Morning sunlight filtered through narrow windows, casting long shadows across the Guild’s stone corridors. Soren and Alaric trailed behind Raz, their footsteps echoing off the walls. The remains of breakfast sat heavy in Soren’s stomach—he’d barely managed half his portion, the pain in his arm stealing his appetite.

“Feels like my leg’s being stabbed every time I take a step,” Alaric said, his limp more pronounced than the night before. “And these stitches…Creation’s mercy, they pull with every movement.”

Soren nodded, carefully adjusting his left arm. “Couldn’t sleep. Kept rolling onto it by accident.”

“We should stop by the infirmary,” Alaric said, lowering his voice. “Get something for the pain—”

Raz stopped so abruptly that Soren nearly walked into him. Their mentor turned, his dark eyes sharp in the morning light. “No drugs. No herbs, no potions, no numbness.”

“But—”

Raz’s glare silenced Alaric. “The pain is not your enemy.” Raz’s gaze moved between them. “It is your teacher. Learn to feel it. Learn to understand it. Learn to control it. Only then can you truly master yourself.”

Without waiting for a response, Raz turned and continued down the corridor. He stopped before the Vault.

Soren followed Raz inside, Alaric close behind.

“A contractor doesn’t just rely on blades and shadows,” Raz said. “Information is your most powerful weapon. When seeking a target, you don’t start with the man. You start with his life.” He gestured to the shelves around them. “His finances, his connections, his habits. Everything is recorded somewhere—birth records, tax filings, business dealings. This is how you will find you quarry.”

Alaric shifted his weight beside Soren. “Seems like a lot of reading.”

“Is that a problem, Alaric?” Raz narrowed his eyes. “Would you prefer to stumble blindly after your target, hoping to get lucky?”

Alaric straightened, shaking his head. “No, sir. I just…I’m better with my hands than my head, is all.”

“Then you’d better start improving your mind. Or you’ll find yourself very short-lived in this profession.”

Raz strode over to a nearby shelf, pulling down a thick ledger. He opened it, flipping through pages of densely written tax records. “Say this is our target.” He pointed to a name. “What does his tax filing tell us? His income, his assets, where he does business. You know where he keeps his money, where he spends his time.”

Soren leaned in, his eyes scanning the columns of numbers and notations. He could see patterns emerging, a picture of a life laid bare in ink.

Raz handed a folder to Soren. “Birth records can tell you his family, his connections. A marriage? A child? These are weaknesses you can exploit.”

As Soren leafed through the documents, his mind raced. He couldn’t help but wonder if somewhere in this repository, there might be answers about his own father’s death. About why he and Alaric had been chosen for the Guild.

Raz turned to Alaric. “Financial records are like a map of his life. Follow the money, and you’ll find him.”

“But how does knowing where someone banks help us kill them?”

Raz’s lips curled. “Think, Alaric. If you know where a man keeps his money, you know where he’ll go when he’s desperate. If you know his business dealings, you know who he meets with, when, and where. Every piece of information is a thread. Pull enough threads, and a man’s life unravels before you.”

Soren nodded. “It’s not just about finding them physically. It’s about understanding them completely. Their motivations, their weaknesses, their patterns.”

“Exactly,” Raz said. “The more you know about your target, the more ways you have to reach them. Sometimes, the completion isn’t even necessary. The right piece of information, leveraged correctly, can destroy a man more thoroughly than any blade.”

As Soren continued to read through the documents, he started piecing together connections. He noted how someone’s spending habits or their home address listed in tax filings could give away more than their physical movements.

“Look here.” Soren pointed to a series of entries in the ledger. “This man makes regular payments to an address across town. It’s not listed as a business expense. Could be a mistress, or maybe a secret family.”

Raz nodded. “And how might you use that information?”

“If it’s a secret relationship, that’s leverage. Or if we needed to find him quickly, we’d have another location to check.”

“Precisely. Every detail, no matter how small, can be crucial.”

