The next day I kept my appointment with Norman to provide more information about the Nhalyri, and specifically Vorlith.

  It should have been simple. He asked questions, I answered, and he turned it into ink and paper. The problem was that I did not know how much of what I remembered was true here. Drisnil’s memories had weight, but memory was not proof. Still, I had nothing else to give him, and pretending ignorance would help no one.

  Norman sat hunched at his desk, quill poised, eyes bright as a child’s.

  “What does Vorlith look like?” he asked.

  I hesitated. Drisnil had never seen her, not truly. But she had heard enough that the shape of Vorlith existed in the mind like a threat.

  “She has a woman’s body,” I said slowly, “and beneath that… a spider’s torso. Her smile is said to enchant even the strongest-willed men.”

  Norman’s quill scratched faster.

  “And what does she do with non-believers?”

  I kept my voice even. “She tortures them. Or she turns them into thralls. Half spider, half human. Enough mind left to obey.”

  “Interesting,” Norman murmured, not sounding horrified in the slightest.

  He looked up again, studying my face like I was a rare text that might crumble if he blinked too hard.

  “Why are you not following Vorlith?”

  The answer tasted ugly on my tongue. It was Drisnil’s ambition, and it always sounded too neat when spoken aloud.

  “I want to replace her,” I said. “I don’t like how she rules. I think the Nhalyri should stop hiding under the earth and act like a nation. Not just a rumour. And if there must be violence…” I let the words settle. “It should be directed outwards.”

  Norman’s expression shifted, not in fear, but in genuine curiosity.

  “And what happens if the Nhalyri find you?”

  That one was simple.

  “I’ll be killed.”

  “And if an elf from another lineage sees you?”

  I didn’t bother pretending. “I’ll be killed.”

  Norman wrote more notes, nodding faintly to himself.

  “Well,” he said, almost casually, “they’ll try to kill you, I imagine.”

  A short laugh escaped me, more disbelief than humour. “If they truly hunt me, I’m as good as dead. The Nhalyri don’t forget. And Vorlith doesn’t forgive.”

  Norman paused then, quill suspended. He leaned back slightly, eyes narrowing.

  “So what does one of these death squads look like?”

  That detail had never existed in the backstory. Not properly. But I could build the shape of it from what Drisnil knew about her people, and what I knew about how paranoid empires protected themselves.

  I gave him my best guess.

  “Twenty, roughly. They won’t take chances.” I kept my gaze on the table, as if it might make the lie less visible. “Five clerics, with access to high-level miracles. Five mages, high-level spells. There’s usually one who can slow time.” I swallowed. “Four scouts. The rest are fighters, experienced. The leader is almost always a mage or cleric.”

  Norman’s quill moved again, almost frantic.

  “It seems they take people like you seriously,” he said.

  “They have to,” I replied. “Their society survives on secrecy. Any leak is dealt with quickly. Properly.”

  Norman’s mouth quirked. “And what happens to me if I publish all this?”

  I finally looked up.

  “Well,” I said, “you’d best make sure no one can tie your name to it.”

  Norman laughed, the sound bright and careless. “You could have warned me before I started.”

  I shook my head slightly. “You wouldn’t have listened.”

  He pointed the quill at me, as if accusing. “No, I suppose I wouldn’t.”

  He scribbled another note and sighed, pleased with himself.

  “No matter. I’ll continue writing. This information deserves to be known.” His smile turned wry. “It’s a shame I won’t get any notoriety as the author.”

  When I left Norman to his writing, I found myself with the rest of the week to fill.. We would need more money before we left town, and the simplest way to earn it quickly was bounties.

  I found Illara back at the inn, kneeling beside the bed with her hands clasped, eyes closed in prayer. She did not stir when I entered. The candlelight caught in the small symbols she wore, and her breathing was slow and deliberate, as if she could keep the world steady by sheer focus.

  In my old life, prayer had always felt like speaking into a void.

  Here, the gods answered. Sometimes gently. Sometimes with lightning.

  Illara finished and opened her eyes, blinking as if she’d been pulled back from somewhere far away.

