The night air off the canals was damp and cold, carrying the brine of Evermist's waters and the smoke of its taverns. Thorne walked unhurriedly, his cloak drawn close, his thoughts heavier than his steps.

Fen was safe. That was something. The Silver Lantern sat tucked away on Moonwater Lane, far enough from the docks to be quiet, close enough that Barro's word carried weight. Thorne had dropped several gold coins onto the counter, more than enough to cover two weeks of board and food. The innkeeper, a balding man named Garris with eyes like polished river stones, had nearly choked when he saw the coins, but the contract was sealed with Thorne's calm, unwavering stare.

Then there was the serving woman, Mara. A tired smile and careful hands, the kind who noticed too much but said too little. Thorne had slipped her a silver coin as he left, the message simple: keep an eye on the boy. She had nodded once, sharp and certain. He would trust her, for now.

All of it was investment. Barro with his warded knives and his soft spot for Fen. Garris with his inn and the steady trickle of secrets that flowed through places where people slept. Mara with her watchful eyes and her kindness. Even Fen himself. Coins were draining from his pouch faster than he could count, but if things went according to plan, the returns would eclipse it all.

He glanced at the nearly flat purse on his hip, lips pressing into a thin line. Once, months ago, he'd felt rich when he sold his salvaged things on Brennak's market. Now the gold was all but gone, spent on bribes, food, supplies, and protection.

But it was worth it.

Tonight would decide the shape of what came next. Humus's message had been clear, Ashen Quay, midnight. If the meeting went as Thorne intended, he would have more coin than he knew what to do with. And when he sold the harvest from the Primordial Forest, the marrowstone, the troll-hide, the pulsing organs thrumming faintly with residual aether, that would be another fortune waiting to be claimed.

And after that… if his larger plan succeeded…

He smiled faintly, though his eyes remained cold. I'll never have to worry about coin again.

The streets narrowed as he drew closer to the river. Lanterns grew sparser, shadows deeper. Somewhere ahead, the Ashen Quay waited, its stones slick with spray and the stink of brine, a place where smugglers and whispers gathered after dark.

Thorne's pace never faltered.

The Ashen Quay wasn't a place Thorne had ever bothered with when he first swept through Evermist. A stretch of derelict warehouses clinging to the edge of the city, more rubble than stone, half-swallowed by weeds and the stink of the river. He'd dismissed it then, too quiet, too dead. Nothing of value ever lingered in the carcass of industry.

Now, walking the cracked cobbles beneath a lanternless sky, he knew better.

This was exactly the kind of place someone like Humus would thrive.

The air had a weight to it, an oppressive, strange density. Not quite mist, not quite smoke. Aether hung wrong here, sluggish, bending the glow of distant lamps until shadows warped into shapes that weren't. Anomalies shimmered across broken walls, faint ripples of color that faded if you looked too closely, like light on oil. The warehouses themselves leaned as if scarred by storms, their stone faces fractured with long, jagged cracks that glowed faintly in the dark. As if the city had once tried to swallow this place whole and failed.

Humus's empire wasn't carved in the heart of Evermist like Brennak's had been. Not neat stalls and tidy rows beneath the council's watchful eyes. No, Humus clawed at the edges, burrowed into the rot, fed off what everyone else overlooked.

Thorne's boots echoed faintly as he passed a collapsed archway, Veil Sense stretched thin. Shadows shifted too cleanly in the corners. Men were here. Watching. Testing. His hand brushed the edge of Ashthorn at his belt, but he kept walking.

The square opened suddenly, the river glinting black and restless beyond. Lanterns had been strung along poles, their light faint and greasy, enough to sketch the outlines of a waiting group.

There were seven of them. Cloaked, broad, their postures sharp with discipline rather than sloppiness. This wasn't a rabble like Brennak sometimes gathered, these were drilled.

At their center stood a leonid beastkin.

Her mane was sleek, braided in tight cords that gleamed with bronze rings. Golden eyes caught the lantern light, not wild, but sharp, calculating. She was tall, shoulders squared, her arms lean and roped with strength, the faint ripple of muscle visible beneath sleeveless leather armor. A glaive rested across her back, haft wrapped in dark cloth worn smooth by long use.

She didn't need to roar or posture. The way the others oriented themselves around her said enough.

Thorne slowed, cloak trailing, his face carved into calm. Inside, every instinct was taut, his mask in place.

The leonid watched him approach. When she spoke, her voice was low, quiet, threaded with steel and intelligence.

"You came."

"I was invited," Thorne replied, tone dry, as though they were discussing a dinner party rather than a midnight meeting on the edge of nowhere.

The faintest tilt of her head, braids sliding against her mane. She stepped forward, closing the space between them, her eyes narrowing, not in anger, but in assessment.

"You're not what I expected."

Thorne raised a brow. "And what did you expect?"

"Someone more nervous." Her golden eyes glinted, sharp with the beginnings of a smile that wasn't soft at all. "Someone who didn't walk into Ashen Quay with their hands in their pockets."

Thorne let his own faint smile curl. "Maybe I just hide it well."

