The wind carried the scent of damp earth and distant smoke. Alph stood motionless, fists clenched at his sides, staring at the fresh grave. His mind raced, sifting through what little he knew.

  The carriage.

  A black lacquered vehicle with a brass gear and coin crest embossed on the door provided the only concrete lead; that kind of carriage could move through Val Karok’s underbelly without drawing the wrong kind of attention.

  Then there was the husband.

  Alph’s jaw tightened. The man had been all bluster on the lift—boasting about his future mansion, his connections, his importance. Had he known? Been complicit? Or had he simply been too blind—or too cowardly—to see what was happening under his own roof?

  A gust rattled the iron fence at the graveyard’s edge. Alph exhaled through his nose, forcing his thoughts into order. He needed more.

  The vehicle’s crest gave a starting point for investigation, requiring only whispered inquiries and a few coins given to waiters in the taverns. The husband might hold necessary information, yet approaching him without a plan would be foolish; if he was guilty, he would hide the facts further, and if he was innocent, he would raise a commotion that would cause the true criminals to vanish.

  No. He needed eyes in the dark places. Ears in the right taverns. The kind of information that didn’t come from asking nicely.

  Alph turned away from the grave; his boots crunched on the loose gravel. Gathering information was the best choice, and the Bronze Hammer tavern provided the ideal location to learn about a nobleman's carriage without drawing unwanted notice. He had planned to visit the place on his return to the Grimforge Smithy, but the events of the night made going there a better option, and the Stinky Mole could wait for another day.

  Alph navigated the coiling streets of lower Val Karok, climbing toward the western district located among the city’s middle tiers. Even as the ninth bell began to toll, the mountain air remained thick with activity. Street vendors shouted over one another, hawking the last of their skewers and flatbreads before retreating for the night. Nearby, the owners of the larger storefronts hauled heavy brass shutters into place and rattled iron bolts home, beginning their closing procedures.

  Alph blended into the moving crowd, his steps remaining silent, and reached the steps of the Bronze Hammer. The tavern's wooden signboard, featuring a metallic hammer, made it hard to miss.

  Stepping through the heavy oak door, the crisp mountain air thick with coal smoke vanished instantly, replaced by a wall of warmth carrying the mingled scents of fermented hops, stale sweat, and faint traces of sandalwood incense. The tavern's interior buzzed with low conversation and the rhythmic clink of tankards, punctuated by occasional bursts of laughter from shadowed booths. Alph navigated between rough-hewn tables, his boots scuffing against sawdust-strewn floorboards as he approached the long stone bar.

  The bartender stood polishing a brass mug with a stained rag, his thick forearms flexing beneath rolled-up sleeves. Bronze rings glinted in his bushy brown beard, catching the flickering lamplight as he turned toward Alph. Without preamble, Alph ordered a glass of Brynmal, watching as the dwarf's calloused fingers selected a clean tumbler from beneath the counter.

  "Four copper," the dwarf grunted, his voice rasping like gravel in a tin bucket. Alph nodded once, sliding the coins across the damp bar top where they stuck briefly before being swept away. The bartender worked efficiently, tilting a tapped cask to fill the glass with golden liquid that foamed white at the rim. Condensation beaded on the cool surface as it was placed before Alph with a decisive thunk.

  Alph lifted the glass, catching the scent of citrus and pine needles rising from the white foam. He took a long pull, the crisp, mineral finish of the Brynmal cutting through the grit in his throat. Setting the tumbler down, he pressed a silver coin onto the stone bar and nudged it toward the dwarf.

  "I need to know a few things," Alph said.

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  The bartender’s bushy eyebrows drew together, his gaze sharpening as he studied Alph with the practiced suspicion of someone who’d seen too many strangers pass through his tavern. His thick fingers closed around the silver coin, testing its weight with a flick of his thumb before tucking it into the drawer beneath the counter. The metal slid home with a dull clink, and for a moment, Alph thought the man might refuse. But then the dwarf exhaled through his nose, a sound like steam escaping a cracked pipe, and reached for a different cask.

