The cool night breeze brushed against Sic's skin. He wiped droplets of sweat speckled across his face. The dirt underneath his thin shoes crunched against his weight while a carriage clattered noisily as it made its way through the well-trodden path that was the Crossroads.

  Walking to the destination described by the letter was always a pain, especially when he used a cane most of the time. A glaring pressure built in his knees, a constant reminder of the pain that dumbass Horoh inflicted on him years ago.

  He grumbled under his breath, cursing the uneven terrain and the fools who hadn't thought to maintain the road better. Every so often, he adjusted his grip on the cane, as if redistributing the discomfort might ease the throbbing ache.

  Not only did he have to continuously supply those freaky messengers orphans—a situation he never dared dwell upon—a royal knight was breathing on his damn neck. Between dealing with Scourge and that psycho woman, he was stuck between a rock and a hard place. It was like navigating a razor-thin edge, where a single misstep would send him tumbling into disaster. Who was worse between the two? That, Sic wasn't sure about, but he could bet his life on it that the knight was just as ruthless as the messengers.

  He adjusted his hat, scowling as the carriage jolted over another uneven patch of dirt. Jor sat at the front, reins in hand, guiding the horses through the darkened path with practiced ease. The other two men Sic had brought along walked on either side of the carriage, keeping an eye on their surroundings. It was a routine they'd done many times before, and yet, tonight, Sic felt a weight pressing down on him heavier than usual.

  Scourge never missed a shipment. If they did, it meant something was wrong. And when things went wrong with Scourge, people disappeared. Sic had spent years ensuring that he remained on their good side, balancing their demands without giving too much, keeping just enough leverage to keep himself from being disposed of. But this new arrangement with Nessa had tipped the scales. He was playing a dangerous game, and for what?

  Although, Sic knew one thing: Johan and his dogs have caught wind of Scourge and were actively sniffing around for answers. That alone made the stakes even higher. The Royal Knights weren’t fools, and Kalavan was the worst of them all—persistent, calculating, and relentless in his pursuit of justice. If he even suspected something was amiss in Naula, it wouldn’t be long before he came knocking, yet he most likely sent Royal Knight Nessa in his stead.

  That begged the question: was it better to make deals with Scourge or a knight? Neither option sat well with him. Scourge was ruthless, a faceless entity that demanded results without mercy. The Royal Knights, on the other hand, were righteous to the point of suffocation—if they had their way, Sic and the rest of the Black Grit would hang from the gallows by month’s end.

  For now, weighing his options and surveying the situation was the best course of action. After all, whatever choice offered him the most safety and coin was where his loyalty would ultimately lie. That had always been Sic’s way—survival first, profit second. Ideals and allegiances were luxuries for men who could afford them.

  His grip on the cane tightened when he stared ahead at the clearing. The longer he looked, the more certain he became that something was off. There should have been signs of movement by now—shadows shifting between trees, the faintest rustle of fabric, whispers in the wind. Scourge’s messengers were never late. They arrived unseen, delivered their cryptic instructions, and disappeared just as swiftly.

  But all that awaited them was a V-shaped intersection of two trees and profound quiet.

  Jor pulled on the reins, bringing the rumbling carriage to a halt. The horses snorted, digging their hooves into the ground, and flicked their ears. Sic traversed around the carriage, eyeing it one last time so that nothing seemed out of place.

  A large cloth was draped over the entire structure, concealing a cage nestled inside. The weight of the shipment was visible in the deep grooves the wheels had carved into the dirt. As for the noise, it was deathly silent. No sniffling, no crying, or even the rustle of fabric. It would've been odd for no noise to emanate from the carriage, given that there were children inside. Even if they had exhausted themselves crying earlier, there should have been some sign of life—labored breathing, a shift in position, something.

  Well, whatever, Sic thought, completing his inspection. The quietness was probably the doing of that woman. Matter of fact, there was a bit of noise in the beginning of the ride, but that only lasted for a meager ten minutes before it ceased. It hadn't been a gradual tapering off, either—it had been sudden, as if someone had pressed a blade to their throats and whispered for silence. That was the unsettling part.

  Sic let out a slow breath, shaking off the creeping unease settling in his chest. Overthinking would get him nowhere. He had a job to do, and the sooner it was finished, the sooner he could leave this damn place. The difficult part of the meeting had yet to arrive, and that was stalling through talk—long enough for her to gleam enough information.

  By Yutar, I will ask for double, no, triple the coin after this is over!

  He stepped away from the carriage, adjusting his cuffs as he glanced at Jor and Reb, the bartender who is always strung along for these types of things. Though unblessed like the majority of the Black Grit, he was the most physically capable among them, his sheer size alone making him an intimidating presence. Reb didn’t talk much, but he didn’t need to—his fists did enough speaking for him.

  "We wait," Sic said, rolling his shoulders. "If they don’t show in the next half hour, we head back. I’m not standing around all night for ghosts."

