After leaving the orphanage, Thristle led them through increasingly cramped alleyways, her steps quicker now, almost eager to be away from prying eyes. Seraphina matched her pace easily, maintaining her vigilance while sorting through this new information.
She had known, of course, that there was more to Thristle than her bumbling exterior suggested. Yet seeing these children's faces brighten at Thristle's arrival, watching her quietly check medicine supplies and slip extra coins into the donation box when she thought no one was looking—this revealed a different facet entirely.
"The fire the little girl mentioned," Seraphina said finally, breaking their silence as they navigated a particularly narrow passage. "Was that at this northern facility?"
Thristle stumbled slightly, regaining her balance with a gracelessness that seemed genuine. Seraphina noted the tightening of her shoulders and the subtle shift in her breathing pattern.
"Ancient history," Thristle muttered, not meeting her eyes. "Not relevant to our current situation."
Vesper, flowing beside them formed patterns that suggested interest in this exchange. His surface rippled with those deeper blues that appeared whenever Thristle's past was mentioned.
Seraphina allowed silence to stretch between them for several calculated steps, then softened her voice. "In my experience, the past rarely stays buried in port cities. Especially when it involves lives saved." She studied Thristle's profile with practiced casualness. "Perhaps when we're back aboard ship, over tea... it might be easier to discuss. When you feel more secure."
The gentleness was deliberate—an invitation that promised both understanding and discretion, the same tone Seraphina had used countless times to extract confidences from Lord Blackbriar's more reluctant associates.
"Look, it's not—" Thristle began, then caught herself, clearly sensing the subtle manipulation. Her eyes narrowed slightly. "You're good. Very good."
"I don’t know what you mean" Seraphina replied, her expression a perfect mask of professional concern.
Thristle gave a short, humorless laugh, running a hand through her white hair. "Maybe I'm just getting paranoid. Wouldn't be the first time." She glanced behind them, checking the empty alley. "This city does that to people. Makes you see patterns that aren't there."
The last part was delivered with a forced casualness that only highlighted her unease. Seraphina noted how Thristle's fingers had strayed once again to those hidden marks on her arm—a tell she clearly wasn't aware of. She wondered what else those green marks might signify—what experiments Thristle had witnessed or perhaps experienced herself.
As they approached the Miners' Guild, the imposing stone building looming ahead, Thristle paused and turned to Vesper.
"You'll need to wait outside again," she said apologetically. "These aren't the type to welcome... unconventional visitors."
Vesper's surface rippled with obvious disappointment, but he formed a pattern of reluctant agreement.
"Find somewhere inconspicuous," Thristle continued, gesturing to a small drainage canal nearby. "And this time, actually stay hidden. No entertaining locals, no matter how cute they are."
The slime's response was to flow into the indicated drainage system, though his surface patterns suggested he found these restrictions highly unreasonable. A small tendril formed briefly to poke Thristle's boot before disappearing entirely from sight.
They reached a three-story stone building that stood apart from its neighbors—not through ostentation, but through solid prosperity. The Miners' Guild headquarters wore its wealth like a veteran wears battle scars: with quiet confidence. Polished brass fixtures gleamed against weathered granite, and the imposing oak doors bore intricate carvings of pickaxes and mining scenes. Small windows reinforced with decorative iron grilles suggested security was as important as status. Gas-powered lanterns flanked the entrance, their steady blue-white glow marking this as a place of both traditional and modern power. A wrought-iron gate with thick bars surrounded a small courtyard that separated the street from the main entrance, allowing a clear view of the building's intimidating facade.
Thristle pulled the gate open with a slight creak of metal. She hesitated only briefly before stepping onto the stone-paved courtyard, her shoulders squared with a confidence that Seraphina noted didn't entirely match her usual demeanor.
A big, broad man appeared in the doorway, blocking their path. His shoulders strained against a formal coat that couldn't quite contain his miner's physique. A thick beard streaked with premature gray obscured most of his face save for cold eyes that narrowed at the sight of them. Deep-set wrinkles around those eyes spoke of years spent squinting in dim tunnels, and his massive hands bore the permanent stains and calluses of someone who still worked alongside his men. A jagged scar ran from his left ear down into his collar, partially hidden by the beard but visible when he turned his head.
"What do you want?! Get out!" he barked, voice echoing in the stone entryway.
Seraphina's hand gripped the hidden blade in her sleeve, but Thristle didn't flinch.
