The musty scent of damp stone mingled with the sharp tang of fermenting wine as Alara stepped into the dimly lit storage room alongside Dal’akar. Stacks of barrels loomed like sentinels, their wooden surfaces gleaming faintly in the flickering torchlight. The air was thick, heavy with tension and the lingering chill of the underground chamber.
Du’lan stood near the center of the room, his sharp gray eyes already scanning the space. He glanced up at their approach and offered a brief nod.
“Where is Uriah?” Dal’akar asked, his voice clipped with irritation.
Du’lan’s lips curved into a faint smile. “He’s… preoccupied. He suddenly had an idea and left to follow it without informing me of the details.”
Dal’akar’s jaw tightened, but he waved a dismissive hand. “Very well. And Garin?”
The faintest trace of amusement flickered in Du’lan’s eyes. “Delayed. He’ll be along shortly.”
Dal’akar muttered something under his breath and turned his attention to the rows of barrels. “Let’s get started.”
The three began to move through the room, examining the barrels and the faint trails of moisture that streaked the floor. Alara’s gaze flicked over the dimly lit space, searching for anything unusual. Her eyes caught on a dark shape near the base of one of the barrels. She knelt down, her heart quickening as the shape resolved into the lifeless form of a mouse.
“What is it?” Du’lan’s voice broke the silence, his footsteps soft as he approached.
Alara’s fingers hovered over the mouse, careful not to touch it. “A dead mouse,” she murmured. Her blue eyes narrowed as she scanned the area. “But I don’t see a trap or any obvious poison.”
She leaned closer, noticing a faint trail of liquid leading away from the body. Rising to her feet, she followed the trail to a nearby barrel, where a small drip of liquid clung to the edge of the wood. Her pulse quickened as she stared at the dark stain forming beneath it.
She turned back to Du’lan, forcing her voice to remain casual. “Who is this wine intended for?”
Du’lan straightened, his expression unreadable. “For the farewell banquet before we return to Valmira. Why?”
“Is it for everyone? Or just a select group?” she pressed, her voice steady despite the growing unease knotting her stomach.
Du’lan’s gaze sharpened slightly. “Everyone in the fortress. Servants included.”
Her thoughts churned. What if this is the distraction Rufus mentioned? Could poisoning the fortress really be part of his plan?
Her breath caught as her thoughts turned to Rasa, trapped in her cell. The image of her friend’s defiant face warred with the realization of what could happen if the poisoned wine reached so many people. Alara closed her eyes, her hands curling into fists as she grappled with the weight of her choice.
Can I leave her there? The thought twisted in her chest. But the answer came quickly, a resolve hardening within her. Too much death. Too high a cost.
Alara opened her eyes and stepped aside. “You should look at this,” she said quietly, gesturing to the barrel. Her voice held a calmness she didn’t feel.
Dal’akar joined her, his ice-blue eyes narrowing as he took in the sight. He motioned to the guards outside the door. “Bring Garin here. Now.”
The guards saluted and departed. Minutes later, Garin was dragged into the room, his face pale and drawn. He stumbled slightly, his expression veering between confusion and indignation.
“What is this?” he demanded, his voice shaking. “I have important matters to attend to!”
Dal’akar stepped forward, his tone glacial. “Open the barrel,” he ordered one of the guards.
The guard obeyed, prying the lid free to reveal the sloshing liquid within. Dal’akar reached for a cup, dipped it into the wine, and held it out to Garin.
“Drink,” he commanded.
Garin recoiled, his eyes darting wildly between the cup and Dal’akar. “I cannot! It’s for the feast—it’s not to be consumed until then!”
“Drink,” Dal’akar repeated, his voice as cold and unyielding as steel.
Garin’s face twisted in desperation. He turned on Alara, his voice rising with fury. “She did this! She’s new here—how do we know she didn’t poison it herself? I won’t die because of her treachery!”
Dal’akar’s gaze shifted to Alara, his expression unreadable. For a moment, silence stretched between them, the tension thick enough to suffocate. Then he turned back to Garin, his voice sharp and decisive.
“Arrest him.”
The guards moved swiftly, seizing Garin by the arms. He thrashed and shouted as they dragged him from the room. “You don’t know what you’re doing!” he screamed. “It’s only going to get worse from here!”