  “Hi,” I said quietly. “I was thinking we could use the rest of this week to earn a bit more money, if you’re up for it.”

  She sat back on her heels. “What did you have in mind?”

  “Bounty hunting,” I said. “We pick a contract and bring them in alive, so justice can be done properly.”

  “If we can bring them in alive,” she agreed at once.

  I hesitated. Her certainty always came so quickly, like she still believed the world rewarded effort and good intention.

  “We can try,” I said. “But I can’t promise they’ll all survive. They’ll be trying to kill us.”

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  “I understand,” Illara said, then added, softer, “but please do try. I don’t want unnecessary death.”

  That was as close as she came to a warning. It still felt like one.

  We headed for the guardhouse. I had hoped Barnabus would be on duty. He wasn’t. Part of me was glad. Part of me hated that I was glad.

  Instead, a different guard stood behind the counter, a man with a thin moustache and a bored expression that never quite lifted. He introduced himself as Corporal Mimms and, after a brief look at Illara’s Solvarn symbols, allowed us to examine the bounty ledger.

  Most of the names were unfamiliar. A handful had drawings beside them, crude and unflattering, as if the artist had decided criminals deserved no dignity.

  One entry caught my attention.

  Terry Holmes. Last seen near a stretch of road not far from town. Reward: one gold coin, alive.

  “Is Terry known to work with others?” I asked.

  Corporal Mimms nodded. “Three others. Mostly robbery.” His tone shifted slightly, sharpening. “But the other day they killed a merchant on the road when he refused to hand over his wares. That’s raised the priority of the arrest.”

  A murder. Not a skilled bandit, then. A frightened man who had crossed the line and decided it was easier to keep going than to stop.

  A good test for the sleeping poison.

  I looked to Illara. “Shall we take it?”

  “Yes,” she said, and her jaw set. “I want him and his crew to face justice.”

  “And the others?” I asked. “What are they worth?”

  “Another gold in total,” Mimms replied. “They’re not accused of murder, but they’re co-conspirators.”

  “Where were they last seen?”

  Mimms pulled a map from beneath the counter and tapped a stretch of road, unremarkable except for the way his finger pressed it as though it were already dangerous.

  “They’ve been operating around here.”

  “Are they worth anything dead?” I asked.

  “Only the ringleader is,” Mimms said. “The others are worthless if you bring them back as corpses.”

  I nodded once, the answer settling into place.

  “We’ll set out today,” I said. “Consider it handled.”

  Mimms raised an eyebrow. “Just so you know, others have taken an interest. First group back with the prisoners gets paid.”

  A race, then.

  Illara’s presence eased the worry that tried to rise. She was too good at tracking to be outmatched easily, and she didn’t lose focus once she had a goal.

  Still, as we stepped back into the cold, I couldn’t help thinking that races like this rarely ended cleanly.

  We decided to leave immediately. The location was only a two-hour walk away, and it was still early afternoon. The other hunters had a head start on us, and I didn’t like the thought of arriving to find the work already done.

  The road was quiet. Fresh snow softened the usual sounds, swallowing them whole. A few sets of footprints marked the path ahead, spaced far apart. The sun was out, not hidden behind cloud, and that made the cold marginally more bearable. My new winter cloak earned its cost within the first ten minutes.

  We walked mostly in silence. It did not feel awkward. Not with Illara. Silence with her had weight, but it wasn’t empty. It simply was.

  The stretch of road marked on the map curved into a small patch of forest where the trees leaned close, branches knitting overhead into a dense canopy. The kind of place that begged for an ambush.

  We followed the road in, and I found myself almost hoping we’d be attacked. At least then the problem would solve itself. But we weren’t a merchant cart, and we didn’t look like a rich prize.

  A short while later, the footsteps we’d been following stopped abruptly. The tracks wandered in a tight loop, as if whoever had made them had paced in place for a time, then veered left into the trees.

  I scanned the ground and spotted something dark against the snow. A broken arrow.

  “Illara,” I said quietly, holding it up. “Do you think this is what the other group was investigating?”

  She took it, turning it in her fingers, eyes narrowing.

