The copper coin flipped through the air, sunlight catching its dull surface as Tarek snatched it mid-arc. Three more followed in quick succession—payment for a job that would have earned most runners half as much.

  "For your discretion," the merchant said, eyes darting toward the castle looming above Highcrest's layered plateaus. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Make sure Lady Merren receives this directly. No servants."

  Tarek tucked the folded parchment into his inner vest pocket, giving it a pat. "Consider it delivered, Master Orlen."

  The merchant nodded nervously before disappearing into his shop. Tarek lingered only long enough to ensure the coins were genuine before melting into the crowds of the Middle Ring.

  He knew better than to examine the contents of messages. Curiosity killed cats and messengers alike in Highcrest. Still, he'd been running notes for Orlen long enough to know the merchant was knee-deep in something dangerous. The tremor in his hands, the extra coin, the insistence on discretion—all pointed to trouble.

  Not that trouble was anything new in Lore these days.

  The Great Expanse War had officially ended three months ago, but its wounds festered across the kingdom. Tarek navigated through the marketplace, where stalls once overflowing with exotic goods from Rais and Terris now displayed meager local offerings at extortionate prices. The faces around him bore the same hollow-eyed look—survivors of a conflict most common folk never understood.

  "Bread! Fresh bread!" a baker called halfheartedly from his stall. Tarek nodded in passing. The loaves were neither fresh nor plentiful, but calling them otherwise kept hope alive.

  He ascended the wide stone steps connecting the Middle Ring to the Upper Ring, falling in beside a wine merchant's cart to slip past the city guards. The sentries barely glanced his way; they knew Tarek by sight if not by name. Message runners were a necessary evil in Highcrest, delivering the words nobles wouldn't trust to servants who might gossip.

  The Upper Ring air seemed cleaner somehow, as if poverty and hunger couldn't climb the steep stone steps. Gardens perfumed the air, and fountains—still flowing despite water shortages below—provided gentle background music to the conversations of the wealthy. Here, the war seemed a distant inconvenience rather than the devastation it truly was.

  Lady Merren's estate rose three stories of polished sandstone, adorned with the golden wheat symbol of House Merren. Guards in harvest-gold livery flanked the entrance, their eyes tracking Tarek as he approached.

  "Message for Lady Merren," he said, not bothering with deference. The Upper Ring residents appreciated his directness—it made him seem efficient rather than insolent.

  "From?" the guard asked.

  "She'll know." It was part of the game. Names unspoken, business kept quiet.

  The guard's expression soured but he nodded to his counterpart, who disappeared inside. Tarek waited, back against the warm stone wall, amber eyes scanning the street. Old habits. Always watch your surroundings, his mother had taught him. The moment you stop looking is the moment they get you.

  "This way," the guard said upon returning.

  Lady Merren received him in her solar, a room bright with afternoon sun filtering through stained glass depicting fields of golden wheat. Unlike most nobles, she didn't pretend to be occupied when messengers arrived. She sat waiting, straight-backed and attentive.

  "The runner from Master Orlen," her servant announced.

  Tarek approached, retrieving the folded parchment. "He requested I deliver this directly to you, my lady."

  She took the message, her fingers adorned with golden rings bearing small emeralds—the colors of House Merren. "Has Orlen paid you for your return trip?"

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  "No, my lady."

  She broke the wax seal and unfolded the parchment. Her face, carefully composed, betrayed nothing as she read. When finished, she held the message over a candle flame, watching it curl and blacken before dropping the remnants into a copper bowl.

  "Tell him I understand, but I require more concrete evidence before I present this to the council," she said, counting out six copper coins—double the standard fee. "For your discretion."

  Tarek pocketed the coins. "Of course, my lady."

  As he turned to leave, she added, "These are dangerous times to carry messages, boy. Choose your employers carefully."

  He nodded, keeping his face neutral. It wasn't the first such warning he'd received in recent weeks.

  Back in the street, Tarek checked his mental map of the day's deliveries. Two more messages in the Upper Ring, then three in the Middle before he could return to the Dregs. With luck, he'd be home before nightfall, though "home" was merely a small room above The Gilded Lily—the brothel his mother managed.

  The late afternoon sun cast long shadows as he completed his Upper Ring deliveries. The final message went to an advisor in the king's court—a man whose name Tarek knew but had been instructed never to use. The advisor had slipped him an extra silver coin, worth ten copper, with a cryptic warning: "Stay away from the eastern quarter tonight."

  Now, descending back toward the Middle Ring, that warning echoed in his mind. The eastern quarter housed several noble families with ties to the king. If something was happening there tonight...

  Lost in thought, Tarek nearly missed the shadowy figure that detached itself from an alleyway and fell into step twenty paces behind him. The man was dressed plainly but moved with military precision—too straight-backed for a common citizen, too alert for a casual stroller.

  Tarek turned left at the next intersection rather than continuing downward. His shadow followed. He quickened his pace slightly, turned right at a fountain depicting the first King Blackthorn, then left again down a narrow lane.

  The footsteps behind him accelerated.

  He broke into a run, bare feet silent on the cobblestones as he darted between buildings and through narrow passages. The Middle Ring was his playground; he knew every shortcut, every hidden path.

  A second man appeared ahead, emerging from behind a stack of empty wine barrels. This one wore a sword openly, his hand resting on its hilt. Tarek skidded to a halt, heart hammering against his ribs.

  "That's him," the first man called. "The messenger boy."

  Tarek spun and sprinted toward a low wall separating a merchant's garden from the street. He leapt, fingers catching the top of the stonework as he hauled himself up and over, landing among flowering bushes. Behind him, boots pounded on stone as his pursuers gave chase.

  He had no idea what he'd done to deserve this attention. Had he carried a message too dangerous? Had one of his regular clients finally crossed the wrong person?

  Or was it something else entirely?

  Scrambling through the garden, Tarek emerged onto a busier street, pushing through evening shoppers and merchants closing their stalls. He glanced back to see his pursuers still coming, their faces grim with determination.

  As he turned to run again, a hand shot out from a doorway, grabbing his collar and yanking him into darkness.

  "Quiet," a gruff voice commanded, as the door closed behind him.