The streets of Millinggarde West were a stark contrast to the gleaming spires of Aether. Here, the air was thick with the scent of iron and oil, the hum of machinery replacing the crackle of magic. The buildings, though sturdy, bore the marks of years of wear and tear, their surfaces pockmarked with rust and soot. This was a place of industry, of labor, of survival. And it was here, amidst the grinding gears and flickering gas lamps, that an Aethan operative moved like a shadow.

Her name was Lira Voss, though no one in Millinggarde knew that. To them, she was simply "Mara," a quiet, unassuming woman who had arrived in the district a few weeks ago, claiming to be a refugee from the eastern provinces. She had blended in seamlessly, her plain clothes and weary demeanor fitting perfectly with the downtrodden populace. But beneath the facade, Lira was anything but ordinary.

Lira was a spy, one of Aether’s best. Trained in the art of infiltration, deception, and combat, she had been sent to Millinggarde with a single mission: gather intelligence on the growing resistance movement and report back to her superiors. The Aethan Council had grown increasingly concerned about the whispers of rebellion, and they needed to know how deep the rot went.

Tonight, Lira had a lead.

She moved through the narrow alleyways with practiced ease, her footsteps silent against the cobblestones. The district was quiet, the usual bustle of the day replaced by an eerie stillness. The only sounds were the distant clang of machinery and the occasional murmur of voices from behind closed doors. Lira’s sharp eyes scanned her surroundings, taking in every detail. She had learned long ago that even the smallest clue could be the key to unlocking a larger truth.

Her destination was a small, unassuming tavern tucked away in a corner of the district. The sign above the door read The Rusted Gear, its letters faded and peeling. To most, it was just another watering hole for the working class. But to those in the know, it was a meeting place for the resistance.

Lira pushed open the door, the hinges creaking softly. The interior was dimly lit, the air thick with the smell of stale beer and sweat. A handful of patrons sat at scattered tables, their conversations hushed and furtive. Lira made her way to the bar, where a burly man with a thick beard and a scar running down his cheek was polishing a glass.

“What’ll it be?” he grunted, not looking up.

“Ale,” Lira replied, her voice soft and unassuming. She slid a few coins across the counter, her movements deliberate but unhurried.

The bartender nodded, filling a tankard and sliding it toward her. Lira took a sip, her eyes scanning the room. She had been here before, always careful to keep a low profile. But tonight, she was looking for something—or someone—specific.

Her gaze settled on a man sitting alone in a corner, his face partially obscured by the brim of his hat. He was tall and lean, with a sharp jawline and piercing blue eyes. Lira had seen him before, always in the company of others, always speaking in low, urgent tones. She didn’t know his name, but she knew he was important.

She waited, biding her time. The man seemed to be waiting as well, his eyes flicking toward the door every so often. Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the door opened, and a group of three men entered. They were rough-looking, their clothes patched and worn, but there was a hardness in their eyes that spoke of experience.

The man in the corner raised a hand, and the newcomers made their way over to his table. Lira watched from the bar, her expression neutral but her mind racing. This was it. This was the meeting she had been waiting for.

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She finished her ale and stood, making her way toward the back of the tavern. There was a narrow hallway leading to the restrooms, and she slipped into it, her movements smooth and unnoticed. Once out of sight, she pressed herself against the wall, her ears straining to catch the conversation at the corner table.

The voices were low, but Lira’s training had honed her hearing to a razor’s edge. She caught snippets of the conversation, each word sending a jolt of adrenaline through her veins.

“...the shipment arrives tomorrow night. We need to be ready.”

“How many?”

“Enough to make a difference. But we’ll need more men.”

“What about the Aethans? They’ve been watching the docks.”

“We’ll deal with them. We’ve got people on the inside.”

Lira’s heart raced. This was bigger than she had anticipated. The resistance wasn’t just a scattered group of disgruntled citizens—they were organized, well-funded, and dangerous. And they had people on the inside. That was a problem.

She needed to get this information back to Aether, but she couldn’t risk leaving just yet. She had to know more.

The conversation continued, the voices growing more intense. Lira listened carefully, committing every detail to memory. The shipment, the docks, the inside men—it was all valuable intelligence. But there was something else, something that made her blood run cold.

“...and the boy? The Rozzlyn kid?”

“He’s with us. For now. But we need to be careful. He’s not one of us.”

Lira’s breath caught in her throat. The Rozzlyn kid. Ivan. He was involved. How deep did this go?

Before she could process the revelation, a hand clamped down on her shoulder, yanking her away from the wall. Lira spun around, her instincts kicking in, but it was too late. The bartender—the burly man with the scar—stood before her, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“You’ve been listening,” he growled, his grip tightening. “Who are you?”

Lira’s mind raced. She could fight her way out, but that would blow her cover. She needed to think fast.

“I’m just a refugee,” she said, her voice trembling with feigned fear. “I didn’t mean to—I was just—”

The bartender’s eyes hardened. “You’re no refugee. You’re Aethan.”

Lira’s heart sank. She had been made. There was no way out now.

The man in the corner stood, his piercing blue eyes locking onto hers. “Bring her here,” he said, his voice cold and commanding.

The bartender dragged her to the table, shoving her into a chair. The other men leaned in, their expressions grim. Lira’s mind raced, searching for a way out, but she was surrounded.

“Who sent you?” the man in the corner demanded, his voice low and dangerous.

Lira met his gaze, her expression calm despite the fear coursing through her veins. “No one,” she said. “I’m just a—”

The man slammed his fist on the table, cutting her off. “Don’t lie to me. You’re Aethan. And you’re here to spy on us.”

Lira said nothing, her mind racing. She had been trained for this, but the stakes had never been higher.

The man leaned in, his voice a whisper. “You’re going to tell us everything you know. Or you’re not leaving this tavern alive.”

Lira’s heart pounded, but she forced herself to stay calm. She had a mission. And she wasn’t about to fail.