Chapter 132


    Web of Lies


    Femira muttered a curse under her breath, clocking Kez’s tail on her again. She’d already lost him once, slipping into a narrow alley and risking a quick dissolve of a wall into a storehouse. She’d slipping through it, reforming behind her and hiding until she’d been certain he’d given up. But somehow, the bastard must’ve gotten lucky and spotted her while she was weaving through the crowds back on the main streets.


    The tail was annoyingly nondescript—plain face, average build, unremarkable in every possible way. I suppose that makes him perfect for the job. She’d noticed him trailing her and Lydia during previous city excursions too, and while she’d done her best to shake him then, it had been trickier with Lydia at her side. But today she was alone, with no interest in Kez knowing her every move.


    Morning light cast a harsh, cold glow over the industrial quarter as the city stirred awake. Workers were spilling into the streets, gears grinding, and smoke already pouring from the chimneys. Femira turned a corner sharply, picking up her pace. Without missing a step, she dissolved a section of the wall beside her, slipped through it, and reformed it behind her in one seamless motion. She was in what looked—and smelled—like a distillery. Big brass vats of alcohol, pumping a dizzying tangy fume that made her eyes water. She moved quickly, skimming along the edges of the room, sticking to the shadows.


    “Oi! Someone there?” a voice called out just as she reached the far end. Not stopping to see who’d spotted her, she stepped through the opposite wall, slipping out into another alley, reforming the wall behind her. She doubled back, weaving through side streets and disappearing deeper into the maze of the quarter. By the time she neared the ironworks, she was confident she’d lost him this time.


    Her objective today was to find out if Arken intended to betray her to the Reldoni. For all he seemed to be supportive of Lydia’s cause, Femira didn’t trust him. She knew already that he’d betrayed his own nation to throw in with the invaders, and was feeding information directly to Garld. Tomorrow, she was set to meet with him again, and if she had to wager, she’d guess a contingent of Reldoni soldiers would be waiting with him. Let them try to take me.


    The city Ironworks loomed ahead—a sprawling complex of stone and metal. Forges burned hot, and the clang of hammers on metal rang out in sharp bursts as blacksmiths bent their backs to the day’s work. It was strange, though. Most forges these days relied on stonebreaker tradesmen, men with aradium runestones to shape metal with their edirs. But here, the guild’s blacksmiths hammered each piece by hand, sparks flying.


    As she’d anticipated, slipping back into Arken’s office had been laughably simple. His schedule was lying open in a notepad on his desk, clear as day. She smirked at the oversight, half-expecting more care from a man with his hands in so many fires. She took her time, rifling through stacks of documents, skimming for anything incriminating—some proof of his ties to the Reldoni. But people tended not to put their treason in writing. At least, people who’d lasted this long didn’t leave a trail that easily.


    Still, she uncovered a few things: five hidden compartments stashed within his desk, and not a single one held anything useful. Just records on his rivals, both inside and outside the guild, along with a neat stack of unsent love letters addressed to someone named Jesse Garron. She nearly rolled her eyes.


    Once again, her gaze was drawn to the valuable runestones around the office. Tempting, but she resisted—any missing stones would tip him off. He might be oblivious now, but he wasn’t stupid.


    According to his schedule, he’d be starting his morning with a lecture for his apprentices. Dozens of them, apparently Arken treated his apprentices more like disciples than trainees. Strange man for a guildmaster, she thought. A scholar wrapped in an ironworker’s apron.


    She found the lecture hall easily, just a short turn down the corridor from his office. It was empty as it wasn’t scheduled to start for another few minutes. She toyed with the idea of hiding in plain sight, posing as one of his dozens of apprentices, but there was unnecessary risk with that. The far less comfortable approach of hiding within the wall, a small hole left open to spy out and listen, was also ruled out as the walls in this workhouse weren’t thick enough to encompass her entirely like she’d grown used to in Epilas. The walls of the hall were lined with wooden storage crates. She opted to hide inside one of these, uncomfortably positioning herself to be able to see through a gap in the wood. Her timing was impeccable. Moments after she settled into her cramped position, Arken strode into the hall, trailed by a steady stream of apprentices. They filed in behind him, taking seats at the scattered desks.


    Arken didn’t waste a breath; as soon as they’d settled, he launched into his lecture, his voice carrying the confident cadence of someone who expected—demanded—their full attention.


    “We ended yesterday with a question, didn’t we? Why traditional blacksmithing still has a place here in the Ironworks. The answer is quite simple really. Cost. It’s far cheaper for us to employ a blacksmith who can work with metal in traditional ways. Allowing us to mass produce all of the necessary components we require. The higher level of finesse and skill to work with the aradium to fuse all of the components together into the complex designs we have from the schematics allows us to better divert our available resources,” Arken went on.