Alaric furrowed his brow. “This is really how we find people? Paper and numbers?”

Raz smirked. “Every man leaves a trail, Alaric. Your job is to read it. The physical skills we’ve been honing are important, yes. But they’re useless if you can’t find your target in the first place.”

As the lesson continued, Soren found himself engrossed in the documents. He began to understand how a skilled assassin could use this information to not just find a target, but to predict their movements.

Throughout it all, a part of him remained alert for any information that might shed light on his own situation. He scanned names and dates, looking for anything that might connect to his father’s death or his own recruitment. But if such information existed in the Vault, it wasn’t in these documents.

As Soren reached for another ledger, he caught a glimpse of something at Raz’s hip. The hilt of his dagger, its handle an impossible, perfect black. “Sir, that dagger…why does the Guild use them? They seem unusual.”

Raz’s hand moved to the dagger’s hilt. “The ravenglass daggers are a Guild secret, Soren. Their properties make them uniquely suited to our work. But that’s not something you need to concern yourself with. Not yet.”

Soren knew better than to press the issue.

After several hours working through documents, Raz finally closed the ledgers and stepped back. “Next, we take this knowledge to the streets.”

Welttor's autumn sun cast long shadows across the cobblestones as Soren and Alaric followed Raz through the crowded streets.

Each step sent fresh waves of pain through Soren's arm—the morning's lesson in the Vault had taken its toll, hours of hunching over ledgers and tax records making his stitches pull with every movement.

The city's afternoon bustle swept around them—merchants calling their wares, the clatter of cart wheels, the cry of gulls wheeling overhead.

Beside him, Alaric limped. "Who knew reading could be so exhausting?"

"At least the numbers didn't try to gore us."

Ahead, Raz moved through the crowds, his grey cloak barely disturbing the air. He made it look effortless—this navigation of the city's chaos.

Soren tried to mimic his mentor's fluid movements, but his injured arm threw off his balance, making him feel clumsy and obvious.

They approached a busy intersection where four major thoroughfares met, the press of bodies growing denser. The aroma of fresh bread from a nearby bakery mingled with the sharp tang of fish from the docks and the earthier scents of horses and unwashed humanity.

Raz stopped and turned to them. “You’ve seen the theory. Now, it’s time for practice.” His gaze snapped to Soren. “Your target’s name is Rudolph Glasson. Find him. That is all you need to do. Find him.”

Before Soren could ask for more details, Raz was moving again, forcing them to follow. They ducked under a merchant’s awning, the smell of spices filling the air.

“Glasson is clever, keeps a low profile,” Raz said, sidestepping a group of factory workers. “You’ll need to start where his life is documented—city hall, tax records, anything that can point you to him.”

As they stepped onto a less crowded side street, Raz turned to face them. “I’ll be watching.” He melted into the crowd.

Soren exchanged a glance with Alaric.

“Right,” Alaric said. “Where do we start?”

“Birth records, marriage certificates—anything that can give us a foundation to work from.”

“This is going to be super boring, you know?”

Soren shrugged one shoulder. “It’s like a puzzle, isn’t it? We need to work out who our target is, where to find him. All we have at the moment is a name.”

Soren led the way through the crowded streets, trying to blend in with the flow of pedestrians. He found himself aware of every movement, every glance from passersby. Was that woman looking at them suspiciously, or was he just being paranoid?

The sprawling Central Square of Welttor stretched out before them. The City Hall dominated one side, its stone façade glowing white in the afternoon sun. Beside it stood the Grand Library, its domed roof glinting. The Tax Office and various other administrative buildings completed the square.

As they approached the City Hall’s main entrance, Soren’s steps faltered. Two guards flanked the main entrance, their uniforms crisp, postures rigid.

Soren nodded towards the guards. “I don’t think they’re just going to let us waltz in. What if we’re turned away?”

Alaric grinned. “Maybe that’s part of the test. Sneaking past the guards, making it a proper heist. Could be fun, eh?”

