Smoke And Silver

Alric Varn

The abandoned storehouse had the quiet of a tomb, dust clinging to old shelves and forgotten crates, broken glass glittering faintly in shafts of morning light. Alric stood near the center of the wide floor, facing Taldris, their boots scuffing faint echoes across the stone.

“Again,” he said, bringing his scimitar up in a defensive posture. “Keep your wrists loose. You’re not chopping wood.”

Taldris nodded, strands of white hair slipping free from behind her ear. It was a rare sight to see her with that hood down. Her expression, as always, was focused, almost unreadable.

She stepped in again, blade angled for a diagonal strike. Alric pivoted, letting the flat of his scimitar guide hers away with practiced ease. “Better,” he said. “You didn’t overextend this time.”

Taldris moved forward, her shortsword slicing through the air in a low arc. Alric parried it easily, stepping aside and tapping the flat of his scimitar against her exposed ribs. “Your guard is—”

“Too open,” she finished, exhaling through her nose. “You’ve said that three times already.”

“Four,” he corrected with a grin. Alric cleared his throat and took a step back. “Try it again, but this time aim lower. You’re not always going to be fighting someone taller than you.”

They reset. Steel met steel with a clean clack as the training resumed.

“Still stiff,” he said. “You’re thinking too much. Remember, this is different from casting spells.”

They circled again, blades whispering past one another. She lunged, overcommitted slightly, and he stepped inside her guard, pressing the flat of his blade to her side.

“Dead,” he said, gently.

Taldris pulled back, her breathing steady but quick from the repetition. “Remind me again why I agreed to this?”

“Because illusion magic, while useful, won’t save you in a real fight when it’s just you, a blade, and someone who wants you dead.”

The heavy door creaked, breaking the quiet. Caelen stepped in, his silhouette framed by the fading grey light of the setting sun, arms folded across his chest. “Not to interrupt your little sparring session,” he said, voice dry, “but we need to start thinking about our next move. We can’t hide in this place forever. Someone’s bound to notice.”

Behind him, Kael’s voice drifted in, laced with amusement. “Especially not after someone dropped a glowing magical rock in the middle of a Zadalyn street that they stole.” He leaned casually against a support beam, arms crossed. “Real subtle, Caelen. I’m sure no one noticed that.”

"Me dropping the stone didn’t make those men spot us in the tavern," Caelen said flatly. "Can we please focus on the mission?"

Taldris slid her shortsword back into its sheath with a soft click. “As much as I’d love to argue, he’s right, Kael. We can only hope that the stone rolled into some gutter and stayed there.”

“So, what’s the move?” Caelen asked, crossing his arms.

From the corner of his eye, Alric saw Brina join them. She moved quietly, her small frame nearly out of view.

“You were scouting that government building,” Alric said, glancing toward Caelen. “Let’s start with what you found.”

“Not much. They call it the High Councillor’s Chambers,” Caelen replied. “Place is locked down tighter than a vault. Well-guarded, too. Mostly nobles and officers coming and going. I doubt we can just sneak in.”

Alric joined them, sheathing his weapon as well. “Still, it sounds like our best lead. We’ll watch it for a few more days, see if there’s a weak spot.”

Brina shifted her weight. “That long in one place might be a risk. We’ll need a new hideout if we plan on staying low.”

Kael shook his head. “No, too risky. You really think we’ll find a crate labeled ‘Magical Death Machine – Do Not Touch’ in a government office? Even if they have records, we’d be digging through hundreds of rooms. It’s a needle-in-a-haystack kind of gamble.”

Taldris leaned against the wall, arms folded. “Then maybe we change the approach. Look for strange trades. Intercept supply runs. Or just listen in on the right soldiers, if we’re lucky, one of them might let something slip about where they’re building this thing.”

She paused. “But we can’t risk being recognized again. No more mistakes."

"Right," Alric nodded. "We split up, go in pairs, and meet back here in two to three hours. Anything related to logistics, shipments, or troop movements. Even rumors. We take it all.”

"I'll head back to the North Ward," Caelen said, adjusting his coat. "See if any of the staff or servants are in the mood for a little chat."

