I was a few chambers deeper now. I had freed some more slaves and killed more guards in my search which led me here.

  This next chamber beyond was wider than the last, lit by only two aether lamps that cast long shadows across stacked crates and rusted chains. The air was warm and stale. My senses spread through the floor, tracing every vibration until the picture formed clearly in my mind.

  A single guard entered from the far tunnel. He walked like he owned the place and was what I had been waiting for.

  His armor fit better than the others’, reinforced with leather straps and clean metal. A small crest shaped like a broken fang sat at his shoulder. He had a key ring at his hip and a short ledger tucked under one arm. He paused only long enough to bark something over his shoulder before turning into one of the deeper tunnels.

  Anyone with that much confidence knew where the captives were kept. And more importantly, where they had been moved.

  I slipped downward into the stone.

  The noise dulled instantly. His footsteps rolled through the ground like slow drumbeats. I followed beneath him, matching his pace without effort. He walked as though he had done this path a hundred times.

  The tunnel curved into a smaller room. He pushed open a door, and the groan of old wood vibrated through the rock. I slowed, rising just enough to sense the interior. A desk. A chair. Loose papers. An aether lamp burning low. The stale scent of ink and sweat.

  An Office. Perfect.

  I rose from the floor the moment the door shut behind him.

  My hand clamped over his mouth before he could inhale to scream. My other arm locked across his chest and dragged him backward with ease. He thrashed once, then froze as he realized he couldn’t break free. His breath hit my palm in rapid bursts.

  “Quiet,” I whispered. “You move wrong and you die.”

  He stilled.

  I pulled him fully into the room. The lamp flickered, throwing uneven light across the walls. Dust drifted from the ceiling where I’d come through the stone.

  His heartbeat was fast and erratic probably enough fear to make him cooperative.

  “I’m looking for children,” I said. My voice stayed low, even. “Several of them. Where did your people take them?”

  He tried to speak behind my hand, so I eased my grip just enough for the words to form.

  “I—I don’t know which ones you mean—”

  I tightened my hold slightly. “Wrong answer. Try again.”

  His pulse jumped. He swallowed hard.

  “The pits,” he said quickly. “Some go to the pits… some are sold higher up. Depends who is buying. I don’t handle the lists—”

  “Who does?”

  He hesitated. That was enough to make me shift my weight, letting him feel the blade I summoned against his ribs.

  “Hargil!” he huffed out. “Hargil keeps the ledgers. He handles the transfers. Third tunnel on the left from the main hub. His office is marked with a red cloth over the doorframe. You can’t miss it. Please don’t kill me!”

  I listened for deception. His heartbeat stayed at the steady terrified pace with no jumps. Tremor sense couldn’t read minds, but I had learned to tell a lie from the truth.

  He was telling the truth. Or at least part of it.

  “Some children were taken two days ago?” I asked. “Where were they sent?”

  His breath hitched.

  “Some were moved,” he said. “Higher-value stock. A buyer from the docks came in. I didn’t see where they went after. I swear.”

  He wasn’t lying. His fear was too genuine, too rooted.

  I pressed the blade a fraction deeper. “If I find out you held back anything—”

  “I didn’t!” His voice cracked. “I didn’t— I only know what I saw!”

  I released him enough to let him breathe, but not enough for him to bolt.

  “You’re going to sit down at that desk,” I said, “and you’re going to write Hargil’s name, the tunnels you just mentioned, and anything else you think the Brotherhood might do with children they call high-value. If I don’t like what I see, you won’t see the other side of this door again.”

  He nodded frantically.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  I shoved him forward into the chair. His hands shook as he grabbed a piece of parchment. Ink scratched across the page. I watched the tremors of his body through the floor, searching for any sign of deceit or sudden intent.

  Nothing.

  When he finished, he pushed the paper toward me with shaking fingers.

  I didn’t need to read it. I already knew where I was going next. But I pocketed it anyway.

  “For what it’s worth,” I said, “you chose the right option.”

  Before he could look relieved, I struck him once behind the ear. He slumped onto the desk, unconscious. He would live... at least till the freed slaves arrive armed and angry. I was counting on their distraction to help me get through this more easily.

  I stepped back into the stone, letting the earth fold around me as I sank beneath the floor.

  I moved fast knowing I was two days behind quickly diving through the stone beneath the main hub, following the pattern of footsteps and voices above until I was under the right passage. When I rose, it was into darkness, the tunnel lit only by a single aether lamp that buzzed faintly against the wall.

  The red cloth hung where the guard had said it would, nailed over a doorframe halfway down the corridor. The heartbeat inside was steady and unhurried. No alarm. No tension. Just a man at work.

  I stepped back into the stone and slipped under the door.

  The office beyond was larger than the last. Shelves lined the walls, sagging under ledgers, scrolls, and lockboxes. A low desk sat near the center, piled high with papers and marked with ink stains that had never been cleaned. A single lamp burned on one corner, casting yellow light across a man hunched over an open book.

  It had to be Hargil.

  He was thick through the shoulders, with greasy hair tied back in a short tail and a beard that looked like it had been trimmed with a dull knife. Rings lined his fingers, each set with cheap stones shaped like coins, chains, or shackles. He smelled of ink, sweat, and old smoke.