Soren rolled his eyes, but couldn’t suppress a small smile. “Let’s try the direct approach first. Save your swashbuckling for when we really need it.”

“You’re no fun.”

As they reached the entrance, one of the guards stepped forward, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. “State your business.”

Soren dipped his head. “We’re looking for information in the records office, sir.”

The guard’s eyes narrowed, but after a moment, he nodded. “Records office is down the main corridor, third door on the left. Don’t make any trouble.”

“We won’t.”

Soren and Alaric stepped into the City Hall’s cool interior and followed the guard’s directions, their footsteps echoing off the marble floors.

As they walked, Alaric let out a sigh. “Well, that was disappointing. I was hoping for at least a bit of adventure. Maybe a wall to climb, or some chandeliers to swing from.”

Soren chuckled, shaking his head. “Sorry to disappoint. Next time we need to break into a heavily guarded fortress, I’ll let you take the lead.”

“Promise?”

“Absolutely. Now come on, let’s find those records before you decide to liven things up.”

Soren entered the records office and came to a stop in front of a reception desk.

A clerk with neat hair and wire-rimmed glasses looked up from his papers. “Can I help you, gentlemen?”

“We’re looking for information on a man called Rudolph Glasson. Family history, that sort of thing. It’s for a genealogy project.”

The clerk eyed them for a moment before shrugging and pointing them towards a section of shelves. “Birth records are there. Marriage certificates two rows over.”

Soren’s eyes swept across the rows of shelves, each laden with thick, leather-bound volumes. He drifted through the stacks, his fingers trailing along the spines of the books.

“Birth records, birth records…” He stopped when he spotted the right section. “Over here,”

They pulled several heavy tomes from the shelves, spreading them out on a nearby table.

Soren flipped open the first book, his eyes scanning the neatly written entries. Names, dates, parents. But none matching their target. He closed it with a sigh and reached for another.

Beside him, Alaric was already on his third book. “This is pointless.” He slammed the tome shut. “We could be here for days!”

“Wait, let’s think about this logically. We can rule out children and probably anyone younger than twenty for now.”

Alaric nodded, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. “Right, good thinking. So where do we start?”

“Let’s begin with the books from about twenty years ago and work our way back.”

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Soren set to work with renewed focus, methodically going through each year. The books for those in their twenties yielded nothing.

Alaric groaned as they finished another volume. “Maybe we should try a different approach?”

Soren shook his head. “No, we keep looking. Let’s try the next year.”

He moved through more records, setting each year aside.

Alaric groaned. “We don’t even know if he was born in Wiete.”

“We don’t. That’s true. But we can’t rule it out…not yet.” Soren opened the book for those born thirty-seven years ago, He traced down the list of names. “Got him! Rudolph Glasson, born thirty-seven years ago. Parents were Marcus and Eliza Glasson.”

Alaric leaned in. “Well, I’ll be damned. You were right.”

Soren and Alaric turned their attention to the marriage records.

The shelves in this section were arranged differently, with more recent records easily accessible.

“if he’s thirty-seven now, we should focus on records from the last fifteen years or so. He’s unlikely to have married before his early twenties.”

Alaric nodded, already pulling down a volume. “I’ll start with the most recent and work backwards. You take the older ones.”

Soren agreed, and they set to work, the rustle of turning pages filling the air.

After a while, Alaric let out a low whistle. “Sor, I think I’ve got something.”

Soren looked up from his own book, eyebrows raised. “Yeah?”

With a grin, Alaric slid a document across the table. “Rudolph Glasson, married to a woman named Clara.” His finger traced the line of text as he continued, “And look here—his occupation is listed as a solicitor.”

Soren leaned in. “This is perfect. We’ve got his age, his family status, and his profession. It’s all starting to come together.”

Alaric nodded. “So, what’s next? Where do we go from here?”

“Well, now that we know he’s a solicitor, we might be able to find more information about his professional life. Tax records, business registries, that sort of thing.”

