Cael Duskmantle snaps the wax seal of a dusty cobalt vial, tilting it to the candlelight as the scent of burnt lilacs rises. He’s crouched behind a splintered pillar in the Vaults, silver mask tucked in his coat, heart thudding as footsteps echo above. Ash trickles from the cracked ceiling onto his shoulders. He glances at the memory swirling in the glass, flashes of a council lord’s secret meeting surface, faces blurred but a sigil unmistakable. A sudden clang of armored boots rattles the floor. The Ashguard are searching, voices clipped and close. Cael shoves the bottle into his pocket and wipes his hands on his coat, mind racing. He can hear his own breath, shallow and ragged, as he weighs his next move, the memory’s bitter aftertaste curling on his tongue.
Director
I pull an old, worthless memory vial from my satchel and roll it across the floor toward the far corridor, letting the glass clink against the stone. While the Ashguard follow the sound, I slip through the drainage grate I mapped last season.
Cael Duskmantle withdrew a worthless memory vial from his satchel, its empty cobalt gleam catching the low light. He sent it skittering across the grimy stone floor toward the distant corridor, the glass clinking sharply in the heavy silence. Armored boots scraped as the Ashguard, drawn by the noise, moved to investigate. Cael slipped through a drainage grate he had mapped last season, the narrow gap barely fitting his frame as he dropped into the deeper, darker tunnels.
I make my way through the tunnels to my safehouse on the Ashmarket's lower level. Before going inside, I check the strand of hair I always leave in the door latch to see if anyone's been here while I was in the Vaults.
Cael Duskmantle moved through the twisting tunnels, the damp air growing warmer as he approached the Ashmarket’s lower level. Faint echoes of distant trade seeped through the ancient stone. He stopped at his safehouse, a plain door wedged between two crumbling pillars. His eyes locked on the latch. The thin strand of black hair he always left was gone, a silent message confirming his fears.
I don't go in. Instead, I head to the Ashmarket stalls and find Brecca, the memory fence I've traded with for years. I ask her if anyone's been asking about me or about a council memory, keeping my tone casual.
Cael Duskmantle veered away from his compromised safehouse, weaving through the crowded, ash-laden streets of the Ashmarket. The air buzzed with whispered deals and the sharp clink of glass vials, a harsh contrast to the tunnels’ silence. He spotted Brecca’s stall beneath a sagging awning, her face hidden beneath a broad woven hat. Bottled memories shimmered on a grimy cloth. Cael leaned against a post, masking his tension with ease.
"Anyone been asking about me,"
he said softly,
"or about a particular council memory?"
I pull my hat lower, the brim casting deeper shadows over my face. My hand lingers over a vial, then slowly retreats.
"The market is full of whispers,"
I murmur, my voice barely audible above the din.
"But specific names, specific memories... those are costly inquiries."
I slide a small pouch of silver across the counter without breaking eye contact. I tell Brecca this isn't a negotiation. Someone tossed my safehouse, and I need to know who's looking before they find me standing here.
Cael Duskmantle slid a small pouch of silver across Brecca's grimy counter, the coins clinking softly. His eyes locked onto hers, steady and unyielding.
"This isn't a negotiation,"
he stated, his voice low and firm.
"Someone tossed my safehouse, and I need to know who's looking before they find me standing here."
I glance at the pouch of silver, then back at you. My fingers twitch, smoothing the brim of my hat.
"Safehouse, you say?"
I keep my voice low.
"Then perhaps the inquiries were more direct than I let on. There was a man, sharp eyes, asked about a council memory. He didn't mention a name, but he paid well for the information."
Cael Duskmantle fixed his gaze on Brecca, the weight of her words pressing down through the ash-thick air. Around them, the market noise dulled, swallowed by the pounding of his own heart. He swept the crowd with sharp eyes, suspicion rising like a tide. The silver pouch remained untouched on the counter, a silent marker of the urgency he felt.
I ask Brecca what the man looked like and whether he carried a sigil or faction mark. Then I ask if she told him anything about me specifically, or just about the memory.
Cael Duskmantle leaned in, his voice falling to a near whisper.
"What did the man look like? Did he carry a sigil or a faction mark?"
He held her gaze steady.
"And did you tell him anything about me specifically, or just about the memory?"
The market’s low murmur pressed close, the air thick with unspoken tension.
I shift my weight, my hand instinctively moving to the brim of my hat.
"He was nondescript, dressed in common market clothes. No marks, no sigil I could see. I told him nothing of you, only that a memory like that... it doesn't surface often. I just pointed him towards the general direction of the whispers, same as I'd tell anyone else asking for such things."
Cael Duskmantle studied Brecca, his face masked by the swirling ash. The words
"whispers"
and a
"nondescript"
man gave him little to grasp. He swept his eyes over the bustling stalls once more, a tight knot forming in his stomach. The market’s constant murmur felt less like trade and more like a warning, every face a possible threat.
Protagonist
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