Whisper didn’t bother with an answer, just glided ahead like she owned the snow—what little there was. Her steps left barely a trace, like the ground didn’t dare hold onto her footprints. She stopped in front of what looked like a… beggar? Hard to say, given how he was hunched in the corner under a tattered blanket. But the moment that threadbare shield of his shifted, my guess went belly-up.

  It was a Voruun. Green-skinned. Tusked. Built like he could bench-press a boulder just to pass the time. Definitely not your average alley-dweller. My Air Sense tickled at the faintest trace of a weapon—hidden, sure, but not hidden enough. The faint breeze sneaking under the blanket whispered of a crossbow.

  “Vel,” Whisper hailed, the name a silver coin dropped into silence.

  “Madam.” The beggar’s guise rumbled like a landslide given voice.

  Her eyes—keen as arrowheads—found his. “Shall we attribute this… enthusiastic garrison to festive paranoia?”

  Vel nodded, his tusked jaw dipping slightly. “I’m sure the captain will provide the specifics,” he said, tapping the broken wall behind him. A web of runes flared to life, bright and intricate. With a quiet hiss, the tiles shifted, revealing a hidden staircase leading down.

  “I’m certain he will,” Whisper replied with a nod. “Thank you, Vel.”

  “Have a good evening, Madam Whisper. And… the girl behind you? She’s with you, I assume? Though I can’t say I’ve seen her before.”

  Weird how he said that without so much as standing up—just sprawled there like some laid-back gatekeeper. Maybe it was a guard thing. But something in Whisper’s words made my stomach tighten. Heightened security? I flicked my Air Sense outward again, focusing on the surrounding buildings. What I’d dismissed as huddled beggars began to look less harmless. The outlines of weapons—crossbows, daggers—stood out faintly beneath their ragged coverings.

  A chill skittered down my spine. How many were there? Twenty, maybe more.

  “Yes, she’s with me. Objections?” Whisper asked, her tone casual but edged with warning.

  Vel reclined into his throne of rubble. “None sprout here, Madam. Mind the dark.”

  “And you the light,” she countered, already a specter gliding downward.

  Something about that made Vel’s expression sour slightly, though he didn’t say a word. Just a polite wave toward the stairs as Whisper descended. I followed close behind, trying not to fidget under my hood. My silver hair was tied in a tight bun, hidden from sight; the mask over my face added another layer of anonymity. I’d been careful since word about me had started to spread, but trouble had a way of finding me if I wasn’t careful.

  The stairway was lit with neat little mana lamps, glowing evenly on either side. The polished stone steps were unnervingly clean for the lower district. Sterile air wafted past us—no muck, no stench, nothing. It was like stepping into a chunk of the middle district, all polished and pristine. The deeper we went, the louder the noise got—jeers, shouts, drunken cheers, and the unmistakable tang of blood mixed with sweat and cheap liquor.

  My stomach growled. Not for liquor’s burn or sweat’s salt—gods, no—but the blood. Fresh. Vital. Tempting. A traitor’s tongue dampened before I shackled the urge. I’d supped on wraith steak; gluttony makes for sluggish wings.

  The moment we hit the bottom of the stairs, the mood took a nosedive—or maybe an uppercut. From the eerie silence of ruined streets above to a deafening cacophony below, the shift was whiplash-inducing. The hall was massive, crammed full of beastkin of every stripe, all hollering loud enough to rattle bones.

  And in the middle of it all was a ring. In it, a half-naked Rakari—a lion kin, muscles gleaming—danced against a massive spider beast. The scene was... well, unexpected. The spider struck with lightning speed, one razor-sharp leg stabbing toward its prey. The Rakari pivoted, moving with predatory grace, and retaliated with a punch wrapped in frost that slammed into one of the spider’s bulbous eyes.

  The crowd exploded. Roars, jeers, cheers—it was chaos. An underground fighting ring. Illegal? Probably. The kind of place the law politely pretended didn’t exist.

  Before I could process the madness, a stout Drakkari waddled over to Whisper, grinning like he’d just run into an old friend.

