The Royal Guard stood impassive at the tenement entrance, a wall of polished steel and royal authority. The Herald had given Kael ten minutes to "gather his effects," a laughable notion for a boy who owned little more than the clothes on his back and his father's journal. But ten minutes was a lifetime in the Shadow Quarter. It was enough time to act.
He had already said his goodbyes to Lila, sending her with a trusted neighbor to Granny Mura's bakery. Now, he faced a choice. He could walk obediently to his cage, ignorant and blind. Or he could use these last moments of freedom to arm himself with the only weapon that mattered in the world he was about to enter: information.
He slipped out a back window, landing silently in the filth-strewn alley below. The guards at the front wouldn't expect him to run, not after his public acceptance. It was a calculated risk. He moved through the labyrinthine alleys, a ghost in his own home, his destination a place far removed from the watchful eyes of the Crown: The Rusty Anvil.
The tavern was a den carved into the very foundations of the city, a place where the smoke was so thick it seemed to hold the crumbling ceiling up. It smelled of cheap ale, unwashed bodies, and the metallic tang of spilled blood. Mercenaries with scarred faces drank alongside shifty-eyed smugglers, their hushed conversations a low, dangerous hum beneath the raucous laughter of off-duty miners. Kael was no stranger here. He had come many times to find work, to pass messages, and, on occasion, to disappear.
He moved through the crowd to a corner booth where a man known only as 'Rat' sat nursing a mug of ale. Rat was an information broker, his face a roadmap of bad decisions, but his network of whispers was second to none in the Quarter.
"I need to know about the Royal Academy," Kael said without preamble, sliding into the booth. "The 'special admissions.' What happens to them?"
Rat's beady eyes flickered up, a flicker of recognition in them. "Varenholt. The Gutter Mage. You're the talk of the city." He took a long, noisy slurp of his ale. "Special admissions are a fairy tale, boy. A way for the Guild to get its claws into any commoner who might be a threat. They either break you, bind you into service, or you have an 'unfortunate accident' in the training yard."
"Who runs the commoner dorms?" Kael pressed.
"A retired Guild Enforcer named Varkus. Sadistic brute. Takes bribes, but his loyalty is bought and paid for by the high houses. He'll make your life a living hell on their orders."
The information was grim, but it was what Kael had expected. "Anyone inside I can trust?"
Rat let out a wheezing laugh. "Trust? In the Academy? Boy, you really are new to this game."
Before he could say more, three large figures detached themselves from the bar and swaggered over to their booth. Kael recognized the leader, a hulking brute named Jorg, a leg-breaker for a black-market smuggling ring Kael had crossed paths with before.
"Well, well," Jorg sneered, his gaze fixed on Kael. "Look what crawled out of the gutter. Heard you got a fancy invitation to play with the nobles. Getting a bit above your station, aren't you, Veynar?"
Kael's blood ran cold at the use of his true name. Someone was leaking information. Or digging into his past.
"I have no business with you, Jorg," Kael said, his voice level, his hand slowly moving to rest near his knife.
"Oh, I think you do," Jorg said, grabbing the front of Kael's tunic and hauling him from the booth. "Lord Draemhold's man pays well for news on you. But he'll pay even better if I deliver you in pieces."
The tavern fell quiet, the patrons turning to watch the unfolding drama with predatory interest. Brawls were the evening's entertainment. Rat wisely faded into the shadows. Kael was alone, Jorg's two thugs flanking him, cutting off his escape.
Jorg threw the first punch, a heavy, telegraphed blow aimed at Kael's face. Kael twisted, letting the punch graze his shoulder as he slammed the heel of his boot into Jorg's knee. The big man grunted, his leg buckling slightly. Kael used the moment to shove past him, but the other two thugs were on him instantly.
He fought with the desperate, dirty efficiency of the slums. He wasn't trying to win; he was trying to survive. He deflected a punch and slammed an elbow into one thug's throat. He ducked under a wild swing from the other and drove his knife's pommel into the man's gut. But they were too big, and he was cornered. Jorg had recovered, his face purple with rage, and was closing in.
Suddenly, a flash of movement from the bar. A thrown ale mug shattered against the back of Jorg's head, staggering him. Before he could turn, a figure moved with impossible speed. It was a woman, lean and athletic, a phantom in dark leather. Selene Maevor.
She moved like a dancer in a field of blades. She sidestepped a thug's clumsy grab, and the glint of a hidden dagger flashed in the dim light. The man yelped, clutching a hand that was now bleeding freely. She spun, using the momentum to drive her boot into the second thug's chest, sending him crashing back into a table with a splintering crack.
Jorg roared and charged at her. Selene didn't meet him head-on. She simply took a half-step to the side, her hand darting out to snatch a half-eaten meat pie from a nearby table and shoving it directly into his face. Blinded and sputtering, Jorg stumbled, and Selene finished the fight with a precise, brutal kick to the back of his knee, sending him collapsing to the floor in a heap.
The entire fight had lasted less than ten seconds. Selene stood over the groaning thugs, calmly wiping her dagger on one of their tunics before making it disappear back into her sleeve. The tavern, after a moment of stunned silence, erupted into a few scattered cheers before everyone went back to their drinks as if nothing had happened.
Selene walked over to Kael, her expression a mixture of amusement and annoyance. "You have a talent," she said, her voice a low, wry murmur, "for attracting the wrong kind of attention."
"I could have handled them," Kael said, his pride stung.
"Yes, I'm sure you could have," she replied, not believing a word of it. "But time is a luxury you don't have. Your royal escort is getting impatient." She knew. Of course, she knew. Her network of spies was clearly as good as Rat's.
"Why help me?" Kael asked, his distrust warring with the fact she'd just saved his skin.
"Let's call it a professional courtesy," she said, leaning against a post. "You and I, we're similar. We're survivors. And the Academy… it's a pit of snakes. A survivor needs to know who the other survivors are." She pushed a small, folded piece of parchment into his hand. "Some advice. Varkus, the dorm master, has a weakness for Sunstone Amber, a rare wine from the south. The merchant who smuggles it in is named Fen. Knowing that might be useful."
Kael looked at the parchment, then back at her. "What do you want in return?"
"Nothing. For now," she said, her eyes glinting. "But a man like you, a man who can conjure legends out of thin air, is going to be very valuable. Or very dead. Either way, you're going to need friends. And a favor owed to me is better than a purse full of gold."
She gave him a final, enigmatic smile. "Good luck in the snake pit, Gutter Mage. Try not to get bitten on the first day."
With that, she turned and vanished back into the tavern's smoky depths. Kael stood for a moment, the parchment clutched in his hand. He had gone to the Anvil for information and walked out with a broken nose, fewer coins, and a dangerous, unpredictable new contact.
He slipped out of the tavern and made his way back to the waiting guards, his mind racing. Selene was right. The Academy was a snake pit. But he was no longer walking into it completely blind.
Chapter 8 is now complete.
Continuing with Chapter 9: Marble and Chains.