We hurry through the smoldering streets. One by one, the fires are put out, the cold and wet wood aiding the efforts of the women, along with the plentiful snow. Men stalk the alleys with makeshift weapons, hunting for any brigands who remain. Order, or something close to it, slowly reasserts itself.

  Ren breaks off without a word, vanishing down a side street with his sword in hand. While Luna and I continue on.

  She glances at me as we move, brushing hair out of her face. "Who was that? He referred to you as brother."

  I nod, hesitating. "Yeah... he is. Two. My older brother."

  She frowns. "He seemed powerful."

  "We're lucky he left," I mutter. "Fighting him would've been courting death. For anyone."

  My mind flickers to his parting words.

  Come meet him?

  Why? What could he possibly want from me?

  Luna doesn't press the issue. She simply shakes her head and says, "We should focus on finding Lucien. While we still have the chance."

  “Sure.” I say, a little relieved. “Should we check his shop? I can’t imagine him letting it be looted.”

  She shakes her head, eyes still scanning the alleys. “Already checked. It was empty. No damage. No wares either.”

  Strange... no damage?

  “Where are we going then?” I ask, breath misting in the cold.

  Luna doesn’t slow. “Ren thinks he might be hiding in the old grain counting house. Tall, stone walls, heavy doors. Built secure. It supposedly used to store taxes in grain and coin before the mayor had a building built near his estate. The merchants’ guild owns it now, but no one’s used it in years. Perfect place for a rat like Lucien.”

  We arrive at the counting house, a squat, grim structure of weather-stained stone and old iron reinforcements. Its walls rise like the side of a small keep, windows narrow and high, the door thick oak banded in black steel, worn but still imposing.

  Ren is already there, waiting in the shadow of the archway, eyes on the door.

  "Locked," he says, testing the handle.

  Luna steps beside him. "Open it."

  Without a word, Ren raises his golden blade. With one fluid motion, he brings it down in a perfect vertical arc, striking through the seam of the double doors. The steel sings, slicing through wood and the thick beam behind it with ease.

  The door groans and swings open.

  We rush in... then freeze.

  The room is crowded, not with brigands, but with townsfolk. Well-dressed, cloaked in silks and thick furs, jewelry glittering beneath the flickering torchlight. Nobles, merchants, minor lords and their families, all huddled together along the walls and corners of the hall.

  Hmph, not a bruise among them. How fortunate for them.

  At the head of the room, seated in a carved chair like a man on his throne, is Lucien.

  He smirks, hands folded in his lap, entirely at ease.

  "Lady Luna," he greets, voice smooth and dripping with mock warmth. "Welcome. The Merchants' Guild offers safe haven to all of noble blood within these walls. You, of course, are no exception. Though I do wish you hadn’t damaged the door."

  He gestures lazily.

  A burly man hauls a thick plank of wood toward the entryway, clearly meant to replace the one Ren had sliced through.

  "Hmph."

  Luna curses softly under her breath. Her fingers twitch at the hilt of her blade, but she doesn’t move.

  With so many eyes watching, so many witnesses packed into the room…

  Her hopes of attacking him through the chaos are dashed.

  A nervous woman near the back clutches a fur-lined shawl and raises her voice. "Is it over? Are... are they gone?"

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Luna glances back. "It's over," she says curtly. "The militia has the streets. The brigands are fleeing or dead."

  A collective breath of relief escapes the nobles, some sinking to their knees, others murmuring prayers of thanks.

  Lucien nods graciously. "Glad news indeed. And our thanks, of course, for delivering it."

  "Hmph."

  Luna sneers, then turns on her heel and storms out, roughly shoving aside the man attempting to bar the door.

  Ren lingers only a moment longer, casting the gathered nobles a cold glance before striding after her.

  But I remain. My eyes stay on Lucien.

  "There's something I want to ask."

  He smirks, standing with unhurried grace, and gestures. "Come then. We’ll speak privately."

  He leads me into the tax office beyond. I close the door behind me with a soft click. Lucien settles into the high-backed chair behind the desk, relaxing.

  "Are you really part of the merchants' guild?"

  He smiles without showing teeth. "Of course. Why wouldn't I be?"

  His eyes glitter. "Now, what is it you wanted, Seven?"

  "Your store was stripped bare."

  His smirk deepens, unbothered. "Yes, and? Get to the point, peasant."

  Does he not care? Or... was he the one who stripped it. But then... how could he have done it so quickly? Unless he did it before hand?

  I shake away the thoughts, this isn't the time for guesses. I pull his scroll from my belt, its parchment crumpled and bloodstained from the fighting, and toss it onto his desk.