“Right.” Alaric rose to his feet. “And maybe property records too? If he’s successful, he might own more than just a family home.”

“Good thinking. Let’s see what else we can dig up.”

Soren and Alaric made their way through the corridors of the City Hall, following signs to the land registry office. The room they entered was smaller than the records office, with walls lined with filing cabinets.

“Can I help you?” asked a clerk, peering at them over a stack of documents.

“We’re looking for property records for Rudolph Glasson,” Soren said.

The clerk nodded and disappeared into a back room, returning moments later with a thick file. “Here you are. Please return it when you’re finished.”

Soren and Alaric huddled over the file, flipping through pages of deeds and contracts.

“Creation’s teeth,” Alaric said. “Look at this. Glasson doesn’t just own a house. He’s got properties all over Welttor.”

Soren nodded, his finger tracing down the list. “And not just in the city.”

“Well, it’s not much use for finding where he lives, is it? He could be in any of these places.”

Soren’s brow furrowed. “Maybe not for where he lives, but it might help us find where he works. A solicitor this successful is bound to have an impressive office.”

They pored over the list again, scrutinising each address. But nothing stood out as an obvious business location.

“This isn’t getting us anywhere,” Alaric said.

“Wait a minute.” Soren traced his finge over the legal jargon at the bottom of each deed. “Look at this. The same legal firm is cited in all of these property documents.”

Alaric leaned in, squinting at the small print. “You’re right. Blackstone & Associates. Think that’s Glasson’s firm?”

“It has to be. But there’s still no specific address listed here for the business itself.”

He flipped through the pages again, hoping to find some clue they’d missed, but came up empty-handed.

With a sigh, Soren closed the file. “We need more information. Let’s return this and see if we can find out where to look next.”

He approached the clerk’s desk, handing back the folder.

“Where would I find the address for a specific business in the city?”

The clerk adjusted his spectacles. “That would typically be in the tax office records. They keep a registry of all businesses in Welttor.”

Soren nodded and they turned to leave.

“What business are you looking for, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Soren hesitated for a moment. “Blackstone & Associates. It’s a legal firm.”

The clerk’s eyebrows rose. “You don’t need to go to the tax office for that. They’re not far from here, actually. Their offices are near the magistrates’ court, just east of the square.”

“Thank you, sir. You’ve been incredibly helpful.”

As they hurried outside, Alaric grinned at Soren. “Well, that was a stroke of luck. Shall we go pay Blackstone & Associates a visit?”

“Absolutely. Let’s see what we can find out about Glasson’s workplace.”

The afternoon heat pressed down on them as they descended the City Hall's wide steps. Soren's arm throbbed worse than ever—all that reaching for heavy volumes had taken its toll.

"Even if Glasson doesn't work there anymore," Alaric said, favouring his injured leg as they crossed the square. "They might have his home address on file."

Soren wiped sweat from his brow. "You really think a legal firm would hand over that kind of information to complete strangers?"

"It's not like we have much else to go on, do we?" Alaric gestured at the bustling square around them. "Unless you fancy knocking on every door in Welttor."

They turned east, following the clerk's directions. The streets grew narrower, the buildings taller and more imposing.

Law clerks and well-dressed merchants hurried past, the sound of their boots on cobblestones mixing with the distant toll of the Magistrates' court bell.

At the corner of a side street stood a three-story building of polished granite, its windows gleaming in the afternoon sun. A brass plaque beside the door read "Blackstone & Associates, Solicitors at Law" in elegant script. “This is the place.”

“Now what? We still don’t know if he’s actually here. We can’t afford to rouse suspicion.”

Soren pushed out his bottom lip. “You’re right. Raz would have our hides.” He glanced along the street, searching for inspiration.

“Wait here.” Alaric said, ducking into a nearby bakery. He emerged a few minutes later with a box of cakes. “We’re going to make a delivery.”

