The fog pressed in around Witchrum like a living thing.

  It crawled along the cobbles and curled around boots and hems and axle spokes. It seeped from the river quarter and crept between the buildings, coiling through alleyways and archways until the whole city seemed wrapped in damp gray linen. Lamps glowed as faint halos rather than flames. Sound traveled strangely—swallowed in one breath, magnified in the next.

  Footsteps were lost.

  Laughter died quickly.

  But the rhythm of pursuit carried.

  Turmonge moved first, cutting through the haze with long, purposeful strides. His coat clung wetly to his shoulders, and beneath it the scroll case pressed against his ribs like a second heart—solid, unyielding, feeling far too heavy for what it contained.

  “This way,” he murmured, not looking back.

  Aremis followed, bow strung, eyes narrowed to slits against the fog. Every few steps she glanced over her shoulder, measuring the emptiness behind them. “Your way,” she muttered, “is beginning to resemble a dead end, genius. We are perhaps ten paces ahead of someone willing to murder a monastery for a scroll. That someone will not accept a polite apology.”

  Turmonge didn’t slow. “Better their iron than mine.”

  “That’s not a strategy,” she replied.

  “It’s a preference.”

  Bourin limped beside them, one hand resting comfortably on the haft of his axe. Blood had dried along the edge of his beard from the tavern fight, though he didn’t seem to notice. “If you think it’s worth it, I’m fine either way,” he grunted. “So long as there’s ale along the way to Struttsburg. I don’t like to risk my neck sober.”

  Scrinivaan moved like a ripple in the fog, barely disturbing it. His hood was up again, face half-shadowed. He scanned rooftops, doorways, windows, drains. “You realize,” he said quietly to Turmonge, “no one asked for this task. You want to pursue this, fine by me. But make sure there is a large sum of coin at the end of this for our trouble.”

  Turmonge spared the thief a glance. "You heard the name just like I did. There will be plenty of coin. That is, if we are not murdered along the way."

  "Aye," chimed in Bourin. "The wizards sure to have plenty of coin, that's for sure. We just have to find a road out of this blasted town that's not too unpleasant."

  “Roads always lead somewhere unpleasant,” Turmonge replied.

  “Yes,” Scrinivaan said dryly. “But usually they’re not lined with armored priests.”

  A distant clang echoed through the fog.

  Metal on stone.

  They all stopped.

  No one spoke.

  Another sound followed—a scrape, faint but deliberate.

  Aremis lifted her bow slightly. “That,” she whispered, “is not wind.”

  “No,” Turmonge agreed.

  Step.

  Silence.

  Step, step.

  Not the thunder of full plate.

  Measured.

  Disciplined.

  Closing.

  Scrinivaan tilted his head, listening. “Not guards,” he said softly. “Too careful.”

  “Templars?” Bourin asked.

  “Or someone trained by them,” Turmonge replied.

  Aremis gave a thin smile. “I always hated those sanctimonious bastards."

  Scrinivaan snorted quietly. “Or perhaps it’s Lord Chronos’ ceremonial axe squad. That sounds suitably dramatic.”

  Turmonge’s jaw tightened at the name.

  Lord Chronos

  Even spoken lightly, it carried weight.

  “They want the scroll,” Turmonge said. “Let’s not kid ourselves into believing they will stop before they have it.”

  Aremis shot him a sideways look. “I don't think the risk is worth this one”

  He didn’t answer.

  They pushed forward into a narrower stretch of alley. The fog thickened here, trapped between walls that leaned toward one another as if conspiring. The cobbles were slick with damp, and somewhere unseen water dripped steadily from a gutter.

  They turned a corner....and stopped.

  The alley ended in a blind wall.

  Boarded windows lined one side. A warehouse door, chained and sealed, sat opposite.

  Bourin blinked slowly. “Well,” he said. “That’s unfortunate.”

  Aremis stared at Turmonge. “Brilliant navigation. Truly.”

  Turmonge ignored her, stepping forward to inspect the wall. “There’s a side cut....”

