The fog clung to Kaden's cloak like a second skin as he made his way through the narrow alley behind The Rusty Tankard, the town's oldest tavern.
The metal fragment he'd pried from the mine wall—a jagged shard of something blacker than pitch—burned against his chest, tucked into a leather pouch beneath his tunic.
"The shadow market meets where the light fears to tread," Lane Darkpaw's voice echoed in his head, from the cryptic note slipped under the smithy door two nights prior.
Kaden's jaw tightened.
He'd spent the intervening hours studying the system's newly unlocked Forging Secrets tab, its glowing text detailing how to embed a Soul Resonance Core into a blade—small enough to hide, potent enough to fool a man like Lane.
The tavern's back door creaked open at his third knock, revealing a burly guard with a scar bisecting his left eyebrow.
"Password?"
"Blacksmith's oath," Kaden said, voice steady.
The guard's eyes narrowed; for a heartbeat, Kaden feared he'd miscalculated.
Then the man stepped aside, gesturing to a set of rickety stairs leading downward.
The cellar reeked of damp stone and sweat.
Lanterns hung from iron hooks, their light warped by smoke, casting the dozen or so figures huddled around a central table into grotesque shadows.
Kaden's gaze swept the room: a hooded elf polishing a crossbow, a dwarven woman counting coins with stubby fingers, and—there—at the far end, a lean man with silver-streaked hair and a smirk that didn't reach his eyes.
Lane Darkpaw.
He lounged in a wooden chair, boots propped on the table, a dagger spinning lazily between his fingers.
"Well, well. The wandering smith ventures into the dark. Lost your way, Ironhook?"
Kaden ignored the jibe, placing the leather pouch on the table.
"I have a proposition. Information for… a tool."
Lane's smirk faded.
He leaned forward, the dagger stilling.
"What kind of tool?"
"Something you can't buy with gold. A soul weapon."
The room went quiet.
The elf's crossbow creaked as she turned to listen.
Lane's eyes flickered.
"Prove it."
Kaden unslung his satchel, withdrawing a short sword.
Its hilt was plain, wrapped in oiled leather, the blade unmarked—deliberately so.
But when he pressed his palm to the pommel, a faint hum vibrated through his bones.
System, activate resonance.
The sword glowed, a pale blue light seeping from the hilt, threading along the edge like a vein of starlight.
Lane's breath hitched.
He reached for the blade, then hesitated, glancing at Kaden.
"Go on," Kaden said.
"It's not cursed. Just… attuned."
The intelligence peddler's fingers closed around the hilt. His eyes widened.
"By the Forge—this hums like a live thing. Where'd you get it?"
"From a smith who went missing three weeks ago. His workshop was ransacked. I… found it in the ashes." Kaden let the lie hang, knowing Lane would savor the drama of a "tragic relic."
Lane's tongue darted over his lower lip.
"What do you want?"
"Information on the Dark Iron Council. Their movements. Their targets. Specifically—" Kaden leaned in, voice dropping—"why they've been hunting smiths in this town."
Lane's smirk returned, but it was tighter now, calculating.
"That's not cheap. A soul weapon like this could fetch a king's ransom in the Free Cities."
"Then consider it a down payment. I'll give you first dibs on the next one—if you talk."
For a long moment, Lane stared at the sword, then at Kaden.
Finally, he reached into his coat, producing a folded parchment.
"This map marks their old outposts. Twenty years back, they had a forge in the Blighted Marshes, near the Abyssal Rift. Burned it to the ground when the Inquisition came knocking. But… rumors say they left something behind."
Kaden took the map, unfurling it.
The ink was faded, but the red X in the marshes was clear.
"Why give this to me?"
Lane's eyes glinted.
"Because you're not just a smith, are you? I've heard the whispers. The fog's thicker since you arrived. The disappearances? They started the night your master's body was buried. You're a magnet, Ironhook. And magnets attract… interesting things." He nodded at the sword.
"Take it. But don't say I didn't warn you."
Kaden slipped the map into his satchel, the metal fragment now a hot brand against his chest.
"One last question—have you heard of a 'blood key'?"
Lane's smile vanished.
He stood abruptly, the chair scraping the floor.
"Time to go, smith. Before the market decides you're the one for sale."
The fog had thickened into a tangible wall by the time Kaden emerged from the tavern.
He kept to the shadows, his boots crunching on gravel, the map burning a hole in his satchel.
They're watching, he thought, the hair on his neck prickling.
A floorboard creaked behind him.
He didn't turn.
Instead, he veered left, into the ruins of an old mill—the wooden beams sagging, the water wheel frozen mid-spin.
The system's voice pinged in his mind: [Stealth mode activated.
Breath concealment 100%]. Kaden ducked behind a rotted beam, his hand closing around the hilt of his own sword.
Three figures materia