Inside the office, Soren approached the receptionist with a smile. “Delivery for Mr. Glasson.” He placed the box on the desk. “A gift from Mr. Harding.”

The receptionist frowned. “I’m afraid Mr. Glasson is in meetings all day. But I can make sure he gets these.”

“I was hoping to deliver these to Mr. Glasson himself.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible.”

“Is he in the building, at least? Mr. Harding was hoping for a quick word if possible.”

“He is, but as I said, he’s unavailable. I’ll be sure to let him know you stopped by.”

“Thank you.” Soren scanned the portraits on the wall, his gaze lingering on a portrait of a man in his mid-thirties. “Is that him?”

The receptionist nodded. “It is. Now, if you would like to leave your parcel, I will make sure it is delivered.”

Soren set the cakes on the counter and made his way back outside to join Alaric. “He’s in there, but we can’t get to him directly. We’ll have to wait and watch.”

“You sure he’s there?”

Soren gave a nod. “And I know what he looks like. It’s just a case of waiting until he steps out.”

“You got a look at him?”

Soren shrugged. “At his portrait. But I could tell the artist had skill. It should be easy enough to spot him.”

He led them to a nearby building, finding a secluded spot on the rooftop that offered a clear view of Blackstone & Associates.

They settled in, their eyes fixed on the entrance.

“This is going to be tedious,” Alaric said, shifting on the hard tiles. “My leg’s killing me.”

Soren fixed his gaze on the street below. “Maybe, but it’s necessary. We can’t afford to miss him.”

As the hours crawled by, they watched a steady stream of people entering and exiting the building. Lawyers, clients, couriers. But no sign of Glasson.

The sun began to dip lower in the sky,. Had they missed him somehow? What if there were other exits they couldn’t see from their vantage point?

“Sor, we’ve been here for hours. Maybe we should call it a day and try again tomorrow.”

Soren flexed his fingers against the chill. “He has to come out eventually.”

But as the street lamps hissed to life and the flow of people from the building slowed to a trickle, even Soren began to doubt their strategy.

“Alright, maybe you’re right. We can come back early tomorrow and—” Soren’s words cut off as he caught sight of a man exiting the building. He was in his mid-thirties, with a confident stride and an expensive-looking suit. “That’s him. I’m sure of it.”

Alaric squinted down at the street. “Which one? The one with the briefcase?”

Soren nodded, already moving towards the edge of the roof. “Come on, we can’t lose him.”

Soren scrambled down from their perch. As they hit the street, He caught a glimpse of Glasson turning a corner.

“This way.” He broke into a brisk walk to keep up with their target without drawing attention.

“Sor, my leg.”

“We can’t afford to lose him.”

Soren followed Glasson through the winding streets, using every stealth technique Raz had taught them. He found himself slipping into the rhythm of pursuit, blending with crowds and shadows.

“He’s cautious, but not careful enough,” Soren said as they watched Glasson enter a stately townhouse. “He doesn’t expect to be followed.”

Raz’s sudden appearance made both Soren and Alaric start.

“Not bad,” Raz said. “You found him, tracked him home. But you made mistakes along the way.” He led them to a vantage point with a clear view of Glasson’s home. “When you watch a house, you don’t just look at the target. You watch everything. Who visits? Who comes and goes? What does the house tell you?”

Over the next hour, Raz pointed out details Soren would never have noticed on his own. The frequency of visitors, the patterns of lights in different windows, even the way Glasson’s curtains were drawn.

“These are things you use to plan your next move. You strike when they least expect it.”

As night fell, Raz signalled for Soren and Alaric to follow.

Using the lockpicking skills they’d learned, Soren and Alaric gained entry to the house. They moved silently through darkened hallways, every creak of a floorboard setting Soren’s nerves on edge.

They reached what appeared to be Glasson’s study. Light spilled from beneath the door.

“Go on,” Raz said.

Soren took a deep breath, steeling himself for confrontation.