"Is that any way to greet people, Braddock?" Thristle called out, folding her arms across her chest.
The man squinted, leaning forward slightly. Recognition dawned across his weathered features, suspicion giving way to surprise.
"By the depths," he rumbled, a smirk breaking through his stern expression. "Look what the tide washed in. The Matchstick returns to Port Sallow." He clapped a hand on Thristle's shoulder, the weight making her knees almost buckle.
"Delightful to see you too, Braddock," Thristle replied, shrugging off his hand with practiced ease. "Still using intimidation to make up for your lack of conversational skills, I see."
"Some things don't need fancy words," he countered, but his eyes held a glint of genuine welcome beneath the gruffness. "Unlike some who think the longer the word, the smarter they sound."
"It's called vocabulary, Braddock," Thristle said with exaggerated patience. "Though I suppose all those years underground haven't helped broaden yours."
They measured each other for a moment before Braddock's face cracked into a reluctant grin.
Seraphina remained perfectly still, watching this performance with care, noting how Thristle's body language communicated a history that her words deliberately obscured.
Braddock finally stepped back, gesturing toward the open door. "Didn't think you'd actually have the guts to show up."
"You know me," Thristle replied with a tight smile. "Always did love disappointing expectations."
His eyes flicked to Seraphina, taking in her immaculate appearance with obvious suspicion. "And who's this princess? New master found you?"
"My companion," Thristle said quickly, something protective entering her voice. "Miss Dustrose serves Lord Blackbriar."
The name carried weight—Seraphina could see it land like a heavy stone in still water, ripples of calculation spreading across Braddock's expression.
"Lord Blackbriar, eh?" He straightened slightly, a subtle shift that nonetheless communicated respect. "Interesting company you're keeping these days, shorty."
"Life's full of surprises," Thristle replied, her fingers unconsciously straying toward her belt pouches. "Now, I believe you wanted to see me? Or was this summons just an elaborate excuse to show off your charming hospitality skills?"
Braddock's laugh was like stones grinding together as he studied them both for another moment, then stepped aside with exaggerated courtesy.
"Well then, the matchstick and her royal guard. Come in before those harbor rats see you lingering at my doorstep. Bad for business, you know."
He led them down a corridor of polished stone, the walls lined with display cases showcasing ore samples and mining innovations. Ancient pickaxes hung alongside newer mechanical drills, telling the story of the guild's evolution through tools of their trade.
The guild master's office matched its occupant—imposing, unapologetically sturdy, with furnishings built more for function than comfort. A massive desk of dark wood dominated the space, its surface covered with maps and mining reports. Behind it hung a detailed map of Port Sallow and its surrounding territories, colored pins marking what Seraphina recognized as excavation sites and mineral deposits.
Braddock settled behind his desk with a groan of old timber, gesturing for them to take the chairs opposite.
"I'll be direct," Braddock said, folding his massive hands atop his papers. "No point dancing around."
"What a surprise," Thristle muttered, sitting in her chair like she owned the place.
The guild master ignored her comment. "We're excavating the western slope, pushing deeper than ever before, and we're slowly running out of..." His eyes shifted to Seraphina, hesitation momentarily arresting his words.
"She's with me," Thristle said quickly. "Anything you have to say, she can hear."
Braddock's bushy eyebrows rose. "You do know that this princess is more than meets the eye? Not just a pretty maid playing escort."
Thristle's smile was tight. "Sure."
"And that she already contacted Briar's goons while you were walking here?"
They both turned to Seraphina, whose expression remained perfectly composed despite the accusation. Only the slightest tightening around her eyes betrayed her surprise at being so directly challenged.
"I'm curious how you would know if I had," Seraphina asked slowly.
Braddock barked another laugh. "Girl, this is Port Sallow. We breathe information like you breathe air." He tapped a brass tube on his desk—part of the pneumatic message system that connected key buildings throughout the port. "Two reports about your arrival before you even stepped off the ship. Another when you were spotted heading this way."
Thristle's casualness dropped from her posture. "If you knew we were coming, why the hostility?"
"Wanted to see if you'd still walk straight – but it seems you still had it in you," Braddock said with a shrug that could have moved mountains. "Some things never change, eh?"
He leaned forward, the chair protesting beneath his weight. "Now, about our business. We're hitting granite deposits again. The same stuff that caused all that trouble last time. We need something stronger, you know."
