Torik leaned against the stone wall, arms folded, listening to the clink of glass as Ithren shuffled her parchments and maps onto the table.
Captain Kell stood at the head of the table, arms behind his back, the others forming a half-circle around him. Dama, the broad-shouldered hammer of a woman, leaned on the back of a chair. Ithren was already scribbling something with a quill, and Whistle, sat with boots on the table and let a little whistle out while flipping a dagger between his fingers.
"We have three leads," Kell began, tone clipped. "And not a lot of time. The artifact is in the cult's hands. We don't yet know where. If they break the last seal embedded in the crown, they free Tharoghul."
The name sat heavy in the room.
"The cult won't risk moving the crown unless they're confident it can't be taken again. That gives us a small window." He tapped the table. "Our goal is infiltration. Quiet, precise. No heroics."
Dama gave a grunt. "Or we take a warband, crash the gates, and leave no survivors."
"And risk them smashing the gem out of spite?" Ithren cut in, voice cool. "Not that we even know where they are."
Whistle chuckled softly. "Or we send Torik in. Have him pretend to be one of theirs. Cults are always looking for faithful with peculiar skills."
All eyes turned to Torik.
He shifted uncomfortably. "So, my life's the only thing we're gambling now."
"No," Kell said. "You're the ace we're playing."
That didn't make it feel better.
"I'm not thrilled," Torik muttered. "But it's not the worst idea."
Kell raised an eyebrow. "You have a way in?"
Torik paused, then gave a small nod. "I've been working on a persona with Maribel. Name's Calwin. Courier from the Eastern Coast. Travels often but keeps his head down. Nervous fellow. Knows the roads. Believable."
He pulled a small satchel from his belt and set it on the table. Inside were sealed documents, weathered by oil and ash. "Courier's kit. Stamps from three lords. All fake. Maribel helped with that."
Ithren's eyes sharpened. "Eastern Coast, you say? That could work."
Kell looked to her. "Continue."
"Melindes," she said. "City on the eastern cliffs. Lord Kurten governs it. Quiet, distant… but there were whispers. Months ago. Rumors that he had dealings with the Unbound."
"Unconfirmed," Kell warned.
"Everything's unconfirmed," she snapped. "But if Torik," she corrected herself, "Calwin were to carry a message from Kurten, asking for a meeting or offering support, the cult would be fools not to at least bring him in."
Whistle leaned forward, twirling his dagger and then letting it clink flat on the table. "He wouldn't need to know much. Just enough to sell the story. We control what he says. Give him something tempting, vague enough that they ask questions and in asking questions, they bring him in."
Dama cracked her knuckles. "And if they don't buy it?"
"Then he dies," Torik said flatly, before anyone else could answer.
A silence fell.
He glanced at Kell, then away. "I'll do it. But I don't like how much of this plan rides on me staying alive."
"You're not going in blind," Kell said. "We'll build the cover. We'll know who's likely to answer when the courier knocks. You'll have eyes nearby. And if it goes wrong, we pull you out."
Torik didn't believe the last part for a second.
Still… it was a plan. It was his plan now, apparently.
Dama finally nodded. "Alright. If he's going in alone, then I want to handle the backup. If the Unbound's in one of their temples, they'll have watchers. Give me two teams. Quiet ones. We'll be his shadow."
"And I," Ithren said, tapping the map, "will prepare the false correspondence. It needs to sound like Kurten, and it needs to be convincing enough that they don't burn it the moment it's opened."
Whistle smirked. "And I'll track down the cult's supply chain. They must be importing alchemical materials to try and crack the crown's seal. That kind of purchasing leaves traces."
Kell nodded, satisfied. "Then we move at dusk tomorrow. I want Torik in the persona by sunrise, and on the road by noon."
Torik raised an eyebrow. "So that's it then? I fake my way into The Unbound and hope they're hiring?"
Kell smiled. "Just don't let them make you take a blood oath. Everything else is improv."
Later that night Torik sat alone in the small chamber that had become his. The courier's leathers were already laid out. Maribel's voice echoed in his mind from past lessons: Posture is language. Tone is rhythm. A lie is just a truth told in the wrong place.
He ran a finger across the wax seal of one of the false letters.
He wasn't even sure he would get paid for this job and that itched at him. But the thrill, he felt it just like when he got a good job from Varlon. He had to hold back his excitement at infiltrating one of the most powerful groups in the kingdom.