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Reaching out with my mind, I soothe the canine so he doesn’t bark as I skirt past him.

Two streets over, I sense the steady thrum of the gambling den, packed with bodies and noise.

Nothing else. No one’s tracking me.

Still, the tension in my shoulders doesn’t ease.

It won’t, so long as the money pouch bouncing at my hip contains enough gold to buy a small estate.

Only I plan to save a kingdom instead.

People are starving. Crops are gray and brittle. Fields that were once vibrant and green are now dead.

To worsen an already deplorable situation, some people have started acting strangely. Their expressions grow blank, and their memories start to fade. I’ve even seen some who can no longer speak, almost as if they’ve forgotten how. Coined as the Hushing Sickness by some, no one has a clue what causes the ailment.

The longer this goes on, the more people will suffer until Meridia fades away. I can’t let that happen.

Veradin believes the artifact known as the Everhand will heal both the Withering and the Hushing Sickness. That’s if we’re not too late. If the Withering hasn’t already spread too far.

If, if, if.

I tip my head back and inhale musty night air. Paying a fortune for a magical dagger that was stolen from us in the first place rankles, but the Everhand is too important to risk losing over principle. Neither my opinion nor my anger matters when Meridian lives are at stake.

Raucous noise—a mix of laughter, the rattle of dice in cups, and a woman singing off-key—spills into the street. The whole area reeks of cheap ale and cheaper bodies. In the next few minutes, they’ll depart the den to get home before curfew kicks in. No one wants to get caught out by the Graywatch. I have to be out of sight before the gamblers come out.

I skirt the edge of the den, keeping to the deeper shadows where the torchlight doesn’t reach.

The back of the building is darker, quieter. An exterior staircase clings to the wall like an afterthought, wooden steps warped and splitting, the railing gone in places. It creaks but holds as I mount it.

Reading the vibrations of the land, I only detect movement and life on the first floor, in the gambling den. The upper levels seem to be empty.

Why can’t I locate the person I’m meant to meet? Could this be a trap? I don’t know their name or identity, only the time and place.

I slip onto the third floor from the stairwell door, entering a narrow, low-ceilinged hallway lit by the scattered moonlight that struggles to shine through the packed-in buildings. The wide gaps in the termite-riddled floorboards allow me to see through to the floor below.

Easing down the corridor, I spot the second door on the left, the one leading to the room I’m meeting my contact in.

The hairs on the back of my neck rise on end when I find it ajar.

Concentrating, I conduct one more mental search for signs of life.

Still nothing.

Either my abilities are malfunctioning—which is a possibility, in all honesty—or my contact stood me up.

Just go in there already. You’re wasting precious time by hovering out here.

Straightening my spine, I push open the door and gasp.

The oak desk lies overturned, papers scattered across the ground in drifts. A smashed chair sits with one leg snapped off, the splintered wood everywhere.

And, most alarming of all, bright crimson paints the back wall and floor.

My pulse riots as I creep across the threshold. It’s as if someone blasted the dwelling with enough magic to destroy everything. Only the sheer curtains remain intact, rustling in the frigid breeze.

I pause, consulting my magic to check for a lingering perpetrator. Other than the giant mess, the space is vacant. No villain, and thankfully, no dead body.

No seller or artifact either.