The grand room of this once-sacred temple now lay in ruined splendor before us, its soaring ceilings draped with a tangled web of faded silks and dim, flickering lanterns casting a blood-red glow. The air was thick with the scent of burnt incense, grease, and mildew, a cloying reminder of the room's former sanctity lost to the gremlins' insatiable trade.

  Cracked stone pillars, etched with barely visible divine carvings, now leaned under the weight of rickety wooden platforms and makeshift stalls, where the gremlins were preparing to hawk their wares. Each vendor had carved out a piece of the temple’s glory for themselves, one draped in mismatched fabrics, another cluttered with glinting baubles, rusty trinkets, and caged magical creatures that blinked miserably from the shadows.

  The once-grand altar at the center had been crudely transformed into a bargaining stage, piled high with stolen relics, odd alchemical ingredients, and forged contracts written on brittle scraps of parchment. The floor’s intricate mosaics, depicting long-forgotten gods, were barely visible beneath muddy footprints, scattered bones, and broken crates.

  The room buzzed with the rasping voices of gremlin traders, practicing their haggling in rapid-fire tongues, their sharp laughter echoing through the decaying arches. Lanterns of colored glass dangled from frayed ropes overhead, swinging lazily and casting shifting shadows that made the crumbling statues along the walls seem almost alive.

  In the far corner, a rusted cage held something faintly glowing, watched by a particularly wiry gremlin with a grin too wide and eyes too bright. Tattered banners bearing the sigil of the Iron Veil hung limply from the walls, a stark reminder of the trade house's attempt at dark connections.

  Every creak of wood and clink of coin felt like a sacrilege, as if the temple itself whispered warnings from its cracked stone. Yet, the gremlins cared little for ghosts or gods—here, only profit and power mattered.

  At the center of the room just in front of the altar stood a long table, heaped with gremlin fare that formed a makeshift banquet. Despite the daring assortment, including mud-crusted spiny toad legs, roasted rat tails, and bog snail sliders, I doubted even Render would find them palatable. Around the room, numerous ale kegs were strewn about, primed to support both the raucous merriment and the tactical scheming of the gremlin horde. I eyed these kegs carefully, mentally marking which ones would receive a dose of poison when the moment arrived.

  Several gremlins bustled about the room; each group engrossed in distinct tasks. A handful were diligently arranging platters on the long table, preparing for the imminent feast. Nearby, another group lingered by barrels of ale, casting eager glances, awaiting the signal to kick off the celebrations. At the heart of the room, the scene shifted to one of intense deliberation. Seated at the central table, a mixed gathering of the war council and gilded traders made up of Battle Priests, Warblades, Warhowlers, Chitkeepers and Weighmasters were deeply engaged in strategic discussion. Commanding their attention was the imposing figure of Coinlord Sriax, the Gilded Fang of the Shadepyre, a large gremlin who directed both councils with authoritative gestures and a commanding tone.

  The Coinlord stood barely to the chest of an average human, yet his presence dominated the room like a king presiding over a court of fools. His skin, a deep violet hue, glisten with a greasy sheen under the dim, flickering lanterns of the makeshift trade house. His frame was round and squat, with a belly that shook with each gravelly laugh, yet his muscular arms hint at surprising strength, a reminder that his rule was earned, not given.

  Despite his squat, rotund frame, every inch of him radiated unshakable confidence and smug superiority. His wide grin revealed jagged yellow teeth, glinting with mischief and menace, while his gleaming golden eyes swept the room with the calculating precision of a predator.

  Perched atop his head was a towering top hat, its midnight fabric dotted with golden stars and crescent moons stitched in glowing silver thread. The brim was tipped at a jaunty angle, and from its band dangle tiny charms—silver keys, broken rings, and a glittering ruby earring—tokens from deals long settled. The hat, immaculate and absurdly tall, was the crown of his empire, untouched by the grime of the trade house around him.

  A luxurious white fur cloak, far too extravagant for the surroundings, drapes over his broad shoulders. The fur is worn and matted in places but still carries the illusion of grandeur, pinned together at the chest with a diamond-shaped brooch that glows faintly with enchantment—or perhaps menace. Beneath the cloak, layer upon layer of mismatched jewelry clinks with every motion: thick gold chains, gem-encrusted bangles, and rings on every finger, each a trophy of a conquest or a bargain struck.

  Sriax’s shirt, made from expensive silk and quite obviously stolen from a much smaller creature, is half-unbuttoned, revealing a bulging belly adorned with a golden medallion depicting a snarling gremlin face—his own likeness. His deep purple trousers, too tight around the waist and too short at the ankles, are tucked into knee-high miss matched boots of cracked leather, each decorated with gleaming buckles and dangling coins that jingle as he walks.