For a beat they stood there, silent save for the slap of the river against the quay. Her men shifted, restless, but the leonid didn't move. She simply studied him, eyes never leaving his face, as though she were trying to peel back whatever mask he wore.

And Thorne, for all his calm, thought the same of her.

Humus's lieutenant. Level unknown, but his Veil Sense told him enough. Strong. Controlled. Dangerous. And above all, not a brute like Brennak. This one thought.

He adjusted his stance slightly, his weight ready. Outwardly calm, inwardly sharp. Ready for anything.

The beastkin moved without warning.

One moment she was standing at ease, the next her glaive whistled through the air, its bladed edge stopping a finger's breadth from Thorne's throat. Lantern light slid down polished steel, painting his jaw in cold fire.

The men around her tensed, watching to see if he'd flinch.

Thorne didn't.

He only tilted his head, just slightly, and smiled as though the situation amused him. His hand never touched Ashthorn, his posture never shifted. Inside, his muscles had coiled, ready to move, but outwardly? He was the picture of calm.

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The leonid's golden eyes glinted. A soft rumble escaped her chest, not quite laughter, not quite a growl. She drew the glaive back in a slow arc and slid it over her shoulder, its haft settling against her back.

"Not bad," she said. "Most men would piss themselves."

"Most men aren't me."

She bared her teeth in something close to a grin. "We'll see." Then, sharp and commanding: "Humus is waiting. Follow."

She turned on her heel without another word, her braid sweeping like a whip. The others fell into formation around them as they moved deeper into the quay.

"You know, where I come from it's polite to introduce yourself. I'm Thorne." His eyes slid over the large leonid with curiosity. That was the first time he had seen one.

"Velka." The beastkin answered, the name sliping out of large canines.

Thorne's boots struck warped stone. The further they walked, the stranger everything became. A wall bulged as though something had breathed against it for centuries, then cracked inward with the sound of shifting glass. A lantern overhead flickered, light bending sideways before stabilizing. A gutter filled with water abruptly boiled, steam hissing into the night air, before cooling again in seconds.

The air was restless. Wrong.

Thorne's brow furrowed. "What's wrong with this place?"

Velka's voice, clipped, almost dismissive: "A ley line runs under here. Too close to the surface." She gestured with a clawed hand at the fractured warehouses. "It makes the aether… twitch. Walls shift. Fires start without warning. Stones crumble to powder. Sometimes time itself skips, people step inside, and when they come out it's a day later."

Her ears flicked once, irritation in the motion. "And then, it all goes quiet. Until it doesn't."

Thorne hummed, low and thoughtful. "Ah. So that's why the place looks like it's been gnawed on by gods. Half-abandoned."

One of the men, broad-shouldered, scarred cheek, grunted. "Not many want their livelihood destroyed every few weeks. Can't run a business when your roof melts off."

Thorne's eyes flicked to him, then back to Velka. "And the council? Can't they stabilize it?"

That broke them.

Laughter rippled through the group, harsh and mirthless. Even Velka's mouth curled faintly.

"All the council does," she said, "is keep the wards up. Keep the beasts out of the city. Everything else?" Her tail flicked once in disdain. "They don't care if it burns."

Thorne exhaled softly, the sound almost a chuckle. "Of course they don't." His eyes gleamed faintly in the warped light. "Convenient for some, though."

Velka's golden gaze slanted his way, sharp with amusement, though she said nothing more.

They walked on, deeper into the ruined heart of Ashen Quay, the ley line's restless breath warping the world around them.

The deeper they went, the more the quay seemed to resist their presence.

A shutter banged open and closed without wind. A pool of rainwater shimmered like glass, showing stars in its surface that didn't match the night above. A half-toppled warehouse exhaled a sigh of dust, the beams creaking as if remembering a collapse that hadn't yet happened.

The men around Thorne walked like they'd grown up in this chaos, never breaking stride. Velka strode ahead, every movement sharp, predatory, confident, her glaive bouncing against her back like an extension of her spine.

Thorne's eyes slid across the ruins. He caught fleeting shapes at the edges of his vision, shadows bending the wrong way, echoes that didn't belong to their voices. He didn't react, didn't give the onlookers the satisfaction.

Instead, he breathed slow, steady. Aether hummed in the air, prickling against his skin, eager to be used. He let the sensation wash over him, filing away details with quiet precision.

They passed beneath an archway of broken stone, its keystone cracked clean through. Beyond lay a courtyard lit by low-hanging lanterns. The warped air shimmered with heat, though the night was cool.

At the center stood a wide, squat warehouse, its roof patched in too many places to count. Two doors, iron-banded, painted black, stood waiting.

Velka stopped in front of them, tail swishing once. She looked back at him, eyes gleaming gold in the warped light.

"Here," she said simply. Her tone made it clear: whatever came next, it wasn't a suggestion.

The doors groaned open on their own, pulled inward by no visible hands. The stench of incense and spiced smoke rolled out, thick enough to sting the nose.

