The journey across the Free Cities of Riven's sprawling territory took two weeks of relentless travel. Kiyan Ren avoided the main arteries, moving instead through the forgotten scrubland and desolate high passes—a domain that spoke in the silent, elemental language of Elora's most demanding lessons. He pushed through countless nameless hamlets and abandoned villages, never stopping, never engaging in conversation. His focus was singular, his movement a whisper, trusting his enhanced senses over any map Val had provided.

  To finance the journey and replenish the shrinking stock of Old Silas's alchemical reagents, Kiyan had taken on grim, temporary work. In a region plagued by the Vexian Imperium's stray experiments, gold was offered freely for monster subjugation. Kiyan accepted these requests only when necessary, quickly eliminating the threat using his long sword and Primal Infusion, taking the small sum offered, and vanishing before anyone could link the deadly efficiency to the rumors of the Last Wolf. The soft chaos of the cities had given way to an emptiness that felt both familiar and ominous as he neared the border.

  The bar, The Eclipsed Maiden, was exactly as Val Thorne had described: a squat, miserable stone building that crouched at a deserted crossroads, its few windows bleeding faint, yellow light into the encroaching gloom. It looked less like a tavern and more like a mausoleum for lost travelers.

  Kiyan approached from the rear, circling wide to scent the air and assess the grounds. He found no formal guard patrols, but he detected the faint, metallic aroma of cheap gunpowder mixed with a persistent, bitter chemical residue—the signature of the Hand of the Accord agents, not common bandits. He stored his long sword, opting instead for a pair of black steel daggers tucked into his wrists—silent, lethal tools favored by Thane.

  The moment Kiyan pushed through the thick oak door, the noise inside didn't stop, but the conversation died. The patrons were a rough mix: grizzled mercenaries nursing tankards, a few nervous smugglers, and two figures in heavy, dark cloaks seated at a corner table.

  The bar was managed by a man whose posture was too straight for the environment. He was lean, bald, and his eyes, pale and sharp, tracked Kiyan instantly. He was the gatekeeper.

  Kiyan moved to the bar, ignoring the low, hostile hum of the room. He ordered nothing, simply leaning close to the barkeep. “I’m looking for the owner of a certain piece of jewelry.”

  The barkeep, whose name was likely no more genuine than the ale he served, wiped a rag across the already dry wood. “We don’t deal in stolen goods, traveler. You should take your trouble back to the city.”

  Kiyan didn't argue. He slowly reached up, pulled the chain, and let the Obsidian Hand necklace drop onto the bar top. The heavy, black carving of a hand gripping a heart made a muffled thunk against the wood.

  The barkeep's eyes locked onto the emblem. The subtle tension in his jaw vanished, replaced by a cold, immediate compliance. He didn't look at the symbol; he looked at Kiyan's face, memorizing the Last Wolf.

  Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

  “Right away, sir. Follow me.” The barkeep slid out from behind the counter, not bothering with a lie or a hidden lever. He led Kiyan straight to a heavy, iron-clad door tucked beside the fireplace. He produced a brass key. “They’ve been waiting for this report.”

  “You won’t be needing this,” Kiyan muttered. The barkeep barely had time to register Kiyan’s motion—a swift, targeted move perfected by Thane. A dagger was pressed to the barkeep’s kidney, sharp and hot enough to pierce skin before the man could draw breath to scream.

  “The rooms below. Tell me about the ‘livestock’ and the holding cells.”

  The barkeep, shivering, stammered out the truth. The room was not for reports; it was the final collection point. The agents came, dropped off their logs, and oversaw the transfer of the captives down to the catacombs, where they awaited the wagons to the Aethelian Dominion.

  Kiyan knocked the man unconscious and pushed open the iron door, descending into a darkness that smelled of damp rock and fear. The stairs were narrow and spiraled down into a wide, excavated chamber.

  The chamber wasn't empty. It was chaos.

  Three men—one wearing an Obsidian Hand ring—lay bleeding on the stone floor, their throats sliced open with impossibly clean, surgical precision. The air was already cold, but Kiyan felt a deeper chill as he realized the slaughter had happened moments ago.

  Standing over the bodies, reloading a sleek, hand-held crossbow with terrifying calm, was a woman. She was lithe and compact, dressed in practical, oil-dark leathers that seemed to absorb the light. Her face was framed by sharp, severe braids, and her eyes, when they snapped up to Kiyan, were emerald-green and utterly ruthless.

  She raised the crossbow, her movement fluid and instantaneous.

  “Wrong room, hunter,” she said, her voice low and edged like her blade.

  Before Kiyan could speak, the metal door clanged open above them. Two more cloaked figures, agents of the Hand, peered down, having heard the noise.

  “Intruders! Sound the alarm!” one of them yelled.

  The woman didn't hesitate. She fired the crossbow, sending a silent bolt into the throat of the nearest agent. The second agent drew a short, serrated knife and leaped down the stairs.

  Kiyan Ren, recognizing a threat to his goal, didn't need to be asked. He was here for the Hand, and this woman was eliminating them efficiently. He drew his second dagger and sprinted toward the attacker.

  The fight lasted less than ten seconds. Kiyan met the agent’s charge, blocking the serrated blade with his steel, then using Lysandra's instruction to infuse a flash of white energy into the knife hilt. The shock distracted the agent for a fatal moment, allowing Kiyan to drive his dagger into the man’s heart.

  Kiyan stood over the body, breathing hard, the hot white energy receding from his hands. He turned to the woman, who was now calmly wiping the crossbow bolt.

  “Who are you?” Kiyan demanded.

  She glanced at the Obsidian Hand necklace hanging from his neck, her green eyes narrowed in deep suspicion. “You’re either very stupid or very dangerous to wear that in here, wolf. I’m the bodyguard they framed for a Duke’s murder. And you just helped me clean up my mess.”

  She stepped back, disappearing into the deepest shadow, but not before Kiyan saw the distinct, haunted intelligence in her eyes.

  “Sera,” she added, a final piece of information given grudgingly. “And you’ve just complicated my life, Ren. Why are you here?”

  “They killed my family,” Kiyan stated, the simplest truth. Then, he gestured toward the far cells, the sounds of muffled weeping filling the air. “I was nine when monsters wiped out my village. These people—I won't let them suffer the same fate. I'm here to stop the shipment.”

  Sera paused, her hand gripping the crossbow. “Stop the shipment? You think you can fight the entire Imperium convoy by yourself?” Her cynicism was a palpable wave. “Fine. You found the cattle. What now, wolf?