  In one hand, Sriax held a fat cigar, the scent of spiced smoke curled into the air—a luxury imported at no doubt someone else’s expense. In the other, he carelessly flipped gold coins into the air, watching them fall with a grin that said he knew each one would return to him eventually. Sriax took a long drag from his cigar before addressing his council. His voice, a gravelly purr, was thick with false warmth. "Business is the blood of the Shadepyre," he crooned, flipping a coin with a flick of his thick fingers. "And I? I am the beating heart."

  With each word, his lavish attire—the stars on his hat, the glitter of his jewels, the gleam of his golden teeth—reminds all who gaze upon him that Coinlord Sriax is more than a trader. He is a king among thieves, a tyrant of trade, and the undisputed master of greed. His underlings nodded and hissed with joy at his words before continuing their conversation.

  Coinlord Sriax leaned back, the throne-like chair creaking beneath his weight. Thick fingers stroked his chin with exaggerated deliberation, as if each pass summoned some grand revelation. The sour smell of his cigar mingled with the metallic tang of fear hanging in the room. His gaze, half-lidded and disinterested, remained fixed on nothing in particular as the Battle Priestess murmured counsel at his side. He exhaled a plume of smoke, a low grunt rumbling from his throat.

  Crut, always the brash one, now glanced at us with wide eyes, his usual cockiness drained away. “Mmm... If yous got any sense rattlin' in them skulls, you’ll stay right there. Boss don’t like bein’ interrupted.” His voice cracked as he spoke, and after a nervous gulp, he shuffled toward Sriax, stopping short—just far enough to avoid a backhand swipe.

  "Approach," Sriax rumbled at last, his tone flat and dismissive. His eyes remained elsewhere, as though Crut’s very presence wasn’t worth the effort of turning his head.

  Crut hesitated. His lips moved soundlessly in a prayer—one he surely hoped his boss wouldn’t notice. Slowly, cautiously, he stepped forward.

  "Yes, Sir... well, ah..."

  The thunderclap of Sriax’s fist slamming into the table shattered the moment. The massive slab of wood groaned under the blow. Crut yelped, and several others flinched.

  "Spit it out!" Sriax roared, his voice dripping with contempt. "Do not make me repeat myself. I could crush you underfoot before I finish this cigar, and not a soul would miss you."

  He finally turned his head—slowly, fixing Crut with a gaze that suggested he’d already decided how the gremlin would die. The corner of his mouth twitched upward, just enough to show a glint of gold tooth.

  "Well? Impress me—if you can."

  The silence that followed was suffocating.

  “The Shadow Sovereign’s Ebonbroker is here… Ebonbroker… eh… Ebonbroker,” Crut faltered, his panic escalating as Sriax turned a menacing glare upon him. “Shit! I didn’t get her name,” he blurted out, his complexion turning a ghastly shade of purple.

  In an instant, Sriax swung his clenched fist at Crut, sending the Warhowler sprawling back several feet, leaving him crumpled on the floor. I leaned toward Lyra and whispered nervously, “It’s not too late to flee, is it?” But Lyra, unfazed and resolute, stepped forward boldly.

  "Are all of your guards this incompetent?" she challenged, locking eyes with the formidable Coinlord.

  My face remained impassive, but internally, I recited my final prayers.

  Sriax leaned forward with exaggerated slowness, smoke curling lazily from the corner of his mouth. His eyes glinted with smug satisfaction as a grin stretched across his face.

  "Ahhh… incompetent, you say?" he mused, savoring the word. "A familiar affliction, indeed. For you see, I am perpetually... affronted—yes, affronted—by the sheer obscurity of their ineptitude."

  A pause.

  "Obscenity, my lord," murmured Asax, the assistant seated at his side, barely above a whisper.

  Sriax waved a dismissive hand without looking at her.

  "Yes, yes, obscenity—precisely what I said. The sheer obscenity of it all!" He puffed his cigar dramatically. "Day after day, I find myself encumbered by these... these suboptimal specimens."

  He gestured broadly at the guards, cigar ash dusting the floor.

  "‘Oh, Coinlord Sriax, the shipment was lost—vanished like mist!’ Fools! As if logistical misalignments weren’t simply a matter of... of fortitude! Or the other day— ‘Oh, Coinlord Sriax, the prisoners escaped!’ Hah! Escaped! As if my magnanimous dominion could be so easily undermined."

  "Domain, my lord," Asax corrected softly.

  Sriax coughed into his fist.

  "Yes, yes—domain. That is precisely the term. I was merely being... poetic." He leaned back again, chest swelling with self-importance.

  "But the real paradox—yes, paradox—is how they believe their blunders escape my keen perception. They shuffle about, thinking Sriax—Coinlord Sriax—does not see. Oh, I see it all. I simply... procrastinate their punishments for my own amusement."

  A quiet cough from Asax.

  "Postpone, my lord."