  “There isn’t,” Scrinivaan said calmly. “Unless you’ve developed the ability to walk through brick.”

  Behind them....

  Footsteps.

  Closer now.

  Bourin shifted his weight, rolling his shoulders. “You hear that?”

  They all did.

  Not one pair of boots.

  Several.

  Faint echoes overlapping.

  Scrinivaan shrugged lightly. “Probably your conscience finally finding us.”

  Turmonge turned slowly, eyes scanning the fog-choked entrance of the alley.

  Nothing visible.

  Only gray.

  “Stay quiet,” he murmured.

  They listened.

  Footsteps.

  Drip of water.

  More footsteps.

  The rhythm grew steadier. Not hurried. Confident.

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  “They’re driving us,” Scrinivaan observed. “Not rushing. Herding.”

  Aremis spat onto the cobbles. “Us the thief, and an injured dwarf, and now invisible hunters in the mist. Who needs this shit, when the world’s already cruel?”

  Bourin nodded sagely. “Only thing missing is a singing bard to narrate our demise.”

  “I would stab him first,” Scrinivaan replied.

  Turmonge raised a hand suddenly. “There.”

  At the far end of the alley, half-swallowed by fog, stood a carriage.

  Black lacquer dulled by grime. Harness cut. Wheels thick with dried mud.

  Abandoned.

  “Refuge?” Aremis asked skeptically.

  “Concealment,” Turmonge corrected.

  They moved quickly.

  The carriage loomed larger as they approached, its door hanging slightly ajar.

  Scrinivaan reached it first, slipping around to inspect the undercarriage. “No driver,” he whispered. “No horses. No blood.”

  “Empty?” Bourin asked.

  Scrinivaan pulled open the door carefully and peered inside. “Empty.”

  Aremis gave a humorless chuckle. “Typical. Mechanism’s broken, we’re staring death in the face, and I forgot to ask for wine.”

  “Priorities,” Bourin muttered approvingly.

  Turmonge stepped forward. “Inside.”

  One by one, they slipped into the carriage.

  The interior smelled faintly of old leather and dust. The seats were intact, though worn. Curtains hung limp over the narrow windows, blocking most of the dim light.

  Turmonge closed the door gently behind Bourin and slid the latch into place.

  Silence fell heavy inside.

  Only their breathing.

  Only the drip of water outside.

  Aremis crouched near one window and eased the curtain aside by a hair’s breadth.

  Nothing.

  Just fog.

  Scrape.

  The sound came from outside.

  Steel against wood.

  Aremis’ hand went to her dagger instantly. “That,” she whispered, “is worth every coin we didn’t get paid.”

  The scrape came again—closer this time. A slow, deliberate drag along the side of the carriage.

  Bourin leaned back against the opposite wall and folded his arms. “Well,” he said calmly, “best laid plans.”

  Scrinivaan crouched low, ear tilted toward the door. “This carriage,” he murmured, “is an excellent coffin by the sound of it.”

  Turmonge felt the scroll pressing against his ribs.

  He drew his sword slowly, the metal whispering free.

  The scrape turned into a knock.

  Three measured taps.

  Not frantic.

  Not forceful.

  Almost polite.

  Aremis blinked. “Well that’s unsettling.”

  Another knock.

  Then a voice from outside.

  Calm.

  Clear.

  “You have something that does not belong to you.”

  The four inside exchanged glances.

  Templar.

  Turmonge didn’t answer.

  The voice continued. “Return the scroll case, and this can end without further loss.”

  Scrinivaan mouthed silently, He lies.

  Bourin raised a brow. “Further loss,” he muttered. “Optimistic.”

  Aremis leaned closer to Turmonge. “You want to negotiate with holy murderers?”

  “No,” Turmonge replied quietly.

  Outside, the voice sharpened slightly. “You are surrounded.”

  “Probably true,” Scrinivaan said softly. “Fog favors them.”

