The fifth ring isn’t a place most dare to visit unless they have to. Even the thugs here carry a different kind of weight, like they’ve lived too long in the muck to know how to get out. As I step onto the narrow, rusted platform of the supply shaft, the city’s pulse beneath my feet quickens. It’s a far cry from the eerie calm of the upper levels. Down here, there’s nothing but the grinding of metal against metal, the distant sounds of machinery that never fully quiet. The air smells different too - like iron, sweat, and something else I can’t quite place. I cover my face, trying to hide from the stares of the street-levelers, their eyes always watching, always calculating. No one speaks here, not unless they have to. The silence is as thick as the grime on the walls.

  I pass by a series of decaying warehouses, their doors half-hanging off their hinges, the faint glimmer of moonlight barely making it through the cracks in their ceilings. I’m almost at my destination when I feel it - a shift in the atmosphere. The way the shadows move, how the very air seems to throb with a quiet tension. The fifth ring has always been a place of whispers, but tonight, it feels different. Something’s coming. Something I’m not sure I want to meet.

  I stop before a tavern, its crumbling walls barely holding together, the smell of stale ale and smoke seeping through the door. A henchman - big, with a scar running down his neck - eyes me as I step stop in front of him, his hand hovering near his cleaver.

  “What do you want?” he growls, voice low and guarded. I don’t blink, don’t look away.

  “Loneheart wants to see me.“ The man’s eyes narrow for a moment. He shoots a glance toward inside of the establishment, through a rugged dark curtain, concealing the clientele inside. After a beat, he jerks his head towards the back door.

  “Don’t keep her waiting,” he mutters, his fingers still twitching toward his blade. I move past him.

  “If ya don’t come back, I’ll come after you, and you don’t want that!” He laughs, the sound low and mocking.

  The two batwing doors swing open as I step through the curtain and into the tavern. The air hits me like a punch - a thick mix of old wood, tobacco smoke, and the sour stench of spilled drinks. The lanterns hanging above do little to fight the shadows that crawl across the walls, leaving the place drenched in a dim, grimy light. A few low murmurs ripple through the room, but the noise fades when they take note of my entrance. The bartender barely looks up as I approach. His hands are busy with a rag, but he catches the glint of my presence in the reflection of a glass. His lips twitch as though weighing something, but he stays quiet. The low murmur of the room picks up again, but it’s not as bold as before - eyes follow me, but they keep their distance. I keep my voice steady.

  "Syra's expecting me," I say, leaning against the bar with a casual air that masks the tension crawling under my skin.

  “Syra doesn’t take kindly to strangers. What’s your business with her?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  He grunts, then jerks his head toward a door tucked away at the back of the room.

  “She’s through there. You’ll find her.” I nod once, pushing away from the bar. The back room is a far cry from the dimly lit space I just left - a small, bare room that smells like aged air and burnt incense. The old barrels stacked in the corners add to the unnatural mix of scents in the air. Syra Loneheart watches me as I enter, her purple eyes stalking me from the shadows. She stands as tall as I do, her presence cutting through the still air like a blade. Loose strands of dark hair frame her sharp features, though in the dim light, it’s hard to tell if it's black or just deep brown. A long, high-collared coat drapes over her shoulders, worn yet refined, its edges lined with reinforced leather—practical, but not without style. One hand rests on her hip, the other lightly tapping against the hilt of a dagger at her side, like she’s measuring the weight of the moment.

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

  “You made it. Thought you might’ve been too scared of the crowd out there to show.”

  "I’m not here for games," I reply, eyeing her with a steady gaze. “Let’s get to it.”

  “Straight to the point, then? Aight, let’s talk business.” She steps into the dim glow of the lone lantern hanging overhead. Her eyes rake over me, calculating, as she continues.

  “Have you heard about the riots near the dome?”

  “Yes.”

  “I lost a few good men out there,” she says, her tone hardening. “And the ones who came back… they’re rambling about some magical artifact, whatever. Something big enough to turn heads - and not just theirs. Except for one, my right-hand man Garin. No one saw him since but the men swear they didn’t see him get killed.”

  “You think he was captured? And you want me to bail him out?” Syra nods and places both hands on the scarred wooden table between us, her fingers tapping a slow rhythm.

  “The artifact they were talking about… ” I need to find out more about this alleged magic artifact. The practice of magic is not uncommon here in the lower district, in the upper, it’s forbidden and can get you hanged.

  “What kind of artifact exactly? Was it an amulet, or a bone charm…?” Syra let’s out a sigh and looks up at me.

  “I don’t know more than what they were rambling about. You should know I don’t interrogate my allies”

  “So, a magic artifact of decent size, that obviously mesmerized them enough to drive them insane”

  “That’s what the men are saying. Glowing, pulsing - something unnatural. Normally, I’d dismiss it as heatstroke or drunken tales, but Garin doesn’t drink on the job, and he’s gone.”

  “So, a scouting and recovery mission,” I remark, crossing my arms.

  “What’s in it for me?”

  Her hand dips to her belt, and she pulls out a small leather pouch. The distinct clink of silver rings out as she tosses it onto the table.

  “Fifty in silver.”

  I study the pouch for a moment, then look back at her.

  “That’s more silver than I’ve seen in months. It’s also enough to get me gutted the second I walk out of here.” Her smirk falters, just for a moment.

  “You turning it down?” I think for a moment, weighing my options.

  “I’ll take five silver,” I say finally, meeting her gaze. “And you’ll owe me a favor.”

  Syra straightens, her fingers drumming against the table as she processes the offer. Finally, she lets out a low chuckle.

  “The streets taught you well, huh? But keep it to yourself, and whatever happens, always remember that you can’t buy me.” She says with a pleased look then reaches into the pouch, pulls out a smaller handful, and slides it across the table toward me.

  I scoop up the coins, tucking them into my coat.

  “Where was Garin last seen?”

  “North side, up in the third”

  “There is no dome entrance in the third, ” I remark.

  “Listen, if I knew what he was doing there, I wouldn’t need you.”

  “Understood.” I turn to leave, but her voice stops me.

  “Raven.” I glance back, keeping my face impassive.

  “You’d better not skip out on that favor.” A wry grin tugs at her lips, her gaze drilling into me. “Because trust me, you won’t want us to come after you to redeem it...”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it,” I reply before stepping out of the backroom, through and out of the tavern, the heavy air of the fifth ring meeting me. The coins in my pocket may have been light, but the weight of her words was heavier than anything I’d carried in a long time.