He pushed the door open and found Glasson sat behind his desk. He looked up and smiled. “Well done.” He rose to his feet. “I knew you were watching. I saw you.” He pointed at Alaric. “Outside my building. The moment you asked about me in the records office, a message was sent to me. But still, you followed through. That takes skill.”

Raz stepped forward. “You tracked him, followed his trail, and got inside. But you were seen—sloppy at the tax office.” He turned to Alaric. “And you need to learn how to blend in better.”

Alaric nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“This was a test,” Raz said. “You did well. But there’s always room for improvement. You’ll need to be better if you want to survive in the Guild.”

Glasson returned to his seat. “Tell me, how was it done?”

Soren hesitated, glancing between Raz and Glasson. “Should I…I mean, is it safe to discuss our methods here?”

Raz nodded. “Good instinct, Soren. But Mr. Glasson here is what we call a fixer. He does a lot of work for the Guild. You can speak freely.”

Soren took a deep breath. “We started at the City Hall, checking birth and marriage records. That gave us your age and family status. Then we moved to property records, which led us to Blackstone & Associates.”

Glasson leaned forward. “And how did you find the firm’s location?”

“The clerk at the registry office told us. We asked about the business directly.”

Raz nodded. “Impressive that you didn’t need to resort to tax records. However, asking the clerk about Blackstone & Associates specifically was what tipped off Mr. Glasson. In a real contract, that could have alerted your target.”

Soren winced but nodded.

“How did you know it was me leaving the office?” Glasson asked.

“Your portrait in the reception area. I memorised your features while I was there.”

Raz’s lips curved into a slight smile. “The delivery ruse was clever. It confirmed Glasson’s presence without raising too much suspicion. However, using a false name like ‘Mr. Harding’ could have backfired in a real situation. It’s best to avoid unnecessary fabrications when possible.”

“Thank you, sir. And thank you, Mr. Glasson, for your part in this test. We’ll apply these lessons in the future.”

Glasson nodded. “You’ve got potential, both of you. Keep honing your skills.”

With final nods, Soren and Alaric followed Raz outside.

Raz turned to them, his face half-hidden in shadow. “Rest well tonight. The real work is just beginning.”

When Raz disappeared, Soren turned to Alaric. “We did it. We actually did it.”

“Yeah, we did. But at what cost? We’re learning to stalk people, to break into their homes. Doesn’t that bother you?”

Did it? Soren thought of the thrill he’d felt piecing together Glasson’s life, the satisfaction of tracking him down. But he also thought of the darker implications of their work. “It does a little. But I think it’s necessary. We can’t hold onto the old ways of looking at right and wrong if want to find the truth, uncover the secrets.”

Alaric looked at him. “You’re still on about that, aren’t you? Your conspiracy.”

“I can’t let it go. I won’t. And everything we’re learning, every skill we master—it’s bringing me closer to the truth.”

Alaric sighed. “Just be careful, Sor. This path we’re on…I’m not sure where it leads, but I don’t think it ends well for people like us.”

“I disagree. I’m going to make this work.”

That night, Soren lay awake, his mind racing with the events of the day.

He turned onto his side, willing sleep to come, but it was useless.

His arm ached, his stitches tugging with every movement.

The questions buzzed louder in the quiet of the night.

Questions about his father’s death, about the true nature of the Guild, and about the ravenglass daggers favoured by its members.

Slowly, carefully, he slipped out of his bed, his bare feet touching the cold floor.

He paused, listening to ensure Alaric’s snores remained undisturbed, and dressed.

With one last glance at Alaric’s sleeping form, he slipped out into the hallway.

Soren moved with the shadows, his footsteps muffled, his senses on high alert.

As he approached the Vault, Soren paused, taking a deep breath to steady himself. The pull of potential answers was too strong to resist.

The flickering candlelight cast long shadows across the Vault’s towering shelves as Soren slipped inside.

The heavy door whispered shut behind him, sealing him in the cavernous chamber.

