Late Winter, 2178

  Braelocke Hollow, Continental Authority

  Braelocke Hollow announced itself first by scent: woodsmoke, cooking grease, and the distinctive tang of bodies packed too tightly into inadequate shelter. Regal paused at the ridge overlooking the settlement, his breath clouding in the late winter air.

  Five days of hard travel from Marta and Joren's cabin had taken their toll. The knife wound in his side ached with each breath, and exhaustion dragged at his limbs like iron weights. But the vial tucked securely inside his coat had kept him moving forward, one foot after another, driven by purpose beyond mere survival.

  Below, Braelocke Hollow sprawled across the boundary between Union and Freehold territories like a growth neither side could excise. A patchwork of structures, some pre-collapse concrete, others cobbled together from scavenged materials, spread from a central market hub. Telegraph wires stretched between crooked poles, and plumes of steam rose from scattered generators that powered the machinery essential to the settlement's precarious existence.

  From this distance, the Union garrison stood out as the only building with any semblance of order—a square stone structure near the eastern edge, surrounded by a fence topped with crude barbed wire. Red-coated Union soldiers patrolled its perimeter, their movements mechanical and predictable even at this distance.

  Regal drew his coat tighter and began his descent.

  The path into Braelocke wound through rocky terrain before widening into what barely passed for a road. Ground frozen at night thawed just enough during day to create a treacherous mix of mud and ice that sucked at his boots. The closer he got to the settlement, the more activity he observed—carts pulled by tired horses, traders leading pack animals laden with goods, and the occasional steam-powered truck chugging noisily along, belching black smoke.

  At the makeshift gate—little more than a roadblock of stacked crates and a guard post—two men in mismatched clothing but matching expressions of bored suspicion stopped him.

  "Business?" the larger one asked, hand resting casually on a pneumatic bolt pistol holstered at his hip. Expensive weapon. Limited range but devastating at close quarters.

  "Looking for work. And information," Regal answered, careful to keep his tone neutral.

  "Information costs more than work pays," the guard replied with a yellow-toothed grin. "Tariff to enter's two copper pennies. Extra penny if that pack's got trade goods."

  Regal produced the coins from a hidden pocket, deliberately selecting those minted in Freehold territory rather than Union currency. The guard noticed—a flicker of interest crossed his face before he masked it.

  "Freehold copper spends same as Union," he said with a shrug. "Welcome to Braelocke. Keep your hands visible, your business quiet, and don't piss off the Union patrols."

  "Sage advice," Regal acknowledged, pocketing his remaining coins.

  "Crimson Hinge's got rooms if you need one," the smaller guard added. "Tell Prescott that Merrel sent you—might knock a penny off the price."

  Regal nodded his thanks and passed through the gate, stepping fully into Braelocke Hollow's chaotic embrace.

  The Fractured Bazaar formed the heart of the settlement—a sprawling market occupying what had once been a pre-collapse transit terminal. Sheets of corrugated metal, tattered canvas, and various scavenged materials created a patchwork ceiling over the market stalls below. Sunlight filtered through in dusty beams, illuminating the constant swirl of activity.

  Regal moved through the crowds cautiously, cataloging details with practiced precision. The marketplace operated on its own hierarchy—food vendors clustered near the center, surrounded by rings of increasingly specialized goods. Weapons and ammunition occupied a secluded corner, their prices reflecting scarcity and demand. A single rifle cartridge cost the equivalent of three days' meals.

  The crowd itself told a story—a mix of traders from both Union and Freehold territories, mercenaries between contracts, local craftspeople, and the inevitable opportunists who preyed on all of them. Union patrol soldiers in their distinctive red coats moved through in pairs, their presence tolerated rather than welcomed.

  He found the Crimson Hinge just as the guards had described—a three-story structure of weathered brick and patched timber, distinguished by its namesake door painted a garish red that had faded to the color of dried blood. The hinges themselves creaked ominously as Regal pushed the door open, stepping into a common room that smelled of stale beer, woodsmoke, and poorly laundered clothing.

