# Chapter 207: The Unlikely Alliance
The air in Grak's forge, thick with the scent of hot metal and ozone, felt suddenly suffocating. Soren's gaze was locked on the black bracers encasing his forearms, the cool weight a stark contrast to the fire kindling in his gut. Boro. The name was a stone in his throat. Gentle, steadfast Boro, who laughed with the joy of a child and fought with the unyielding strength of a mountain. He was a shield, not a weapon. Putting him against the Ironclad wasn't a Trial; it was an execution.
"A public demonstration," Soren said, his voice low and dangerous. He looked up, his eyes meeting Nyra's. The frantic urgency of moments ago had crystallized into something cold and sharp. "Valerius wants a spectacle. He wants everyone to see what happens to those who stand with us."
"Or anyone who stands against the Synod," Nyra corrected, her mind already racing, sifting through possibilities like a card sharp shuffling a deck. The Sable League's intelligence network was vast, but it was designed for economic warfare and political maneuvering, not for stopping a magically-powered tank on a suicide mission. They needed eyes on the ground, someone who lived and breathed the Ladder's brutal calculus. Someone whose self-interest was so absolute it could be relied upon.
Her thoughts settled on a name she despised. A man whose ambition was a foul stench, but whose information was as valuable as gold. "I know someone who might have seen the Ironclad fight," she said, pulling a worn cloak around her shoulders. "Someone who studies every top-ranked fighter like a butcher studies a joint of meat. He'll know its tells, its rhythms. But his help will have a price."
Soren's expression hardened. "Kaelen."
Nyra gave a curt nod. "Who else? He's a vulture, but he's a vulture with the best view of the slaughter." She turned to Grak. "Thank you, Master Smith. Your work will not be forgotten."
Grak just grunted, wiping his hands on a leather apron. "Don't thank me. Win. And try not to bring the whole damn city down on my head when you do."
Ruku bez, who had remained a silent monolith in the corner, stepped forward. His dark eyes, deep and ancient, fixed on Soren. He didn't speak, but the message was clear. The Ashen Remnant was watching. This was the first test of their pact.
Soren gave a single, sharp nod in return. Then he and Nyra were gone, melting back into the labyrinthine cisterns, the clatter of their footsteps swallowed by the dripping dark.
***
The Drowned Rat tavern clung to the city's dockside like a barnacle, its foundations slick with brine and its air thick with the competing odors of stale ale, cheap tobacco, and the salty tang of the river. It was a place where deals were made in shadows and broken in back alleys, a perfect hunting ground for men like Kaelen "The Bastard" Vor.
Nyra found him in a corner booth, nursing a mug of something dark and foamy. He was a brute of a man, all corded muscle and scars, his face a roadmap of brutal fights. His reputation for ruthlessness was matched only by his skill in the arena. He saw her approach, a flicker of something—annoyance, curiosity—in his cold eyes.
"Sableki," he grunted, not bothering to stand. "Slumming it, or did you finally lose your sponsor's favor?" His voice was a gravelly rasp.
"I need information, Kaelen," Nyra said, sliding onto the bench opposite him. The wood was sticky, and she resisted the urge to wipe her hands. She kept her voice level, her posture relaxed, projecting an air of casual business she was far from feeling.
He took a long, slow drink from his mug, his eyes never leaving hers. "Information costs. And my rates just went up. The whole city's on edge since your boyfriend's little stunt at the Foundry. The Inquisitors are crawling all over the Ladder, sniffing for traitors." He leaned forward, the stench of the ale on his breath. "Talking to you right now is bad for my health."
"Then think of this as a health investment," Nyra retorted, her tone sharp as glass. She pushed a small, heavy purse across the table. It clinked with the sound of silver marks. "A down payment. I need to know everything you've observed about the Ironclad. Its fighting style, its speed, its weaknesses. Anything."
Kaelen's eyes flickered down to the purse, then back to her face. He didn't touch it. "Weaknesses?" He let out a short, harsh laugh. "The thing doesn't have weaknesses. It has a schedule. I saw its debut. A 'demonstration match' against a pair of low-rankers. It was over in twelve seconds. It didn't fight. It just… ended them."
He finally picked up the purse, weighing it in his palm. "But I did watch. I watch everything. It's not fast, not for a top-tier combatant. But it doesn't need to be. It walks through attacks like they're rain. Its nullification field is a bubble, maybe ten paces in every direction. Get inside that, and your Gift is just a memory. It moves with a purpose. No wasted motion. It targets the Gifted first, always. The pilot is a ghost, but the machine has a rhythm. A slight pause before it initiates a new nullification pulse. A fraction of a second."
He slid the purse into his belt. "That's your free sample. Now, what's this really about? Valerius is sending his pet monster after someone. Who?"
