Zander froze. His shoulders stiffened, hands curling into fists at his sides.
“He had my oldest brother killed,” he said flatly.
Cyran’s expression shifted, going still, haunted even. “He was assassinated by the Order,” he said slowly. “But Theron was not the client.”
The silence hit hard.
I didn’t breathe. Neither did Zander.
Zander’s voice, when it came, was cracked with disbelief. “Who was?”
Cyran hesitated. “No one from Warriath.”
He didn’t elaborate, and that silence was more telling than any answer could have been.
“I will tell you this,” Cyran added, quieter now. “The contract was personal.”
Zander swallowed, hard. “Personal…” His jaw clenched so tightly the muscles twitched in his cheek. “Thank you. For the information.”
Cyran stared at him for a long moment. “If you ever figure out who it was… just remember… we never had this conversation.”
Zander nodded once. “Agreed.”
Without another word, we turned and followed Solei into the darkened tunnel, leaving the scent of ink, blood, and old betrayals behind us.
Solei didn’t speak as she led us out of Cyran’s tunnels and back into the dim rear hall of the Rusty Tankard. Her steps were quick but silent, her cloak fluttering behind her like a second shadow. We slipped through the tavern without drawing attention, ducking out into the side alley where the sounds of midday had begun, vendors calling, and boots echoing on stone.
The streets of the lower ring bustled with life, but Solei kept to the alleys and side paths, her blade never far from her fingertips. We passed two bakeries, a weaver’s stall, and a blacksmith whose hammer struck like a heartbeat in the distance. Then she stopped in front of a weathered inn tucked between two leaning buildings. The Briar Rose, with its name barely visible through the peeling paint.
I expected her to secure us a room on the upper floors, maybe something facing the alley.
But she led us down instead.
Past the barkeep’s curious glance, down the narrow stairs behind the kitchen, to the cool, stone-lined basement below. It smelled of flour and old wine, but it was dry and cooler than the streets above. She stopped beside a tall wooden shelf crammed with empty jugs and dusty crates.
“The shelf is anchored to the wall,” Zander said.
Solei nodded once, then looked at him. “Help me move it anyway.”
Zander stepped forward, and together they shifted the shelf carefully, until it creaked on its hidden hinge and swung outward, revealing a narrow wooden door behind it.
Solei opened it and stepped inside.
The hidden room beyond was small but clean. A cot lined one wall, a washbasin stood beneath a narrow shelf, and a plate of food had been placed beside a half-full jug of water. The scent of warm bread and lentils still lingered.
“This is where you’ll stay,” she said, eyes flicking between us. “I’ll return for you in the morning.”
She reached into her cloak and tossed a small satchel on the bed. “Spare clothes. A cloak. Don’t open the door unless it’s me.”
Zander crossed his arms. “How long before Theron starts looking?”
“His spies will blanket the city by dawn,” she said simply. “But we’ll leave a false trail. One that suggests you’ve already left the capital.”
I nodded, the knot in my chest tightening. “Thank you.”
Solei didn’t answer. She only stepped back through the threshold, and the door creaked shut behind her.
A moment later, we heard the soft scraping of the shelf sliding back into place, sealing us in.