  A heavy-set man with a face like crumpled paper looked up from behind the scarred wooden counter. "Room or drink?" he asked without preamble.

  "Both," Regal answered. "Merrel at the gate suggested I ask for Prescott."

  "Merrel needs to mind his own business," the man—presumably Prescott—grumbled, but his tone lacked heat. "Room's four pennies a night. Gets you a bed, a lock on the door, and no questions. Six pennies gets you the same plus a meal morning and night."

  "Six, then," Regal agreed, counting out the copper coins. "Any rooms with a view of the street?"

  Prescott's eyebrows rose slightly. "Cost you seven for that privilege."

  Regal added another coin without comment.

  "Third floor, end of the hall, right side." Prescott produced a heavy iron key attached to a wooden tag. "We've got lentil stew and flatbread if you're hungry. Breakfast is grain mash with dried fruit, served at dawn."

  Regal accepted the key with a nod. "One more thing. I'm looking for someone who knows about unusual materials. Artifacts. Things from before the collapse."

  Prescott's expression shuttered immediately. "Drink's on the house," he said, pouring dark liquid from an unmarked bottle. "My advice comes with it—don't ask those questions too loudly in Braelocke. Union's got ears everywhere, and they don't like civilians trading in pre-collapse tech."

  "Appreciate the warning," Regal said, taking the offered drink. It burned like liquid fire, with an aftertaste of machine oil and berries. "But I need answers more than I need safety."

  "Don't we all," Prescott muttered. His eyes flicked to a corner table where a solitary figure nursed a drink. "Eat something first. Men think clearer on full stomachs — helps 'em avoid asking stupid questions."

  Regal followed the innkeeper's subtle direction, noting the lone occupant of the corner table. Thin to the point of emaciation, with one milky eye and scars pitting his visible skin. The man was watching Regal with undisguised interest.

  The meal turned out better than it looked—rice and lentils layered with shredded spiced meat, charred greens, and a smoky sauce that hinted at garlic and something citrusy. Simple, hearty, and clearly cooked in bulk, but satisfying. Regal ate methodically, attention split between each bite and the scarred man watching him from the corner.

  He didn't have to wait long.

  "Fresh off the road, I see," the thin man said, appearing beside Regal's table without apparent movement. He carried himself like someone used to avoiding notice—shoulders hunched, head slightly bowed, taking up minimal space.

  "What gave it away?" Regal asked, continuing to eat.

  "Boots caked with mud from the northern trail. Tension in your shoulders—not from Braelocke yet, still from wherever you came from." The man's good eye gleamed with intelligence. "And Prescott only serves the home-distilled to newcomers he thinks need humbling."

  The thin man gestured to the empty chair. "May I?"

  Regal nodded once.

  "Davyl Reed," the man introduced himself, settling into the seat with the careful movements of someone conserving energy by habit. "Facilitator of introductions, among other services."

  "Regal."

  "Just Regal?" Davyl's scarred mouth twisted in what might have been amusement. "No family name? No place of origin?"

  "Just Regal," he repeated. "Just passing through."

  "Ahh... passing through with questions about artifacts," Davyl mused, tapping a cracked fingernail against his mug. "Nobody passes through Braelocke without curiosity. They come for answers — answers to questions better left unasked."

  Regal set his spoon down and met Davyl's gaze. "Then maybe you can provide some."

  "Maybe," Davyl said, fingers drumming a slow pattern on the table — a nervous habit or a message Regal couldn't decipher. "Depends on what you're seeking. And what you're offering."

  Regal considered his options. Trust came at a premium in places like Braelocke Hollow, but without some measure of it, he'd get nowhere. He reached into his coat, careful to keep his movements slow and visible, and withdrew a bronze anchor—a coin worth ten copper pennies, enough to buy a week's meals.

  Davyl's good eye fixed on the coin but made no move to take it. "Information about artifacts costs more than bronze, friend. Union pays in silver for reports about people asking those questions."

