=•=•= Bryson
The heavy oak door fought the wind as it opened, as though reluctant to let one more soul into the Low Downe’s smoky refuge. Rain lashed sideways through the gap, gusting in behind a lone woman—drenched, fumbling with the door and her cowl as she tried hard to slip in unseen.
At first, all I caught were lines—thin as spider silk, tangled in layers across her in my Sight. Heat met her wet cloak, and the soft vibration that followed made the air around her hum.
Then came the details.
Short. Hooded. Slender but solid. She moved like someone trained to silence—every step deliberate, soft enough the boards barely complained. A blade rode hidden under her cloak—not visible, but her motion bent around its weight.
The creepers scattered to higher perches. From there, the tilt of her chin, the precise angle of her head—she wasn’t looking; she was listening. Feeling the room like a wolf at the edge of a campfire.
Ordinarily, no one would care about a woman entering a tavern. But the way she hugged the wall, halting, uncertain—it marked her as not from here, and worse, not wanting to be here. She’d have been less conspicuous walking in butt-naked while playing a trumpet off-key.
And she wasn’t drunk or disheveled, which were the usual qualifications for Low Downe clientele. She wore desperation, and desperation was a scent every wolf in the room could taste. Wearing it openly was bad enough for a man. Worse for a woman.
Every head turned her way—except Skinter’s bandits. Only one, a hulking brute, gave a damn. He whistled sharply enough to peel paint.
The sound died when Skinter’s will hit him. His laugh choked off, and his tankard scraped across the table as he pulled his hand back. The rest of the table twitched and shuffled, waiting to see if pain was coming for the whistler… or for them.
Skinter stroked his beard, wiry patches jutting in all directions, and let that calm, dispassionate menace roll over his crew—a promise of hurt if anyone risked exposing the job.
“Straight!” barked the kobold at his side—skinny thing with a veil tied in front of his snout. If it was meant as a disguise, it failed spectacularly; the way it fluttered with each breath drew more attention than it hid.
For the first time that night, Skinter reacted. His copper tankard cracked under his grip, seams splitting as ale dribbled out. He leaned forward and pinned the kobold with a killing stillness.
The dog-faced fool recoiled like he’d been smacked. I’d mapped that response plenty—underlings cowed by a master’s unspoken threat. Skinter hadn’t needed a word.
Overreach, if you asked me. Nobody else cared. A kobold getting excited over a bet barely registered. But Skinter was cautious, and his crew knew better than to test him twice.
The kobold—veil drooping like a widowed donkey at a funeral—scraped his winnings toward him, greedy and hesitant all at once. The others muttered; Skinter let it go. He decided which noises mattered and which didn’t, and no one asked why.
To the casual eye, they looked like old friends wasting coin over dice. That was the point. Skinter wanted them invisible.
Lucky for me, invisibility doesn’t hold against creepers.
A few flies had settled in the rafters, each compound eye a scatter of lenses. Their vision lit the table in threads and pulses. The kobold’s aura snapped from dull to foul, fear and shame curdling through him. The others burned steadily, edged with the usual violence.
But Skinter—his field stayed void. Absolute. Like leaning over a pit with no bottom. I hadn’t felt anything like it in years.
That was when the woman unsettled me again.
Not just instinct. Pressure at the back of my skull. Faint, gnawing. Worth heeding.
With the barest tug, I herded a cluster of flies toward her. Their anchors gave me her field: a pale corona—what my old teacher claimed was “white.”
Young mage, maybe. Or under a strong charm. I prayed it wasn’t the latter; charms glow like torches to patrol wards, and if one of those bastards showed, my quiet shot at Skinter was gone.
Then she did something I didn’t expect. She slowed. Turned her head. Toward me.
How in hell did she sense that?
I slurped my ale loud enough to sell the ruse, angling my face so she’d catch my blind gray eyes. The handicap did its usual work. She dismissed me, the same as Skinter’s table: just another beggar wasting coin on drink.
She slid into a seat beside a bearded man who smelled of smoke and sour beer. I’d made regular rounds to all the patrons, begging for a drink, and had clocked everyone. He’d been there about two hours and, besides the newcomer, was the last to arrive.
He called himself Daskin. I’d caught enough through the clamor to note it.
I let her fade from immediate concern and drifted back to Skinter. The bastard guzzled ale like a bottomless well—never once rising to relieve himself. A peculiar talent I’d filed away. Watching him now, the thought of exploiting it edged close, tempting as a blade within reach.
When I first came in, I’d “accidentally” bumped him on my way to the bar. Hard enough to make him consider raising his voice. Instead, he leaned close and hissed a warning—calm, steady, full of promised pain. Exactly what I wanted.