"I just arrived and don't have enough to make... well maybe I do have, but where would you get the reagents I'd need on short notice?"
"We have a full-fledged alchemist shop in Port Sallow now, although not interested in producing volatile compounds. A smart one."
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
Thristle's eyes narrowed. "So you're calling me stupid? Because if that's the case, my price might—"
"My humblest apologies to our brightest genius, the most intelligent alchemist to ever grace Port Sallow..." Braddock's voice dripped with exaggerated respect.
Thristle stared at him, unimpressed.
"I'm only quoting what others have said," he added with a smirk. "Would never say such things myself, Shorty."
---
"Shorty? Matchstick?" Seraphina's eyebrow lifted a fraction, the closest she ever came to outright surprise.
Thristle grimaced. "An old, thoroughly unwelcome nickname that certain individuals refuse to abandon despite repeated requests, threats, and one particularly memorable incident involving experimental explosives and someone's prized beard."
They descended the guild's stone steps, Thristle's boots landing with unnecessary force on each one. The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the cobblestones, painting the world in contrasting sharpness that matched her mood. Vesper materialized from a nearby drainage channel, flowing toward them with the eager ripples of a creature who'd been waiting far too patiently.
"At least someone's happy to see us," Thristle muttered, watching Vesper's surface dance with curious patterns. The slime formed a small tendril that gestured questioningly toward the guild building they'd just left.
"Just the usual," she told him with forced casualness. "Old acquaintances, uncomfortable requests, people knowing more about our arrival than they should." Her eyes flicked briefly to Seraphina, the glance lasting just long enough to be noticed but not commented upon.
Vesper's response was to flow closer, his surface darkening slightly as if absorbing her mood. The bear skull rotated toward Seraphina with that particular tilt that somehow conveyed scientific interest despite its empty sockets.
They walked through less populated alleys, drawing stares and whispers from the few unfortunate souls they passed. Vesper tried his best to remain inconspicuous – a nearly impossible task for a massive blue slime with a bear skull core – by flowing close to walls. His efforts at stealth were admirable, if entirely unsuccessful.
"I'm starving," Thristle announced abruptly, breaking the subtle tension. "Emotional distress always makes me hungry."
"There's an establishment just ahead," Seraphina noted, her professional demeanor somehow maintaining its perfect composure despite the sideways glances directed their way by passersby. Something in her expression seemed unusually tight, though – the barest flicker of discomfort at Braddock's unexpected knowledge of her communications.
The tavern—The Broken Pick, according to its weathered sign bearing the image of a shattered mining tool. A collection of mismatched tables cluttered the small courtyard outside, partially sheltered by a faded awning. The clientele appeared to be largely off-duty miners and dock workers, their conversations creating a comfortable buzz of background noise. On one side, a group of stocky, bald figures sat around a low table, their boots occasionally tapping against the stone floor in patterns.
"Perfect," Thristle decided. "No one looks too fancy, and they're all too tired to care about unusual guests." She selected a table near the outer edge, positioning herself where she could watch both the tavern entrance and the street beyond. The casual placement wasn't lost on Seraphina, who noted how Thristle's apparent clumsiness vanished when selecting strategically advantageous positions not too far from the awfully quiet dwarven gathering.
Vesper flowed halfway beneath their chosen table, making itself a lot smaller. Only the occasional glint of light off the bear's skull revealed his watchful presence.
"Would you stop fidgeting?" Seraphina murmured, her perfect posture making the battered chair beneath her seem suddenly embarrassed by its own existence. "You're drawing more attention than Vesper would."
"Can't help it," Thristle muttered, glancing toward the tavern door.
A server approached, her expression carrying the particular weariness of someone who'd heard every bad joke sailors could invent and several they were still workshopping.
"Orders?" She balanced her tray with indifference, apparently unimpressed by Thristle's nervous energy, Seraphina's incongruously perfect posture, or even the sight of Vesper.
"Shirmegill," Thristle replied immediately, her eyes lighting up with something besides wariness for the first time since they'd entered Port Sallow. "With the proper spice mix, mind – not that watered-down tourist blend. She hesitated, then added, "And do you have pudding? The sweetest, stickiest kind you make. A double portion."
"Someone has a sweet tooth," Thristle explained with a nod toward Vesper. "Though I'm not entirely sure he deserves it after ignoring explicit instructions to stay hidden." She aimed this last comment where Vesper's surface rippled with what might have been either indignation or embarrassment.
