Torren Vale leaned against the alley wall, his shoulder throbbing where Selene's hasty bandage clung to the cut. The north dock warehouse was a memory now, its crates of swords a spark that could ignite Varnholt into chaos. Rebellion brewed under the Earl's nose, and Torren was tangled in its threads—Sir Aldric's letter, Elara's smuggling, Baron Corwyn's ambition. His grin had faded, replaced by a tight-lipped resolve. He needed allies, coin, and a way to stay alive, and the Black Sow's whispers pointed him to his next move.
Selene had vanished into the night after bandaging him, promising to meet at the old mill by dawn if she found more on Elara's trail. Torren trusted her as far as he could throw her—useful, but wild. Kaelin's tip about the warehouse had proven true, and Mira's river knowledge might come in handy if he could track her down. For now, he headed toward the merchants' quarter, where a man named Jorin, a cloth trader with a taste for risky deals, might know more about Corwyn's network.
The merchants' quarter bustled even at this late hour, lanterns casting pools of light over stalls piled with wool and silk. Torren moved with the crowd, his patched cloak drawing no second glances among the laborers and hawkers.
Jorin's shop was a narrow storefront with a faded sign—Jorin's Weaves—and a door that groaned as Torren pushed it open. Inside, the air smelled of dye and dust, and a single candle flickered on a counter stacked with bolts of fabric.
Jorin emerged from the back, a wiry man with a bald head and a merchant's shrewd eyes. "Torren Vale," he said, recognizing him at once. "What brings the Fox to my humble shop? No coin to spend, I'd wager."
Torren's grin returned, though it carried an edge. "Just looking to trade tales, Jorin. Heard you've got an ear for the highborns' secrets. What do you know about Baron Corwyn?"
Jorin's smile vanished. He glanced at the door, then waved Torren deeper into the shop. "Keep your voice down, lad. Corwyn's a name that buys silence—or death. He's been moving goods past the Earl's taxes, but lately, it's weapons. Rumor says he's rallying lesser lords against Dunmere."
Torren's gut tightened. "And Sir Aldric? He's in on it?"
Jorin nodded, his voice dropping. "Aldric's the Earl's man, but he's playing both sides. The letter you delivered—likely orders or payment. Corwyn's planning a strike, maybe at the harvest festival next month."
Torren filed that away. A festival attack could topple the Earl, and he was holding a piece of the puzzle. "Where's Corwyn now?" he asked.
"His keep, most like," Jorin said. "But his daughter, Lady Isolde, runs the city side. She's at the Golden Griffin tonight—some noble gathering. Sharp as her father, and twice as dangerous."
Torren's interest piqued. A lady. He could work with that. "Thanks, Jorin. Owe you one."
"Pay me in coin, not promises," Jorin muttered, but he let Torren go.The Golden Griffin was a grand inn near the city square, its windows aglow with candlelight. Torren adjusted his cloak, wishing he had something finer to wear, but his charm would have to do. He slipped inside, the air rich with perfume and roasted meat. Nobles mingled, their laughter a stark contrast to the docks' grit. Torren scanned the room, spotting a woman in a green gown, her blonde hair pinned with jeweled combs. She moved with a predator's grace—Lady Isolde, no doubt.
He approached, bowing with a flourish. "Milady," he said, his voice smooth. "Torren Vale, a humble admirer. Might I beg a dance, or at least a word?"
Isolde turned, her blue eyes cold but curious. She was younger than he'd expected, perhaps nineteen, with a face that could charm or command. "A street rat in my father's circle?" she said, her tone laced with amusement. "Bold. What do you want, Vale?"
"Information," Torren admitted, keeping his grin. "And maybe your favor. I know about the weapons at the north dock. Thought we might… negotiate."
Her eyes narrowed, but a smile played on her lips. "You're either brave or mad. Follow me." She led him to a private alcove, her guards eyeing him warily. "Speak, then. And make it quick."
Torren laid out what he knew—Elara, the swords, Sir Aldric's letter—leaving out Selene and Kaelin for now. "I can help you," he said. "Or hinder your father, if the price is right."
Isolde laughed, a sound like breaking glass. "You think to blackmail me? Cute. But I like your nerve." She leaned closer, her perfume dizzying. "Help me, and I'll see you rewarded. Cross me, and you'll wish for the river. Deal?"
Torren shook her hand, feeling the steel in her grip. Number four, he thought. She was dangerous, beautiful, and a key to Corwyn's plans. "Deal," he said.
Their talk was cut short by a commotion at the door. Guards burst in, boar sigils on their cloaks, led by the scarred man from the warehouse. "Torren Vale!" he roared. "You're under arrest for theft and treason!"
Torren's heart sank, but his mind raced. Isolde stepped forward, her voice commanding. "He's my guest, Captain. Explain yourself."
The captain hesitated, then sneered. "Orders from Sir Aldric. The Fox knows too much."
Isolde's eyes flicked to Torren, a silent question. He nodded slightly—time to run. She distracted the captain with a sharp rebuke, giving Torren a chance to slip out a side door. He darted into the square, the guards' shouts echoing behind.
The chase led him through twisting streets, his shoulder screaming with every step. He ducked into a stable, hiding among the hay as boots thundered past. Panting, he assessed his options. Isolde was a player, but her alliance was fragile. He needed to find Elara, expose the plot, and turn it to his advantage.
A rustle in the hay startled him. A girl emerged—maybe sixteen, with freckled cheeks and a mop of red hair. She held a pitchfork, her green eyes wide but steady. "You're the Fox," she whispered. "I saw you at the Black Sow."
Torren grinned, wincing. "Guilty. And you are?"
"Rhea," she said. "Stable girl. I overheard the guards talking—Sir Aldric's meeting Elara tomorrow at the old mill. Thought you'd want to know."
Torren's pulse quickened. The mill—Selene's meeting spot. "You're a gem, Rhea. Why help me?"
She shrugged, lowering the pitchfork. "Bored. And you look like trouble I can use." Her grin mirrored his, cheeky and bold.
Number five, Torren thought. Rhea was young, but her spirit was fire. "Stick with me, lass," he said. "We'll make it worth your while."
They planned to meet Selene at dawn, but as they spoke, a shadow moved outside the stable. The gray-cloaked figure, sword in hand, watched silently. Another shadow lingered near the square, a dagger glinting. Torren was the hunted, and the hunt was closing in.