  “Yes,” she said. “It looks like it struck that rock there before it broke.”

  She crouched by the stone, studying the scuffed mark where the shaft must have glanced off.

  “The shot came from the left,” she said, pointing towards a tree.

  There were no clear prints leading to it. Whoever had fired had been careful, or the snow had filled in their steps.

  We moved to the tree. Illara brushed the loose snow aside with gloved hands, slow and precise, until she uncovered a muddy boot print pressed deep into the ground.

  “He stood here,” she murmured. “Long enough for the snow to settle around his feet. See how the edges have softened?”

  She shifted her focus wider, clearing snow in a careful arc around the base.

  “And these,” she said, pointing to another set. “They came from the right. I think they headed that way afterwards.”

  I stared at the tracks, impressed in spite of myself. It felt like watching someone read a language I’d never learned.

  “I don’t think these men are clever enough to lay false prints,” I said. “So the obvious answer is probably the right one.”

  Illara did not smile, but there was a faint satisfaction in the set of her mouth.

  We headed right, moving slowly. Illara brushed away snow as we went, keeping the trail alive. It was painstaking work, but it kept us from blundering into the trees like fools.

  After about an hour we heard voices.

  Ahead, through the branches, four men sat around a small fire. They had made no effort to hide it. The glow was visible between the trunks, smoke drifting lazily upward. They spoke loudly, casually, as if the forest belonged to them.

  I touched the ring at my finger and slipped it on.

  The world blurred at the edges as the veil settled over me. My breath fogged less. My footsteps sounded softer. The cold became distant. I moved forward alone.

  They were talking about the last merchants they’d robbed, laughing as if it was a tavern story.

  “I got some good quality food from the last one,” said a man with a thin beard. His face looked like life had hit him often and never apologised.

  A smaller man with a thick, bristly moustache grinned. “I got a copper ring. That’ll buy me a good woman for the night when we’re back in town.”

  “Hah,” said the ringleader, leaning back. He matched the sketch in the bounty book, right down to the scar at his cheek. “Cheap woman, you mean. A copper won’t fetch you much.”

  My stomach tightened. Not anger, exactly. Just the familiar chill of hearing people talk about cruelty like it was sport.

  They were tending a pot of stew over the flames. One man stirred it lazily while the others argued over who had taken the most.

  Now was the moment.

  I uncorked the vial and tipped the sleeping poison in, careful not to splash. The liquid vanished into the stew without a trace. I stirred it once, as if I belonged there, then backed away into the trees before the ring could fail me.

  I returned to Illara and waited.

  When the four men finished eating, nothing happened at first. They kept talking. Kept laughing. Kept kicking dirt onto the fire.

  Then, slowly, one slumped. Not suddenly. Not dramatically. Just… drifting, as if he’d decided to rest his eyes for a moment and never reopened them.

  Another followed.

  Then another.

  Within the hour, all four were asleep.

  A quiet breath left my chest. I hadn’t realised I was holding it.

  “Looks like it worked,” I said.

  Illara’s eyes remained on the sleeping men. Her expression was tense, as if she was still expecting something to go wrong.

  “I’m still not comfortable with poison,” she said. “But thank you. For trying to find a way that didn’t end in blood.”

  The words were simple. The fact she said them at all felt like a small victory.

  We approached carefully, checked them, and then bound their wrists and ankles with rope. When we were certain they couldn’t run, I woke them one by one with a slap.

  The ringleader was the first to snap his eyes open.

  “Who the fuck are you?”

  I smiled, letting just enough of Drisnil show to make him uncomfortable.

  “You don’t need to know,” I said. “Only that we’re taking you back to town, and you’ll answer for what you’ve done.”

  The ugly man with the thin beard spoke next, scrambling for words.

  “Terry made us do it,” he blurted. “Honest. We were forced to rob people.”

  I didn’t believe him for a second. Neither did Illara, if the tightness of her jaw was any indication.

  Still, the job was done.

  All that remained was the walk back, four prisoners dragging behind us like dead weight.

  For once, an easy bounty.

  For once, an easy reward.