    Oh this is going to be a long long day. A large part of her was already regretting this decision. Maybe she could make better use of her time and just accept that Arken was going to betray her.


    “To many, this schematic would appear far too complex to be mass produced,” Arken held up a detailed sketch, a weapon unlike anything Femira had ever seen—half blade, half rifle, the handle of a firearm seamlessly joined to the long, sharp edge of a sword. “But rifles alone, as we know, are next to useless in close combat. For a soldier, the seconds it takes to switch between rifle and sword could mean life or death.”


    She rolled her eyes. Gods, he loves the sound of his own voice.


    “With this weapon, however, those seconds are saved. Of course, attaching a blade to the rifle barrel would be simpler, yes—but against a seasoned swordsman, such a weapon wouldn’t stand a chance. With this design,” he said, still holding the sketch aloft, “we’re giving the riflemen a better edge in battle, quite literally.” Arken’s voice rang with enthusiasm, like he’d solved all the world’s problems. She wondered how many of his students knew that these weapons they’d been designing had been given straight into the hands of their nation’s invaders.


    “So, how do we achieve such a design?” he asked, turning to his apprentices as if actually expecting an answer. He didn’t wait. “The answer, of course, is production economics. We use cheaper labour for the basic components, and then bring in a metalshaper to handle the precision fusing.” He nodded, satisfied with himself. “A straightforward approach, really. Now, onto the models designed to incorporate runestones. First up, we have—”


    Femira slumped back in her crate, suppressing a groan. A long day indeed.


    Femira did what any sane person would do when forced to endure a lecture they neither cared for nor understood—she zoned out.


    She already regretted her choice of hiding spot. The crate wasn’t wide enough for her to lie down and too cramped to sit up straight, leaving her in an uncomfortable squat she’d have to maintain through every word of Arken’s tediously—and frankly, unnecessarily—long lecture.


    Her mind wandered to more pressing matters, like the hollow feeling in her stomach. She’d had a quick early morning breakfast in Kez’s underground tavern—or dining hall, as he liked to call it. Only Cowbell had been awake at the same time, for what reason he didn’t say. But he’s also mute so that was less cryptic and more expected. He did indicate to her that he could accompany her into the city if she wanted—for protection. Which she’d politely declined with a nod of thanks. She didn’t need it, but still, the gesture warmed her more than she let on. She was getting oddly attached to Connie’s crew.


    But that had been hours ago, and she was feelingthe ache of hunger was hard to ignore. Should’ve grabbed some snacks, she mused. Any decent stakeout needs snacks. She then wondered if the tail that she had shaken had remembered to bring snacks. I bet he did. He probably does this all the time for Kez. He’s probably got a whole stash of snacks in his satchel.


    “—of course Nythilium is real,” she heard Arken respond to one of his students'' questions. The word pulled her attention back to the ongoing lecture. “However it is exceptionally rare. Even with our considerable resources, we don’t have pieces on hand for study. Even the most destitute of noble families will cling to any nythilium they have until they are forced to sell, and there is always another house willing to pay in both gold and favour for a nythilium blade.”


    “Is it true it can’t be absorbed or reshaped like regular metals?” one of the students piped up.


    “This is correct. In terms of strength, Nythilium surpasses steel. And it’s lighter—though not quite as light as aluminum—while retaining far greater durability. That’s why it’s coveted for weapons. Most of those weapons, of course, tend to sit unused in some lord’s vault”


    “But why? Why can’t it be shaped with aradium?” the student pressed. Femira’s interest was piqued at the mention of nythilium. Nyth had been a very useful companion to her, and was as loyal as a piece of metal that could only take shape by her command could be. She wanted to understand as much as she could about it, to better understand what Nyth might actually want from helping her.


    “My boy,” Arken sighed with a mix of patience and theatrics, “you’re touching on the very mystery that’s baffled scholars and rune engineers alike. Some argue that Nythilium was conjured by the fabled Sorcerer Kings, but that’s a misconception. We’ve records of this metal existing long before their time. Ancient manuscripts refer to it as ‘shadowsteel,’ and once,” he added, clearly relishing the obscurity, “I came across a text calling it ‘living night.’ Of course, this was from a translation that predates even Old Esterin, so who knows how accurate it is?”


    You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.


    More accurate than you’d think, she thought smugly, suppressing a smirk. For all his scholarly flair, even Arken’s understanding had limits she was beginning to see through.


    “While it’s fascinating to imagine the wonders we could craft with such material,” he continued, “it remains a distant dream. Until the nobility choose to relinquish their stockpiles, we’ll work with what’s within our reach. A shame, truly—but such is the price of tradition.”