  Sriax narrowed his eyes but did not look at her.

  "Hmph. Postpone, indeed. That’s what I said." He exhaled another cloud of smoke, fingers drumming thoughtfully.

  "Look at them—standing there like petrified... ah... mollusks! Bereft of ambition, bereft of intellect. Yet I keep them. Do you know why?"

  No one dared answer.

  "Because it entertains me. Their fear. Their wriggling. Their desperate, futile attempts to curry favor. I am a benevolent overseer, after all. I indulge their inadequacies, for I am magnanimous—a titan among men, a paragon of speculation and strategy!"

  "Speculation?" Asax echoed quietly, raising a brow.

  Sriax froze for a fraction of a second, then continued with a flourish.

  "Exactly—speculation! For it is I who speculates upon all things. I see the angles, the... the implications! My mind is an enigma, a... a tangle of complexity!"

  "Labyrinth, my lord," Asax whispered.

  He ignored her completely this time, waving both hands in the air.

  "But I digress—only slightly! The point remains: I am forced—yes, forced—to endure the presence of inferiors. For such is the onus of greatness."

  "Burden, my lord," Asax sighed.

  "Hmph. Burden, indeed. Precisely what I meant."

  He finally turned his head, slow and deliberate, fixing his gaze on the room—on the trembling guards, on Crut still slumped on the ground.

  "Now," Sriax purred, gold tooth flashing as his grin widened. "Who will be the next to disappoint me? I can hardly wait." The silence that followed was absolute.

  "I could say the same to you, though for your sake disappointment is not on the table." Lyra's voice cut through the tension like a finely honed blade—measured, precise, and utterly flawless. Each word dripped with a confidence that dared anyone to challenge her, resonating with a calm authority that seemed out of place in a room filled with fear. Her tone wasn’t loud, yet it commanded attention, leaving no doubt that every syllable was deliberate.

  "I trust," she continued, "that our exalted Shadow Sovereign has not misplaced his faith. It would be such a shame” she paused waving her hand toward Rhys “wouldn’t it… if Ebonbroker Rhys, after journeying so far, found only a pitiful cluster of gremlins scrabbling over worthless trinkets and baubles."

  The mention of the Shadow Sovereign seemed to darken the room itself, and Ebonbroker Rhys's name hung in the air like a warning. As far as the gremlins were concerned, Rhys was the voice of the Sovereign, she carried his words and his will.

  Lyra’s tone never wavered. Each perfectly chosen word, each subtle inflection, seemed crafted to twist the blade of her insinuation just enough to provoke without overtly offending. The room’s brief moment of relief evaporated instantly, replaced by a collective, sharp intake of breath.

  This was it. Her defiance, calm, perfect, and lethal, was going to seal my fate. I felt my pulse quicken.

  The Coinlord studied Lyra with the keen, gluttonous gaze of a jackal eyeing a fresh carcass, his beady eyes flicking between her and Rhys like a cutpurse sizing up an easy mark. His pudgy, ring-laden fingers drummed against the table in a slow, deliberate rhythm—each tap a heartbeat, a countdown, a warning. Then, with one final, decisive clink of gold against wood, he leaned forward, his bulk settling like a storm cloud ready to break.

  “And just who might you be,” he purred, his voice the velvet edge of a dagger, “that you speak when the Ebonbroker remains silent? It would do you good, girly, to dull that sharp tongue before you find it on the auction block—sold by the inch to a collector with a taste for insolence.” His grin stretched wide, revealing fangs yellowed from years of indulgence—half a promise, half a threat, and entirely a dare.

  Lyra’s smirk was a blade sharpened on amusement. With a slow, practiced ease, she rolled her shoulders in a lazy shrug, a casual dismissal of both his threat and his importance. Then she sighed, as if already bored with the exchange.

  “I am Lyra, Veilwarden and overseer of His Exalted Shadow Sovereign’s most sensitive operations.”

  The words slid from her lips like satin lined with steel, wrapping around the room with effortless authority. She met the Coinlord’s gaze, her eyes swirling with the same quiet, inexorable force as a storm at sea—beautiful, unpredictable, and utterly inescapable.

  “If you seek the Shadow’s hand in trade at the highest level of the Obsidian Bazaar,” she continued, her voice cool as tempered glass, “I’d better like you.”

  The weight of her words hung between them like a pendulum, waiting to swing—one way toward fortune, the other toward ruin. The room fell into tense stillness, save for the faint clinking of metal as Rhys carelessly sifted through a trader's wares. The gremlins—scattered throughout the chamber like shadows—froze. Their bulbous eyes widened, fingers tightening around half-stolen trinkets and baubles. Not one dared to breathe.