The server nodded, though her expression suggested the requests were unusual. "And you?" she asked Seraphina.
?Beeftack with bread," Seraphina replied, her voice carrying that particular neutrality she employed when maintaining professional distance.
The server departed, leaving them to the background symphony of murmured conversations and the rhythmic thunk of tankards against the wood.
"Beeftack?" Thristle repeated, her nose wrinkling like she'd caught the scent of something deeply offensive. "That's what ye order in a port with the freshest fish around? Preserved meat that's been sittin' in salt for half a year?"
"I’m not fond of fish that much," Seraphina replied mildly, adjusting her already perfect cuffs.
The conversation paused as their food arrived with surprising promptness – either due to the kitchen's efficiency or the questionable freshness of their preparations. Before Thristle lay a glistening arrangement of translucent fish slices, their edges catching light like mother-of-pearl. Tiny flecks of vibrant spices dotted the surface, creating patterns that might have been decorative or possibly alchemical in nature. The scent rising from the plate carried notes of the sea alongside something sharper that made nearby patrons' eyes water slightly.
Seraphina's plate held what appeared to be leather that had been minimally convinced to become edible, accompanied by bread.
"Perceptible," Thristle said with obvious satisfaction, inhaling the aroma with a blissful expression that momentarily erased the anxiety that had shadowed her since their arrival. "Just how it's supposed to smell."
"You mean 'pungent,'" Seraphina corrected, her nostrils flaring slightly as she leaned away from the aromatic assault.
"That too," Thristle agreed cheerfully, already selecting a particularly translucent slice with precise fingers. "My master used to say good shimmergill should announce itself to your nose before it greets your tongue."
She popped the slice into her mouth with an expression of rapture that bordered on the inappropriate for public settings. Her eyes closed briefly as she savored the flavor, shoulders relaxing for the first time since they'd entered Port Sallow.
"Gods, I'd forgotten how much I missed proper fresh food," she sighed, already reaching for the next piece.
Seraphina watched this display with the carefully neutral expression of someone witnessing a religious ritual from an unfamiliar culture – respectful but fundamentally bewildered. When she finally cut into her own meal, the beeftack surrendered with the reluctance of something that had been fighting for months and wasn't about to give up now.
"That's not food," Thristle observed, watching Seraphina's struggle with professional interest. "That's architectural material. People build foundations with less sturdy substances."
"It's reliable," Seraphina replied with dignity, managing to sever a piece that immediately began trying to reclaim its former shape. "Predictable."
"It's dead," Thristle countered.
"Unlike your meal, which appears to still be considering its options." Seraphina eyed the shimmering fish with undisguised suspicion as another slice seemed to twitch slightly in the ambient light.
"That's just the spices reacting with the oils," Thristle explained, though her smile suggested she wasn't entirely displeased by Seraphina's discomfort. "Perfectly natural. Well, natural-adjacent. Mostly intended."
Seraphina took a deliberately composed bite of her beeftack, chewing with the determination of someone making a point rather than enjoying a meal. "I prefer food that doesn't require a research grant to understand."
"And I prefer food that hasn't been beaten into submission before serving," Thristle retorted, gesturing with her fork at Seraphina's plate. "Did they tenderize that with a shipwright's hammer, or just run it over with a cart first?"
Their culinary debate might have continued, but a loud slurping sound from beneath the table interrupted them. Vesper was methodically absorbing the pudding the server had quietly delivered, his surface rippling with such obvious satisfaction that it was clear no argument would convince him he hadn't received the superior dish.
Thristle shook her head with reluctant fondness before her expression sobered. "What does Lord Blackbriar really want?" she asked, her voice low enough that only Seraphina could hear. "Because I'm getting the distinct impression our official mission parameters are somewhat... flexible."
"The mission parameters haven't changed," Seraphina responded coolly. "Locating those missing persons and determining what disrupted the supply chain. Unless you have reason to believe otherwise?"
"And yet you've been awfully interested in my past." Thristle traced the rim of her glass with one finger. "Far more than seems necessary for that particular mission."
"Perhaps because your connections in this port are surprisingly extensive for a simple alchemist's apprentice," Seraphina countered smoothly. Her eyes settled on Thristle's belt pouch. "Just as your financial resources seem... inconsistent with what one might expect from an apprentice," Seraphina noted, her eyes momentarily flicking toward Thristle's belt.
