The heavy air of the Free Cities of Riven was a physical shock. Kiyan Ren had spent seventeen years breathing the clean, elemental air of the high mountains; here, the atmosphere was thick with woodsmoke, spilled ale, and the sharper, more acrid scent of unwashed bodies and desperation. It was a dense, messy, human wilderness Elora had never trained him for.

  He moved like a shadow in the alleys of the nearest city-state, a man out of time. His inherited long sword was wrapped in treated cloth, slung tight across his back. The true weight he carried was the Obsidian Hand necklace, cold against his sternum, a promise of vengeance carved in stone.

  Kiyan had spent four days moving through Riven’s underbelly, not tracking game, but tracking rumor. He knew the emblem’s value must be immense, yet it wasn't showing up in any official ledgers. That meant one thing: black market. He sought the scent of the forbidden, using his enhanced senses to sift through the city’s noise for whispers of dark artifacts and strange, quick coin transactions.

  His investigation led him to a small, isolated gambling den tucked behind a tannery—a place that smelled of stale sweat and chemical residue. He tracked the flow of information, waiting until he caught the sight of a man whose appearance spoke of wealth in a place where wealth should be impossible to hold.

  The man was impeccably dressed in dark, velvet robes, wearing fine leather gloves despite the muggy heat. He was surrounded by two bulky, silent guards and moved with the unnerving smoothness of a deep-water fish. Kiyan recognized him instantly as the man pulling the strings in this low-level market—a fixer.

  Kiyan waited until the man was alone, dismissing his guards at the entrance to a private carriage. He stepped out of the shadow, his long sword clearing the scabbard just enough for the hilt to flash, the faint, hot white energy of his Primal Infusion remaining dormant, but ready.

  “You buy secrets,” Kiyan stated, his voice low and unused. “I have one that you will pay for with better secrets.”

  The man paused, his back still turned, and gave a theatrical sigh. “Another rough hunter trying to make a name for himself with clumsy threats. Truly, the market is saturated.” He turned slowly, revealing a sharp, intelligent face, softened by an oily charm. This was Valerius ‘Val’ Thorne.

  Val’s eyes scanned Kiyan’s hardened frame, settling on the dirt and fatigue etched into his face, then darting to the heavy sword. “You’re from the wilds. You smell like pine and rage. What could you possibly possess that would interest me, Val Thorne, in this jewel of Riven?”

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  Kiyan took one step forward, reached beneath his tunic, and pulled out the Obsidian Hand necklace. The cold, black amulet gleamed malevolently in the dim light of the alley.

  Val’s composure vanished. His sharp intake of breath was the loudest noise Kiyan had heard all day. His eyes widened, not with fear, but with avarice and acute recognition.

  “Gods above,” Val whispered, recovering quickly. He ushered Kiyan into the carriage, shutting the door on the outside world. “You just bought yourself ten minutes of my time, wolf. Tell me where you got that, and who else knows you have it.”

  Kiyan detailed the massacre, the dying Vesna, and the final words about the monsters and the humans. He spoke only the facts, devoid of emotion, focusing only on the emblem and the name: Hand of the Accord.

  Val leaned back, stroking his chin, his expression thoughtful. “The Obsidian Hand… I knew they were connected to the Vexian Imperium, but I didn’t know they were moving this openly. They are the executive arm of something called the Chimera Accord—the biological research branch, you see. They are ruthless, and they just neutralized the biggest obstacle to the Imperium’s quiet invasion.”

  “Who?” Kiyan demanded.

  “Duke Maelstrom Valentynes,” Val replied, confirming the rumors Kiyan had dismissed as irrelevant politics. “The Duke was trying to unify the cities against the Imperium, and he was getting close to discovering the source of the missing people reports—reports that were tying back to the Hand. His murder threw Riven into civil chaos, and a very convenient assassin was blamed for it.”

  “I don’t care about politics. I care about the Hand,” Kiyan growled, the energy on his palm beginning to faintly heat the air.

  Val held up a placating hand. “Patience, Ren. The political chaos is your clue. I recently came across a ledger. It was a massive payment to a shell company, signed with that very symbol. The contents were coded as ‘livestock transport,’ but the timestamps matched the disappearance of laborers from the Free Cities. I believe this ledger belonged to an agent of the Hand who was operating right under Duke Valentynes’ nose.”

  Val pulled out a thin, leather-bound volume and flipped to a page scribbled in arcane shorthand. “The agent failed to destroy this. It names an operational outpost, a staging point near the border, where these 'livestock' are gathered before shipment to the Aethelian Dominion for dark experiments.”

  Kiyan felt a cold surge of certainty. His Order had been tracking the monsters; the Vexian Imperium was collecting people for unknown experiments; the ledger led to the holding facility. His revenge was becoming something larger, something necessary.

  Val pointed a precise, manicured finger at a line of text: “Your answer lies at a bar in the desolate crossing known as The Eclipsed Maiden.” He smiled, but it held no warmth. “A place where shadows meet light, and where the Hand of the Accord gives their reports. Go there, Last Wolf. Bring me back a treasure, and I will give you more names.”

  Kiyan didn’t reply. He took the coordinates and disappeared back into the shadows of Riven, the cold obsidian of the emblem his only guide, fixed on a single, necessary target.