Better still, the barkeep heard every word. His attention hooked where I needed it.
I gave Skinter a long apology in my best clumsy-oaf voice, then slid onto a stool and ordered a small ale.
Between sips, I spun a tale of woe for the barkeep. At first, he waved me off, used to blind beggars and their ramblings. I kept at it, persistence wearing him down like rain on stone.
While Skinter rattled dice with his crew, I played half-drunk. Told a story about bastards who’d tripped me, pissed on me in the alley, called me every name short of my own. Each time I layered it—rotten vegetables, a curse about how only a cursed mother would let a blind son live—the barkeep leaned in closer.
Eventually he bit. “Anything you remember about the one who led them?”
That was my cue.
I dredged up a clanking set of spurs—just like the pair Skinter wore—and a man bragging about buying the next round with ginger. I slurred thick as mud: “Eyes asked yous—who puts ginger in a good pint o’ ale?”
Halfway through, I realized I didn’t sound drunk; I sounded like a fool pretending. But once you start a ruse, you finish it.
“Damn him! Next time I find that man, I hope the goddess Theia makes me see again so I can punch him good and hard.”
By then, the barkeep was too invested to notice the act. My dead gray eyes did half the work anyway—people look, then look away fast.
The barkeep turned toward Skinter. “You did say ginger, didn’t you?”
I groaned into my ale and added, “Aye—almost had the bastard when he got close. Grabbed a fistful of his beard. One of his boys knocked me down and spat in my eyes. My eyes! Who spits in a man’s eyes but a coward?”
With righteous indignation, the barkeep—who’d been wiping the same spot on the counter half the night—slammed his towel down. Skinter’s recent order for ale “with a squeeze of ginger” gave him an idea.
Every tavern has its brew for undesirables—a draught from the local apothecary, slipped into mugs when someone’s overstayed. This barkeep was no different.
From then on, every pint set in front of Skinter carried a drop of something extra. Strong stuff. Should’ve had him squirming in minutes, bladder begging.
I shifted to a table with a cleaner angle through my creepers. The barkeep and I both watched, waiting for the inevitable—the twitch, the shuffle, the dash to the outhouse.
Nothing.
Two hours earlier, I’d grown impatient and slipped a constriction spell around his gut. The pressure was subtle—tight enough to make most men sweat, too gradual to notice. Between that and the doctored ale, he should’ve cracked. The plan had been to let him step outside, follow, and finish it clean. No witnesses.
Risky, sure. If an aurawraith was near, the ripple might have cost me, but the spell’s signature was a whisper—nothing a patrol would feel.
Still, he sat calm as a monk. No squirm, no leg jiggle, no shift.
Maybe the bastard could change his organs separately from his skin. Maybe he’d given himself a camel bladder.
He tipped back another pint like water.
Then—smack.
Across the room, Daskin rose to greet two companions. Backslaps and laughter rolled through the tavern, shifting the room’s energy. Loud. Distracting.
Perfect cover for something ugly.
For the moment, I forgot Skinter.
As the laughter died, unease slid back in. Their greetings turned to noisy demands for honey mead, keeping the barmaid busy for the better part of an hour. I leaned on whatever creepers I had: a horsefly, a roach (flattened under Daskin’s palm), two ants, and a mosquito. None of them gave me a clean run, and I let them drift rather than steer—pushing too hard leaves a pull in the Aether someone can trace.
I couldn’t track lips or eye-flicks from here, but posture tells its own truth in the weave: elbows braced, shoulders set, chins dipping low. They were communicating.
The three men—especially the younger two—kept trading angles sharp enough to cut. I didn’t know their game, but I’d wager a month’s bounty it wasn’t honest.
So, I assumed the worst.
A habit that’s saved me more than optimism ever has.
The woman leaned forward, set what I guessed, by the shape of its blankness, was a piece of parchment on the table, and slid it to the center. Daskin lowered his head over it.
He tapped twice with one finger. Barely a sound.
The youngest drew a knife from under his coat, smooth as practice. In the dim room, anyone not watching would’ve missed it.
I tensed.
A listening tether was tempting, but any sniffing talisman would light me up. So I stayed with bodies and intention. Muscles told me enough. They were about to act. She didn’t know it.
Normally, I’d leave it. Not from cruelty. From survival. My job wasn’t saving strangers from bad choices; it was staying alive and catching Skinter.
But something about her—
Not just the aura. Not the stance—awkward, yes, but not helpless.
Something unspoken. Terribly vulnerable.
She said something low; Daskin’s chuckle was gravel. The knife slid back under the coat—out of sight, not away.