  Aremis flexed her fingers around her dagger. “I can drop the first one.”

  “And the second?” Bourin asked.

  “I'll improvise.”

  Turmonge stepped toward the door.

  “Wait,” Scrinivaan hissed.

  Too late.

  Turmonge kicked it open.

  The fog surged inward like breath.

  A Templar stood barely three paces away, sword drawn but lowered. Others shifted in the gray behind him—shapes more than men.

  The leader removed his helm slowly.

  His face was unmarked by doubt.

  “You have chosen poorly,” he said.

  Turmonge smiled faintly. “I usually do.”

  Steel flashed.

  The alley erupted.

  Aremis loosed an arrow through the fog, the string thrumming sharp and clean. A Templar staggered back with a grunt.

  Bourin burst from the carriage like a thrown stone, axe swinging in a brutal arc that split shield and shoulder alike.

  Scrinivaan vanished into the gray.

  Turmonge met the leader’s blade.

  The clash rang through the alley like a bell.

  Steel on steel.

  Boots sliding on wet cobbles.

  Fog turning pink in places.

  “They’re flanking!” Aremis called.

  “I see that!” Bourin roared, blocking a strike that rattled his bones.

  Scrinivaan reappeared behind one Templar long enough to drag a blade across the gap in his armor, then disappeared again.

  Turmonge pressed forward against the leader, their blades locked.

  “You cannot comprehend what you carry,” the Templar said coldly.

  “Then enlighten me,” Turmonge grunted.

  The leader’s knee slammed into his ribs.

  Turmonge staggered—but didn’t fall.

  Behind him, Aremis ducked beneath a swing and drove her dagger into the joint behind a knee. A Templar collapsed with a strangled sound.

  Bourin laughed—actually laughed—as his axe bit again. “Now this is a proper evening!”

  Another scrape.

  But this time....

  Not from a blade.

  From above.

  Scrinivaan’s voice cut through the chaos.

  “More on the rooftops!”

  Turmonge risked a glance upward.

  Shadows moving along the tiles.

  Not just six.

  More than ten.

  They had not been chasing.

  They had been corralling.

  The fog shifted in a sudden gust.

  For a heartbeat, the alley cleared enough to reveal the scale of it.

  Templars at both ends.

  On rooftops.

  In windows.

  A net tightening.

  Aremis’ voice went tight. “Turmonge...”

  He understood.

  “This isn’t retrieval,” he said through clenched teeth.

  “It’s extermination.”

  The Templar leader pressed him hard.

  “Give us the scroll.”

  Turmonge’s grin returned, thin and feral.

  “No.”

  He shoved forward violently, breaking the lock of blades.

  “Run!” he shouted.

  Bourin didn’t argue.

  Aremis pivoted instantly, sprinting toward the carriage’s far side where a narrow side passage split from the alley.

  Scrinivaan dropped from above, landing lightly. “Left!” he snapped.

  They moved together, not as heroes—but as survivors.

  Behind them, armored boots thundered.

  Steel rang.

  The fog swallowed them again.

  And somewhere within that gray, the scroll case beneath Turmonge’s coat felt heavier than ever.

  Something that made disciplined killers hunt through mist.

  Scrinivaan glanced at Turmonge as they ran.

  “Every time I see you,” he muttered, breath tight but steady, “it’s a different version of suicide.”

  Turmonge didn’t slow.

  “Then let’s,” he said, voice low and certain, “choose the one that is least painful.”

  Behind them the footsteps continued to ring out.

  The hunt did not falter.

  THE PRICE OF DEATH

  The tavern inside Asmondi's Bounty Hunters’ Guild was a den of whispers and shadow, a place where names mattered less than the weight of one’s purse and the sharpness of one’s steel. Smoke hung heavy in the rafters, mixing with the scent of sweat, leather, and stale ale. It was midday, but the place was dim as dusk, lit only by low lanterns and the occasional flicker of forge-fire from the smithy across the hall.

