Three Days Later, Blackridge, The Broken Quill, Night
The streets of Blackridge were wet and shiny from the rain, glowing under lanterns powered by mana. At the edge of the market district sat a dirty old tavern called The Broken Quill.
Its sign creaked in the wind. It was the kind of place where rich people pretended to be poor and thieves acted like they were rich. A perfect spot for a secret deal.
Elias pulled his hood down lower. The itchy wool rubbed against his neck. He had gotten rid of Veyron's fancy ring and silver clothes.
Now he wore a disguise he bought from a cheap stall—an old gray cloak, a scarf wrapped around his face, and scuffed boots.
His dark hair was tucked under a worn-out cap, and he'd rubbed ash on his cheeks to hide his sharp features. No one would think he was Lord Maelor.
His heart was beating fast, but his mind was calm and ready. He had spent three days planning this. Using [Creator Tools], he looked up everything he'd written in his notes—Salar's smuggling paths, how her couriers acted, and the kind of magic pouches they used to avoid detection.
He even knew the layout of The Broken Quill—back door near the bar, busy front tables, dark booths in the back.
He paid the bartender ten coins to warn him if anyone used the back door: two knocks on the counter.
He walked in with his head down. The smell hit him right away—old beer, sweat.
A bard was playing badly in the corner, and people were laughing and drinking. Elias looked around without lifting his head.
No sign of Salar yet. No agents either—no green symbols or potion belts. But he didn't relax. She might have spies—or even a blade hidden somewhere.
He sat in a back booth with tall walls. It gave him some privacy. The table was scratched up and sticky, just right for blending in. He kept his hands hidden under the cloak.
The tenth bell rang outside, its sound barely heard over the noise. Elias kept his eyes on the front door and the bar. No signal from the bartender. No movement near the back door. He'd hired one street kid to watch the exits, and another to carry a fake letter if he was followed. Just in case. Salar wasn't the type to come without a plan.
Then the door opened, and she walked in.
Lady Salar Thorne stood out right away. No hood, no hiding—just pure confidence. Her hair was tied up tight, and her sharp green eyes scanned the room like a hawk.
One guard followed her. He wore simple armor and had no visible weapons, but a lump under his cloak gave it away.
Salar spotted him and walked straight to his booth. Her guard stayed by the door, alert but still. Elias slouched in his seat, trying to look like a drunk mercenary.
She sat across from him, placing her hands lightly on the table. Her green ring sparkled in the light.
"So," she said, her voice calm. "You're the friend. Brave of you to write to me like that."
Elias leaned back in his seat, staying relaxed. He made his voice rough so it wouldn't sound like Veyron's fancy tone.
"Being bold works. You're here, so you know I'm serious."
He noticed her fingers twitch—a small signal. He glanced at the bar. No knocks. No one near the back door. She was testing him, trying to find a weakness. He didn't show any.
"Bluff or not," she said, "you're walking a risky line. You talk about shelters, pouches, and wards—that could come back to bite you. What if you're the one in danger?"
Elias pushed a letter across the table, just enough for her to see the handwriting.
"It's dangerous for you. I know your routes, your couriers, even the kids you use to carry potions. One word to the Council, and House Thorne is done. No more potions, no more money. Just prison."
Her eyes went hard, but she didn't touch the letter.
"You want gold. Say how much."
This was the key moment. Elias had planned it all out. She'd try to pay him off, then maybe send someone to kill him. But he wasn't here for money. He wanted control—something to keep House Maelor safe, and himself alive.
"Not just gold," he said calmly. "A deal. You keep doing business. I get 15% of your profits from the outer districts. And one favor, no questions, whenever I ask."
She laughed sharply, like broken glass.
"You really think you can blackmail a Thorne and walk away? You've got guts, but you're not safe."
Elias leaned forward. The shadows hid most of his face, but his cold, silver-gray eyes showed.
"I've got names. Dates. Records. You think I'd come here with nothing? I'm not some nobody. I'm the one who decides if your house survives or falls."
Her eyes changed—not fear, but thinking fast. She was choosing: kill him, call his bluff, or agree. Elias already knew how she worked. If she gave a signal, he'd run out the back, load up Save 2, and change plans. If she said yes, he'd keep watching her.
"You did your homework," she said tightly. "But you're messing with something bigger than you know. Cross me, and you'll drown."
Elias smiled under his scarf, just enough for her to see.
"I'm not crossing you. I'm offering a deal. We both win. Say no, and I send your crimes straight to court."
"Ten percent," she said. "No favor. Just gold."
Elias shook his head slowly.
"Fifteen. And the favor. Or I leave, and the Council gets my message by morning."
The tavern's noise faded around them. The air felt tight, like a stretched rope. Elias stared at her, calm and steady. He knew she wouldn't attack here, too public. But later? She'd try something. He was ready. His lookout kid was watching the exits. The fake letter would throw off any tail. He was three steps ahead.
"Fifteen," she finally said, voice cold. "And the favor. But betray me, and you'll wish you drowned in the Voidsea."
Elias nodded and put the letter away.
"Deal. First payment by the end of the week. You know the drop."A butcher shop in the slums—no link to House Maelor. Safe.
She turned to leave. Her guard followed as they went out the front.
Elias waited. The bartender gave two knocks. Back door clear. He got up and moved through the back quietly. The alley was empty, except for the street kid who gave him a quick nod. No one was following.
He pulled the scarf tighter and disappeared into the night, his footsteps soft on the wet street. He'd won—gold, leverage over Salar, and a way to keep House Maelor alive.