As his cries faded down the corridor, Alara exhaled shakily. The room felt heavier, the weight of Garin’s final words pressing down on her. She glanced at Dal’akar, her voice quiet but firm. “He has a point. You have no reason to trust me. Why didn’t you look into it?”
Dal’akar considered her for a long moment before replying, his tone measured. “A simple matter of trust. I trusted Garin less than I trusted you.”
His words hung in the air as he turned to Du’lan. “Finish up here. Take Lari with you.” Without another word, he strode from the room, his figure disappearing into the shadows.
Alara stood frozen for a moment, her thoughts churning. Finally, she turned to Du’lan, who was already examining the barrel with meticulous care. She squared her shoulders, pushing aside the lingering doubts. There was still work to do.
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The early morning sun cast a pale, golden light over Vernan, the quiet streets still slick with dew as Uriah strode purposefully through the narrow lanes, his boots striking the cobblestones with a steady rhythm. Behind him, a pair of guards followed, their armor clinking softly in the crisp air. Uriah’s thoughts churned, sharp and focused, as he replayed the discovery of the Vernan merchant’s guild symbol etched onto the bottom of the barrel.
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Ahead loomed the guild’s warehouse, a squat, unassuming building nestled among a cluster of storage facilities. The faint glow of lanterns still burned inside, hinting at a night of activity that hadn’t quite ended. Uriah didn’t bother to knock. He pushed the door open with enough force to send it banging against the wall, startling the occupants inside.
The guild members froze mid-conversation, their faces pale in the sudden intrusion. Uriah’s sharp green eyes swept the room, landing on the figure of the guild master standing near the back.
“Everyone out,” Uriah commanded, his voice cutting through the stunned silence. His tone left no room for argument. Chairs scraped against the floor as the merchants scrambled toward the door, muttering apologies and avoiding Uriah’s glare.
As the last of them moved to exit, the guild master followed, his movements hurried and nervous.
“Not you,” Uriah snapped, his tone a blade of authority. He stepped into the man’s path, his gaze narrowing. “Stay where you are, Orval.”
The guild master, a portly man with a receding hairline and a well-worn coat, froze mid-step. Beads of sweat glistened on his brow as he turned back to face Uriah.
“Captain Lockridge,” Orval said, his voice trembling slightly. “To what do I owe the… honor?”
Uriah folded his arms, his posture unwavering. “I need to know about Edric Ralford.”
Orval’s eyes darted toward the floor, his fingers twisting nervously around the edge of his coat. “What would you like to know about him?”
“Everything,” Uriah replied, his voice low and dangerous.
The guild master swallowed hard, nodding quickly. “Ralford… he’s a textile merchant,” Orval began, his words coming fast and clipped. “He passes through town sometimes, coming in from Vesperia. He doesn’t usually stay long enough to sell directly, so he offloads his goods to the guild. We handle the sales and take half the profits.”
Uriah tilted his head slightly, his gaze sharp. “From Vesperia, you say?”
“Yes,” Orval confirmed, his voice faltering.
“That’s strange,” Uriah said, leaning forward slightly. “Because my reports say he’s been coming from Port Sylen.”
Orval’s brow furrowed, his confusion evident. “Port Sylen? I… I’ve only known him to come from Stormhold.”
Uriah’s jaw tightened as he processed the discrepancy. He leaned back, his arms still folded. “Have you seen any crates recently that were supposed to contain textiles?”
The guild master’s expression grew serious, his nervous demeanor giving way to something heavier. “I have,” he admitted, his voice quieter now. “But they didn’t come from Edric Ralford.”
“Show me,” Uriah said curtly.
Orval nodded and turned toward the back of the warehouse. The guards flanked Uriah as he followed, their steps echoing in the cavernous space. The guild master led them to a corner where several empty crates were stacked. He gestured to them with a hesitant hand.
Uriah stepped forward and examined the crates closely. One in particular caught his eye. With a sharp motion, he flipped it over, revealing a hidden compartment in the bottom. He pried it open, his jaw clenching as he uncovered a stash of black powder—blastpowder.
Straightening, Uriah turned to Orval, his expression dark. “You deal with Garin Dros, don’t you?”
Orval hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “Yes, Captain. He… he handles a number of transactions for the guild. Brings us shipments regularly.”