  "I'm not asking about weapons," Regal clarified. "Just identification. Authentication."

  This seemed to intrigue Davyl. "Found something, did you? Out in the wastes?"

  "Something," Regal agreed. "Need to know what it is, what it does."

  Davyl leaned back, his expression calculating. "There's someone. Knows more about pre-collapse and Rodaerim materials than anyone in Braelocke. Doesn't come cheap, though. And doesn't meet just anyone."

  "I can pay," Regal said.

  "It's not about payment." Davyl's voice dropped lower. "It's about trust. Verification that you're not Union intelligence trying to flush out black market specialists."

  "How do I provide that verification?"

  Davyl's thin lips curved into a smile. "Simple test. There's a Union supply depot on the eastern edge of town. Small place, minimal security. They're expecting a shipment of pharmaceuticals tomorrow—standard medical supplies, nothing exceptional. Except for one crate marked with a red cross. That one contains timed telegraph detonators."

  "You want me to steal them," Regal surmised.

  "Just one," Davyl corrected. "A single detonator, without raising any alarm. Prove you've got the skills to handle delicate work. Prove you're not Union."

  Regal's eyes narrowed. "And if it's a trap?"

  "Then you'll be arrested, and I'll collect a finder's fee from the garrison commander." Davyl shrugged. "Risk is yours to take or leave."

  The proposal carried obvious dangers. Union supply depots, even small ones, would have guards and security protocols. A theft discovered would bring unwanted attention. But without progress on understanding the Thermecine vial, Regal's journey would stall before it truly began.

  "If I succeed?"

  "I arrange a meeting with my associate. Tomorrow night, after the depot shift change. You'll have your authentication then."

  Regal considered the thin man before him—clearly not telling the whole truth, but not entirely lying either. In places like Braelocke, trustworthiness existed on a spectrum rather than as an absolute.

  "One detonator," Regal agreed. "No alarm."

  Davyl's smile widened, revealing gaps where teeth had been. "Excellent. I'll find you tomorrow night." He slid from his chair with the same economical movements. "Oh, and friend? If you're caught, we've never met. Braelocke survives on that particular understanding."

  "Understood," Regal said, watching Davyl slip away through the crowd like a ghost.

  After finishing his meal, Regal climbed the creaking stairs to the third floor. The room proved minimal but adequate—a narrow bed with surprisingly clean linens, a battered table with a single chair, a basin with a pitcher of water, and a small mechanical stove that would provide heat at the cost of precious fuel pellets.

  And as promised, a window overlooking the main street.

  Regal secured the door, then methodically checked the room for signs of previous occupants or hidden surveillance. Finding nothing concerning, he unpacked his meager possessions—spare clothing, basic supplies, the wrapped bundle containing his father's broken axe, and most importantly, the metal case with its mysterious vial.

  He placed the vial on the table and studied it in the fading daylight. The murky liquid inside shifted and swirled as if responding to his attention, the suspended particles realigning themselves in patterns he couldn't decipher.

  What secrets did it hold? What power? And would those answers bring him closer to justice against Shori Ashford?

  Regal secured the vial again and moved to the window. From this vantage, he could observe the flow of Braelocke's evening traffic—merchants closing stalls, Union patrols changing shifts, the first night workers emerging as darkness fell. He noted the patrol patterns, the positioning of telegraph lines between buildings, the locations of oil lamps that illuminated main thoroughfares.

  And there, at the eastern edge, just visible between buildings—the Union supply depot Davyl had mentioned. A single-story structure with a loading dock, two guards visible at the entrance, a telegraph line connecting it to the main garrison.

  Simple, Davyl had called it. Minimal security.

  Nothing was ever that simple.

  Regal leaned against the windowsill, methodically planning the approach, infiltration, and extraction of a single telegraph detonator. Not the most difficult challenge he'd undertaken, but the stakes remained high. Capture meant not just failure but potentially revealing his ultimate purpose in Braelocke Hollow.