  Silence settled once more. Minutes passed. The trees swayed, the wind whispered, but nothing else moved. Sic tapped his cane against the dirt, listening to the distant hoot of an owl. His nerves were starting to fray. Where were they? Scourge’s messengers never dallied. They came, they collected, they left. Efficient, swift, like clockwork. But the clock stopped ticking.

  A jarring sight unfurled before them. The oddly formed trees warped before their very eyes, twisting unnaturally as if the forest itself had decided to breathe. The V-shaped trunks bent inward, their bark groaning under an unseen force. Shadows stretched long and thin, flickering despite the lack of firelight.

  A gust of wind blew through the clearing, sharp and cold. From between the gnarled trees, figures emerged—draped in heavy cloaks that swallowed the light. Ones face was obscured by a mask of bone, their eyes as red as a blood moon while the other relied on their hood to cover most of their face. Two of them, one tall and one with average stature; silent as the grave.

  Sic straightened, offering his best businesslike smile. "Well now, I was beginning to think you'd forgotten about us."

  The tallest of the figures tilted its head slightly, considering him. Then, a voice rasped from beneath the mask. "You are late, Sic."

  Sic chuckled, spreading his hands. "Oh, come now. The road’s a fickle thing, and you lot are hardly the easiest to track down. I’d say we arrived at exactly the right time."

  "And what about the shipment?"

  Sic rapped his cane against the wood. "All here. Safe and sound."

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  The figure extended a gloved hand. "Show me."

  Sic hesitated, but complied nonetheless. He nodded toward Jor, still in the box seat, who reached behind him and tugged at the heavy cloth covering the carriage. The fabric rustled as it slid away, revealing the iron-barred cage nestled within. Inside, the shipment sat in eerie silence, their figures barely shifting under the pale moonlight. No cries, no whimpers—just wide, vacant eyes staring back at the masked figures.

  The other messenger stepped forward, their gloved fingers gripping the bars. A slow, deliberate motion. They peered in, silent, assessing. The dim moonlight cast long shadows over their body, but thanks to the illumination, Sic noticed a small scar near the cheek. Their thin lips parted open slightly when they leaned closer, no doubt peering at the back.

  A lump, large as a stone, formed in Sic's throat as he spoke. "S-See? No damage. No trouble. Just as promised."

  The messenger said nothing at first. Then, turning their head slightly toward their leader, they gave a single, almost imperceptible nod.

  Sic allowed a sliver of relief to settle in his chest, but it was fleeting. The tallest figure pointed at the ground in front of Sic. A pond of shadows materialized, pooling around Sic's feet. Out came a chest smaller than the one the woman brought earlier.

  The shortest of the masked figures bent down and unlatched the chest with a faint click. The lid creaked open, revealing piles of coin as if thrown in carelessly. Compared to the royal knight, the amount here was considerably less.

  Sic scooped up a handful of sil, even going as far as to bite into it so the metal would sing under his teeth. "It's real sil alright. And I do expect that the amount is what was agreed upon."

  "We don't make mistakes," said the shorter one, their voice balancing between feminine and muscular, with a slight inclination towards the former.

  “Well, you lot don’t, sure,” he said, bending down slightly. “But I’m the suspicious type. You understand.” He gave a tight-lipped grin before swiping a coin from the chest and slipping it into his pocket.

  The taller figure did not react. “The exchange is complete.”

  Sic forced himself to nod, resisting the instinct to turn on his heel and leave. He needed to play this carefully. The deal had gone through, but his real task was just beginning.

  His palms were slick beneath his gloves, though his outward grin remained intact. Damn that royal brat, he thought bitterly. Nessa had practically shoved this scheme into his lap, and now he was the one dancing on a razor’s edge.

  Still, he had a job to do.

  “Bit of an operation you lot have,” he remarked, adopting an easy, conversational tone. “I’d say I admire it, but I get the sense admiration’s wasted on your kind.”

  Neither of them reacted. The taller one stood like a statue, the shorter one still idly tracing the iron bars of the cage. The orphans inside remained unnervingly still—just as instructed.

  Sic cleared his throat, pressing on. “Never did ask—who do I have the pleasure of doing business with? Seems only fair, since you know my name.”

  The shorter one turned their head slightly, their fingers halting. “You ask too many questions.”

  Damn it.

  Sic forced out a chuckle, tilting his head as if they’d merely scolded him for bad manners. “Curiosity’s a curse of the trade,” he said, tapping his temple with a finger. “Can’t help wondering who’s got the pockets deep enough to keep this kind of thing running.” He let his gaze flick to the taller figure, watching for a reaction. “A name, maybe?”

  Silence. The wind howled through the Crossroads, but the messengers remained unreadable. Sic’s nerves pulled tight. He was pushing, and he knew it. The trick was making them believe it was harmless.

  The shorter one finally spoke. “You don’t need to know names. You only need to know your place.”

  The warning sat heavy between them. A lump lodged itself in Sic’s throat, but he swallowed it down and lifted his hands in mock surrender. “Fair enough,” he said, injecting an easy lilt into his voice. “Didn’t mean to step on any toes.”