  Malcurr entered without fanfare. His robes, layered and blue as the nights sky, parted like curtain-shadows as he moved. No one spoke to him. No one dared.

  His steps were soundless as snowfall, but the moment he crossed the threshold, every eye in the room turned.

  It was not his presence that unnerved them, many strange men, women, and darker things passed through this place. No, it was the feeling he carried. As if something else walked just behind his shoulders, invisible but very much watching.

  He found the table he sought near the rear wall, beneath the mounted head of a wyvern long since gone to rot. Three men sat there, hunched over mugs and quiet conversation. They looked up as one when he approached.

  The wizard said nothing. He simply sat.

  The moment lingered—measured in stares, not time.

  Kracken, the largest of the three, leaned forward slowly. A towering brute of a man with shoulders like siege towers and a jaw that looked like it had broken more than teeth. His eyes narrowed.

  Peacock, slender and painted in silks far too fine for his line of work, offered a thin smile and ran a gloved hand through his oiled golden hair. Bollard, the quietest of the three, merely watched, his dark eyes betraying nothing, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his mug.

  Malcurr smiled inwardly.

  Good, he thought. They know who I am.

  He reached within the folds of his robes and retrieved a small pouch. It landed on the table with a heavy sound, the sound of real coin. Old coin.

  The clink echoed even above the drone of quiet conversation.

  “I have a task,” Malcurr said, his voice calm, precise. “It requires discretion.”

  Kracken stared at the pouch. “What sort of task?”

  Before the mage could answer, Peacock cut in.

  “Must be important,” he said, voice like butter left too long in the sun. “Judging by the sound of that purse, I’d say very important indeed. What is it, Kracken? A noble’s brat need removing. Or a love letter that got into the wrong hands?”

  Malcurr's expression didn’t shift. “I wouldn’t waste your time with small things. There is a group, currently making their way through the city. They are in possession of a scroll. I require it.”

  “Who’s the group?” asked Kracken.

  “Two elves, a rogue from the Far East, and a dwarf,” Xavert replied. “The elves are said to be Turmonge and Aremis. Known to you?”

  Bollard, silent until now, nodded once. His voice was low, hoarse from years of breathing ash and blood. “Known. Dangerous. Not just blades, they’ve survived things that should’ve killed them.”

  “Good,” said Malcurr, unmoved. “It means they’re cautious. But not cautious enough.”

  "Then it's good you were not stingy with the coin mage," said Kracken.

  Peacock sipped his wine with delicate fingers. “And this scroll? What does it do?”

  Malcurr's eyes sharpened. “Irrelevant. You are to acquire it and return it to me.”

  “And the others?” asked Kracken.

  “I would prefer not to deal with them,” Malcurr said. “But if you cannot find the scroll on their persons, I expect you to bring them to me for questioning them.”

  “Well,” Bollard muttered, “that makes things more complicated. Let's hope they have the scroll on them."

  Peacock nodded. “That would be preferable.”

  Malcurr slid the pouch toward them. “One hundred gold each. Half now.”

  The three exchanged glances. It was a rare thing, Kracken’s eyes flicked to Bollard, who gave a slight nod, and then to Peacock who gave a smile that did not reach his eyes.

  “A handsome sum,” said the Peacock.

  Kracken leaned back. “And the rules?”

  “Simple,” said Xavert. “Return the scroll. Nothing else matters. The less who know about this the better.”

  Bollard grunted. “And if someone else wants it?”

  “Then deal with them as well.”

  Peacock’s smile deepened. “We have a deal then, mage.”

  Kracken raised his mug. “We’ll finish our drinks. Then we move.”

  Malcurr rose, his robes flowing like water around his feet. He left three silver pieces on the table—gleaming, perfect, stamped with the old imperial eagle.

  “A toast then,” said Peacock, swirling his wine. “To profit and purpose.”

  Bollard pushed the coins into his hand and waved for the barmaid.

  “One more round,” he said.

  As Malcurr stepped out into the storm choked streets of Witchrum, his eyes scanned the streets.