  As darkness fully claimed the settlement, oil lamps and occasional gas lights created islands of illumination in a sea of shadow. The distant chugging of generators provided a mechanical heartbeat to the night, accompanied by the muted sounds of a place that never truly slept.

  Regal knew he should rest. Tomorrow would require all his focus and skill. But sleep proved elusive as the vial's mysteries and tomorrow's challenge competed for his attention.

  When he finally drifted off, his dreams were filled with blue-tinted steel and murky liquid that pulsed like a living heart.

  Dawn arrived with the promised breakfast — a warm grain mash spiced with cinnamon and studded with chopped nuts and dried berries. It came in a dented tin bowl, delivered by a silent young woman who barely made eye contact. Regal ate methodically while observing the depot from his window, tracking the morning routine of deliveries, guard rotations, and foot traffic.

  He spent the remainder of the morning making necessary preparations—acquiring a set of dark clothes from a bazaar vendor, identifying optimal approach routes, and establishing contingency plans. By midday, he had mapped three potential exfiltration paths and timed the guard rotations to the minute.

  The depot itself proved unremarkable—a converted warehouse with reinforced doors, barred windows, and the Union emblem painted prominently on its fa?ade. Two guards maintained a visible presence at the front entrance, but the loading dock at the rear saw minimal surveillance between scheduled deliveries.

  As evening approached, Regal returned to the Crimson Hinge to rest before the operation. The common room had filled with the night crowd—laborers drinking away the day's fatigue, off-duty mercenaries playing cards with dangerous intensity, and the usual assortment of opportunists looking for marks.

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  Davyl was nowhere to be seen.

  Regal ate sparingly, nursing a single drink for appearance's sake while continuing to gather intelligence from snippets of conversation around him. Talk of Union reinforcements arriving next week. Rumors of Freehold agents operating in the border regions. The price of ammunition rising again as supply lines tightened.

  By the time he returned to his room, full darkness had fallen over Braelocke Hollow. The temperature dropped sharply, winter's grip tightening as though in defiance of the approaching spring. Frost patterns formed on his window, forcing Regal to wipe a clear spot to maintain his observation of the street below.

  At precisely midnight, he changed into the dark clothing, secured his knife at his belt, and slipped out of the Crimson Hinge through a service entrance he'd identified earlier. The night air bit at his exposed skin as he moved through back alleys, keeping to shadows and avoiding the pools of light cast by scattered oil lamps.

  The depot loomed ahead, a blocky silhouette against the star-filled sky. As expected, two guards stood at the front entrance, stamping their feet against the cold and conversing in low voices. The loading dock remained unguarded, though Regal knew from his observations that a patrol passed by every twenty minutes.

  Timing would be everything.

  He circled to the building's western side, where a drainage pipe offered access to the flat roof. The pipe groaned softly under his weight but held as he ascended, reaching the rooftop just as a patrol rounded the corner below. Regal pressed himself flat against the tarred surface, barely breathing as the guards passed beneath, their conversation about ration quality carrying clearly in the still night air.

  Once they'd moved on, Regal located his entry point—a maintenance hatch secured with a simple padlock. The lock yielded to his picks within seconds, allowing him to slip into the darkened interior of the depot.

  Inside, the air hung heavy with the scents of machine oil, paper, and chemical preservatives. Shelves lined the walls, stacked with crates and supplies organized with military precision. A single gas lamp burned low near the front entrance, providing just enough illumination for Regal to navigate the space without risking detection from outside.

  He moved silently through the rows, searching for the pharmaceutical shipment Davyl had described. Near the rear loading area, he found it—a collection of crates stamped with medical insignia, recently arrived judging by the lack of dust.

  And there, separate from the others, a smaller crate marked with a red cross.

  Regal checked his surroundings once more before approaching. The crate's lid was secured with metal clasps rather than nails, suggesting frequent access. He released them carefully, lifting the lid to reveal neatly packed straw surrounding a dozen mechanical devices.