"I'll go with you," Brina offered, already moving to grab her satchel.

“We’ll take the market district and the taverns,” Alric said, tossing a worn traveling cloak to Kael before pulling on his own. “If anything’s moving through Zadale, someone there’s bound to have heard something.”

“Try not to get recognized at another bar,” Caelen muttered, smirking at Kael over his shoulder.

Alric noticed how Kael didn't bother replying.

Alric turned to Taldris. She hadn’t spoken. He had noticed a tension in her that she couldn’t quite hide, a subtle tightening around her eyes, a distant focus in her gaze. Something had shifted in her since they entered the city. She seemed more guarded, her expression clouded with thoughts she hadn’t shared, as though a puzzle was slowly taking shape in her mind, each piece falling into place just out of reach. Though Alric understood. With how things were unfolding, how they were currently in the heart of enemy territory, it was almost second nature to be worried.

“You stay here,” Alric said. “Check out the surrounding blocks, see if there are other storerooms, warehouses, anything guarded too heavily for a pile of grain.”

Taldris nodded slowly. “I’ll see what I can find.”

With that, Alric turned and led Kael toward the exit.

Outside, the shadows of Zadale stretched long. The city was still very much alive, but Alric knew its undercurrent was shifting; something moved beneath the surface. And they were running out of time to find it.

The streets of Zadale were bathed in gold and rust, the last rays of the sun casting long, angular shadows across stone alleys and sloped rooftops. Stalls lined the cobbled lanes in uneven rows, hawkers calling out wares, dried meats, spices, cracked tools, and worn-out fabrics. Alric adjusted the hood of his cloak, his eyes scanning the thinning crowds with quiet focus. The city had a strange rhythm, one foot in military precision, the other in barely restrained chaos. You could feel it if you paid attention.

Kael walked beside him, hands tucked into his sleeves, his posture loose but eyes sharp. “You think this’ll get us anywhere?” he asked after a moment. “Market chatter and drunk gossip?”

“It’s a better lead than nothing,” Alric said. “Soldiers talk when they drink. Merchants brag when they profit. We listen hard enough, we’ll hear something.”

They turned into a narrow street, where the stone beneath their boots turned slick from the city’s ever-present humidity. Orange light bled over windowsills and shop signs. A bell rang somewhere deeper in the ward, shift change, most likely.

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“I still think this is stupid,” Kael muttered. “They sent us in here with barely a cover story, no plan, no contacts. It reeks.”

Alric didn’t answer right away. The fading sun cast long shadows along the alley, his gaze following them before he finally said, “Lucia knew what she was doing. We have to keep faith in our officials.”

“That’s not the point,” Kael snapped. “Can we even trust the others? Caelen lied to us for weeks, kept that damned stone hidden just to make a few extra coins in the black market. Who knows what else these damn mercenaries aren't telling us?”

Alric’s expression didn’t shift. “I trust Taldris. And Caelen won’t pull anything now. He knows everyone is on high alert.”

Kael clearly wasn’t convinced. He shook his head, voice dropping low. “And getting in here the way we did? That was a one-time trick. Getting out of Zadale’s going to be a hell of a lot harder. We don’t have a drunk merchant with a favour to cash in on his son anymore.”

Alric gave a small sigh, letting the conversation fall away. There was no point in arguing; Kael had a right to be cautious. He adjusted the hood of his cloak and motioned with his chin. “Come on. The markets are thinning out. If anything's moving through the city, it’s not going to be out in the open.”

Kael fell into step beside him, muttering something under his breath as they pushed deeper into the southern end of the market district. Stalls stood half-shuttered in the cooling dusk, the smell of spice, sweat, and smoke thick in the air. Merchants called their final offers to passersby, while guards lounged at corners, lazily eyeing the crowd.

They moved slowly, ears open, letting the rhythm of the market guide them. Alric’s gaze lingered on a butcher’s stall where a man in a worn uniform passed a coin purse in exchange for a bundled crate. On the surface, it looked routine, but Alric still took note. The air had grown noticeably cooler, a biting edge slipping into the breeze. Any day now, the first snow would fall.