  His mind whirled. They’re not giving me anything. He needed another way in—some sliver of information to draw out.

  Then, just as he started weighing his next move, the figure with the bone mask shifted. Their head tilted toward the carriage, and a ripple of something unseen passed through the air.

  “There is a mana signature inside the carriage,” he snarled.

  The words fell like stones, heavy and damning. Jor stiffened. Sic’s gut plummeted. His heart raced, panic clawing up his spine. Nessa was inside—hiding among the orphans. If they so much as lifted that cloth again and actually inspected each and every child...

  Sic barked out a laugh, louder than necessary, smacking his cane against the wood. “Oh, that? Thought you knew already.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Figured Scourge would want the healthy ones. Nothing fetches a higher price than a bit of raw potential, yeah? It was you who said that those with the blessing of Sthito are worth more than us unblessed. As luck would have it, we found one."

  The second messenger finally shifted. Their fingers tapped once against the iron bars before withdrawing. “A fortunate find,” they murmured, though their tone was unreadable.

  Sic forced himself to chuckle again, though his throat felt like sandpaper. “That’s what I thought,” he said, spreading his hands as if this whole affair was just another smooth business deal. “Took a bit of effort to keep the little thing calm, but we knew you’d appreciate the addition. Quality goods, that one.”

  The bone-masked figure lingered, their head tilting ever so slightly. A moment too long. A moment too careful. Sic could feel the sea of sweat forming at his collar.

  The hooded figure turned, moving toward the carriage. Their fingers grazed the iron bars once more, lingering over them as if sensing something left unsaid. Sic’s stomach twisted. Was that doubt? Suspicion? He had pushed his luck already—one word too many, one joke too forced, and this deal could unravel at the seams.

  Then, to everyone's surprise, the second figure spoke. "Next time we meet, there will be extra coins for your excellent find. Those marked with the blessing of Sthito are valued products that will help hasten His arrival."

  "Hold your tongue," hissed the bone-masked figure, "That information is not meant for their ears."

  The hooded one stiffened but said no more. Sic, however, latched onto that slip like a starved dog catching a scent. Hasten His arrival? That was something, wasn’t it? Something Nessa would want to know. But there was no time to prod, no safe way to steer the conversation without raising further suspicion. Sic could only hope she had caught that slip, too.

  Instead, he played his role. He gave an affable grin, tapping his cane against the carriage as if all was well. “Now that’s what I like to hear—repeat business. Always a pleasure dealing with clients who know the value of outstanding stock.”

  The bone-masked figure remained still. Then, at last, they gave a slow nod. “You are dismissed.”

  Just three words, but they carried weight—finality. Sic resisted the urge to bolt, to look back, to breathe too deeply. Instead, he gave an exaggerated bow, twirling his cane as he stepped away from the carriage. Jor climbed out of the box seat and edged away alongside Reb.

  The second messenger stepped away from the carriage as well and faced the two trees, arm outstretched. Like last time, the air shifted; shadows stretched unnaturally, bending and twisting until they merged into something more. A passage. A void.

  "While I hate a sorcerer's guts, I'd by lying if I said I wasn't amazed at the power they wield," Sic mumbled.

  At the scene before them, the horses buckled, their eyes rolling white with terror. The beasts weren’t having it—muscles twitching, hooves scraping against the dirt as if they’d bolt at the first chance. However, they weren't given the chance to turn as black tendrils erupted from the sorcerer's hand, wrapping around them until they were nothing more than black-fleshed horses.

  Now obedient, the horses trudged toward the passage, passing through as if walking through a veil of water. After they disappeared, the other messengers followed. The tall one went in first and vanished. The other had one leg in, but instead of entering, they turned their head slightly at Sic. His eyes shot upward when their mouth curved before the figure disappeared.

  Right after confirming they had truly left, Sic took a deep breath and ran a hand through his hair. "Shit... That exchange might've taken a few years off my life. Check for any clues that the woman may have left for us to follow."

  Together, they looked around, Jor scanning the area and Reb with his ear to the ground. They checked the ground and trees for any markings, but found none. Sic was beginning to think that Nessa had forgotten to leave any trail, which would mean he had no way to track her down. No tracks to follow meant finding her was an impossibility.

  "I see nothing out of the ordinary here, boss," Reb grumbled.

  Sic's eyes narrowed. If there were truly no tracks, that meant the Black Grit had no means to go after her—as if a bunch of unblessed can do anything against sorcerers of that caliber. They were mere ants compared to the messengers; their ability to travel through shadows was no more than a slight breeze in the wind. Against the messengers of Scourge, what chance did a lone royal knight have?

  Best to return to Naula and act as if nothing had happened. We got our sil, and I find it hard to believe one sorcerer can fight against the others.

  Having formulated a plan, Sic was on the verge of putting it into action when he heard a soft gasp. His eyes snapped to Jor, who was examining a communication device fixed into the ground, directly where the carriage had first been.