faintly as it caught the torchlight.

  Zion eyed the drink. “White. Fitting for a whorehouse.”

  Sol laughed and nudged him with her elbow. “Oh, look at you, full of jokes! What a lively change!”

  “You barely know me.”

  “I know you have fangs, you fight well, and you’re one grumpy big cat.”

  “I’m not a cat.”

  “As you wish, ,” she teased, drawing the word out in her native tongue.

  The bartender returned, sliding the cups across the polished cedarwood bar. “Five copper pieces.”

  Zion blinked. “It’s rather expensive.”

  Sol winked. “Good things in life are, lion.”

  They both took their mugs. The kumus had a strange tang on the nose, sharp and slightly floral. They each took a slow sip—Zion with skepticism, Sol with familiar ease. A second later, both bore faint white moustaches of the drink.

  Zion licked his upper lip. “It’s sour.”

  “Yeah, don’t worry. You didn’t like it?”

  He took another sip, nodding slowly. “It’s better than I expected.”

  “There you go, dear.” Sol patted his back affectionately before draining half her cup in a long swallow.

  Zion set his mug down with a quiet thud. His eyes turned toward her, now sharper, focused.

  “Now... for the contract.”

  Sol paused mid-sip, blinking once before lowering her drink. “Oh…” she said softly, brushing foam from her lip with the back of her hand. Her smile remained, but there was a glint of something else now—professionalism, calculation, perhaps even hesitation—behind the mirth in her eyes.

  Business had arrived.

  “Sure, La ballade dis contratis,” Sol said with a teasing lilt, drawing the phrase like a performer opening a scene. But Zion was unmoved by the flourish. He leaned forward, golden eyes fixed and unblinking, voice low and even.

  “Three silver. Full service. I go where you go. No exceptions. Only breaks for food—and I’ll take those while watching you.”

  Sol choked on a small laugh, one brow arching high. “Three silver? What, a week?”

  Zion didn’t blink. “A day.”

  Her eyes went wide for a heartbeat. “Oh... pute merde. No, Zion. That’s too much. What are you, a Vellarazzan knight?”

  “Maybe I am its southern version.”

  “No, no, no.” She shook her head, curls of white hair bouncing with the motion. “If this were the untamed wilds or the Orc Desert? Maybe. In a city?” She made a sharp slicing motion in the air. “Too much.”

  “I’m worth the silver,” Zion replied, unflinching. His tone wasn’t prideful—it was simply fact.

  Sol narrowed her eyes, arms crossing as she leaned back slightly. “No doubt you are. But I was hoping to end my week as a richer bard, not a pauper nursing a debt to a glorified body pillow.”

  “I’m worth ten men.”

  “Sorry, suhadik. You’re not.”

  Zion growled, a low, rumbling sound that made nearby patrons flinch. But Sol held her ground, raising a finger.

  “Oh no, monzieur. Don’t try that.” She leaned in now, her voice soft but sharp, like a silk-wrapped blade. “Listen. I’ll pay you... what? One silver. A day. That’s fair.”

  “This drink was worth five copper itself.”

  “Because it’s expensive, silly. You order kumus at a silk-swathed lounge. Get a bowl of cheap ale and it’ll cost you a fifth of that. Everything’s inflated here.”

  “And shelter?”

  “Sleep in my room, silly.”

  Zion blinked. “And the bed?”

  Sol grinned, resting her chin on her palm. “Sleep with me?”

  “No.”

  “I could lie on top of you.”

  “No deal.”

  “Fine, fine. I’ll get you a bed. Or a second room. Is that good enough for you?”

  Zion paused for a moment, gauging her tone, her expression. Then gave a firm nod. “Yes. That would be acceptable.”

  “Great. So it’s settled.” She extended her hand, rings gleaming faintly under the low lights. Zion took it without ceremony, his handshake firm, hers light and theatrical. A contract sealed in clasped palms, a mercenary deal struck in the middle of a brothel-lounge with milk moustaches and music.

  Then the voice returned from the side hall.

  “Sol, you’re next.”