For the better part of an hour, they circled through the district, weaving between food stalls, spice carts, and the occasional merchant wagon being loaded under watchful eyes. But nothing stuck. No strange cargo, no slipped names, no half-whispered deals.

It was too clean. Too careful.

Kael exhaled loudly, running a hand through his dark hair. “We’re not going to find anything like this." He adjusted his cloak and nodded toward a flickering lantern sign up ahead. “I’ll try my luck in there. The tavern crowd’s loud enough by now, someone might be drunk enough to talk.”

Alric glanced toward the sign. The Rusted Gate. It looked half-collapsed and fully forgotten, which probably meant it was popular with off-duty guards and couriers. “Fine. I’ll check that cluster of merchants by the old well. A few of them might talk with the right price."

Alric moved through the edge of the market with practiced ease, his steps quiet, unhurried. The air smelled of dust, sweat, and roasted chestnuts from a nearby brazier. A cluster of merchants gathered near the base of the old well, their carts half-unloaded, goods bundled under worn tarps. Some were closing shop as the night approached, others whispering quietly among themselves.

He approached one of them: a thin, balding man hunched over a crate of sealed scroll tubes. His fingers were stained with ink, and he looked up the moment Alric got close.

“You need something?” the merchant asked, squinting at him beneath thick brows.

“Looking for a shipment,” Alric replied, keeping his tone casual. “I'm a collector, and I heard someone say rare materials passed through here. Maybe even arcane."

The merchant’s eyes narrowed. “You’ve got the wrong place, friend. Nothing like that comes through here. Just grain, wine, parchment... usual cargo. If you want magical items, disturb some other seller.”

Alric gave a nod, not pushing it. “Didn’t hurt to ask.”

The merchant waved him off with a grumble, already turning back to secure his cart.

Alric slipped away, blending back into the current of foot traffic as the torches around the square began to flare against the growing dusk. He didn’t slow. If there were answers here, they were buried under too many layers of fear and silence.

Time to keep moving.

He passed a woman selling spices from tiny glass jars, her booth heavy with the scent of cardamom and burnt cinnamon. When he asked her anything about shipments, she shook her head with a smile.

“Only thing I smuggle is flavor,” she said jokingly, tapping one of the jars.

The next stall was run by an older man with cracked hands and deep laugh lines. He sold jugs of milk and wheels of hard cheese wrapped in linen. A small, toothless dog barked from beneath his cart when Alric lingered too long. Another dead end.

Two tents down, he found weapons, steel, not magic. The vendor, a broad-shouldered half-orc with a cleaver strapped to his back, offered swords and axes from behind a rusting metal grate. They looked sturdy, forged with care, but when Alric asked about enchantments or arcane properties, the man merely spat into a bucket and grunted.

“Steel’s honest,” he said. “Doesn’t need a spell to kill.”

Eventually, a flicker of hope, a pale-skinned dwarf hunched beneath a cloth canopy, illuminated by a cluster of soft-glowing stones hanging from thin chains. His table was cluttered with oddities: copper bangles etched with runes, rings set with cloudy gems, and tiny vials of powdered shimmerroot.

“Looking for magic?” the dwarf asked, voice rasping like dry parchment. “Got charms against poison, wards for bad luck, and a ring that’ll make you pass unseen.”

Alric studied the items carefully. The enchantments were real. Still, none of it had the weight he was searching for. No purple stone, no signs of high-level enchantments that stood out, or anything that might link to the weapon project he was investigating.

“Anything that came in... rarer?” he asked. “Raw materials. Stones. Something dangerous.”

The dwarf’s gaze sharpened, but only for a moment. Then he shook his head, tapping one of the amulets. “All the danger you’ll find here is the kind that keeps you breathing longer. You're happy to look, but I don't work with raw magic.”

Alric frowned but gave a slight nod. “Thanks.” He walked outside, the markets were nearly closed, but Kael would be checking the taverns. Maybe he’d have better luck.

Alric made his way back through the narrow lanes that fed into the square, passing shuttered stalls and vendors packing up their wares for the night. The wind had picked up slightly, brushing against the edges of his cloak and carrying the scent of roast meat and sweet wine from the taverns ahead.

