The city loomed on the horizon, its spires piercing the dusk sky like jagged teeth. Malric stood at the edge of a barren field, the last stretch of open land before the tangled streets began. Shadows stretched long across the ground, a silent escort to his skeletal frame hidden beneath a thick, tattered cloak.

As the soft murmur of life in the city reached his ears, Malric considered his next steps. "A haven for serpents and liars," he thought, gripping the edge of his hood tighter. His enhanced perception, a gift of the goblin shaman’s spine, tingled with the faint echoes of magic emanating from within the city. These were mere whispers, likely wards or charms scattered about, but each served as a potential warning to his undead nature.

The docks were his destination, but they would be no simple task to infiltrate. The scarred man’s information confirmed the presence of Basilisk’s Fang operatives there, but they would undoubtedly be on high alert. “Discretion is survival,” Malric mused, his ribcage rattling softly under his breathless laugh. He decided to slip into the city unnoticed, blending with the shadows and observing from afar.

Twilight descended as Malric approached the city gates. Bustling with life, they were guarded by iron-clad sentinels and illuminated by lanterns that cast pools of golden light across the cobblestones. Travelers moved in droves, merchants peddling wares as guards scrutinized each passerby.

Malric avoided the main gates, skirting around to a less conspicuous side where crumbling walls offered hidden entry points. His clawed fingers scraped lightly against the stone as he climbed. From his perch atop the wall, he surveyed the city—a sprawling maze of tightly packed buildings, twisting alleys, and flickering torchlight.

Dropping down into an alley, he kept to the shadows, his movements deliberate and silent. As he advanced, his magical senses reached out tentatively, feeling for wards or traps. Small flickers danced in his awareness—protective charms on certain buildings or faint auras around trinkets carried by passersby. Nothing significant yet, but enough to confirm that magic had its place in this city’s underbelly.

Malric drifted through the streets like a wraith, his form hidden beneath his heavy cloak. The city was alive with activity—merchants shouting, children laughing, and beggars pleading for scraps. His enhanced vision caught fleeting glances of people adorned with subtle tattoos of serpents and fangs, symbols of Basilisk’s Fang.

He lingered near a bustling marketplace, blending into the shadows of a vendor’s stall. His empty sockets watched as a pair of grizzled men exchanged whispers. Their words were clipped and cautious, but Malric caught enough: a "shipment" scheduled for the east docks under cover of night.

"A lead," Malric thought, stepping back into the shadows. He would need to confirm it.

The docks reeked of salt, rotting wood, and desperation. Malric moved between stacks of crates and barrels, avoiding the pools of light cast by swinging lanterns.

He crouched low behind a pile of cargo, his form obscured in the darkness. From his vantage, he observed a bustling operation. Dockworkers moved crates marked with strange symbols, while heavily armed guards stood watch. Among them, one figure stood out—a man with a commanding presence, his bald head gleaming under the lantern light. He barked orders, directing the flow of goods with precision.

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This was no ordinary smuggler. The way others deferred to him, the authority in his tone—it marked him as someone of importance, perhaps a mid-level member of Basilisk’s Fang.

Malric's attention flickered to a nearby crate, faintly emanating a magical aura that tugged at his senses. The magic felt old and restless, its purpose unclear. He hesitated, his focus torn between following the man and investigating the crate.

The faint glow of magic clung to the edges of the wooden crate like a shroud, its aura invisible to mortal eyes but palpable to Malric's newly awakened senses. The docks were a tangle of shadows and muffled voices, the stink of salt and damp wood heavy in the air. Men scurried back and forth, carrying barrels and sacks, none paying attention to the skeletal figure concealed in the darkness nearby.

He shifted slightly, his reinforced ribcage creaking faintly, and approached the crate. It was unmarked save for an etching in the corner—a crude coiled serpent. Basilisk’s Fang. He traced a bony finger over the symbol, feeling the latent magic pulse beneath the rough surface of the wood.

“Artifacts,” Malric muttered silently to himself. “Enchanted, perhaps cursed. Dangerous and potent.”

Stretching his awareness further, he felt threads of power intertwined with the objects inside. This wasn’t just cargo; it was a weapon, or perhaps a tool for rituals. His suspicion that the Fang dealt in dark magic was confirmed.

Satisfied with the discovery but wary of lingering, Malric withdrew into the shadows. His empty sockets locked onto a figure—a bald man barking orders to the laborers. This one carried himself with authority, a lynchpin of the operation. If anyone here could lead him closer to the Basilisk’s Fang, it was him.

The man finished overseeing the loading of the crates and headed into a nearby warehouse, a rickety structure bathed in dim lantern light. Malric followed, his steps eerily silent against the cobblestones. The interior of the warehouse was sparse, save for more crates stacked high and a table in the center where the bald man met another figure—a wiry man with sharp features and a nervous air.

Malric crouched in the shadows, listening intently.

“They want the shipment ready by tomorrow night,” the wiry man said, his voice low and urgent. “The boss doesn’t want any delays. You know what happens if we screw this up.”

The bald man snorted. “Relax. Everything’s on schedule. These artifacts aren’t going anywhere without my say-so.”

“Still,” the wiry man pressed, “it’s not just about the shipment. They’re planning something big. Bigger than usual. You should be careful who you trust.”

“Are you saying I’m careless?” the bald man growled, stepping closer.

Malric leaned forward slightly, straining to catch every word, when his foot pressed against a loose board. The faint creak was barely audible, but it was enough.

Both men froze.

“Who’s there?” barked the bald man, drawing a knife from his belt.

The wiry man glanced around nervously, his hand hovering over the hilt of his own blade.

Malric melted deeper into the shadows. As the wiry man moved closer to investigate, Malric struck with precision. His clawed hand clamped over the man’s mouth, muffling his cry as he yanked him into the darkness. A sickening crack followed as Malric twisted his neck, silencing him forever.

The bald man turned at the sound, his knife raised, but found nothing.

“Show yourself!” he demanded, backing toward the exit.

Malric didn’t. Instead, he moved to cut off the man’s retreat, intercepting him in the alley outside.

The man stumbled to a halt, his knife trembling in his grip as he found himself face-to-face with Malric. The skeletal figure loomed, his empty eye sockets burning with an unnatural glow.

“What do you want?” the man stammered, his bravado evaporating.

Malric stepped closer, his voice low and cold. “Information. The Basilisk’s Fang. Where do I find them?”

The man hesitated, his eyes darting to the knife in his hand.

“Don’t,” Malric warned, his claws flexing. “You’ll die screaming if you try.”

The man’s resolve crumbled. “I-I don’t know where they are. I swear!”

Malric’s fingers closed around the man’s throat, lifting him effortlessly off the ground. “Not good enough.”

The man’s eyes bulged. “Wait! Wait! I know someone—someone higher up. A lieutenant. He handles the big deals. He’ll know!”

“Where?”

The man gasped, clawing at Malric’s hand. “East of here! In the slums! He operates out of an old tannery—no one goes there unless they’ve got business with the Fang.”

Satisfied, Malric released him, letting him collapse to the ground. The man coughed and wheezed, clutching his throat.

“Please… I told you what you wanted…”

Malric regarded him coldly. “You did.”

Before the man could react, Malric’s claw struck, silencing him forever.

As Malric slipped back into the night, he reflected on the exchange. Humans, he realized, were masters of deceit and deflection, using layers of scapegoats and intermediaries to shield their true operations. The Basilisk’s Fang was no different.

“They hide behind others, like cowards,” Malric muttered, his voice bitter. “But they can’t hide from me.”

The slums awaited.