  The silence stretched. Every gremlin seemed to shrink under the weight of it, glancing between one another with anxious twitches. They were waiting, waiting for the explosion. For Coinlord Sriax’s wrath to come crashing down in a roar of fury. It was Asax that broke the silence, the small assistant stepped closer to the Coinlord’s side, her voice a mere thread of sound, woven for her master’s ears alone. Her hands fidgeted at the hem of her robe, but her eyes—wide and knowing—remained locked on Lyra.

  “My lord,” she whispered, her voice like parchment crinkling under unseen weight, “one does not simply speak before an Ebonbroker without first passing through a Veilwarden. And passing through, my lord, does not always mean coming out the other side.”

  She swallowed, casting another wary glance at Lyra, as though she might strike her dead for merely uttering her title. “These are no mere bodyguards,” she continued, her voice strained, as if speaking the warning aloud carried a price. “They are the knives in the dark, the ears in the walls. They are inquisitors, spies... and most importantly, assassins.”

  The last word left her lips in a reverent hush—less a warning, more a desperate plea.

  Asax turned her eyes back to her master, her fingers tightening into his sleeves. “This is not a fight you wish to pick, my lord.” The unspoken words lingered in the air like a final, silent prayer: Not if you wish to live to count your coin.

  The Coinlord dismissed his assistant with a lazy flick of his jeweled fingers, as though swatting away an irritating gnat. He barely spared Asax a glance, his attention slithering back to Lyra, eyes dragging over her like a merchant appraising a counterfeit relic.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  Before he could part his lips to speak, Lyra stepped forward, her presence swallowing the space between them like an encroaching storm.

  “My patience grows thinner with each passing second, Sriax.” The words cracked like a whip, sharp and biting, snapping the air between them taut. “You wanted the eye of the Shadow Sovereign, and now you have it. Tell me, Coinlord—do you even know what to do when his gaze is upon you?”

  She took another step, deliberate and slow, her eyes glinting like a pair of blades waiting to sink deep.

  “There is a deal to be made, riches to be seized, greed to be satiated.” Her voice curled around the promise like silk woven over steel. Then, in an instant, the softness vanished, replaced by something cold, calculating, and merciless. “But only if you’re smart enough not to become the next idiot whose failure is whispered over tankards and firepits—one more cautionary tale of bluster and stupidity.”

  Her smirk was a dagger’s edge. “So, tell me, Coinlord—are you a gremlin of profit? Or just another fool waiting to be gutted by his own arrogance?”

  I swallowed hard, forcing the shock from my face, though it clawed at the edges, desperate to break free. Lyra was either brilliant or mad, formidable or fool-hearted—and at this moment, I wasn’t sure which terrified me more.

  She moved like a predator in the Coinlord’s den, her words cut deeper than any blade could. My pulse hammered against my ribs, my mind warring between admiration and dread. There was power in her stance, in the unshaken steel of her voice, and fuck, part of me felt drawn to it, moved by it.

  I could feel the weight of our reality pressing against my spine. We had no weapons. No backup. No escape. Every word she spoke was another step along the razor’s edge, and if she slipped, we would fall with her.

  I clenched my fists, forcing my breath steady. Did she know how close she was to pushing too far? Did she care? My gut twisted at the thought, at the terrible, thrilling truth of her.

  Lyra was playing with fire.

  And I didn’t know whether to pull her back—or burn with her.

  A deep, resonant sound rumbled through the hall, vibrating against the stone walls with a force that seemed to shake the very foundation. The gremlins flinched as one.

  Coinlord Sriax was laughing.

  The booming noise—rich and unsettling—rolled through the room, sweeping aside the tension with sheer volume. His laughter echoed like a war drum, rattling nerves and confidence alike.

  The gremlins stared in wide-eyed awe, holding their breath for the inevitable shift in mood. Surely this was a trick. Surely the fury would follow.

  But Sriax leaned back, teeth flashing beneath the haze of his cigar smoke, his golden tooth gleaming as he wiped a tear of mirth from his eye.

  "Got balls, this one does!" he bellowed, voice still rumbling with leftover laughter. " Your Sovereign sent you just in time—we've purloined a most promising creature for his collection."

  His grin widened, predatory and expectant.

  "We shall see." Lyra’s response was icy and unflinching. Her tone remained perfectly controlled, the soft edges of her voice hiding the razor-sharp threat beneath. The gremlins collectively sucked in a breath. Sriax’s grin faltered—just slightly.

  "If the creature is in any condition less than pristine," she continued, "it will be your head that Ebonbroker Rhys presents to His Excellence."

  She gestured toward Rhys with a graceful flick of her wrist. All eyes turned. Rhys was rummaging through a box of trinkets like a distracted child. Alexander, red-faced, swiftly kicked Rhys’s boot.

  The dwarf let out a surprised grunt, dropping the box with a loud thud. Trinkets and baubles clattered across the floor, the metallic clinking echoing louder than it should have.