  "This scroll." I say, recalling what the oracle told me. "The runes you've had me reading. They don't mean anything, do they?"

  He raises an eyebrow. "Oh? And what makes you think so?"

  "The oracle," I say. "The one who visited your store. I had her read it."

  His smile twitches at the corners.

  "She said it's gibberish."

  He studies me in silence, then sighs. “A conclusion you were meant to reach on your own. You’ll never learn if you're handed the answers.”

  He unfurls his own scroll, fingers trailing idly over the inked surface. “Has it become easier to read?”

  I hesitate. “Easier to look at, maybe. But no. I haven’t made sense of a single line. I still don’t know the damned language.”

  He nods, admiring his own work. "Yes... easier to look at. Good." He watches me closely. "You've memorized the runes by now?"

  I nod once. Obviously.

  "And the patterns too?"

  Another nod.

  His eyes shift to my scarred hands. "And have you noticed any more... oddities since our last meeting?"

  I pause, glancing down, turning my palms over. "Just sparks... sometimes. A bit of smoke. Though they're becoming more frequent, almost set my hair on fire."

  As I speak, a faint prickle dances across my skin. A few small sparks crackle quietly in my palm, tiny arcs of heat and light, gone almost as quickly as they appear. I glance down in surprise. It's the first time I’ve said anything about it aloud, and somehow... that seems to stir it.

  Lucien hums, clearly interested, but says nothing.

  He tosses the scroll back down and gestures for me to take it. Warily, I do.

  "That scroll isn’t a spell scroll," he says. "It’s a cipher. A foundational text. It contains the first set of runes, pure, undirected. On their own, they are useless."

  Then why did he tell me otherwise? The lying bastard.

  He leans back slightly, watching me. "This is no ordinary language. There’s no full lexicon for you to consult. But for those with the capacity to memorize them, they provide structure, a framework. They serve as a key."

  He pauses, taking out another iron-rimmed scroll from his desk.

  "When paired with the appropriate spell scrolls, they allow you to recognize individual runes, matching them to the effects provided by the scroll. If you have the intellect, understanding will form in time and with enough use."

  He gestures to my hands again. “The cypher I provided is of simple magic, basic spells. I’m sure you can guess why.”

  Lucien leans forward, his voice firm, commanding.

  "Raise your hand. Draw from the knowledge."

  He stands, eyes darkening.

  "Speak the word."

  I react without thinking, something deep inside me responds. I raise my hand toward him and speak the word I haven’t uttered since I fought Vael.

  "H?tbolt."

  My head pulses, like something vast and alien has reached into my skull and begun to squeeze. The pressure twists inward, unnatural and cold, as if my thoughts are being funneled through some impossible geometry. A wave of exhaustion follows, deep and heavy, like my body is struggling to remain tethered to reality.

  But then... heat. It flares in my palm, anchoring me, cutting through the haze like a torch in the dark. A spark of fire coils to life, a small flame swirling gently across my palm. It leaps forward, a dart of burning heat... but sputters out just before it reaches Lucien.

  I look down at my hand, shocked... it's still hot and sizzling. It hurts... but not in an unpleasant way.

  He nods, satisfied. "Good. So you have memorized something after all. The firebolt is a basic spell, one of the many requiring the knowledge in this cipher. Keep studying, you're not done with that key yet."

  More than a little excited, I nod, fitting the scroll carefully back into my belt. "Are there others? Other keys like this?"

  "Countless. Keys of ice, lightning, fire, the dark…" he replies, his tone cautioning. "But don’t get ahead of yourself, peasant. Most human sorcerers can barely memorize three paths of magic and the keys that unlock them.” He says, shaking his head. “The mind can simply hold no more, forgetting what was learned before as new information is absorbed."

  I frown. "Three… the same way a scroll has only three uses?"

  Lucien smirks. “Just so. Of course, many fail even one. Some can learn two spells but just one key, others the opposite. But the limit is always three.”

  I scratch my rough chin. “Is there no way to memorize more?”

  He waves a hand dismissively. "If you had a grimoire, perhaps, or a particular mystic armament, but acquiring such rarities is far beyond your means. As it is, you’ve plenty to do with what’s already in your hands. Besides.... you'd be surprised at what you could do with just one spell."

  Lucien says nothing further, already turning his attention back to the scrolls on his desk, as if I’d never been there at all. I take the hint, nod once, and slip quietly from the room, the door closing behind me.

  I move through the counting house, weaving quietly through cloaked nobles and muttering merchants. None meet my eyes. Their relief is palpable, but their fear lingers, fear of the fire outside, of the brigands in the dark. I, on the other hand feel content, excited even. I got what I came for.

  And maybe even a little more.

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