With a smirk, I turn away, slipping into the alley that leads to The Tannery. My chest still feels tight, and I grab it out of instinct, but I feel a flicker of accomplishment. One problem down. Only a dozen more to go.
The Tannery looms at the edge of The Barrier District, a hulking structure of decaying wood and soot-streaked stone, its towering chimneys setting off plumes of acrid smoke into the night sky. The air here is thick, tinged with the unmistakable stench of rot and chemicals used to strip hides of their flesh.
As I step closer, the ground beneath my boots grows slick and uneven, stained with years of runoff from the vats inside. The faint glow of torches dances behind grime-covered windows, casting distorted shadows. The warped wooden door is reinforced withrusted iron bands, its surface scarred with deep gouges, as if someone—orsomething—had tried to claw their way out.
I pause in the shadow of a broken barrel, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light.
The walls are lined with massive wooden racks, each one hung with half-cured hides in various stages of decay. A prickling heat blooms under my sternum, and my skin feels like I’m being branded. The fallout of my hunger and the tension of Ronyn’s safety weigh on me, which simply spurs me on to make quick work of this.
The warped wooden-planked floors are riddled with gaps that reveal shallow pools of foul-smelling liquid beneath. Every step is a gamble—too much pressure, and I could plunge through the rotten boards into the sludge below. If I slip, it’s over. If I charge, it’s war.
In the center of the main room, gathered around a low-burning fire, sit four loud and burly guards—likely Bloodbonds based on the sinewed muscles and protruding veins—on old crates who have clearly had too much ale. They seem wholly engrossed in a conversation about last night’s fighting pits, and I decide that stealth will be my best approach—best to leave the pigs to their ale and camaraderie.
In the far corner, mostly obscured by shelves filled with tools and devices, is a door guarded by two men who look sleep-addled and relaxed—the arrogance of men who assume no one would be stupid enough to even come close.But they haven’t met me yet.I need to get beyond that door, because I imagine what’s lying beyond it is precisely what I’m looking for—Ronyn.
I trace the perimeter on silent feet and pull my favorite blade from its sheath in preparation for what I can only assume will be violence. As I round towards the back of the building, a wooden door is left ajar that takes me directly to the side of those sleepy, arrogant guards.
Stealth is definitely the plan.
I am silence incarnate. My hand slips around in front of the first arrogant guard’s face and falls across his mouth; my blade drags along his throat, silencing his protest before he’s even thought aboutdoing so. The warm spray of his blood is a reassurance that I can do this—I’ve done this before. I unfold him onto the ground, and move swiftly to the next guard, who turns to face me just in time. I slash his throat, the shudder of muscle giving way, and shove him back onto the crate he came from, his head lolling like he’s slipped back into the dreamscape he never should’ve left.
I check the ale-riddled guards around the fire have continued their conversation, and when I’m confident they haven’t heard a thing, I push through the once-guarded door to whatever lies beyond. A cluster of holding cells stands apart, their iron bars blackened and warped as if they’ve absorbed The Tannery’s misery. The captives inside are little more than shadows, their faces obscured by the low light and their movements sluggish, weighed down by exhaustion, chains or worse.
This place isn’t just a tannery; it’s a purgatory. A place where things—hides, people, souls—come to be stripped of their essence and discarded. And if I’m not careful, I’ll be next. I move along the strip of cells to check if Ronyn occupies one of them.
His wavy mop of chocolate brown hair is the first thing I see—his face is marred with bloody cuts and mottled bruises. He looks up at me with his signature lopsided smile that I’d recognize anywhere, and says, “About time you showed up, Isk. I was just about to start composing a tragic ballad about my untimely demise.”
Thank the Stars.I loose a breath of relief, and I can’t help but allow myself a silent chuckle. “What in the Stars happened, Ronie?”
“Perhaps we could debrief on my errors when we’re not in enemy territory, Isk? I think the first order of business should probably be getting me the fuck out of this cell.”
“Obviously,”I scoff.
The cell door rattles, and I curse the sound. I jab my dagger into the lock, desperate, reaching, but have no luck. Frustration and urgency get the better of me, and I jab my dagger in again. “For fucking Stars sake, Ronyn, you couldn’t pick a cell with a normal fucking lock?”
“Sorry, next time I’m beaten and snatched, I’ll request the deluxe suite,” Ronyn shoots back, leaning casually against the barsdespite the blood on his lip and bruises darkening his jaw. “You know, maybe one with snacks and a key under the mat.”
I roll my eyes and look around, trying to come up with a plan before huffing and grunting in frustration again.
“You know, Isk, I don’t know if you’ll be able to huff or grunt the lock open, unfortunately,” he quips.
“Shut up and let me think! What if I?—”
“Uh, Iskara?” Ronyn interrupts, his tone suddenly sharper. “We’ve got company.”
“No shit,” I hiss, scanning for a plan for this Starsdamned lock. But before I can move, a low, amused voice interrupts us from behind.
“Struggling with a lock? How...quaint,” the voice muses.
I spin, my dagger flashing in the dim light, to find a man stepping out of the shadows. He moves too quietly, as if the darkness itself bends to his will. A hood obscures most of his face, but the smirk glinting beneath it is infuriatingly visible.
I size him up—smug, too confident, too clean for this place. A wolf at the edge of the campfire.
“Who the fuck are you?” I demand, keeping my voice hushed and my blade steady.
“Kael,” he says after a pause, like he’s deciding whether to lie. Like his name should mean something to me. His tone is as maddeningly casual as his posture. “And if you don’t keep it down, you’ll have the entire guard down here.”
There’s something in his tone—a quiet confidence that feels too practised, like he’s holding secret agendas and hidden motives behind that infuriating smirk. My instincts scream at me to keep my guard up, but right now, curiosity wins out.
