Chapter 4

  Tivric and Skorval arrived at Korr’s Bastion. The fortified castle town that rose behind massive stone walls, and even at night a trickle of travelers and traders still moved along the road, waiting to be admitted through the gates.

  Eight guards manned the entrance. Six kept their eyes fixed outward, scanning the dark for threats, while two handled inspections—searching wagons, checking packs, and reviewing travel papers.

  One glance at Skorval’s expression told Tivric everything. Skorval hated this place and had no desire to linger.

  “We’ll only be here a day, tops,” Tivric said quietly. “We find a guide, stay one night, and leave at first light. We’ll be speaking to the Radiant before you know it.”

  Tivric withdrew the documents he had received back in the burrow. There was a large Dossier he was told to deliver to the high radiance that felt like it was filled with a large pack of papers of varying sizes. The messenger had handed him formal orders and documentation naming him a diplomat of Black Run Burrow—a title Tivric felt was more embellishment than truth. He pulled the writ that declared him a formal dipolomat along with a seal, and then packed everything else back safetly into his pack.

  They waited their turn. The line was short; few travelers entered the city at this hour.

  When they reached the gate, a guard took one look at them, spat onto the stone, and snatched the papers from Tivric’s hands.

  “Grimtail diplomats, eh? From Black Run Burrow.”

  The guard’s eyes flicked to the single black ring at the base of each tail.

  “Looks like you’re from where you claim,” he muttered. “Try not to eat all the trash while you’re here.”

  He tossed the documents to the ground at Tivric’s feet and turned away walking back to his post..

  Tivric calmly bent, retrieved the papers clearing some of the dust off them the best he could. He thought nothing of this interaction and was used to this sort of treatment close to the burrow. He gestured to Skorval to follow him into the city and he could see only hatred burning in Skorval’s eyes.

  Tivric scanned the busy streets, his eyes moving from sign to sign as each establishment announced itself in chipped paint and warped wood. In his clawed hand, he carried a rough drawing—the mark of the inn their guide was said to be staying at. It was called the Split Barrel and the sketch showed a single barrel split down the middle, two different liquids sloshing within. He had heard of this inn in the past being famous for watering down their ale barrels, to make more money and he could not understand why anyone would want to keep visiting this place.

  He continued down the road, checking each sign as Skorval followed close behind. The streets were relatively quiet: a few guard patrols marched past in pairs, and several beggars lay passed out along the edges of the cobbled road. The outer stone walls of the bastion had been massive and menacing, but inside, many of the buildings were little more than shacks—small, sagging structures of old wood pressed together beneath the weight of the walls that protected them. He figured that this was common in the lower districts of the town, but he had never been to the districts that were closer to Korr’s Castle.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  At last, they found it.

  A weathered sign hung above the door, painted with a barrel filled with two liquids. Beneath it, an engraving read: Good after the third mug. Two drunken patrons staggered past them, laughing as they shoved through the door from the inside. One of them bumped into Tivric, but he could not tell if it was intentional or not.

  Tivric half expected a Dawnguard to be standing in the center of the tavern, glowing like Selenar herself—but the hour was late, even for the most devoted drinkers. The place had already begun to empty as Tivric and Skorval stepped inside. The hearth was dying down, its embers dull and weak. The counter stood unmanned, and only a single barmaid remained, sweeping up the wreckage of the day’s festivities.

  She noticed Tivric and Skorval at once and scowled, but she set her broom aside and moved behind the counter all the same.

  “We need a room for the night,” Tivric said.

  A small sign sat on the counter, plainly marked: 1 gold coin per night. Without breaking eye contact, the barmaid flipped it over so it faced away from them.

  “That’ll be five gold coins,” she said flatly.

  Skorval rolled his beady eyes, but Tivric didn’t hesitate. He counted out the coins and placed them on the counter. The barmaid scooped them up, handed over a key, and led them upstairs.

  The room was small, the bunks narrow—but it was dry and it was safe. Exhausted from the road, both Grimtails collapsed onto their beds. Tivric half expected Skorval to mutter something about the upcharge.

  Instead, Skorval was already asleep.

  Morning came quickly, the once-quiet city bursting to life with the creak of wagons and the shouts of vendors calling out their wares.

  Tivric nudged Skorval awake.

  “Up, Skor. You were in such a hurry to leave this place, yet you slept like you’d grown roots,” Tivric said.

  Skorval rolled out of his bunk and hit the floor with a thud, catching himself with his claws.

  “No, Captain Tivric,” he said groggily, slipping into the stiff tone of a fresh recruit, “I was not sleeping near my hatch. I was merely resting my eyes.”

  “Well then,” Tivric replied dryly, “get your gear, soldier. We need to find this Dawnborn.”

  “Yes, sir,” Skorval continued in mock formality. “Apologies, captain—I seem to have forgotten my tail at home. I’ll need to go back for it.”

  Both Grimtails were laughing as Skorval mocked a salute, and then they packed their gear and washed up in the small basin before heading for the door.

  “Did your letter mention what the woman looks like?” Skorval asked. “A name, at least?”

  “No,” Tivric said. “Which makes me wonder why they’d go out of their way not to include a description.”

  Skorval shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. She’s Dawnborn. Just look for someone who looks like a glow-vermin.”

  “She might be floating,” Skorval added thoughtfully. “Or on fire.”

  Before they even reached the stairs, the noise of the tavern rose to meet them. When they opened the door, it sounded more like a barracks mess hall than an inn—patrons hooting and hollering, barmaids shouting orders toward the kitchen, tankards clattering across tables.

  The Grimtails stepped down into the chaos and began scanning the room for their contact.

  Skorval was joking—but Tivric found himself wishing the woman were on fire. There were far too many patrons packed into the tavern at this hour. He wasn’t sure how they were supposed to find anyone in this crowd without drawing attention to themselves. Judging by the way Skorval kept peeking under hoods and lifting hats, they already looked ridiculous.

  At one point, Skorval tugged the hood off a sleeping patron, earning a string of curses and a near-fight before Tivric dragged him away.

  This was going nowhere.

  Then Tivric felt it.

  A presence—quiet, deliberate.

  He turned and spotted a lone figure seated at a corner table, watching him with open amusement. When their eyes met, she chuckled softly. She raised her hand and snapped her fingers.

  A spark of warm sunlight bloomed between them.