  Without a word, he pulled a squat, amber-filled bottle from the shelf behind him, the glass dark with age and use. The liquid inside sloshed as he poured it into a fresh tumbler, the rich scent of caramel and toasted grain rising between them. He pushed the drink across the bar, the base scraping against the stone, then jerked his chin toward the upper floor. His voice dropped to a rough murmur, the kind meant to be heard but not overheard.

  "Take this Ruddvik to the east corner table upstairs. There’s a dwarf there, gray beard braided with iron rings. He’s the one you want." The bartender’s tone carried the weight of an unspoken warning, as if the act of pointing Alph in that direction already made him complicit in whatever came next. "He’ll decide if your questions are worth answering."

  Alph nodded, gripping his own tumbler in one hand and the bottle of Ruddvik in the other. He climbed the stairs to the upper floor, where the air grew thick with the smell of roasting meat and old smoke.

  The dwarf sat exactly where the bartender had indicated. He was hunched over the east corner table, his iron-ringed beard dipping dangerously close to a plate of glistening poultry. A half-eaten chicken leg was clamped in his grease-stained fingers.

  As Alph approached, the dwarf’s head snapped up. His nostrils flared, catching the scent of caramel and toasted biscuit rising from the bottle. He didn't speak, but his eyes moved from the Ruddvik to Alph’s face with a blunt, transactional focus. With a jerk of his chin, he gestured toward the empty stool at his side.

  "What do you want?" the dwarf asked. He didn't stop chewing, his words muffled by the half-masticated chicken as he reached out a grease-slicked hand. "Give me the bottle."

  Alph set the Ruddvik on the table. "I need to know where an emblem comes from."

  The dwarf pulled the cork with his teeth and took a long, heavy swig. He wiped foam from his mustache with the back of his hand. "You have a drawing?"

  Alph drew a breath. His fingers traced the table's grain as the tavern's hum muffled their conversation against loose ears. He leaned in, voice low. "No merchant’s mark. Smaller. Sharper." His fingers dug into the table. "A gear. A coin etched on it." The tavern’s laughter swallowed the rest.

  A rough, mocking laugh rumbled in the dwarf's chest. "Lad, that's the Mount Karok Transit Service. Specifically, the line for Golden Coin Street." He leaned back, his eyes narrowing. "That's where the foreign merchants play at being nobles. The number of teeths on the gear represent the the manor that carriage belongs to."

  Alph’s pulse thudded against his ribs. It was a lead, a solid point on a map instead of a memory in his head. He pictured the emblem again, counting the jagged edges he had memorized from the metal scrap.

  Eight. The gear had exactly eight teeth.

  If the dwarf was right, he wasn't looking for a needle in a haystack anymore. He was looking for the eighth manor on Golden Coin Street. The fog of the city seemed to thin for a moment, replaced by the sharp, cold reality of a destination. He just had to find out who lived behind those doors.

  Alph leaned forward, voice steady. "What's the cost for that?"

  The dwarf's laughter boomed, shaking his broad frame. "Cost? Lad, you've already paid, and paid too much." He took a swig of Ruddvik, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Free advice next time; don’t waste copper on what you could’ve learned for free at any street corner."

  He clutched the bottle tighter, his knuckles whitening. "And don’t go back crying for refunds now that you know the truth. The price was your lesson, not my ale."

  I should've known better. The moment I saw that gear emblem, urgency clouded my judgment, made me move too fast.

  His fingers tightened around the tankard, the cool metal biting into his palm. The Brynmal inside had gone warm, its crisp edge dulled by his hesitation. He drained it anyway, the bitter aftertaste lingering like the dwarf’s laughter still ringing in his ears.

  Pushing the empty tankard aside, he stood, the stool scraping against the stone floor. The Bronze Hammer’s usual hum of conversation pressed in around him, the low murmur of dwarven voices blending with the clink of tankards and the occasional burst of laughter. Alph barely registered it. His mind was already elsewhere, the sting of the earlier lesson still fresh but pushed aside for now. There were more immediate concerns.

  Varrick's request for ale echoed in his thoughts. Twenty copper for a keg of Brynmal, no more. I can't afford another blunder like the last one.

  No use dwelling on it. The coin was spent, the lesson learned. Next time, he’d ask first. Pay after.

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  Destiny on the Frozen Peak: The Myriad Constellations

  Released on January 1st, 2026