  “Ah, Madam Whisper, long time no see!” he greeted. Clearly, she was a known face here, or a known mask—and judging by the way people eyed her, a respected one, too.

  Whisper smiled faintly and gave him a nod, her usual aura of composed authority intact. Meanwhile, I clocked the guards posted all around. Not the run-of-the-mill muscle—they had weapons that screamed “nope.” Ornate crossbows, but not just for show. These were powered by expansive mana stones, fueled by a combustion process that blended stable runes with volatile pressure. The result? Searing, detonating bolts that would wreck anything. Even in dragon form, I wouldn’t fancy my chances against one of those. And it wasn’t just the weapons—these guards were professionals.

  But something was off. The whole place felt… tense. Like the air before a storm.

  “What happened here?” Whisper asked, her voice as smooth as ever.

  From her perch on my shoulder, Alice chimed in with that knowing tone of hers. “She pries, but she already knows, mistress. This is a game.”

  Of course. Whisper didn’t ask; she auditioned truths. If calamity had struck, she’d already parsed its bones. This was theater—to measure how deeply the flustered Drakkari before us swam in ignorance. Terrifying creature.

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  “The market was nearly destroyed earlier, Madam Whisper,” the Drakkari stammered, rubbing his hands together like he was trying to scrub off the tension. His chuckle was strained, more nervous than amused.

  “A fugitive,” he continued. “Came sniffing for supplies, got spotted. And then… chaos! Ancestors preserve us, the carnage!” He shook his head dramatically. “No idea what he did to deserve that kind of reaction, but whatever it was… terrifying! My legs went limp watching the chaos unfold!”

  Alice’s voice cut in again. “The words are playful, but the anxiety beneath them rings true. He doesn’t know why this person was wanted.”

  Not a higher-up, then. More like a glorified errand boy. Would explain the deference.

  “This fugitive,” Whisper pressed. “A name?”

  “Elvish, I think? Esmond… Es-something?”

  An elf. Oh, for Thalador’s sake, it’s always those smug, tree-humping, twig-eared pricks, isn’t it? My brain kicked into overdrive, connecting dots faster than a drunk conspiracy theorist. Coincidence? Maybe. Or maybe this leafy little shit was the one sowing the rot festering through this whole damn district. Too early to call it, but the suspicion clung to me like week-old gum on my boot.

  “Captured?” Whisper lobbed the obvious. Given the rubble, unlikely. But her queries weren’t seeker’s arrows—they were needles for pincushion egos.

  The stout Drakkari shifted uncomfortably, his nerves plain as day. Finally, he gestured toward the staircase we’d just descended. It was then I noticed faint dents in the otherwise pristine stone, marks left by something—or someone—violent.

  “He rushed out before those Fang Circle guys arrived. By the ancestors, he was fast—slippery as an eel. Had roots springing up everywhere, weaving through them like they were part of him,” the stout Drakkari explained.

  “And the market’s status?” Whisper pivoted, seamless.

  “Reborn this very hour, Madam,” he said, bowing as if gravity demanded it.

  “That’s great,” Whisper said, her tone light as she waltzed past him, her three fox tails swaying elegantly with each step. I trailed behind her, sticking close as we moved through the edge of the crowd gathered around the underground fighting ring.

  The fight between the Rakari and the spider monster was still going strong, and from the looks of it, the Rakari had the upper hand. Frost clung to patches of the spider’s carapace, cracks radiating from the icy spots. The Rakari wasn’t unscathed—his torso was littered with shallow cuts and bruises—but his injuries seemed minor compared to the spider’s battered state.

  The crowd hadn’t lost any steam, roaring with cheers and jeers, hurling creative obscenities as they rallied behind their chosen fighter. Whisper ignored the commotion entirely, and so did I, shadowing her like an obedient duckling. My Air Sense remained active, keeping tabs on every shift in the chaotic atmosphere. Lotte and Alice’s divinations had assured me Whisper could be trusted—for now—but I wasn’t about to let my guard down.

  Curiosity gnawed at me like a restless itch. “What do you know about this elf?” I asked, tossing the question into the air like bait, waiting to see what Whisper might nibble on.