  "Ah—yes, what she said," Rhys muttered, straightening with a sheepish grin. "My Veilwarden handles the talking."

  I closed my eyes, frustration pounding behind them. If Lyra didn’t get us killed, Rhys surely would.

  Lyra turned back to the Coinlord, unphased. Her eyes glinted, swirling like a tornado just barely contained.

  "It is true," she said smoothly, "that my tongue can pierce just as sharply as her sword."

  Her lips curled into the faintest smile—a veiled threat delivered with flawless confidence.

  "If you wish to be counted among our Sovereign’s prestigious traders, it would be in your best interest to begin the negotiations."

  Clever.

  Quick.

  Dangerous.

  I swallowed hard at the realization, it was attractive. The way she wielded her words, deception and threat balanced in perfect harmony. She had turned the entire room on its head without lifting a blade. Even Sriax paused. The gremlins still held their breath. And me? I couldn’t take my eyes off her.

  "Ha! Never barter on an empty stomach— my mother always said. A hungry merchant is a foolish one. First, we gorge ourselves on gluttony, and only then may we savor the sweet, decadent bite of avarice."

  Sriax grinned wide, his fanged smile a grotesque parody of warmth as he turned his gaze on Lyra. "I do enjoy a mouthy one to liven the atmosphere—truly, I relish such verbosity at my feasts!" His laughter rolled through the chamber like a merchant’s booming call at market, loud and ostentatious, a performance for his own amusement. With a dramatic sweep of his gilded arms, he gestured toward several chairs, his council scrambling to vacate them with poorly concealed unease.

  "Come, join me! Sit—sit! Let us indulge in camaraderie and—ah—delectable conversation!"

  "Delightful, my lord," Asax murmured dutifully from his side.

  "Yes, yes—delightful, precisely what I said," Sriax grunted, waving a dismissive hand.

  Lyra glided toward the table without hesitation, and we followed, the tension in the room still palpable. With wary glances, we each took our places around the massive table, the scent of smoke and spice lingering in the air.

  Sriax puffed deeply on his cigar, chest swelling as he prepared to speak again.

  "Asax! Beat the drum—dinner is upon us! It is time to commiserate with fine company and drown ourselves in ale! Yes—commiserate! A proper feast for such an auspicious evening!"

  A pause.

  "Celebrate, my lord," Asax corrected softly, already signaling a servant toward the drum.

  Sriax squinted, smoke curling from his lips.

  "Hmph. Celebrate, yes—exactly what I meant. Celebrate our impending elevation!"

  He rose from his chair, voice booming louder, drowning out the whispered conversations of his underlings.

  "Tomorrow, we ascend, yes, we ascend to greatness! Our coffers saturated with gold, our vaults gleaming with all that shines! Fortune smiles on those with cunning, those who seize opportunity!"

  Another pause.

  "Flushed, my lord," Asax murmured.

  Sriax blinked, his grin widening without missing a beat.

  "Flushed! Flushed with gold, of course. My words are... poetic. Too complex for some ears, perhaps."

  He chuckled to himself, lowering his bulk back into his chair with a heavy thump.

  "Now, let the feast begin! Let this night mark the dawn of our inevitable inflation! Eh?"

  Asax cleared her throat softly.

  "Elevation, my lord."

  Sriax grinned, lifting his goblet high.

  "Yes, yes—elevation. As I said. Now drink!"

  The hall filled with uneasy laughter as the gremlins cautiously resumed breathing, the drumbeat for dinner echoing through the chamber. As the drumbeat grew louder the gremlins around erupted in cheers, jumping and thrusting their fists into the air, their voices merging into a raucous chant. As the drumming ceased, they descended upon the feast laid out on the table, attacking the food and ale with as much vigor as their earlier chanting.

  As the gremlins reveled around us, Lyra engaged the Coinlord, her guise as a Veilwarden flawless. Sriax, buoyed by several mugs of ale, bantered with Lyra with a hearty laugh. Meanwhile, my gaze lingered on her longer than necessary, considering my task was to monitor the kegs and Rhys for the opportune moment to act. Yet, my attention was irresistibly drawn to her; it became increasingly difficult to focus on anything else. She relentlessly pressed Sriax in their conversation, never yielding. His amusement at her audacity grew as he continued to drink heavily.

  A sharp jab jolted me from my reverie, a precision strike from Alexander's elbow to my side. While the intrusion was irritating, it successfully anchored me back to the present, though I would never admit my gratitude to Alexander. I responded with a slight, irked huff and subtly shifted in my seat. Glancing at Alexander with a brief glare, I turned my attention towards Rhys.

  "Mighty Ebonbroker, this celebration demands a tale!" I declared, raising my voice as the gremlins erupted in cheers around us. "A tale of bloody battle, vanquished foes, and a city plundered!" The gremlins' excitement reached a crescendo, their arms waving wildly in the air.