    As Arken’s lecture finally drew to a close, he allowed a few questions, indulging each with a long-winded answer that felt like hours to Femira. Her patience was all but gone by the time he dismissed his students and strode out of the hall.


    Femira slipped out of her crate with a groan, cracking her neck and stretching her limbs that were stiff from crouching so long. She tugged her cloak tighter, pulling the hood low despite how it made her stand out. As a Keiran, she was too recognizable in Rubane—far more so than in Epilas.


    The rest of the morning, Arken moved between increasingly dreary meetings that required all waning the patience she could muster. Most were in his office, a small grace given the walls there were thick enough to hide within. Otherwise she crouched out of sight, shadowing him from room to room, and through the city when he went to meet certain contacts.


    Each meeting started the same, more posturing and tiresome updates on everything from food supply chains affected by the war to trade routes for his arms. A surprising amount of meetings about grain supplies for a man who worked in the Ironworks.


    She’d thought it all pointless until he casually mentioned resuming the search for Daegan Tredain at the highest priority to some of the people he met with. So at least he was getting people looking for him—she’d considered breaking away to follow some of these contacts on their own, but her gut told her to stay with Arken, and wait to see if he would meet with the Reldoni or not.


    She thought she’d confirmed her suspicions at one stage when Arken had met with a Reldoni commander for lunch. Femira shadowed them to a quiet tavern, finding a spot close enough to listen and ordered a plate of Rubanian potato stew—warm, earthy, and surprisingly good. But the men spoke only of weapon shipments and tactical supplies, nothing related to her search.


    For the time being, it was just enough to know that Arken had significant Reldoni contacts. She only needed one slip, one connection—an opportune moment to prove her suspicions.


    As evening deepened into dusk, Femira had followed Arken back to his office, watching as he meticulously fussed over one of his strange devices, lost in his work. Judging by his focus, she suspected he’d be at it late into the night, and she’d nearly decided to call it for the day when a knock sounded on his door.


    Arken''s assistant stepped in to announce a visitor. “Dolorant Saval.”


    The name sparked a flicker of recognition, and Femira leaned closer, adjusting her hiding place. Through her narrowed peephole, she watched as a woman in the black garb of a Reldoni soldier entered. Not just a soldier—a bloodshedder. Femira’s heart tightened. She knew this woman, was sure she’d sparred with her back in Epilas. A grenadier, she thought. She would be soulforged, and not only that, she would know the extent of a soulforged stonebreaker’s abilities.


    Femira narrowed her own edir, sending out only a minuscule pulse, the faintest brush to avoid detection to reduce her spy hole to the barest slit. A bloodshedder’s senses were as honed as her blade; one wrong move, and Femira would quickly become the hunted.


    "Mistress Saval," Arken greeted, inclining his head with a respect that made Femira’s blood simmer.


    “Guildmaster Arken,” Saval replied, her voice crisp. “Your message indicated you had something urgent to report.”


    “Yes, yes, indeed,” he started muttering to himself. Gods, get on with it, you bastard.


    “I, uh, I believe that I have located one of the individuals on your… wanted list,” he said, voice dropping. “Though it’s a delicate matter.”


    “Really? Who?” Saval’s interest sharpened. “Are they here in the city?”


    “Yes, yes she is. But as I said, there’s a certain… delicacy to this.”


    “Well?” Saval pressed, her patience thin. “Who is it?”


    “Annali Jahar,” he said, and Femira’s pulse spiked, rage flooding her veins. “I’m certain of it, although she’s going by the name Femira.”


    Her hands curled into fists. Oh, you spineless fucking wretch.


    She could tear him apart right here, and take Saval down with him. She could take another bloodshedder couldn’t she? She had Nyth as her secret edge, after all.


    “Annali Jahar is here?” Saval scoffed, clearly caught off guard.


    “Yes. And I’ve arranged for her to meet me here at my office tomorrow. However,” his finger raised for emphasis, “she’s working alongside a contact of mine. A highly valuable one, I might add, who I do not wish to see harmed in the slightest. Nor can I appear involved in this capture, you understand.”


    “Who is this contact?” Saval’s tone turned steely.


    “Lydia Whitestone. She’s inconsequential to the Reldoni.”


    “We’ll decide who’s inconsequential, especially if she’s connected to that traitor,” she said coldly. “Who is she?”


    “Simply the daughter of the late Lord Whitestone of Port Novic.”


    “Late? What happened to him?”


    “Executed by Duke Avriem a number of years ago,” Arken replied dismissively. “None of which is relevant to what you need. I must insist that Lydia remain unaware of my role in this. She’s too valuable a contact to risk. I need your assurance on this.”


