The door to Eamond's quarters closed with a soft click, sealing out even the faintest echo of the sleeping orphans. The small, fire-warmed room was lined with ancient tomes, glass vials of yellowed tinctures, and scrolls of arcane formulas. A single lantern cast flickering shadows across the stone walls, and a low, herbal scent drifted from a kettle left to steep on the hearth.
Vale stood beneath the narrow window, his cloak still damp from the sweets of running. His hood had fallen back, revealing dark hair plastered with moisture. He watched as Eamond stirred the embers to life, the glow painting amber patterns on his sharp features.
Eamond turned, offering a steaming cup of tea from the kettle. "Tea?" he asked, voice perfectly even.
Vale's jaw tightened, but he shook his head. "No, thank you."
Eamond poured himself a cup instead, inhaling the fragrant steam. On the table lay a battered leather ledger—pages dog-eared with coal receipts, medicine invoices, and running tallies of gold spent. He traced a burned margin with his fingertip, then fixed his gaze on Vale.
"Let's discuss the matter at hand," Eamond said, placing the cup down with a soft clink. "You want the twins."
Vale stepped forward, boots silent on the cold floor. "I was contracted to retrieve them. My employer expects results."
Eamond leaned back, fingers steepled beneath his chin. "And who is this employer?"
Vale's eyes flicked toward the ledger, then back to Eamond. "I'm afraid that's confidential."
A soft chime sounded in Eamond's mind:
A faint smile curved Eamond's lips. "I understand discretion is part of your trade. But I've come too far—put too much on the line—to hand these children over into the unknown."
Vale's jaw tightened. "Their safety is assured."
Eamond rose, pacing slowly along the flagstone floor. "Safety is a matter of context. A contract only means as much as your client's honor."
Vale's stern mask flickered. "I gave my word."
Eamond paused, folding his arms. "So did I. I promised the orphanage I'd keep them safe. Every coin, every magic ward in my possession is pledged to that promise."
He crossed to the ledger and tapped a page. "See this? Two months' coal, three rounds of medicine, a dozen blankets. That's gold I don't have lying around. But I'm prepared to negotiate."
Vale's interest piqued. "Negotiate?"
Eamond returned to the hearth and retrieved a carved wooden box. Inside lay two silver signet rings—tokens once belonging to the orphans' benefactors, long since vanished. He placed them on the table.
"I'll trade these," Eamond said, voice steady. "Symbolic of our agreement: you accompany me to the Marquess's estate. We speak face-to-face. We return the children, and he settles my debts—and yours. No blind handover in a back alley."
Vale studied the rings, then Eamond's eyes. "You're asking me to trust you with my employer's—or should I say, my patron's—assets."
Eamond nodded. "As you've trusted me with these children. I know more than you think about who they are—enough to ensure your client is who he claims."
Vale's posture stiffened. "You know their identity?"
Eamond's gaze never wavered. "Enough to guarantee the Marquess will pay his due. And to guarantee I won't break my word."
Eamond poured a second cup of tea, offering it to Vale, who took it reluctantly. Steam curled around his gloved fingers.
Vale sipped the tea, considering. "And if he refuses?"
Eamond's eyes hardened. "Then I will find another way. I won't hand over the twins blindly."
Vale's jaw worked for a moment. Then, as though weighing two debts—one of blood, one of gold—he exhaled and nodded. "Very well. Within three days, I will secure our audience."
Eamond inclined his head. "Then we have a deal."
He extended his hand. Vale clasped it firmly, sealing their pact.
Eamond returned the rings to the box. "I'll prepare the ledger and the letter. Make sure you're ready to move at first light."
Vale turned toward the window. "You can count on me."
As he slipped out into the predawn gloom, Eamond picked up his ledger once more, readying his case before the Marquess, confident that a well-crafted negotiation, like well-forged magic, can move even the most guarded hearts.
Meanwhile,
In the Red Fang's fortress beneath the city, torchlight fought shadows across vast stone pillars. The corpses of rats long since scavenged littered the floor, and the faint clink of armored boots echoed through the cavern.
At the head of a long, rough-hewn table stood the Fang's leader. His cloak still bore streaks of midnight mud, his gaunt features etched with rage. In his hand, he crushed a report describing a vault breach so complete it defied explanation.