"Most in your position couldn't afford to be so generous at the orphanage." She leaned forward slightly, her voice dropping even lower. "I know more about you than you realize, Thristle. Or should I say... Matchstick?"
The nickname hung between them like a lit fuse. Thristle's fingers stilled against her glass, her expression suddenly wiped clean of emotion.
"Interesting choice of nickname," Seraphina continued when Thristle remained silent. "Particularly given what happened at the facility here before it burned."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Thristle said flatly, but her fingers had begun to tap a nervous rhythm against the table's edge.
"Don't I?" Seraphina's gaze remained steady. "Lord Blackbriar has extensive records, Thristle. Witness statements. Employment history. Incident reports." She paused deliberately.
"It's quite something to see one's name listed under 'persons of interest' in an arson investigation."
Beneath the table, Vesper had gone completely still, his surface darkening as he absorbed the tension flowing between them.
"You weren't just present during that fire," Seraphina pressed, watching Thristle's face with careful attention. "Were you?"
"You don't understand what happened there," Thristle replied, her voice barely above a whisper. "What they were doing. What I—" She stopped abruptly, swallowing whatever confession had nearly escaped.
"Then explain it to me," Seraphina urged her tone softening just enough to offer an opening. "Help me understand."
Thristle's eyes shuttered. "The past is the past. I'm here now, helping with your investigation despite every instinct telling me to run in the opposite direction. Isn't that enough?"
"It would be," Seraphina agreed, "if I believed your cooperation was genuine rather than a convenient way to monitor what information we uncover." She sat back, perfectly composed despite the tension crackling between them. "Trust goes both ways, Thristle."
"Trust?" Thristle's laugh held no humor. "That's rich coming from someone who searched my belongings"
A flicker of surprise crossed Seraphina's face—so brief anyone else might have missed it.
"Oh yes," Thristle continued, gaining momentum. "You're not as subtle as you think—the clasps. My journal had been moved. Did you find what you were looking for, or was your little invasion of privacy disappointing?"
"Sometimes necessary precautions must be taken," Seraphina replied, neither confirming nor denying the accusation. "Particularly when one's companion has a history of... combustible solutions to problems."
Thristle pushed her chair back slightly. "I think we're done here."
"We have a mission to complete," Seraphina reminded her, an edge of steel entering her voice. "One that requires your expertise and local knowledge."
"I never agreed to have my privacy violated," Thristle countered.
"And I never agreed to partner with someone who has a potential connection to exactly what we're investigating." Seraphina's hand moved to rest on the table between them—not threatening, but definitively present. "We will complete this mission, Thristle. Whether you choose to cooperate or not."
The implication hung in the air between them.
Thristle's foot shifted against the floor strangely. The effect was immediate and unsettling. Throughout the tavern's outdoor section, every dwarf went absolutely still. Their conversations ceased mid-word, tankards hovering halfway to mouths, as their attention laser-focused on Seraphina with an intensity that seemed to drop the temperature several degrees.
"Careful," Thristle said, holding Seraphina's gaze. "Dwarves take a dim view of threats against those they consider under their protection. Even former apprentices with questionable skills."
Seraphina assessed the situation with remarkable composure, noting the suddenly hostile atmosphere and the multiple escape routes now effectively blocked by stocky, deceptively casual figures. She inclined her head slightly, acknowledging the tactical advantage without surrendering her position.
"I have no intention of harming you," she clarified, her voice calm despite the tension. "But I must ensure our mission's completion."
Beneath the table, Vesper's surface churned with conflicting patterns—deep protective purples swirling alongside the blues that had begun to appear whenever he interacted with Seraphina. His usually decisive movements had become hesitant, the bear skull rotating between the two women as if trying to make sense of this sudden conflict between figures he had come to trust.
"We should go," Thristle said finally, rising from her chair with deliberate casualness. "Before this gets any more... complicated."
"Agreed," Seraphina replied, matching her tone while calculating the dynamics of their exit. "Though our conversation isn't finished."
"It never is with you," Thristle muttered, dropping coins on the table with unnecessary force.
They departed together, neither willing to separate despite the crackling tension between them. The dwarves remained watchful until they rounded the corner, only then returning to their drinks with expressions that suggested the matter was temporarily suspended rather than resolved.
Vesper flowed behind them like a reluctant shadow, his surface patterns shifting between concern and confusion as they continued their journey through Port Sallow's winding streets—together in proximity but miles apart in trust.
---