  Interrupting Lyra abruptly, Sriax stood up. "Yes! Let us hear a saga of blood, conquest and most importantly, spoils!" he roared, throwing his arms up and emitting a fierce growl.

  Rhys rose, her excitement palpable as she retrieved a cigar from her pocket and lit it with a series of deep puffs. Climbing onto the center of the table, she began her tale, addressing the gremlin crowd with vibrant enthusiasm.

  "Come close, mates! I've got a story that'll sear your ears, a fierce battle in the infernal realms of the Hellsworn Dominion!" Rhys announced, taking a large puff of her cigar and exhaling a cloud of smoke over the captivated gremlins before tucking the cigar back into her mouth. "In the shadow-drenched lands where the Ashvorran rule, a place thick with the intrigue of conquest and treachery. Imagine, in the hellish realm of Temptaris, an epic saga unfolds, driven by the Ashvorran’s insatiable lust for power. Fueled by envy, greed, and hatred, they betray both allies and foes in their ruthless climb to supremacy."

  Rhys paused, drawing the room deeper into her grasp with a dramatic flair, "And imagine the fury of a demon lord interrupted during his date night!" she exclaimed with a wicked grin.

  The gremlins erupted, howling with laughter and clamoring for more. They banged their mugs on the tables and jostled closer, each eager to soak in every word. As the room's attention tightened around Rhys's vivid storytelling, the commotion provided the perfect cover for me to quietly slip away from the table, just as more gremlins surged forward, hanging on to her every word.

  As Rhys animatedly paced up and down the table, her lively tale causing mugs and plates to fly, the gremlins were completely engrossed, leaving the ale kegs unguarded. Seizing the opportunity, I subtly removed the stoppers from the vials of poison tucked away in my pockets. Pretending to be captivated by Rhys's vibrant storytelling, I leaned casually against the nearest keg. With no eyes on me, I slipped the first vial into a small air vent at the top of the keg, hearing it clunk to the bottom just as Sriax bellowed for more ale, his laughter booming in response to Rhys's antics.

  I swiftly filled a mug with ale from the second, untouched keg, maintaining my cover. Meanwhile, Asax, eager not to miss a moment of the tale, hurriedly refilled four mugs with the now-poisoned ale from the first keg and dashed back to the table. With Asax distracted, I smoothly deposited a second vial into the next keg. Two kegs sabotaged, two more to go.

  I edged closer to the third keg, still holding my mug. As Rhys's story reached a particularly uproarious point, causing the gremlins to erupt in laughter, one tearful gremlin staggered towards the kegs for a refill. Noticing me, he approached just as I took a hearty swig of my ale, timing my laughter and a slap to my knee with the loudening of guffaws from the table. This perfect distraction allowed me to continue my mission undetected.

  The gremlin sidled up to the keg, quickly filling his mug and downing it just as fast. Ale dripped from his chin as he chuckled, filling another mug before glancing over at me. I hastily finished my own drink and poured another from the third keg, playing along.

  "Riot, that one is," he laughed, nodding towards Rhys, and then sauntered back to the uproar at the table. I rolled my eyes and leaned back against the keg, seizing the moment to drop the third vial into it. The soft thud of the vial hitting the bottom signaled success, and I moved swiftly to the fourth and final keg.

  As I positioned myself to introduce the last vial of poison, disaster struck—the end of Rhys's story. Applause and laughter erupted as the gremlins began to disperse from the table, their attention now turning towards the kegs for a refill. Rhys took her bow, basking in the cheers of the gremlins. The crowds movement towards the kegs accelerated with the footsteps of thirsty gremlins. Panicked and still leaning against the final keg, I took a quick gulp of ale to maintain my composure, scanning for any chance to complete my task amidst the growing bustle.

  As I scanned the room, calculating my next move amidst the chaos, Lyra caught my eye. Rising from her seat, she approached with a deliberate, graceful stride, stopping just inches from me. Her smile, coy and knowing, lit up her face as she reached out and took my mug, finishing the ale with a playful glance.

  "How thoughtful of you," she murmured, her smile widening. Realizing her intention, I recognized the opportunity she was providing—a distraction. My response was instinctive; a broad smile spread across my face as I reached out to gently twirl a rebellious curl around my finger.

  "My sweet, thoughtfulness is just one of my many services," I quipped, drawing a chuckle from the gremlins nearby who nudged each other, amused by our flirtatious banter. As they focused on Lyra leaning closer to me, I subtly slipped the final vial of poison into the last keg with my free hand. Lyra's cheeks warmed with a blush at my words, her gaze lifting to my lips as she tilted her head slightly. Leaning in, I closed the gap between us, her lips millimeters from mine.