  Telegraph detonators—precisely as Davyl had described. Each about the size of Regal's palm, brass casings housing delicate clockwork mechanisms designed to send an electrical charge through a telegraph line at a predetermined time. Primarily used for controlled demolition of unstable structures, but equally effective for less legitimate purposes.

  Regal selected one, noting its craftsmanship and precision engineering. Union manufacture, recent model. Valuable on the black market, but not worth the risk unless it served Davyl's true purpose—verification of Regal's abilities and non-Union status.

  He secured the detonator in an inner pocket, then carefully resealed the crate, ensuring the clasps closed with minimal sound. As he turned to leave, a noise from the front of the depot froze him in place—the distinctive sound of a key in a lock.

  Someone was entering outside of regular patrol schedule.

  Regal slipped between shelving units, finding concealment behind a stack of supply crates as the front door opened. Light from a hand-cranked electric lamp swept across the interior, accompanied by the heavy tread of boots on wooden flooring.

  "Hurry up," a man's voice urged. "Manifest says it should be in the back section."

  "Still don't see why this couldn't wait till morning," a second voice complained. "Middle of the damn night for a special requisition."

  "Captain's orders," the first voice replied. "Some visiting officer needs specialized equipment. Paperwork's all approved."

  Regal remained motionless as the two Union soldiers made their way through the depot, their lamp casting long shadows that danced across the walls. They passed within arm's reach of his position, close enough that he could see the Union insignia on their uniform buttons.

  They stopped at the pharmaceutical section.

  "This is it," the first soldier said. "Medical kit with the modified injectors."

  "Not the detonators?" the second asked, gesturing toward the red-crossed crate Regal had just resealed.

  "No, the other one. Marked with the caduceus."

  Regal watched as they located a different crate and secured it for transport, never approaching the one he'd accessed. Mere coincidence, or something more? Had Davyl known about this late-night retrieval? Was this an additional test?

  The soldiers completed their task and departed, leaving the depot in darkness once more. Regal waited five full minutes before moving, ensuring they wouldn't return for forgotten items.

  His exit route remained clear—back through the maintenance hatch, down the drainage pipe, and through the alleyways to the Crimson Hinge. The stolen detonator rested securely in his pocket, its weight a reminder of the commitment he'd made to Davyl's test.

  He reached his room without incident, securing the door behind him before examining his acquisition under the light of a single candle. The detonator showed craftsmanship beyond what most settlements could produce—precision gears, calibrated timing mechanisms, and quality materials that reflected the Union's industrial capabilities.

  Valuable, certainly. But the true value lay in what it might purchase—information about the vial, and ultimately, a path to vengeance against Shori Ashford.

  Sleep came easier this time, though Regal's hand never strayed far from the knife beneath his pillow.

  Morning arrived with a knock at his door—not the serving girl with breakfast, but Davyl Reed, looking even more gaunt in daylight.

  "Successful evening?" the thin man asked without preamble, slipping into the room as soon as Regal opened the door.

  "Depends on your definition," Regal replied, closing the door. "There was an unexpected pickup during the operation."

  "Oh?" Davyl's good eye widened slightly. "That wasn't part of the arrangement."

  "So you claim."

  "I don't set traps that might catch me in them," Davyl said with a dismissive wave. "The Union changes schedules without warning. Nature of military bureaucracy. Question is—did you get what was required?"

  Regal produced the detonator from its hiding place, holding it up but not yet relinquishing it. "As requested. One telegraph detonator, no alarm raised."

  Davyl examined it without touching, his expression appreciative. "Union's finest work. Even the Freeholds can't match their precision engineering." He nodded, seemingly satisfied. "You've passed the first test."

  "First?" Regal's eyes narrowed. "You mentioned only one."

  "Did I?" Davyl smiled his gap-toothed smile. "Perhaps I misspoke. Or perhaps my associate has additional requirements."