  He was humming to himself.

  I rose behind him, hand clamping over his mouth, arm locking across his chest in one smooth motion. His chair scraped the floor as I pulled him back.

  He did not freeze like the last man. He jerked once, then began to laugh into my palm. It was muffled but unmistakable.

  I tightened my grip. “Something funny?”

  He tried to shake his head, still chuckling. His heartbeat stayed slow, almost amused.

  I moved my hand enough for him to speak.

  “You lot are getting bolder,” he said, voice rough and thick. “Never thought one of the cattle would make it in here on his own. What did they promise you? Freedom? A softer chain?”

  His breath was sour. His tone was not afraid. It was entertained.

  I drove him forward into the desk, letting his ribs feel the edge of the wood.

  “I’m not one of your slaves,” I said. “And I’m not here to bargain.”

  “An assassin, then?” he asked. “Not to bad, I didn’t sense you at all. Efficient. I respect good craft.”

  His heartbeat never spiked. He meant it.

  “I keep track,” he went on, as if we were sharing drinks instead of threats. “Weights. Ages. Prices. The good ones and the broken ones. There’s an art to it, boy. Not everyone can see the value in a cage of crying brats and walking scars.”

  My hand tightened around his throat. “You enjoy this.”

  He smiled, teeth yellow in the lamplight. “Someone has to. World runs on what people want. I just keep the numbers straight. If they didn’t buy, we wouldn’t sell.”

  “Children,” I said quietly. “You sell children.”

  He shrugged against my grip. “They’re smaller. Easier to move. Easier to train. Less trouble in the long run.” His eyes slid toward the ledger on the desk. “And worth more when you find the right buyer.”

  I felt my jaw clench.

  There was a part of me that wanted to break him slowly, to return every fraction of pain he had calmly tallied on his pages. Headmaster Aurelia’s words brushed the back of my mind like a distant echo.

  A rule is not a chain, Bryn. It is a mirror. What do I want to see?

  I slammed his face into the desk once, hard enough to daze him. Then I wrapped my arm around his neck and applied pressure. His hands clawed at my forearm, legs kicking weakly at the floor.

  “You have two choices,” I said. “You stay conscious long enough to answer my questions and die quickly. Or you lie, and I take my time.”

  His nails dug into my skin. “Fine,” he rasped. “Ask.”

  “Two days ago,” I said. “Several children were moved from the lower pits. Where did they go?”

  He laughed again, though it came out choked. “Special lot, that one. Noble blood, few extras to sweeten the deal. Dock buyer came through. Likes them young. Likes them scared. Pays in hard coin.”

  I fought down the urge to break his neck on the spot.

  “Names,” I said.

  “Ledger,” he wheezed, nodding toward the open book. “Left page. Lower half. You can read, can’t you, boy?”

  I tightened the choke until his eyes started to roll. “You are very free with your tongue for a man who can’t move.”

  He tried to grin and failed. “Because it doesn’t matter. You might cut down a handful. The others will be gone before anyone with a conscience can find them. You can’t gut a whole market with one little knife.”

  My grip stayed steady. “Watch me.”

  I squeezed until the fight finally left his body. His limbs went slack. He slumped forward, cheek pressed against the ledger. I held the choke for a few more heartbeats to be sure, then let him drop.

  Dead.

  I turned the lamp toward the open book.

  The handwriting was tight and narrow, row after row of numbers and short, cold descriptions. Age. Race. Condition. Price. Buyer. Destination. Line after line of people reduced to weight and coin.

  I scanned quickly until I found the recent entries.

  Three days ago.

  Marked with a small star.

  Lot #4729–4732:

  Human female, 7. Highborn.

  Human male, 9.

  Human female, 8.

  Elf male, 10.

  Buyer: Dock contact “Grey Mantle.”

  Payment: Full, in advance.

  Holding: Dockside Warehouse 3B, south pier.

  Transfer: three days from entry.

  I read it twice to be sure.

  Three days from entry.

  Today was the second day after that note was written.

  Transfer in three days meant tomorrow.

  Tomorrow they would be moved. Out of the city. Out of reach.

  Lady Arienna Vale.

  I’ve found you. Just hold on a little longer.

  I flipped through the remaining pages to see if there had been an update. No corrections. No cancellations. No indication the schedule had changed.

  Which meant I had one night, maybe less, to reach the warehouse before the shipment left.

  I tore the page from the ledger, folded it, and slid it into my vest. The rest of the book I left where it lay, open beneath Hargil’s dead weight. Let whoever came after see exactly what he had done.

  Footsteps and heartbeats echoed faintly in the distance. The freed slaves were already moving through the tunnels. It wouldn’t be long before they found the last empty guard room and the weapons I had left for them.

  That uprising was their work.

  Mine was at the docks.

  I pressed my hand to the floor and sank back into the earth, orienting myself toward the surface and the outer edge of the city. Dusk’s presence flickered faintly at the edge of my awareness, hunting beyond the walls. I’d head to her before reentering the city and finding the warehouse.

  Tomorrow the Brotherhood’s buyer would come to collect four children.

  I planned to be waiting.