Then the second man snapped, “Sixteen copper?! Is that all this is worth to you?”
The woman flinched. Her glove caught awkwardly on her wrist as she fumbled, hand unsteady.
Slowly, she tugged off a glove and reached into a pocket. A small pouch kissed the wood.
The knife-man narrowed his eyes at her wrist. “Odd tattoo, isn’t it?”
Before she could pull away, the other younger man seized her, twisting her wrist toward the light.
“Well now,” he said, feigning surprise. “What’s this?”
Daskin leaned in, curiosity curdling. “A leaf?”
Her answer came softly. “Nothing. It is only a leaf.”
The man holding her tightened his grip and reached with his free hand.
“No, it’s fine, lass,” he crooned. “I just want to touch it—”
A breath later he yelped, jamming his thumb into his mouth like a scolded boy.
“I am sorry. Please release me.” Her voice shook, but the words remained painfully polite.
“Slag shocked me!” Kyle barked.
Daskin cut sharply through him. “Kyle. Enough. Release her.”
I lost the rest as my focus tunneled.
That mark.
If it were real—not trinket, not ink-for-vanity—she wasn’t just in danger from the bastards at her table. She was in danger from everything the mark meant.
If I were right, she wasn’t merely out of place. She was hunted.
A small, quiet sigil like that isn’t decoration. Old scholars whisper about marks like that. Vows. Wards.
And she was wearing it in a room full of drunks, smugglers, and one shape-shifting murderer.
It was either madness or desperation.
By some mercy, none of them recognized it. Not yet.
But I did.
A stone settled in my gut. Patience was no longer a luxury; a patrol could read that signature if she cast.
So I made a choice.
The kind that shifts fate sideways.
Might end with both of us hauled off—or worse. I braced anyway. And risked everything.
I tipped back a long swig to sell the act, then let a spell unfurl.
Reaching into the Aether is always a gamble. Sight through creepers gives me threads and intent; the Aether strips lies.
The instant I cast, her head lifted.
Bird-sharp. Searching. She felt the ripple—attuned, yes, but not trained enough to track me. Perfect.
Just a blind drunk, swaying over ale. I took another sip.
What the Aether showed chilled me.
Daskin—clean. Nothing written on him.
The other two? Branded—jagged A’s burned into their fields: the Wander Thieves’ mark.
I cursed and slid my focus back to Skinter.
He’d started to squirm. Finally.
Between the doctored ale and my constriction, he looked like a snake that’d swallowed a wine bottle. No time to celebrate. Across the room, Daskin was making his move.
With a sweep, he pulled the coin pouch to his side and patted it like it already belonged to him. His gaze never left the girl. Not leering; worse—cold calculation. Possession. Measuring how long she’d live when he finished.
The younger thief leaned back, easy as a cat in the sun. They thought she was pinned.
And to most eyes, she was: timid, quiet, barely fighting.
But the Aether stripped the mask.
Her hood shadowed her face, but beneath it, the outline of one ear narrowed to a faint point—something most would’ve missed unless they were looking. I notice things others overlook. And tonight, I had reason to look.
She wore ink—not for pretty. Ink for ceremony, for protection. A leaf-sigil worn by Conclave acolytes.
Her field burned steady around the old forest marks—white, my old teacher would’ve called it.
Elf.
Walking away was no longer an option.
I made a vow a long time ago. Some things still matter, especially when they’re inconvenient. Breaking it wouldn’t just cost me sleep—it would cost me myself. Sworn under elven honor. A binding like that doesn’t let go. Not when you believe a man’s word is his bond. And I did.
“Of all the stupid, idiotic moves,” I muttered.
Too late, Skinter’s table glanced over. I slapped at the air like fighting flies, selling the blind-man ruse, and barked, “Damn it all to hell!”
A second barmaid—young and jittery, her nerves jangling—mistook my flailing for a summons and hurried over with a sloshing pitcher. “More, ser?”
I covered my mug with one palm and batted at the air with the other. Turning so she’d see my eyes, my head just a hair off-target, I rasped, “No. Bring me cattails, girl.”
She flinched at the sight—most do—and filed me as coinless, pitiful. Still, her voice stayed kind. “Yas, ser. Ya want pepper with ‘em?”
“No.” My voice came out gravel.
That’s the beauty of blindness. In Hathroon, deformity isn’t feared—it’s ignored. Nobody suspects a blind man of watching everything.
In richer towns, a man like me might find honest work. Here? Just another broken soul drowning in ale. Exactly the cover I needed.
The next hour bled away. A few patrons drifted in. More grumbling from the Yak-shee table. The barmaid ran herself ragged between Skinter’s crew and the elf.
