Ever since that day when he escaped with his mother, Rat's dreams were never peaceful. The cold darkness of his sewer hideaway faded, replaced by the dim glow of a campfire. The flames licked at the darkness around him, casting shadows that moved unnaturally, too alive for the lifeless wood they burned.

Across the fire, she sat. The female knight. Her once-proud armor was tarnished, split open where her mortal wounds had ended her life. Half of her face was gone, exposing raw muscle and pale bone, yet her remaining eye carried more life than in most men. Her lips, torn, moved strange.

“Three days,” she said, her voice low like the wind that moved through hollow trees.

“Three days, Rat. Why haven’t you found her yet?”

Rat shifted uncomfortably. The ground beneath him felt solid and yet not, like sand slipping beneath his feet. He scratched the back of his neck, avoiding her gaze.

“I tried,” he said. "I’ve been looking, I swear. I asked around, I poked through places—hell, I even risked a trip into the town archives. But I don’t know her name. I don’t know where you lived. What am I supposed to do, walk up to every stranger and ask if they’re your bloody sister?"

The knight didn’t move.

“You were clever enough to find my necklace,” she said. “Clever enough to find your way out of every trap and beating life has thrown at you. But now you falter?”

Rat felt a spike of guilt. He pulled his knees up to his chest, the firelight dancing in his reflective eyes. "It’s not like that. I’m not faltering, I just..." He trailed off, gripping the necklace tightly in his hand.

Her gaze softened, but only just. "She’s all I have left, Rat. My sister. You saw me. You saw what I was. I need you to take care of her."

"Why me?" Rat asked, his voice low. "Why did you pick me, of all people?"

"Because you see what others cannot," she said. "And because you carry the dead, even when you think you don’t."

The fire between them crackled, the flames casting long, skeletal shadows all around them.

"I’ll try again," Rat murmured, more to himself than to her. "But I can’t promise anything."

"You have to," the knight said, her voice firm. "Promise me."

Rat hesitated, then gave a reluctant nod. "Fine. I promise."

The knight’s figure began to blur, her edges dissolving into the flickering light of the fire. "Find her," she said, her voice echoing as if from a great distance. "Don’t waste time."

The fire died suddenly, plunging him into darkness. Rat jolted awake in his hidden sewer room, the cold air biting at his face. The necklace felt like ice against his skin.

He sat there in the dim light, staring at the cracked wall ahead of him. "Don’t waste time," he muttered to himself, her words a ghostly echo in his mind. But the frustration bubbled beneath his skin.

"Easy for you to say," he growled softly, his breath visible in the cold. "You’re dead. You don’t have to figure out where to start."

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Rat sat in his sewer hideout, knees drawn to his chest, chewing on a stale crust of bread. The damp walls echoed with the distant drip of water, a sound he had long grown numb to. The female knight’s words lingered in his mind like a sour taste, her sharp gaze cutting deeper than her accusations.

“Find her,” he muttered to himself, breaking the silence. His voice sounded small in the vast emptiness of the tunnels. “Don’t waste time.”

But where to start? He pressed his palm to his forehead, the necklace dangling from his neck as if it carried all the weight of the world.

He needed a thread, something to pull at. A lead. Anything. His mind raced, sifting through fragments of what he’d seen in the knight’s blurred memories: the crackling fire, the faint outlines of a small house, the texture of fabric—a blanket, maybe? It was little to go on, but it was more than nothing.

His gaze drifted to the pouch of coins he’d taken from the battlefield the day before. Money. It wasn’t much, but it might be enough to grease a few palms. The archives were a dead end, but rumors and loose tongues? Those he could work with.

He stood abruptly, shoving the bread into his coat pocket. “Start with the drinkers,” he said to himself. “Always starts there.”

The taverns. Rat knew them well—not as a customer but as a shadow. Drunks loved to talk, and the keepers loved their coin. If the knight had family, someone must’ve known her before she donned armor and marched to her death.

He slipped out of his hideout, the hidden wall sliding closed behind him with a low groan. The sewers were dark, the faint light of his lantern casting shadows that twisted and danced with each step. His boots made soft splashes against the damp floor, the sound muffled as he moved with ease.

The world above was cold and gray when he emerged, the wind cutting through his coat. He shoved his hands deep into his pockets, the necklace tucked securely beneath his shirt.

The first tavern he went to was a shithole. The filthy building called The Spotted Hound, with its wooden sign swinging on rusty chains, welcomed him with the stink of sour ale and sweat even before he opened the door.

Inside, it actually felt nice, compared to the bitter cold outside. A fire roared in the heart, casting a flickering glow over the wooden tables and the crowd of drinkers who sat all over the place.

Rat scanned the room quickly, his sharp eyes picking out potential targets. A group of older men near the fire caught his attention—their worn clothes and faded scars marked them as veterans, men who might’ve fought alongside the knight.

He approached the barkeep first, sliding a coin across the counter. The man, thick-necked and sour-faced, raised an eyebrow but took the coin without comment.

“Looking for someone,” Rat said quietly. “A knight. Woman. Fair hair. Don’t know her name, but she might’ve had family around here.”

The barkeep grunted, wiping a filthy rag over the counter. “Lot of folks passed through here before the battle. You’ll need to be more specific.”

Rat clenched his jaw, frustration bubbling. He slipped another coin onto the counter. “Think harder.”

The barkeep’s eyes flicked to the coin, then back to Rat. “Ask old Jasper,” he said, nodding towards the group by the fire. “He’s got a memory like a steel trap—when he’s not too deep in his cups.”

Rat nodded and made his way to the group. Jasper was easy to pick out—a wiry man with a thick gray beard and sharp eyes.

He looked up as Rat approached, his hand resting on the mug of ale in front of him.

“Who’re you, then?” Jasper asked, his tone gruff.

“Just a guy looking for answers,” Rat said, pulling a chair close. “About a knight who fought in the last battle. Fair-haired woman, might’ve had family around here.”

Jasper leaned back, his gaze narrowing. “Fair-haired knight, huh? That’s not much to go on.”

“She had a necklace,” Rat said, hesitating before describing it. “Obsidian. Looked like it belonged to someone important.”

Jasper’s eyes widened slightly, and he exchanged a glance with the man beside him. “I might know something,” he said slowly. “But my memory’s a bit foggy.”

Rat reached into his pocket, pulling out the pouch of coins and placing it on the table. “Maybe this’ll clear it up.”

Jasper grinned, his teeth yellow and uneven. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

The old man leaned forward, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “There was a family—might’ve been her kin. Had a place out near the eastern woods. Small farmstead, nothing fancy.”

Rat’s heart quickened. A thread, finally. He stood, sliding a few more coins onto the table. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Jasper called after him as Rat made his way to the door. “Eastern woods are a dangerous place, lad. Especially for someone like you.”

Rat didn’t respond, his mind already racing. He had a direction now, a place to start. For the first time, it didn’t feel impossible.