  She turned, sighing with dramatic flair. “Already?”

  Sol looked at her cup, then grabbed it and downed the rest in two long gulps. She exhaled with a soft hiss, wiped her lip, and spun her lute around her shoulder with the grace of a practiced performer.

  “I suggest you prepare yourself to be dazzled,” she said with a wink as she rose from her stool.

  “I will not,” Zion muttered, barely turning his head.

  “Eugh. Such a bore.” She strutted off toward the stage, hips swaying with theatrical exaggeration, her long white hair flowing behind her like a curtain of moonlight.

  She stepped into the warm light, raising her lute above her head like a sword, and called out in a clear voice to the gathered patrons lounging across silken pillows and low cushions:

  “Avant! Mis amiz!” Her voice rang with playful command. “Ji m’appelle Sol, and prepare to be enchanted, Gracious Depths!”

  Applause rang out as her fingers struck the first few chords—sharp, vibrant, confident.

  Zion, still at the bar, rolled his eyes and picked up the last of his kumus. The lute began to sing through the cabaret air, weaving through perfume smoke and torchlight.

  He took a slow sip and braced himself—not for danger, but for drama.

  Zion sat with the same stillness as a coiled predator, his elbows on the table, his back straight against the lacquered frame of the bar stool. The chatter of the Gracious Depths buzzed around him—laughing merchants, sweet-tongued courtesans, the steady thrum of lute strings played by idle hands, and the rhythmic clink of dice on polished wood. But his golden eyes wandered beyond the noise, scanning the crowd with deliberate ease.

  The patrons were what he expected. Well-fed traders with bellies wrapped in silk belts. Young mercenaries with more confidence than scars. A pair of the city watch, leaning back into cushions with hookah pipes resting between them. They were all faces that passed through places like this—eager to spend, eager to forget.

  But in the far corner, tucked beneath a low-hanging lantern that cast a dim orange halo, sat something that didn’t belong.

  Zion spotted them both: one man, tall and lanky with a thick, waxed mustache and a long, hawkish nose—his robes too fine for a smuggler, but his posture too snake-like for a merchant. Beside him sat another.

  The second man was striking, even seated. Pale skin like wind-bitten snow, icy blue eyes, shaved head, thick muscles beneath layers of fur and cured leather. His armor was distinctly not Amifi—heavy, northern style with hardened patches along the shoulders and a chest made for both warmth and war. A short axe lay across his thigh, its head sharp and well-kept. He didn’t drink. He didn’t smoke. He simply watched.

  And at that moment, he was watching Zion.

  Their eyes met.

  Zion didn’t look away immediately. He held the Northerner’s gaze for a heartbeat longer than needed. A message. Then he shifted, resting one elbow on the bar again as he reached for his mug.

  The man turned back to the whispering weasel beside him—gesticulating now, clearly irritated, hands cutting through the air as if making a case. But the Northerner’s posture remained the same. Calm. Like a wolf waiting for a signal.

  Zion’s brow furrowed slightly. He didn’t like coincidences.

  He turned to the bar.

  The young man behind the counter—no more than twenty, clean-shaven, dark curls tucked under a red bandana—looked up from polishing a metal cup. “How can I help you, suhadik?”

  Zion gestured slightly with his chin toward the corner. “Who’s the Northerner over there?”

  The barkeep followed the motion subtly, glancing only with his eyes. “Not sure. Came in with that skinny fellow two days ago. Said they were looking for someone. Probably mercenaries.” He shrugged. “This is a popular spot. Why?”

  Zion’s gaze lingered a moment longer. “Nothing at all, keeper. Send me one of those Kumufs again.”

  “, sir,” the barkeep corrected gently, with the patience of someone used to foreign tongues. “Of course.”

  Zion nodded slightly, slipping a few coppers from his coin pouch and laying them on the counter with soft clinks. He didn’t take his eyes off the pair for long. His hand never drifted far from the hilt of his blade.

  Whatever was happening in that shadowy corner, it was no simple meeting between friends.

  Whether the man saw Zion as a target or a rival… that would be decided soon enough.