I ate my cattails slowly, like a man savoring his last meal. The elf’s quarrel about coin faded; the group drank deep, laughter from the men spilling faster than the mead.
When my plate was bare, I tapped for another order and slid into the eyes of a roach by her boot.
What I read clenched my gut: tension easing to slack micro-motions; breath and pulse drifting.
Elves aren’t built for drink—lean frames, clean living. Lightweights. One mug and they weave. She’d had nearly three. Her field thinned, her sway picking up—the kind that ends in retching.
Daskin knew it. His hand lingered too long on her arm. Fingers brushed crumbs that weren’t there. Each touch less subtle.
The trap was tightening.
Then fate threw a shoulder.
A second pouch slipped free from beneath her cloak, hitting the floor with a muted thunk—not the chatter of copper. Denser.
The men changed shape as one: shoulders squared; attention hammered to a point. They’d heard the sound before.
“I’ll fetch that for you,” one said, already leaning.
Smooth as silk, he scooped the pouch, tucked it in his sleeve, palmed out a twin, and passed the fake back with a smile.
She didn’t notice.
This was an inbound problem, the size of which depended on just how drunk she was when they made their move.
That move began when Daskin rose, rubbing his palms together like a butcher about to carve.
“Follow me,” Daskin said, rising. “We’re gonna talk where it’s quiet.”
Crap.
I risked a check on Skinter. Still nailed to his seat, finally uncomfortable. The pot’s clink mocked him. Pride rooted him where the bladder begged otherwise.
Not really having much of a choice, I helped him along. I focused on the knot in his gut and squeezed.
Skinter jolted upright.
“What the holy hell?!”
He staggered, stain spreading down his trousers.
For a brief second, the table froze.
Then laughter crashed over him.
“Go to the piss pot, man!”
“If you’re so broke you’ll piss your own leg for coin, I’ll donate a copper!”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he shuffled off, curses dripping, trying to hold what dignity he had left.
The elf, though—she was following Daskin.
I shoved up, tossed a coin to settle the debt, and staggered hard enough to draw eyes, knocking a chair over for cover.
In that single heartbeat of distraction, I mapped the trio. All three reached for weapons. Right hands. Every one. Good to know.
Their shoulders eased once they caught the blind-glass drift of my eyes. Just another drunk.
Skinter’s men, hungry for another laugh, turned their jeers on me.
“Make room in the bog pot for this one!”
“Boss man, he wants your stick to find the way!”
“Careful how far you bend over or he’ll mistake your arse for the outhouse!”
Same breed everywhere: cowards feasting on weakness.
The barmaid stammered, “Ser, I’ll help ya outside. Yer cattails—they’s almost done.”
She slipped her hand into mine; I guided her to my elbow—the universal cue.
“Girl,” I muttered, “you eat ‘em. Your belly’s grumblin’.”
Daskin slowed just enough that she led me ahead of them toward the door. I didn’t want her caught in whatever came next.
“Just point me toward the pisser.”
“Walk yerself to the end an’ turn righ’. Ye’ll find the bog.”
I pressed a coin into her hand and lurched forward onto the boardwalk.
Each stumble kept me near the action.
Daskin’s men had drifted into formation—a triangle closing around the elf.
A trap.
Not that she’d bolt. Not in her state. She was prey, and she didn’t even know it.
Up ahead, Skinter limped toward the outhouse, stink clinging like a curse.
Behind me, the thieves closed fast. One shoved me and kicked the rod I used to feel my way.
What I wanted was to drive it through his throat.
I fell like they expected—knees smarting, swearing like a drunk cheated at dice.
Their laughter echoed off the boards, carrying contempt enough without words.
“C’mon, you blind oaf. Grab me if you can.”
I cursed at a support beam for show.
Their jeers faded when the leader snapped his fingers. “Lars. Kyle. Enough.”
The four of them turned at the tavern’s edge. I followed slowly, rod tapping steadily. At the corner, I leaned against the wall, listening.
The two scenes split: Skinter holed up, muttering curses. The elf was steered into the shadows near the store.
Even at a distance, I caught it in the lines—the hitch in her stride. She was waking up to the danger. But she was too drunk and too late to do anything about it.
I knew all I needed to, and I’d figure out the aurawraiths if they showed.
I reached into the Aether. Energy lines snapped into sharper focus, and the whole scene opened around me.
The one who’d tripped me had his hand on a dagger, posture tight.
She yelled something. Her aura flickered—shuddered.
Enough.
I pressed the latch on my cane. With a muted click, it slid into itself, becoming a third of its size, and I slid it into the seam of my pants.
Squared my shoulders.
If I were going to act, it had to be now.
So I did.