The Black Sow Inn squatted at the edge of Varnholt's docks, a sagging heap of timber and tar that reeked of fish guts and desperation.
Torren Vale approached under the cover of dusk, his patched cloak blending with the shadows cast by the flickering dockside lanterns.
The guards' pursuit from the Tallow Chandler's Rest had forced him to take a winding route through the tanners' district, but he'd shaken them—or so he hoped. The Black Sow was his next move, a smuggler's haunt where Elara might show her face, and where Torren intended to turn his scraps of knowledge into gold.
The inn's door creaked as he pushed inside, the air thick with the stench of stale ale and unwashed bodies. A low hum of voices filled the room—dockhands swapping tales, merchants haggling in hushed tones, and a pair of dice players cursing their luck.
Torren's muddy-ale eyes scanned the crowd, searching for Elara or anyone who might know her. He spotted a cloaked figure in the far corner, their hood pulled low, but before he could approach, a hand gripped his shoulder.
"New face," a voice growled, rough as a saw blade. Torren turned to see a burly man, his beard matted with grease, blocking his path. A short sword hung at his hip, its hilt worn from use. "State your business, or I toss you into the river."
Torren's grin was quick, disarming. "Just a thirsty traveler, friend. Heard this place serves the best swill in Varnholt." He patted his empty purse, feigning regret. "Though my coin's light tonight. Maybe a tale or two for a mug?"
The man's eyes narrowed, but he grunted and stepped aside. "Keep it short, and no trouble. We don't like strangers poking around."
Torren nodded, slipping past into the room. He made for the bar, where a wiry barmaid with a scar across her cheek poured ale with practiced ease. Her dark hair was tied back, and her movements suggested she could handle more than just mugs—maybe a blade or two.
Torren leaned in, flashing his best smile. "Evening, lass. I'm looking for a lady—dark hair, sharp eyes, carries a satchel. Ring any bells?"
The barmaid's gaze flicked over him, assessing. "You mean Elara?" she said, her voice low. "She's been in, but not tonight. Why's a street rat like you after her?"
"Curiosity," Torren said, leaning closer. "And a knack for making friends. Name's Torren—Torren Vale. What's yours, beautiful?"
She smirked, unimpressed but amused. "Kaelin. And flattery won't get you far here, Fox. Elara's trouble—runs with Corwyn's crew. Last I saw her, she was meeting a knight with a boar sigil. Left in a hurry."
Torren's pulse quickened. Sir Aldric. The letter, the smuggling, the guards—it all tied back to the Earl's knight. "Any idea where she went?" he pressed.
Kaelin shrugged, wiping a mug. "Could be the old warehouse by the north dock. That's where they stash goods. But you'd be a fool to go alone."
"Fools live longer than cowards," Torren quipped, winking. Kaelin rolled her eyes, but her lips twitched into a half-smile. Another one, he thought. She had spirit, and a scar that told stories. Maybe worth keeping around.
He thanked her and slipped toward the corner, where the cloaked figure still sat. As he approached, the hood lifted, revealing a young woman with pale skin and blue eyes that glinted like steel. Her hair was a wild tangle of blonde, and a dagger rested on the table beside her ale. "Sit, or scram," she said, her voice cool. "Your choice."
Torren sat, his grin unfaltering. "Torren Vale, at your service. And you are?"
"Selene," she said, her eyes narrowing. "You're the Fox. I've heard you're good at dodging trouble. Let's see if you're good at finding it."
Torren chuckled. "I'm a magnet for it, lass. What's your stake in this?"
Selene leaned forward, her dagger tapping the table. "Elara owes me a debt—gold I lent her for a job that went sour. I hear you've been sniffing around her trail. Thought we might help each other."
Torren's mind raced. An ally—or a rival. "What's in it for me?" he asked.
"Half her debt," Selene said. "Plus a cut if we find her stash. I know the north dock better than most. You bring that silver tongue of yours."
Torren considered it. Selene was sharp, dangerous, and—yes—strikingly pretty in a wild, untamed way. Number three, he thought, filing her away. "Deal," he said, extending a hand. She shook it, her grip firm.
They planned quickly. The north dock warehouse was a risky bet, but if Elara was there, it might hold answers—and profit. Torren suggested they move at midnight, when the watch thinned out. Selene agreed, her eyes never leaving him, as if testing his mettle.
Midnight came, and they crept along the docks, the river's slap against the pilings masking their steps. The warehouse loomed ahead, a hulking shadow with boarded windows and a rusted lock. Torren picked it with a pin from his cloak, his fingers steady despite the thrill in his chest. Inside, the air was damp, filled with the scent of iron and oil. Crates lined the walls, some stamped with the Earl's boar sigil.
"Paydirt," Selene whispered, prying open a crate. Inside were swords—dozens of them, finely crafted, their edges gleaming. "Weapons for Corwyn's men, I'd wager."
Torren nodded, his mind spinning. Rebellion, then. Sir Aldric was likely the middleman, and Elara the courier. But before he could speak, a creak sounded from the shadows. Torren spun, dagger in hand, as figures emerged—three men, cloaks bearing the boar sigil, swords drawn.
"Caught you, Fox," the leader sneered, his scarred jaw familiar from the Tallow Chandler's. "The Earl wants you alive, but I'll settle for dead if you resist."
Torren's grin was tight. "Alive's my preference too, friend. How about we talk this out?"
"No talking," the man growled, lunging. Torren ducked, his dagger clashing with the sword. Selene was faster, her blade flashing as she took on another guard. The third circled, forcing Torren to back toward the crates.
He parried a thrust, his arm burning from the effort. Swordplay wasn't his strength, but desperation lent him speed. Selene dispatched her man with a swift stab, then turned to help, her movements fluid. Together, they drove the leader back, but the third guard flanked them, his blade nicking Torren's shoulder.
Pain flared, but Torren gritted his teeth, grabbing a sword from the crate. "Borrowed this!" he shouted, swinging wildly. The guard stumbled, and Selene finished him with a clean thrust. The leader fled, shouting for reinforcements.
"Time to go," Selene said, pulling Torren toward the door. They ran, the warehouse's shadows swallowing the evidence behind them. Torren's shoulder bled, but his grin returned. They'd found the stash—and survived.
Back in the alley, Selene bandaged his wound with a strip of cloth, her touch surprisingly gentle. "You're reckless," she said, her blue eyes meeting his. "But useful."
"And you're a vision with a blade," Torren replied, wincing as she tied the knot. "We make a good team, Selene."
She smirked, but there was warmth in it. "Don't get used to it, Fox. We're even—for now."
Torren nodded, his mind already on the next move. The weapons meant war was brewing, and he was in the thick of it. Elara, Sir Aldric, Baron Corwyn—they'd all pay for dragging him into this. And with Kaelin, Mira, and now Selene, he was building a crew—and maybe more.
Unseen, the gray-cloaked figure watched from a rooftop, their sword glinting. Another shadow lingered near the warehouse, a dagger in hand, tracking their escape. The game was heating up.