  "I fulfilled our agreement," Regal said, his tone hardening. "I expect you to do the same."

  "And so I shall," Davyl assured him. "The meeting is arranged for tonight. The Rusted Gear, two hours past sunset. Ask for a private booth under the name Thorne."

  "And your associate will be there?"

  "If you arrive punctually and alone," Davyl confirmed. "Bring your... item for authentication." His eye flicked meaningfully toward Regal's coat, where the vial remained secured in an inner pocket.

  Regal considered pressing for more information but recognized the futility. In Braelocke Hollow, information flowed one direction at a time, and always at a price.

  "The Rusted Gear," he repeated. "Two hours past sunset."

  "One last detail," Davyl added, moving toward the door. "The detonator is your entry fee. My associate has use for it."

  "Convenient arrangement for you," Regal observed.

  Davyl shrugged. "All arrangements in Braelocke are convenient for someone. Rarely the outsiders." He paused at the door. "Word of advice? Don't make assumptions about who you're meeting. Appearances in the Hollow are cultivated for specific purposes. Reality often proves... surprising."

  With that cryptic warning, he slipped out, leaving Regal alone with his thoughts.

  The Rusted Gear occupied a converted pre-collapse factory on Braelocke's southeastern edge, identifiable by the massive iron cog mounted above its entrance. Unlike the Crimson Hinge's mix of locals and travelers, this establishment catered to a more specialized clientele—black market dealers, information brokers, and those seeking privacy for sensitive transactions.

  Regal arrived precisely two hours after sunset, dressed inconspicuously but armed with both his knife and careful preparation. The detonator rested in one pocket, the Thermecine vial secured in another. He'd spent the afternoon studying potential escape routes and identifying defensive positions, unwilling to walk blind into another test.

  The interior of the Rusted Gear reflected its industrial origins—exposed metal beams, oil lamps housed in repurposed machinery parts, and tables separated by segments of iron plating to ensure privacy. Steam pipes ran along the ceiling, occasionally releasing hissing bursts that overwhelmed conversation and provided additional discretion for those conducting business.

  "Booth reservation," Regal told the broad-shouldered woman manning the entrance. "Under Thorne."

  She consulted a ledger bound in what appeared to be tractor belting, then nodded. "Back corner. Already occupied. You're expected."

  Regal made his way through the crowded establishment, senses alert for any sign of ambush or surveillance. The occupants paid him minimal attention, focused on their own concerns—a welcome change from the Crimson Hinge's curious stares.

  The indicated booth sat partially concealed behind an arrangement of mechanical components that might once have been part of a large engine. A privacy curtain of heavy canvas hung partially drawn, obscuring its occupant from casual observation.

  Regal approached cautiously, one hand near his concealed knife. "Thorne," he said, stopping at a prudent distance.

  The curtain drew back slightly, revealing not Davyl but a woman Regal hadn't seen before. Young—perhaps early twenties—with dark hair pulled back in a severe style that emphasized sharp cheekbones and eyes so green they seemed almost unnatural against her pale skin. She wore practical clothing in muted colors, distinguished only by the quality of its materials and tailoring.

  "You're late," she said, though he knew he wasn't. Her voice carried the faintest hint of an accent he couldn't place.

  Regal checked the position of the steam clock mounted above the bar. Two hours past sunset, exactly.

  "Am I?" he asked, refusing to be drawn into whatever game she was playing.

  "According to my timepiece." She tapped a silver pocket watch lying on the table. "But perhaps I'm running fast." A hint of amusement tugged at the corner of her mouth. "Sit."

  Regal remained standing.

  She gestured to the seat beside her rather than across. "Unless you prefer to conduct our business where anyone might hear." Her tone implied this was the less intelligent choice.

  "I was told to meet someone who could authenticate an item," he said, still not moving.

  "And here I am," she replied, switching her gesture to the empty seat across from her with a fluid, graceful motion. "Though if you prefer to stand in the open, that's your choice. Braelocke has no shortage of interested parties who would love to know what you're carrying."