  Her voice drifted back, smooth and detached. “I handled a case for the Fang Circle a while ago—you know, the same charming folks you decided to tangle with. They run this market, by the way.”

  That sent a jolt down my spine, my muscles tensing like coiled springs. Before I could react, Whisper cut in, her tone flat and unbothered. “Relax. You’re a ghost here. Especially while trailing my shadow.”

  I forced myself to loosen up as she continued. “The elf was traveling with a merchant caravan. Almost all of them ritualistically killed themselves—a massive suicide in the middle of the forest. Fang Circle members were involved, too. I followed a few leads, found survivors. It wasn’t hard to figure out who the elf was among them.”

  My brows furrowed. “Hold. You claimed suicides. How’s that possible if another’s hand guided it?”

  Whisper’s reply was steady. “That’s the thing. Seems like some kind of new elemental pathway. It feeds on despair—drives it up to a breaking point. Enough to make people end themselves.”

  Alice’s voice chimed in. “Not a straight answer. Calculation undercurrents. She likely knows what it is, mistress, but chooses not to tell you.”

  I shrugged mentally. Not like I could expect Whisper to spill all her secrets. She had no obligation to tell me anything, but what she’d shared was still valuable.

  My thoughts churned, pieces clicking into place. If this elf had a connection to some new, despair-driven elemental force, it lined up a little too well with the rot creeping through this district. A force that could crank despair to lethal levels sounded like something that Thing would revel in—and no doubt extract some sick benefit from.

  Another lead. This one sharper than the rest. I let a flicker of satisfaction pass through me, my suspicions tightening their grip.

  There was another gate as we approached, flanked by more guards armed with those deadly advanced crossbows. Their casual conversation halted the moment we came into view. With swift efficiency, they straightened, bowing to Whisper before silently opening the door for us.

  The moment it shut behind us, the raucous noise of the fighting ring was completely muffled, replaced by a softer, constant hum of activity. Not silence, but the lively hum of a market in full swing.

  We walked through another hallway, and the scene ahead took me by surprise. A vast, sprawling hall stretched before me, illuminated by overhead mana lamps that made it as bright as midday despite the perpetual darkness of the lower district. Rows of organized stalls lined the space, each bursting with wares ranging from common goods to rare, exotic items. The air was thick with the scent of spices, metals, and something faintly floral—a sensory overload of a different kind.

  Passers-by meandered between the stalls, haggling over prices, chatting with vendors, or examining items with hawk-like scrutiny. It was a strange harmony of chaos and order, vibrant yet cutthroat.

  Whisper must have caught my musings. “Gangs grip the Lower District’s throat,” she said, her tone dry. “This market dances to the Fang Circle’s tune. Next time you spar with fate, do mind where you aim your blade.”

  The warning wasn’t lost on me. She continued, “Here, merchants don’t care where their goods came from. They can sell whatever they like as long as they pay a cut of their profits to Borislav. He’s the boss of this market, and the former leader of the Fang Circle.”

  “Borislav?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “A red core pathwalker,” she clarified. “Though for reasons beyond me, he’s content to sit back and watch things from the sidelines, letting age catch up with him. He’s dying of old age.”

  That was surprising. Weren’t red core pathwalkers supposed to have extended lifespans after achieving body reformation? Just how old was this guy?

  The intricacy of the gang system here was far more developed than I’d imagined. I thought back to my earlier scuffle with the Fang Circle. What if I’d stumbled into this market without Whisper? My silver hair out for all to see? The thought made my stomach twist. Definitely wouldn’t be a situation I’d want to test.

  “Now, forage for your ingredients,” Whisper said, tilting her head. “Unless your purse sings empty?”

  I smirked. Oh, it crooned—20 gold kron, plus a chorus of silver and bronze “donated” by enterprising pickpockets. A rogue’s economy, really.

  I nodded, and Whisper turned away, heading toward an open room at the very back of the market. “The back office claims me if needed,” she added before disappearing into the crowd.

  Finally, I exhaled a sigh of relief, glad for a moment of peace. But that relief was short-lived.

  Out of nowhere, a blur barreled into me with the force of a charging bull.

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