Entering the inn gave my nose a much-needed reprieve. The thick stench of the slums was cut off the moment the doors shut behind me. I took a deep breath. Stale ale and wet wood still unpleasant, but infinitely better than the filth outside.
I gave the place a quick once-over.
The lighting was dim, the kind meant to imitate the warmth of a hearth, to trick the mind into thinking this place was home. But it failed. The shadows clung too tightly to the corners, and the silence between conversations felt rehearsed like a stage waiting for something bad to happen.
My entrance drew eyes.
Several heads turned, gazes appraising me like merchants judging the quality of an unknown item. Thankfully, it was close to noon, so the inn was only sparsely populated just a few tables occupied by loners nursing drinks or tearing into plates of half-warm food. After a quick look, most of them turned back to their meals, but a few kept glancing, trying not to look like they were watching.
They were.
The Solitary Inn might look like an ordinary, slightly rundown drinking hole but few people know its true nature. Behind the creaky chairs and dusty counters, it was a node of something much larger. A continent-spanning network of information brokers, known in whispers and rumor as the Shadow Network.
Its reach was terrifying. It had eyes in royal courts, ears in thieves' guilds, and tongues in every city, port, and battlefield. From the Council of Nations to the deepest slums, the network operated silently, relentlessly. You wanted information? They'd give it to you for a price. You wanted a message delivered across the continent in days? They could do it. No questions asked. No names required.
Nobody knew who led the Shadow Network. No titles, no face, no rumors that ever stuck. Some believed it was an ancient order of mages. Others said it was run by a fallen god of secrets. But here, in the Solitary Inn, none of that mattered. What mattered was coin and intent.
I took a step forward.
Time to find out who wanted my sister dead.
I moved toward the bar with quiet urgency, each step deliberate, each glance calculating. My eyes darted across the inn, not just for curiosity, but for survival. The war taught me this: always know your exits. Always plan for betrayal. The weight of the knife hidden under my coat was a cold comfort.
The bartender stood behind the counter, tall and lanky. He had the posture of someone who once held a sword but now wielded bottles. He didn't belong here, his frame too sharp, too dangerous for a man pouring ale in a slum. But then again, nothing here was ever as it seemed.
He gave me a once-over with sharp, knowing eyes before silently gesturing to a stool at the bar.
I sat, and he leaned forward, speaking in a voice that barely rose above a whisper yet it carried with uncanny clarity. I could feel a strange stillness settle around us, a bubble of quiet that kept eavesdropping ears at bay.
"So, why do we have the pleasure of hosting the young lord today?" His tone was polite, but far from reverent.
"You know why I'm here."
"We know why you would come here."
That was enough to confirm it this wasn't some bartender. This was the contact.
"Then what's the price for the information?"
He tilted his head slightly, as though amused. "The information is outside the price range of the young lord."
"I'll decide that for myself."
A flicker of surprise danced in his eyes, quickly masked. Then his voice dropped even lower, eyes narrowing.
"You seek the one responsible for ordering the assassination."
I nodded. The name I sought burned at the back of my mind like a scar.
"The price isn't high because of the content," he said. "It's high because of the context." He paused. "5,000 gold."
I winced.
Five thousand. Enough to feed a village for years. Enough to bankrupt a minor noble house. That kind of gold wasn't just a number it was power. Who could be so dangerous that even information about them came at such a cost?
That was my entire allowance for two years. I didn't have it not now. But that didn't mean I had nothing to trade.
"I want to barter," I said calmly. "Information for information."
He studied me for a moment, then gave a single nod. With a rhythmic tap on the bar—three short, two long, and another short, he summoned someone.
A scrawny boy descended from the staircase. Barefoot, silent, eyes like a ferret. He approached, giving the bartender a glance.
The man nodded once.
Without a word, the boy turned to me and motioned for me to follow.
I did.
Up the creaking stairs we went, the wood groaning under each step. The third room on the left. The boy knocked twice.
"Enter," came a deep, resonant voice from within.
The boy looked at me, then stepped aside. No words were needed.
I pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Time to trade secrets… for truth.
.
.
.
The room was cloaked in darkness, pierced only by the faint glow of a lone candle flickering at the center table. Shadows danced across the stone walls, warping and stretching like ghosts from another time. As I stepped inside, the creak of the old wooden floorboards seemed louder than it should have been, swallowed by the silence that hung thick in the air.
On the far bed sat a grotesquely large man, his body almost sinking into the mattress as if it had molded around him. He looked like he hadn't moved in years. He grunted a deep, gravelly sound and then, with surprising steadiness, stood. Each movement was slow, deliberate, as if the act of standing cost him more than it should. He lumbered toward the table at the center of the room and eased himself into a chair. Without speaking, he gestured to the empty seat across from him.
I took the invitation and sat. My eyes instinctively scanned his features, waiting for some sort of signal, some test. But in the next blink, he was gone.
In his place sat a veiled woman.
I froze. My body stiffened for a breath as my mind caught up. There had been no sound, no movement, no tell. Just a seamless change, like the illusionists from the traveling troupes except this wasn't for amusement.
The candlelight caressed her form gently, revealing just enough a delicate jawline, long fingers resting atop the table, posture composed and regal. The veil obscured most of her face, but her presence filled the room like incense faint, mysterious, and hard to ignore.
Then she spoke.
"So, young lord Uvar," her voice smooth as polished silk, "you wish to trade information… for information."
The gentle lilt in her tone didn't match the weight her words carried. My surprise must have shown, because she tilted her head slightly as if amused.
How had the grotesque man vanished? Was he ever there at all? An illusion, a test of perception, or simply the first warning that this was no ordinary exchange?
I straightened in my seat and nodded slowly. "Yes. I want to know who sent the assassin after me."
The candle's flame flickered again, casting her veil in shadow.
"Then let us see if your truth is worth the weight of theirs."