The rain fell in steady sheets, drenching the narrow streets of Velithor and turning the cobblestones into a slick, treacherous surface. Kaelen moved with purpose, his long coat whipping in the wind as he navigated the maze-like alleys of the lower city. The fabric of his coat, made from some kind of water-resistant material, clung to his form, emphasizing his lean, athletic build. Every detail of his attire was deliberate, a balance between practicality and the need to blend into the shadows of the city.

His boots, reinforced with metal at the toes and heels, clicked softly against the wet stones, a sound almost lost in the cacophony of the storm. The hood of his coat was pulled low, casting his face in shadow, but beneath it, his silver eyes gleamed with a cold, calculating light.

As he moved, Kaelen couldn’t help but notice the contrast between the upper and lower districts of Velithor. The upper city, with its towering spires and gleaming architecture, was a place of order and control, where the Technomancers of the Core held sway. Here, in the lower districts, the influence of the Arcanists was more palpable. Magic lingered in the air like a faint perfume, mingling with the scent of wet stone and decay. The buildings were older, their facades cracked and weathered, yet they had a kind of worn dignity, a resilience that mirrored the people who lived within them.

Kaelen reached into the inner pocket of his coat, fingers brushing against the worn leather of a small, weathered book. It was an old habit, one he had developed years ago, before the world had become so complicated. The book was a journal, filled with notes, sketches, and fragments of thoughts—remnants of a life before the conflict that now consumed him. He had carried it with him for as long as he could remember, a reminder of the choices he had made and the paths he had chosen not to take.

Tonight, however, the journal remained unopened. There was no time for reflection, no time for second-guessing. The storm was coming, and Kaelen knew he had to be ready.

His destination was the Drowned Wren, a tavern nestled deep within the heart of the lower city. It was a place of dubious reputation, frequented by those who preferred to keep their business hidden from the prying eyes of the Core. The sign above the door, a faded image of a bird half-submerged in water, creaked as it swung in the wind, its hinges rusted from years of neglect.

Kaelen pushed open the door, the warmth and noise of the tavern washing over him like a wave. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of ale, smoke, and unwashed bodies. The patrons, a motley collection of thieves, smugglers, and those who lived in the grey areas of society, barely glanced up as he entered. This was a place where questions were rarely asked, and answers, if given, came at a price.

He made his way to the bar, where a burly man with a bushy beard and a perpetual scowl was polishing a glass with a rag that looked like it had seen better days. The man—Borin, if Kaelen remembered correctly—gave him a curt nod, recognizing him as a regular, albeit an irregular one.

“Whiskey,” Kaelen ordered, his voice a low murmur beneath the din of the tavern.

Borin grunted in acknowledgment and reached for a bottle behind the bar, pouring a generous measure of amber liquid into a chipped glass. Kaelen took the glass and turned, scanning the room with a practiced eye. He wasn’t here for a drink; he was here for information.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

In a corner booth, half-hidden in shadow, he spotted his contact—a thin, wiry man with a nervous energy that made him look like a cornered rat. His name was Selvin, a minor informant who dealt in secrets and rumors. Kaelen had used him before, and while Selvin wasn’t the most reliable source, he had his uses.

Kaelen approached the booth, sliding into the seat opposite Selvin. The informant looked up, his eyes darting around the room before settling on Kaelen’s face. He was visibly sweating, despite the chill that permeated the tavern.

“Kaelen,” Selvin whispered, his voice barely audible over the noise. “You said you’d be alone.”

Kaelen arched an eyebrow, taking a sip of his whiskey before responding. “I am alone.”

Selvin swallowed nervously, his gaze flicking to the door and back. “You know who’s looking for you, right? The Core’s put out word—they’re getting desperate.”

Kaelen’s expression didn’t change, but inside, he felt a pang of irritation. Of course, the Core was keeping tabs on him. They had been ever since he’d vocalized his decision to forge his own path beyond their cold, calculated world. Despite choosing independence, he still collaborated with them occasionally, all while under their watchful eye. But he couldn’t let Selvin see that. The informant was like a dog sensing fear. Any sign of weakness, and he’d bolt.

“What do you have for me, Selvin?” Kaelen asked, his tone even, almost bored.

Selvin glanced around again, then leaned in closer. “There’s talk… about something big. The Core, they’re moving something—something important. And the Aether… they’re not far behind. Whatever it is, both sides want it bad.”

Kaelen’s interest piqued, though he kept his expression neutral. “Where?”

“Rumor has it, there’s a convoy leaving the Core’s central hub tomorrow night,” Selvin continued, his voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Heading to the border, where the Aether’s influence starts to seep in. But no one knows what’s inside… or why they’re taking it there.”

Kaelen considered this, his mind working through the possibilities. The Core wasn’t in the habit of transporting anything of value outside their heavily fortified areas unless it was something they couldn’t afford to lose—or something they didn’t want to keep close. The fact that the Aether was interested as well meant that whatever it was, it had the potential to tip the balance of power in either direction.

“Payment?” Selvin’s voice broke into his thoughts, and Kaelen looked at him, seeing the greed in the man’s eyes. It was always about the money with Selvin. Loyalty was a foreign concept to him, something to be bought and sold like any other commodity.

Kaelen reached into his coat, pulling out a small pouch and tossing it onto the table. It landed with a soft clink, the sound of coins within. Selvin snatched it up quickly, weighing it in his hand before tucking it away.

“Pleasure doing business with you,” Selvin said with a forced smile, already edging towards the end of the booth as if eager to escape.

Kaelen didn’t respond, watching as the informant slipped away into the crowd. He downed the rest of his whiskey in one gulp, the liquid burning as it went down. Whatever the Core was transporting, he needed to find out more, and quickly.

As he stood to leave, his thoughts drifted briefly to Aria. She would want to know about this, though he knew she’d disapprove of the methods he’d use to get the information. But Kaelen wasn’t concerned with approval. He was concerned with results.

Outside, the rain had lessened to a drizzle, the streets shining in the faint light from the tavern windows. Kaelen pulled his coat tighter around him, the weight of the rolled-up parchment a cold reminder in his pocket. He had paid a steep price for that information, but the real cost was yet to be seen.

As he disappeared into the night, his mind churned with plans and contingencies, each more dangerous than the last. There was no turning back now. The stakes were too high, the risks too great. But that was what Kaelen thrived on—the uncertainty, the danger, the knowledge that every move could be his last.

For now, though, he had a lead. And in a world where power was everything, a lead was all he needed.