Uriah’s gaze bore into the guild master. “Did Garin bring these crates?”
“He did,” Orval admitted, his voice trembling. “Coincidentally, he said they contained a textile shipment from Port Sylen.”
“Has Garin made any other transactions recently through this warehouse?” Uriah pressed.
Orval frowned, his confusion returning. “I'm not sure. I did remember he left with some barrels after dropping off the crates, but I think he already had them with him, so we wouldn't have what was in them on the register.”
Uriah’s eyes narrowed, the pieces beginning to fall into place. Without another word, he turned to the guards. “We’re heading back to the fortress. Now.”
The guards saluted sharply and fell into step behind him. Uriah didn’t spare Orval another glance as he strode toward the exit, his thoughts racing. Whatever game Garin and Ralford were playing, it was more dangerous than he’d anticipated. And time was running out.
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The late afternoon sun cast a warm glow across the fortress’s stone walls, its light streaming through the high windows of the great hall. Servants bustled about, setting long tables with polished silverware and gleaming goblets. The faint hum of activity filled the space, a rhythm of preparation as the fortress readied itself for the farewell feast.
Alara lingered near the edge of the room, her gaze drifting over the elaborate decorations. The banners of Asteria hung prominently, their rich crimson and gold catching the sunlight. She felt the weight of the upcoming feast pressing down on her shoulders, a reminder of the precarious situation she found herself in.
Du’lan approached, his footsteps quiet against the stone floor. His sharp gray eyes studied her for a moment before he spoke. “Your observation earlier was impressive,” he said, his tone carrying a rare note of approval. “Few would have noticed the trail or thought to question it.”
Alara turned to face him, her lips curving into a polite smile. “Thank you, Advisor. I’m glad I could help.”
Du’lan inclined his head slightly. “I hope you intend to accompany us back to Valmira,” he continued, his voice even but faintly expectant. “Your keen eye could be a valuable asset to the council.”
Her smile didn’t waver, but she didn’t answer. Instead, her thoughts churned. Return to Valmira? The idea felt distant, almost irrelevant compared to the urgency of what lay ahead. She glanced back toward the flurry of activity in the hall, her mind already turning over the details of her plan.
Her mind briefly wandered to the morning she and Du’lan had spent in the wine storage. They’d ensured that every drop of the contaminated wine was poured out of the barrels and had stacked the empty barrels in a corner, instructing the servants to use them as firewood. The memory left a sour taste in her mouth. Firewood, she thought. That’s all that’s left of Rufus’s plan now. The thought was strangely satisfying, yet it carried a weight of unease she couldn’t shake.
The discovery in the wine storage lingered in her thoughts, a bitter reminder of how close she had come to overlooking the danger. Her stomach turned as she considered the possibility that Rufus had intended for the entire fortress to drink poisoned wine. He didn’t warn me, she realized with a surge of disgust. If I hadn’t seen the mouse, I could have been poisoned along with everyone else.
The memory of his confident smile flashed in her mind, and she felt her jaw tighten. Whatever his motives, she couldn’t trust him. His willingness to put her in harm’s way without so much as a warning only solidified her resolve. If he can sacrifice so many, then I cannot rely on him to help me save Rasa.
Du’lan’s voice broke through her thoughts. “I’ll leave you to prepare,” he said, his tone polite but firm. “The feast will begin shortly. I trust you’ll be present.”
“Of course,” she replied smoothly, inclining her head as he stepped away.
As the room settled back into the rhythm of preparation, Alara took a deep breath, steeling herself. The feast can be my distraction, she thought. If Rufus’s plan was compromised, then she would have to rely on her own ability to rescue Rasa. She couldn’t afford to hesitate or wait for someone else to act. The weight of responsibility settled heavily on her, but it also ignited a spark of determination.
Her gaze swept the hall one last time, taking in the vibrant colors and the bustling activity. The fortress was alive with anticipation, its inhabitants unaware of the danger that had nearly befallen them. She clenched her fists briefly, grounding herself. I’ll save Rasa. I’ll do it my way.
With a final glance toward the setting sun, Alara turned and slipped out of the hall. The faint echo of her footsteps faded as she disappeared into the quiet corridors, her mind focused and her resolve unshaken. The feast would be her opportunity, and she would not waste it.