He paused, listening for any sign that he’d been detected, but the only sound was the pounding of his pulse in his ears.

He moved through the stacks, his eyes scanning the spines of ancient tomes and weathered scrolls. The ravenglass daggers had consumed his thoughts since he’d first glimpsed Raz’s weapon. There had to be information about them somewhere.

He started with the catalogue, his fingers tracing down columns of neatly written entries, flipping page after page. But no matter how carefully he searched, references to ravenglass remained elusive.

He turned to the index, hoping for a more direct route to the information he sought. He found entries on poisons, combat techniques, even detailed histories of the Guild itself. But of ravenglass, there was no trace.

He delved deeper into the stacks, pulling out books at random, scanning their contents for any mention of the material. But his search remained fruitless.

What if the information wasn’t there at all?

What if the Guild was hiding it somewhere else, another library, perhaps?

A sound froze him in place. The creak of the Vault’s door opening, followed by soft footsteps approaching.

Without thinking, he dove behind the nearest stack, crouching low.

The footsteps drew closer.

Soren held his breath, his mind racing through possible excuses, escape routes.

Through a gap in the shelves, he caught a glimpse of the intruder and recognized Alaric’s familiar form.

Soren stepped out from his hiding place. “Alaric.”

Alaric whirled around. “What in the void are you doing here?”

Soren held up a book. “I wanted to know more about the ravenglass daggers. There’s nothing here about them.”

Alaric groaned, running a hand over his face. “Are you insane?”

“I know, I know. But I couldn’t sleep. I kept thinking about those daggers, about all the secrets the Guild is keeping from us. Don’t you want to know the truth?”

Alaric limped closer. “Of course I do. But not like this. We’re just initiates. There’s probably some vault where they keep the real secrets. Stuff we’re not meant to know yet.”

Soren’s shoulders slumped. “You’re probably right. But I can’t just sit back and wait for them to decide we’re ready. “

“But this isn’t the way. If we push too hard, too fast…”

The sound of the Vault’s door opening again cut Soren off before he could respond.

Raz’s imposing figure filled the doorway, his scarred face thrown into sharp relief by the flickering candlelight. “What are you two doing here?”

Soren stepped forward. “I came to find out about the ravenglass daggers. There’s nothing in the Vault about them.”

Raz’s lips twitched. “You won’t find anything about ravenglass here, Soren. You’re an initiate. You’ll be told what you need to know, when you need to know it.”

“But the information wouldn’t be in the Vault anyway, would it?”

“No, it wouldn’t. And you should heed Alaric’s advice about getting some rest.” He paused, his gaze sweeping between them. “It’s good advice, after all.”

How much had Raz heard?

How long had he been watching, listening?

“Sir,” Alaric said. “We didn’t mean any disrespect. We’re just eager to learn.”

“Impatience can be deadly in our line of work. You’d do well to remember that.”

Soren hesitated for a moment. “Sir, if I may ask…why do we use ravenglass instead of steel?”

Raz’s expression remained impassive. “Ravenglass has unique properties. It won’t crack or bend, and it never needs sharpening.” He paused, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. “There are other qualities that become apparent to those who progress to apprentice level.”

Soren leaned forward. “What other qualities?”

Raz shook his head. “All in due time, initiate. Knowledge must be earned.” He studied them both for a long moment. “Since you’re both up and so enthusiastic about ravenglass, perhaps it’s time we forged a dagger of your own..”

Soren and Alaric exchanged glances.

“Really?” Alaric asked.

Raz nodded. “But first, you need to find enough pure ravenglass to forge a dagger.”

“Where would we find that?” Soren asked.

Raz’s smile grew wider. “That, initiates, is for you to figure out. But know this—you must not buy or trade the ravenglass, nor can you take it from a Guild member, or the Guild’s stores.”

Alaric’s brow furrowed. “Are we…are you expecting us to steal it?”

Raz nodded. “That’s exactly what you need to do.”