As he neared the market’s edge, his steps slowed near a small jewelry shop tucked between a leather merchant and a boarded-up apothecary. Warm golden light spilled from the shop’s narrow windows, glinting off a display of bangles, necklaces, and enchanted rings resting on velvet-lined trays.

He was just about to walk past when a soft voice called out from the doorway.

“You have the look of a man searching for something more... elusive,” said an elven woman, her tone smooth, almost playful. She leaned against the doorframe, dressed in a dark lavender robe embroidered with silver thread, her green eyes glinting beneath long lashes. “Perhaps I can help you find what you need... if you’re willing to browse first.”

Alric hesitated. It felt like a waste of time, but any lead he could find would be currently worth it.

Inside, the shop smelled faintly of lavender and hot wax. Trays of jewelry shimmered under hanging lanterns. She walked him through a handful of pieces, her voice a calm lull, always watching him more than the jewelry she displayed.

Eventually, a bracelet caught his eye. Simple, yet elegant, made from silver and etched with a single slender rune that pulsed faintly, as if breathing. He picked it up. It felt light, almost too light, and warm to the touch.

“Protection from minor hexes,” the elven woman offered, her voice light. “Might come in handy if a jealous mistress ever tries to curse you.”

Alric ignored her attempt at a joke, placing a few coins on the counter without reply.. He wasn’t sure why he bought it. It didn’t suit him. Too refined. Too delicate. More like something a woman might wear, he thought, maybe he could gift it to Taldris later when he got the time, and the thought alone made his ears burn faintly. He tucked the bracelet away.

“Now,” he said, clearing his throat, “about that information.”

The elven woman smiled slowly, as if savoring the question. “There's a merchant here in Zadale,” she began, lowering her voice conspiratorially. “Claimed he's been moving silk and spices to the east, but I heard he carried something else, something wrapped in lead cloth and guarded by three armed men who never leave the wagon. They said it came from the mines near the western mountains.”

Alric frowned. The story sounded polished and too vague. “Where is he now?”

She shrugged one shoulder, tracing her finger along the edge of a ruby pendant. “Not sure, but I heard he's about to move his shipment tomorrow.”

Alric studied her carefully, but she gave nothing away.

He didn’t press further. He nodded, offered a quiet thanks, and stepped back into the cool night air, the bracelet resting quietly in his pocket.

Alric found Kael outside the tavern, leaning against a low wall just out of reach of the torchlight. The crowd had thinned, and the sounds of music and laughter bled out from the warped wooden door behind him. Kael looked up as Alric approached, tossing a half-eaten plum into the shadows.

“Finally,” Kael muttered. “I thought you’d gone and joined the merchants’ guild.”

“Just browsing,” Alric replied dryly. “You find anything?”

Kael’s grin returned, sharp and lopsided. “Actually, yeah. Got lucky. Found a soldier five ales deep and desperate to complain about his superiors. There’s a military convoy being moved north in two days. It got heavy escort, locked crates, night departure, no official announcement.”

Alric raised an eyebrow. “North?”

Kael nodded. “Yep. Said it was being routed through the West Road, but that’s the long way. Makes no sense logistically unless you want it quiet. Smells like something important.”

Alric’s brow tightened. “Interesting... I heard about a shipment, too. Supposedly came from the western mines. Wrapped in lead cloth, heavily guarded. Headed east.”

Kael blinked. “East?”

“Yeah.” Alric paused, then gave a small, rueful laugh. “From a jewelry shop. Elf woman, polished story. I think I got played.”

Kael chuckled. “You? Scammed by a shopkeeper? Could've used that money to buy me a drink instead.”

Alric shook his head, though a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Let’s focus on your lead. A military shipment being moved quietly in wartime? That’s worth looking into.”

Kael straightened. “Good. Because I might’ve promised the drunken soldier I’d meet him again tomorrow and bring him another drink. Who knows what else he’ll spill?”

Alric’s eyes glinted. “At least you got a solid lead. For now, let's head back, see what others got.”