    “Agreed,” Saval said, her tone crisp. “We’ll leave her untouched. What time is Jahar expected? We’ll position a squad to intercept her before she arrives.”


    The absolute lying sack of shit. The rage simmered in Femira, hot and consuming, like a fire she barely kept from leaping out. So, there it was. Arken had betrayed her. He’d never intended to keep her trust, just to hand her over. It fed the dark, mistrusting part of her heart—the part that whispered that everyone was plotting, that people, at their core, were just liars and thieves waiting to twist a knife when her back was turned.


    When Saval left, Femira stepped out from the wall into the adjoining office to Arken’s, its occupant long since gone home. Every part of her wanted to march into Arken’s office and tear him to pieces. But she held herself back. She’d gained information tonight—valuable, actionable information. The only thing left was to decide how to use it to her advantage. Before she slipped out, she pocketed a few runestones that were carelessly left about, giving in to the thief in her.


    It didn’t take her long to latch onto Saval’s trail, the woman didn’t have an escort but a bloodshedder needed no escort. Even outside of Reldon, the renown for the elite force of runewielders was famed. The tale of Femira’s battle against the Kragal at Temple Beach aiding that. Saval had an almost swagger about her as she made her way through the city.


    Femira knew that she should intercept the woman, to somehow silence her before she could give her report to whoever her commander was in the city, and having that information eventually make its way to Garld. But what she could do? Despite what Saval had said, Femira was not a traitor. She was loyal to Landryn himself, their king. Her king. She doubted she could explain that to Saval, though, and even less that she’d be believed.


    She fumbled with this uncertainty as she followed Saval to the inner city. There was another wall within the city encircling the highborn folks’ manses and palaces. There was likely a central garrison in the inner city where many of the occupying Reldoni would be housed.


    Once the woman passed through the gate to the inner city, Femira turned around. Making her decision that she would let the pieces land where they may. At least she knew that there would be an ambush waiting for her near the Ironworks tomorrow. Whether she would intentionally spring that trap or not, she wasn’t sure.


    By the time Femira finally trudged back to Kez’s tunnels, her anger had shifted, giving way to something even sharper—hunger. Again. She was in no mood for games, so when Kez himself intercepted her, stepping into her path with a smile she instantly mistrusted, she bit back a groan.


    “You know,” he said, voice smooth as silk, “it’s often considered quite rude to run from your escort.”


    “What’s that?”


    “Oh, just that I had a man—Dillon, lovely fellow—trailing you today, for your protection, naturally. Poor soul was beside himself when he lost you. He returned to me in a state, terrified I’d punish him. Which, of course, I did, my dear niece wandering the city all by herself! Do you know how worried I was?” He shook his head in exaggerated sorrow.


    So that was his game. Kez had figured out she was too good for his tails to keep up with, and instead of pressing more goons on her, he’d opted for transparency. “Listen,” she said, rubbing her temples, “it’s been a long day, uncle. Can we just skip to the part where you tell me what you want?”


    “Straight to the point. Now, that I admire!” he chuckled. “I happen to know a little rumour, you see.”


    “Oh yeah?”


    “Indeed.” He stepped closer, voice dropping. “That a certain Keiran woman has been sniffing around, looking for a missing Reldoni man—highborn, as it happens. Quite highborn in fact.”


    Femira kept her expression blank. Dillon must’ve shadowed her and Lydia long enough to piece this much together. “At this point, half the city probably knows that,” she said, tone acidic.


    “Perhaps. But I also happen to know where your little princeling is hiding,” Kez whispered, a sly glint in his eye.


    “Really?” Her gaze sharpened.


    “Oh, yes.”


    “And let me guess…you’re not sharing that for free?”


    “Now, niece, what do you take me for?” He gasped, hand to his chest as if wounded. “Do you think I’d shake down family for a few gold coins? Heavens, no, no. How crass! But… if you’re offering a favour,” he smirked, “I’d be happy to take you up on it.”


    “What do you need?” She sighed, she wanted to know what he knew but she was growing tired of this game. And increasingly hungry.


    “Glad you asked. Duke Rivers, you see, has been stockpiling food these past few weeks. Normally, that’s just good business for the likes of me. But I’d like to know what he’s planning with all that grain. Can’t have any nasty surprises ruining my other deals.”


    Ugh. This was just regular old crime. These piddly jobs were nothing to her, it was a waste of her time. But outside of Arken—who’d already betrayed her—she had absolutely nothing in terms of leads for where Daegan Tredain might be.


    She sighed again. “Fine. But you’re paying for my dinner.”