The alleyways of Oakhaven had not changed, but Ezekiel had.
Four years ago, he had scuttled through these very gutters like a rat, dodging the heavy boots of miners and the lashes of guild drivers. Now, as the midnight rain turned the soot-choked streets into a slick, grey mire, he moved like a pocket of displaced shadow. His stolen oil-skin hood was pulled low, completely obscuring his deathly pale face and the absolute, unblinking black of his eyes.
To the naked eye, he was nothing but a passing blur in the dark. But through his [Mirror Sight], the town was a complex map of light and vulnerability. Every window pane, every puddle of stagnant rainwater, and every polished metal signpost became a lens through which he observed his surroundings without ever looking at them directly.
[Versum System: Localized Navigation] Current Location: Oakhaven — Lower Slums (The Drips) Detecting unique mana signatures matching Dushmani trade routes...
Ezekiel followed the trace. In the journal of the dead mage and from the hushed murmurs of the grey gnome traders he had robbed in the Chasm of Whispers, he knew that the underbelly of Oakhaven operated beneath a ruined, collapsed coal processing node known as the Sunken Vaults.
He slipped past a pair of drunken human laborers swaying outside a brothel, his bare, calloused feet making no sound against the wet cobblestones. Turning into a dead-end alley lined with rusted iron slag, Ezekiel stopped before a heavy, waterlogged wooden cellar door. A faint, low-grade illusion ward—meant to make the door look like a solid stone wall to ordinary passersby—shimmered over the timber.
To a normal surface mage, dismantling the ward would require an intricate dispersion spell. Ezekiel merely drew his flat shard of specular slate, caught the faint, green magical refraction of the ward in the glass, and tilted it exactly seven degrees to the left.
[Skill Activated: Glint (Level 2) — Phase Inversion] A microscopic, needle-thin beam of silver light shot from his pupils, struck the slate mirror, and bounced directly into the core of the illusion. The green magical thread snapped with a silent, internal pop. The ward flickered out, revealing the iron latch.
Ezekiel pulled the door open and slipped into the darkness below, dropping into a low, silent crouch as the heavy timber clicked shut behind him.
The Sunken Vaults reeked of stale grease, pipe-weed, and the metallic tang of illicit ore. The underground market was a cavernous, brick-lined space lit only by dim, shuttered lanterns. Dozens of shady figures—grey-skinned Dushmani gnomes, scarred human deserters, and low-born dwarves expelled from the official Miners' Guild—huddled around makeshift counters fashioned from old coal crates.
"Salt from the deep, pure rock-salt! No tax, no guild seals!" a squat gnome rasped three stalls down.
Ezekiel walked through the crowd, his gaze fixed downward, watching the reflections of the patrons in the greasy puddles on the brick floor. He needed to trade his Inquisition spoils, but he also needed to avoid drawing the attention of the local enforcers.
He stopped before a stall draped in heavy, oil-stained canvas. Behind the counter sat a massive, broad-shouldered dwarf with a scarred snout and a heavily braided beard pinned with iron rings. He was sorting through a pile of stolen surface weapons, his thick fingers testing the balance of a guard's shortsword.
[Versum System: Entity Identified] Name: Kaelen the Smith (Black Market Broker) Threat Level: Medium
Ezekiel didn't speak. He reached beneath his cloak and placed the heavy, enameled iron dagger he had taken from the dead Inquisition crossbowman onto the counter. Along with it, he dropped three silver coins bearing the seal of the Church of the One God.
The dwarf's iron rings jingled as he froze, his bulbous eyes locking onto the dagger. He picked it up, his thick thumb running over the white-and-crimson holy crest etched into the pommel. His gaze snapped up, trying to pierce the darkness beneath Ezekiel's hood.
"Inquisition steel," Kaelen muttered in a low, rough growl, leaning over the counter. "Clean, unpitted, and taken from a Vanguard corpse by the looks of the blood-stain on the sheath. Where did a gutter-rat get hold of Church executioner gear?"
"Trade," Ezekiel replied. His voice was hoarse, cracking from years of disuse, sounding like two stones grinding together in the dark.
"Trade, is it?" Kaelen grunted, a slow, predatory grin spreading through his braided beard. "The Church has been screaming about a missing vanguard patrol near the Forbidden Forest for three days. If I take this off your hands, the local priests will have my hide if they find out."
"You sell to the Dushmani," Ezekiel said, his voice flat, devoid of any childish fear. He pointed a pale, thin finger toward the heavy crates of rock-salt across the aisle. "They don't care about the Church. Give me clothes. Good steel. Information."
The dwarf narrowed his eyes, the grin fading from his face. The sheer, icy coldness radiating from the boy beneath the hood was unnatural. This wasn't a desperate thief trying to sell a stolen purse; this was a hunter bartering his prey.
"Fine," Kaelen grunted, pulling a heavy, dark grey wool tunic reinforced with cured leather plates from beneath the counter, along with a finely balanced, black-iron hunting blade. "The gear is yours. As for information... what does a ghost want to know?"
Ezekiel leaned closer, his coal-black eyes flashing for a fraction of a second beneath the shadow of his hood.
"Master Brock," Ezekiel rasped. "The dwarf from the Miners' Guild. Where does he keep his obsidian?"