Inside, the chamber yawned wide, every surface draped in shadow and flame. Lanterns burned with colored fire, throwing shapes that seemed to move of their own accord. A long table dominated the space, its surface littered with coin, parchment, and half-drained glasses.

Humus sat at its head, not the looming presence of Brennak's kind of dwarf, but small, halfling small. Compact, plump even, with rings glittering on every finger and a robe too fine for the soot-stained room. Where Brennak was grit and stone, Humus was polish lacquered over greed, a man who sent others to do the bruising while he counted the profits. His eyes, dark and sharp, flicked with constant calculation, never resting.

Around him, the machine of his business turned. Men and women counted coin into neat stacks. Others shifted crates, marked with faint sigils to suppress whatever thumped inside. A pair of young smugglers wrapped vials in cloth, tying them like sweets in a candy shop.

But one figure snapped Thorne's attention. Not for his appearance, just another hunched scribe scratching furiously across ledgers, but for what his aether vision revealed: a chain. Invisible to any normal eye, bright and taut in Thorne's sight, stretching from the man's chest directly to Humus. A leash. Or something worse.

Thorne's jaw tightened. Then, as though sensing the scrutiny, the chain flickered, still bound, still real, but slackened enough that he could pretend he hadn't noticed. He dragged his attention back just in time for Humus to look up.

"Ah." The halfling's voice was surprisingly rich, carrying across the room with oily warmth. "So this is the one Velka brings me. You've got the look of someone with… teeth." His smile was small, sharp. "Your name, boy."

Thorne inclined his head, calm as glass. "Thorne."

The moment the word left his lips, his Veil Sense stirred, an instinctive flare, catching threads of power. The room lit up to his perception. Humus: level 57. Not bad. Not good either. Manageable.

But two others, quiet, bent over crates, snapped their heads up the instant his veil spread. Their eyes narrowed, their cores bristling with reflex. Mages, Thorne realized. They'd felt the brush of his probing.

He didn't let it show. A faint smile touched his lips instead, a mask as natural as breathing.

"Thorne," Humus repeated, rolling the name like a coin between fingers. "Let's see if you're worth more than your shadow."

Thorne reached into his dimensional pouch and drew out the spoils of his recent hunts, the strange, gleaming organs and crystallized sinew he'd taken from the aether beasts of the forest.

Before his fingers had fully withdrawn, two of Humus's guards stepped in, blades half-drawn, their feline eyes reflecting the eerie colors of the chamber's lanterns. One, a scarred beastkin with a hooked blade, snarled, "Nobody touches the table but the boss."

Thorne didn't flinch. His gaze flicked to the man's weapon, then back to his eyes, a silent challenge burning behind his calm expression. "Then maybe your boss should teach you manners," he said quietly.

The room went still for a heartbeat.

"If I meant to harm your master," he said softly, "you'd already know."

One of the guards bristled, but Humus made a small gesture. The men froze, then reluctantly stepped back.

Thorne placed the aetheric parts before Humus, who leaned back, watching in silence. His stubby fingers drummed the table once, the faint inner glow of the reagents casting ripples of light across the scattered coins, then he called, "Callun."

The scribe, thin, pale, and shaking, rose from his corner. He had ink stains on his fingertips and thin, shaking hands that betrayed both habit and nerves. As he approached, the aetheric chain linking him to Humus shimmered like a leash made of light, tightening with each step. He stopped beside the halfling, fumbling a pair of crystal-lensed spectacles from his robe and setting them on his crooked nose.

Runes flared around the glass. He leaned in, muttering to himself.

The moment the lenses caught the light, his expression changed. Surprise. Awe. Fear.

"This... these are genuine," Callun stammered, voice thin with disbelief. "High-tier organs. The density… gods, the concentration of aether. These were harvested from beasts of at least level seventy, maybe higher. Perfect extraction, no contamination, how did..."

"Spare me your curiosity," Humus interrupted, his voice sharp but low. "Value."

The scribe swallowed. "Each piece… this one alone," he pointed to a faintly glowing marrowstone, "could fund a noble's estate for a year. The others... Rare. Components for advanced wards, reagents for high-grade alchemical reagents or weapon foci. In the right hands, this could be worth…" His voice dropped to a whisper. "…just this one item could fetch around two hundred gold. Perhaps more, if refined properly."

Humus's expression didn't change. But Thorne saw the subtle tells, the faint narrowing of the halfling's eyes, the quick stilling of his fingers, the tiny twitch of his jaw muscle as calculations flashed behind his gaze.

This wasn't just coin laid out before Humus. It was proof of what he could do, what Brennak couldn't.

Thorne could almost read the thought passing through the halfling's mind. Did I steal them? Did I venture into the forest myself? Do I have access? Am I working with someone? Am I Brennak's spy?

Brennak's little expedition failed spectacularly. But this boy… he returns with trophies.

He let the silence draw out. He wanted the man to wonder.

Finally, Humus leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "Well," he said softly, voice curling like smoke. "Now you have my attention."

The halfling smiled, small and sharp, revealing just a hint of gold tooth. "Let's talk, Mister Thorne. I have a feeling this will be… mutually profitable."

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