  The implied threat was clear, but something in her tone suggested professional assessment rather than malice. Regal slid into the seat, positioning himself for a quick exit if necessary.

  "Davyl didn't mention your name," he said.

  "Davyl mentions what I tell him to mention," she replied. "Nothing more, nothing less." She studied him with clinical detachment, eyes moving from his face to his shoulders, lingering briefly on his hands before returning to meet his gaze. "You have the detonator?"

  Regal placed it on the table between them, careful to keep it partially concealed from broader view. "As requested."

  She took it without comment, examining it briefly before securing it in a pocket inside her jacket. "Acceptable. Now, what do you need authenticated?"

  "First, your name," Regal insisted. "I prefer knowing who I'm dealing with."

  The woman's expression remained neutral, though something like amusement flickered in her eyes. "In Braelocke, names have limited value. They change as needed. But if it makes you more comfortable, you may call me Nessa."

  "Real name?"

  "Real enough for our purposes." She leaned forward slightly. "Now, what do you have?"

  Regal considered his options. He'd come too far to turn back, and without expert assessment, the vial would remain a mystery. With careful movements, he withdrew the metal container and placed it on the table, not yet opening it.

  "Found this in a Union facility," he said, watching her reaction. "Secured in a specialized case, under guard. Contains some kind of fluid with unusual properties."

  Nessa's eyes narrowed, her attention fully focused on the container. "Open it," she instructed, voice dropping lower. "Carefully."

  Regal complied, revealing the vial with its murky contents. The suspended particles seemed more active than before, swirling and realigning as if agitated by exposure.

  Nessa's reaction was subtle but unmistakable—a sharp intake of breath, a slight widening of her eyes, a tension in her shoulders that hadn't been there moments before.

  "Where exactly did you find this?" she asked, voice carefully controlled.

  "The Ossuary," Regal answered, watching her closely.

  "The Continental Genetic Wellness Facility," she corrected automatically, using the Union's official designation. "Interesting. And how did you manage to leave with this intact? The security protocols for such materials are... extensive."

  "They were focused on another priority," Regal said. "This was secondary."

  "Nothing about this is secondary," Nessa murmured, studying the vial without touching it. "Do you have any idea what you're carrying?"

  "If I did, I wouldn't be here."

  She met his gaze directly. "It's called Thermecine. A catalytic medium used to extract and direct energy from Rodaerim materials. Extremely rare in its pure form, which this appears to be." Her voice took on an edge of intensity. "The Union guards this technology closely. Having it in your possession would earn you a summary execution if caught."

  "What does it do exactly?" Regal pressed.

  "By itself? Nothing. But in contact with the right materials—specifically, artifacts from the Rodaerim Event—it enables capabilities that most would consider impossible." Nessa reclined slightly, her assessment of him continuing. "The question is, why do you have it if you don't know what it is? What drove you to steal something this valuable without understanding its purpose?"

  It was Regal's turn for careful consideration. Revealing too much would create vulnerability, but without some measure of trust, he'd gain nothing from this encounter.

  "The Union took something from me," he said finally. "Someone. They experimented on her at the Ossuary. I want to understand their methods, their weapons. To level the field."

  "Vengeance, then," Nessa summarized. "A common motivation in Braelocke, if rarely satisfied." She tapped her fingers lightly against the table, a rhythm that seemed deliberate rather than nervous. "The Thermecine is valuable, but without Rodaerim material to activate it, it remains merely potential rather than actual power."

  "And where would I find such material?"

  A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "Now that is a question worth asking. And answering it would constitute our next transaction."

  "What's your price?" Regal asked, already anticipating the answer.

  "Not what, but who," Nessa replied. "I need to know exactly who I'm dealing with before proceeding further. Davyl's test proved you're not Union, but it doesn't tell me if you're capable of handling what comes next."

  "Another test, then."