  "Ahem…perhaps now is not the time for personal celebrations." Alexander interrupted. The annoyance flared within me—I was going to end him, I thought darkly. Lyra caught the irritation flashing across my face and chuckled, gracefully stepping back towards the table.

  I turned back to the keg, frustration simmering, and filled a mug with the now-poisoned ale. "Have a drink!" I offered Alexander with a forced smile.

  "After you," he retorted with a knowing wink, turning away to rejoin the others at the table. Rolling my eyes at his back, I returned to the table, discreetly placing the mug next to an unsuspecting gremlin before slipping back to Lyra's side.

  Sriax quickly drank the four mugs Asax set before him, slamming each one down on the table as he finished it. Asax, knowing her boss would want more quickly returned to the kegs getting another four mugs. If gremlins were known for anything, gluttony would be at the top. At the rate they were drinking the ale it would not be long before we would start to see the effects.

  I had severely underestimated Lyra's battle prowess and her cunning ruthlessness. Of all the poisons in my pack—Assassin’s Blood, Midnight Tears, and Torpor—she selected the most lethal and agonizing: Heartseeker’s Venom. As Eicas has explained when he gifted me this venom, it insidiously infiltrates the victim’s bloodstream, gradually intensifying its fatal grip. It mercilessly accelerates the collapse of veins and arteries, blazing a destructive trail towards the heart. The potency of a single vial is formidable, capable of dispatching 10 gremlins with ruthless efficiency. I smiled to myself, recognizing that, like many truly lethal creatures, Lyra's danger was cloaked in sweetness, beauty, and intelligence. To underestimate her was a deadly error. Lyra leaned over to me, possessing an uncanny knack for detecting whenever she occupied my thoughts.

  “So, about these services you offer…care to enlighten me on what exactly they are.” She grinned.

  “Look at you—so impatient.” I smiled and leaned closer to her. “I am afraid, darling, you will have to be patient. Were about to be surrounded by utter bedlam and I can’t have you distracted by my magnificent self.”

  “I could say the same to you,” she winked at me. “How long do you think it will take for the poison to work?” she asked. Before I could reply, chaos erupted. A gremlin at the end of the table toppled face-first into his plate. Initially, the others laughed, assuming he had merely passed out. However, as he remained motionless, panic took hold. A neighboring gremlin, shaking him vigorously, suddenly fell as well. More and more gremlins began to collapse amidst growing confusion and alarm, each thud marking another victim of the poison.

  Sriax observed his hoard collapsing around him and, with a growl, lifted his mug of ale to his nose. The bitter scent caught his attention immediately, and his eyes shot open in alarm. "POISON!" he bellowed, rising to his feet unsteadily as the toxin began to affect him. Clutching his chest, he glared at our party, his massive gluttonous frame resisting the poison longer than his underlings due to his size. Reacting quickly, I stood and seized a half-drunk mug from his table, sniffing it and grimacing at the potent smell before hurling the mug to the ground.

  “Who did this!” I shouted looking around the room. “What a waste of a perfectly good ale.” Sriax glared at Lyra and let out a fierce roar.

  “YOU!” he shouted, a white foam began to weep from his mouth. He was enraged, his face twisted in fury. His muscular frame bristled with a powerful intensity. He snatched a massive axe from a fallen Warhowler, its blade jagged and stained, tightly. With a roar, he raised the axe high above his head, muscles tensed and eyes burning with rage, preparing to unleash a devastating attack. Sriax’s battle stance was wide and unstable, he was ready to bring down the full force of his wrath upon Lyra. I could see fear for the first time in her eyes and I felt my heart racing in panic, there was no time for me to react and guarantee her safety.

  As the gremlin Coinlord raised his axe over Lyra, a sword whistled through the air, striking Sriax squarely between the eyes and pinning him to the chair behind. His face registered shock as he slowly dropped the axe, which clattered loudly onto the table. Everyone’s gaze shifted to the end of the table from where the sword had originated. Emre stood there, surveying each of us before nonchalantly shrugging her shoulders.

  “I grew tired of waiting for your return.” She glanced down the table at the Coinlord “I've seen more skill in a hatchling's first swing than in his entire battle strategy,” she remarked dryly, adding, “I’d say he was a disgrace to this so-called tribe, but I suspect they’ve already drastically lowered their expectations.”

  “Well said,” Alexander chuckled, color returning to his cheeks.

  “Looks like gremlin bashing time!” Rhys growled eagerly. “Shall we put your blades to good use clearing out the rest of this lot?” She turned to Emre.

  “If we must,” Emre replied coolly dropping our weapons on the table, “these creatures are hardly worth our effort.”

  “Aw, c’mon grumpy pants, let’s go have some fun,” Rhys said with a grin, leading the charge into the fray against the gremlins, some of whom were already weakened by the poison.