Nyra's jaw tightened. She hadn't wanted to reveal their hand, but she needed his full cooperation. "Boro."
Kaelen's face, for the first time, showed a flicker of genuine surprise, followed by something that looked almost like contempt. "The shield? He's sending the Ironclad after Boro? That's not a Trial. That's a message. A loud, messy one."
"The demonstration is at sundown," Nyra pressed, ignoring his commentary. "We need to stop it. Your analysis could be the difference between Boro walking out of that arena and being carried out in a sack."
Kaelen leaned back, a slow, predatory smile spreading across his face. "We? So the great Soren Vale is finally going to face his monster. Good. The city could use the entertainment." He steepled his fingers, his eyes glinting with avarice. "Alright, Sableki. I'll give you everything I have. A full breakdown of its movement patterns, the exact timing of its pulse, the observations of a dozen other fighters who've seen it. But my price isn't silver."
He leaned forward again, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "The Synod is purging anyone connected to you. I'm connected by proximity. I'm a target. So, you're going to guarantee my safety. When this is all over, win or lose, you and your Sable League patrons are going to make sure I have a new contract. A lucrative one. And I want a share of the final prize purse in the Grand Tournament. Ten percent. Regardless of who wins."
Nyra stared at him, aghast. "You want us to pay you for information to help us, and then pay you again if we succeed? You're insane."
"I'm a survivor," Kaelen snarled, his good humor vanishing. "You and Vale kicked over a hornet's nest. I'm not getting stung because you two have a death wish and a noble cause. I'm looking out for myself. That's the only currency that matters in this world. You want my help to save your friend? You pay for my future. It's that simple."
She could see the logic in his selfishness. It was pure, unadulterated, and therefore reliable. He wasn't asking for a piece of their rebellion; he was asking for a life raft. The Sable League could certainly arrange it. A new contract for a fighter of his caliber was a small price for the intelligence he offered. The ten percent was galling, but it was a future problem. If they failed, it wouldn't matter.
"Fine," Nyra said, the word tasting like ash in her mouth. "You have a deal. The League will guarantee your sponsorship. And ten percent of the final purse, if we get that far."
Kaelen's smile returned, wider and more genuine this time. "Pleasure doing business with you." He reached into a leather satchel at his feet and pulled out a rolled-up piece of parchment and a charcoal stick. He unrolled it on the sticky table. It was a rough sketch of the Ladder's central arena.
"The Ironclad's match schedule is public knowledge, but the *real* schedule is this," he said, tapping the parchment. "Valerius has it doing a patrol circuit through the lower districts before the Trial. A show of force. It will enter the arena from the western gate. Boro will be brought in from the east." He began to sketch lines and notations, his movements surprisingly deft.
"It's methodical. It will advance, nullify, and engage with physical force. Its fists are weighted, designed to shatter bone and armor. The key is that pause I mentioned. Right before the field intensifies to crush a Gift, there's a hum. You can hear it if you're listening for it. That's your window. A half-second, maybe less. That's when you strike."
He looked up from his diagram, his eyes locking onto hers. "Vale's Gift is kinetic, isn't it? A blast of pure force. If he hits it during that pause, he might be able to stagger it. Might. But he'll only get one shot. The Ironclad's pilot will adapt after that."
Nyra absorbed the details, her mind committing them to memory. The patrol route, the gate entry, the hum, the pause. It was more than they'd had. It was a sliver of a chance.
"Why are you helping us, Kaelen?" she asked, her voice quiet. "Really. Beyond the money and the contract."
He finished his sketch and rolled the parchment up, holding it out to her. "Because I'm tired of the Synod's games. They've perverted the Ladder. It used to be about strength, about proving you were the best. Now it's about who's the most loyal dog. Valerius and his Ironclad… they're an insult to every fighter who's ever bled on that sand." He pushed the parchment into her hand. "And because I want to be the one to kill Vale myself, in a fair fight. Not watch him get squashed by a tin can on a leash."
Nyra took the parchment, the rough paper feeling impossibly heavy. "Our deal stands. Stay out of our way."
"Oh, I intend to," Kaelen said, draining the last of his ale and standing up. He loomed over her, a mountain of scarred muscle and cynical ambition. "I'll be watching from the stands. It should be a hell of a show." He turned to leave, then paused, looking back over his shoulder.
"I don't care about your rebellion," Kaelen sneered. "I care about surviving the storm you've kicked up. Don't get in my way when the time comes."
He walked away, disappearing into the tavern's raucous crowd, leaving Nyra alone with the precious, terrible map in her hand. She had her alliance. It was ugly, selfish, and fragile, but it was theirs. And it was their only hope of saving Boro.