"How?" he growled, glancing at the assembled lieutenants. "Our vault was deemed impenetrable. Yet someone forced every ward, dismantled every lock, and vanished—leaving no trace of entry or escape."
He slammed his fist upon the table. Goblets rattled; coins danced across the stone. "Our backer bankrolled us, armed us, placed our banner over thousands of contracts. If he learns of this…we will be obliterated."
A courier in black leather slipped through the heavy oaken doors, shoulders hunched, eyes flitting like cornered prey. The leader's signal—a curt nod and a narrowing of his gaze—sent two lieutenants lunging forward. They yanked the courier into the torchlight, where beads of fear glistened on his brow.
"Report," the leader snarled, voice low and menacing, as he gripped the courier's collar and hauled him close enough to taste his panic.
The courier's voice shook. "The vault stands empty, sir. Every ward rendered useless, every lock undone. Not a single guard remains alive…yet there's no trace of how it was accomplished." He swallowed, lips quivering. "It's as if—"
The leader's steel-grey eyes burned with cold fury. He dropped the courier, who staggered away, gasping for breath. Turning, the leader drew a crystalline comm-rod from beneath his cloak and tapped it against the filigreed bracer on his wrist. With a crackle, the comm-link activated, and a ghostly silence gulped the hall.
A disembodied voice, smooth and unyielding, filled the chamber:
"Status."
Every enforcer's spine straightened; swords were unconsciously straightened in their sheaths, crossbows clenched tighter in armored hands. Even the torches seemed to flare brighter, as though bearing witness to a judgment.
The leader bowed his head before the unseen presence. His throat tightened as he spoke. "We lost everything. The wards were shattered, the locks undone. The vault is gone—emptied with surgical precision. No footprints, no witnesses. I have no intelligence to offer but this abject failure."
A pregnant pause followed, stretching seconds into an eternity. A cold wind—or perhaps the echo of a reprimand—seemed to brush the assembled men, causing their cloaks to flutter and steel to glint ominously.
Then, cool and dismissive:
"An inconvenience. But this failure is disheartening."
The words struck like a hammer blow. The leader's hands curled into fists on the obsidian table, knuckles whitening. His breath hitched; he pressed a shaking palm to his throat, as if the words themselves constricted his air. That word, though delivered without fury, carried the weight of a blade's edge, cold and inexorable. The leader's heart thudded in his chest; sweat beaded at his temples as the echo faded. He bowed his head lower, voice barely above a rasp: "I… understand, my lord."
Another long pause. The backer's tone shifted, soft as a velvet curtain falling. "However," he continued, "I will grant one final opportunity." His voice held no relish, no wrath—only the quiet disdain of one whose expectations had been trampled. "Recover the assets. Fail again, and the Red Fang will no longer serve."
The line went dead. Silence crashed over the chamber, heavier than any battle's aftermath. The leader's fists clenched at his sides, knuckles whitening as he struggled to contain the tempest of fear and wrath churning within him. Around him, the lieutenants swallowed hard, understanding at once that the safety of each man—and the entire gang—hinged on this final, desperate mission.
With a rasping breath, the leader lifted his head, eyes ablaze. "You heard him," he barked to his officers. "This is our last chance. Mobilize every operative, scour every shadow, break down every door—bring our prize back, or we fall with the Fang."
Armor rattled and weapons rang as the enforcers snapped to attention, the oppressive weight of their backers' ultimatum fueling their resolve—or sealing their doom.
Back at the orphanage, Eamond heard nothing of the Red Fang's wrath. His mind churned with negotiation tactics as he prepared the orphanage's ledgers for presentation. Every entry—burned blankets, borrowed coals, healer's fees—would serve as his opening bid to the Marquess.
He paused, recalling Vale's steady loyalty at 50%. It was a foundation on which he could build, as fragile as it was promising.
The fate of two children, an entire orphanage, and the fate of a ruthless syndicate—all hinged on the next three days. Outside, the city stirred—guards patrolled, beggars hawked their wares, and merchants opened heavy shutters to greet the sun.
The candle flickered. The night's final embers died. And with them, the line between power and desperation blurred into the dawn.