  Emre said nothing and rolled her eyes, but followed, nonetheless. Shaking my head at their eager dive into battle, I turned to Lyra. She exhaled a breath she didn’t seem to realize she had been holding.

  "What were you thinking!" I exclaimed, exasperated. "You just stood there— he could have split your head open with that axe." Lyra turned to me, studying my expression. She narrowed her eyes briefly, then her face softened into a smile.

  "Aww, you were worried about me," she teased, her grin broadening.

  "Of course I was worried!" I retorted. "Imagine the disaster for me if my favorite meal suddenly vanished. No, it simply won't do. Next time you hatch one of your 'brilliant' plans, darling, let's ensure its fully baked, shall we?" My smile mirrored hers, mixing concern with affection.

  "For the love of Valneas," Alexander grumbled under his breath. "Shall we head to the dungeon and free our feline friend, hmm? I'm sure she's as eager to escape that cage as I am to escape listening to the two of you." My smile widened; every ounce of annoyance I inflicted on Alexander filled me with delight. Indeed, Yalela was right: with Coinlord Sriax eliminated, the horde was scattering. The magical creatures of this land were free from capture and trade thanks to our efforts, and we would be hailed as heroes—a notion I found utterly intolerable. I despised every moment of this heroism.

  Present day…

  I took another sip of wine, my gaze drifting as I reflected on Lyra’s astounding prowess. From our first encounters with ogres to the treacherous dealings with gremlins, her brilliance had been undeniable. With a sharp mind and steely resolve, she ventured into the ogre cave, leveraging Alexander’s endless chatter and knowledge to charm our way through—a maneuver so precise it led us straight to the temple’s front door.

  Inside, even the Nocthyris elf stood no chance against her. Lyra had measured the Ebonbroker within moments, engaging him in a deadly battle of wits that ended with his humiliating addition to the dinner menu. And through it all—Crut’s trembling incompetence, the constant threat of discovery, she remained poised and unflinching.

  I chuckled softly at the memory of her masquerade as the false Veilwarden—a role she slipped into with such effortless grace it nearly convinced me. Her silver and green eyes had sparkled with mischief, and her words had dripped with just enough threat to sway even the most suspicious mind.

  Yet even that paled compared to her greatest feat, the one few would dare to dream possible.

  Coinlord Sriax. The very name cast a long shadow over Raventide. His reputation was etched into the region’s history—a tyrant cloaked in wealth, with cruelty as sharp as any blade. Once a minor trader from the outlands, Sriax had clawed his way to power through ruthless cunning and blood-soaked deals. His rise wasn’t marked by diplomacy or alliances but by terror and obliteration.

  Entire trade routes fell silent under his reign. His gremlin raiders, merciless, cunning creatures, descended on caravans in the dead of night, leaving no survivors, no gold, no trace. Camps were razed to ash, bodies left as grisly warnings to those who would oppose him. His wealth grew as his cruelty deepened, and soon, the mention of his name alone was enough to still conversations.

  Many had tried—and failed—to bring him down. Mercenaries, bounty hunters, even rival lords fell before his traps and treachery. Some say he made dark pacts to secure his power, while others whispered of the "Blood-Feast," a grim banquet where enemies who crossed him were served to his guests.

  And yet, Lyra succeeded where all others had perished. She did it without magic. No incantations. No divine blessings. Only her mind—sharp, strategic, and deadly.

  Her plan was flawless. She wove deception with elegant precision, using her quick tongue and sharper intellect to lure Sriax into his own trap. Even Yalela’s grim request, the assassination of the Coinlord himself, became a feat of artful execution in Lyra’s hands.

  I swirled the wine in my cup, a smirk tugging at my lips.

  Sriax, the terror of Raventide—felled without a sword drawn.

  And Lyra? She walked away untouched.

  Cunning. Ruthless. Brilliant.

  At the time, my thoughts were clouded by my own selfish desires, and I didn’t fully appreciate the gravity of what was unfolding. Only in this moment on the balcony did I recognize the depth of my growing admiration for her back at the gremlin camp. Unbeknownst to me then, my feelings for Lyra had begun to deepen, I was already smitten with her.

  This realization brought with it a surge of self-loathing. I gulped down another hefty swig of wine, draining the mug before slamming it onto the table with a resounding thud. "Shit!" I muttered under my breath, holding back a curse as I glanced through the window at Lyra, relieved that she hadn’t woken. "Idiot," I silently rebuked myself. After pouring another glass, I gently set the bottle down, overwhelmed by a wave of disgust.

  Back then, my only intention had been to exploit her. I had deployed every manipulative tactic taught by Killian to draw her in. Now, I longed to recall our first kiss and the moments of intimacy that followed as cherished memories. But the truth was harsh—I had used her, and there was nothing genuinely special about those beginnings. My regret was deep and bitter, tainting the memories I now wished could have been pure.