  "A partnership," she corrected. "Short-term, specific parameters, mutual benefit. I know where to find Rodaerim material suitable for your purposes. I know how to use Thermecine properly. You have skills I can utilize, and a motivation that ensures dedication."

  "What kind of partnership?"

  "There's an item I require, currently in Union possession," Nessa explained. "Secured in the private collection of Captain Merrick, the garrison commander. A fragment of genuine Rodaerim steel, small but potent. Acquiring it would benefit us both—you need it for the Thermecine, and I have use for it in other applications."

  "You're proposing we steal from the Union garrison commander," Regal stated flatly.

  "I'm proposing we liberate an artifact being wasted as a curiosity," Nessa replied. "The operation would require planning, precision, and your particular skill set. In return, you get not just the artifact, but my knowledge of how to use it properly with your Thermecine."

  The offer carried obvious risks, but also potential rewards far beyond what Regal had hoped to achieve in Braelocke. Understanding Thermecine could provide an edge against Shori Ashford and the Union forces that protected her.

  "How do I know you won't simply take both items once we've acquired them?" he asked.

  Nessa didn't answer right away. She leaned back, gaze drifting toward the ceiling as she exhaled slowly, a practiced gesture that drew attention to the elegant curve of her neck. When her eyes returned to his, something had shifted in them—a calculation completed, a decision made.

  "If I wanted the Thermecine," she said, voice low and measured, "I'd already have it. But I don't." She leaned forward, close enough that he caught the faint scent of something herbal mixed with metal. "Because its real value lies in how it's used. And that requires patience. Knowledge. A long view—not impulse."

  Regal studied her, trying to penetrate the carefully constructed fa?ade to the true motivations beneath. Whatever drove Nessa clearly extended beyond simple profit or acquisition. Her knowledge of Rodaerim materials suggested connections to organizations that operated outside Union control—possibly the Arcane Accord, though their existence remained more rumor than confirmed fact.

  "When would this operation take place?" he asked finally.

  "Three nights from now," Nessa replied. "Captain Merrick hosts a monthly card game for select officers. Security will be present but distracted. We'll use that window to access his private quarters and secure the fragment."

  "And afterward?"

  "I teach you how to use what you've acquired," she said simply. "Knowledge that few outside the Union's inner circle possess. An edge against whatever enemy you're pursuing."

  The silence stretched between them, broken only by the ambient noise of the Rusted Gear—the hiss of steam pipes, the clatter of glasses, the murmur of negotiations at other tables.

  Finally, Regal nodded once. "Three nights. But we plan this together, step by step. No surprises."

  "Agreed," Nessa said, extending her hand across the table. Her fingers were ungloved, revealing slim, elegant hands marred by calluses that spoke of practical experience. "Partners, for now."

  Regal took her hand, noting the surprising strength in her grip. Her skin was warmer than expected, the contact lingering just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

  "Partners," he echoed, sealing a pact that would either bring him closer to vengeance—or end his pursuit permanently.

  As he secured the Thermecine vial and rose to leave, Nessa's voice stopped him.

  "One last thing, Regal. Whatever drove you to the Ossuary, whatever you lost—don't mistake this arrangement for anything personal. In Braelocke, alliances are tools, not bonds."

  "I'm not looking for bonds," he replied. "Just results."

  Her smile held no warmth, just recognition. "Then we understand each other perfectly."

  Regal left the Rusted Gear with the weight of the vial in his pocket and the heavier weight of commitment to a dangerous course. He'd come to Braelocke seeking answers and found instead a partnership balanced on the knife-edge of mutual need.

  Three nights to prepare. Three nights to assess Nessa's true intentions. Three nights before they challenged the Union directly, taking a step that couldn't be undone.

  The late winter wind cut through his coat as he made his way back to the Crimson Hinge, carrying the scent of woodsmoke and the promise of approaching spring. But for Regal, the cold had just begun, and the thaw remained distant—beyond justice, beyond vengeance, beyond the reckoning that drove him forward.

  One step at a time. One fragment of steel. One catalyst to set everything in motion.