Chapter 6: Twilight Glory

  Winter's footsteps arrived in a hush. As night fell like a heavy velvet curtain, it embraced the Crimson Moon Inn in a cold, dark hold.

  Following the feast, the group retreated to their assigned quarters. Emma was the exception; as a member of the Glory City Law Enforcement, she maintained her own residence within the city walls. Ronen and Wolf could have easily returned to the White Tiger's Fang local outpost, and the trio of mages had their own cold, sequestered sanctums within the White Star Tower. Yet, the siren call of the inn's plush warmth was far more inviting than the spartan bunks of a mercenary barracks or the sterile silence of a mage's cell. Of the entire party, only Vivian—hailing from the distant Dragonshield—truly required the lodging.

  The Crimson Moon Inn lived up to its reputation. When Ronen pushed open the door to his room, the sight nearly stole his breath. A set of polished mahogany furniture sat at the center of the room, while the bed was draped in silk brocade that shimmered like liquid mercury under the soft glow of glass lanterns. In the corner, a white porcelain vase held a single sprig of holly—a touch of effortless elegance.

  Unfortunately, Ronen lacked the worldly experience to truly quantify such luxury. In the White Tiger's Fang, home was a drafty tent shared with Shug and Josh. His "mattress" was usually the cured hide of a Grass-Bear—a docile, lumbering mana-beast often kept as a beast of burden because it was as strong as it was stupid.

  The young mercenary shed his weapons and travel pack, sitting on the edge of the bed with cautious reverence. A long, satisfied sigh escaped his lips. The mattress was so soft it felt as if it might swallow him whole—a thousand times more comfortable than the coarse fur he was used to. He ran a hand over the smooth satin, wondering what rare material could feel so much like water, yet stay so warm.

  As the flames in the glass lanterns flickered, casting amber light across the room's fine edges, Ronen felt something stir deep within him. Looking at this sanctuary, shielded from the biting wind and rain of the outside world, he finally understood.

  He understood why the veterans in the warband risked their lives for a few gold coins. He understood why, after returning bloodied and scarred to the outpost, they would sit by the campfire and laugh, boasting of their exploits with raspy voices.

  "I'm staying here," the boy whispered, his voice gaining a sudden, sharp clarity. "I'm never going back to that drafty tent."

  His eyes caught the fire of the lanterns, reflecting a burning ambition. "I'll become a hero. I'll make sure my name is carved forever into the Cenotaph of the Fallen Legends!"

  A surge of heat rushed through his chest, hardening into unshakeable resolve. He took a deep breath, forcing himself to stand and break the spell of the room's comfort. The road to legend began with a single step, not a soft pillow. Strapping his gear back on, he walked out and knocked on the door to Wolf's room.

  "What took you so long just to drop off a bag?" Wolf sat by the window, his fingers tapping rhythmically against the armrest of his chair.

  Ronen scanned the room—it was a mirror image of his own. "You know it's my first time in a place like this, Uncle. I got curious."

  Wolf's features softened. He gestured to the chair opposite him and pushed over a cup of freshly steeped tea. "Easy, lad. You'll see plenty more of this in the years to come." His gaze then sharpened, cutting through the cozy atmosphere. "Tell me—what do you make of this contract?"

  Ronen immediately straightened. "Something feels... off. I can't quite put my finger on it."

  Wolf took a sip of tea, the rising steam blurring his expression. "Be specific."

  "The numbers," Ronen lowered his voice. "The size of a team dictates the difficulty and the resources needed. It's the first thing you calculate. Including the 'Pages' from the Library, we are exactly ten people. That's too perfect of a number to be an accidental miscount."

  He glanced around the lavish room. "The Lapsus Merchant Circle is meticulous. The maps, the gear, the campsite carriages—they've thought of everything. Why would a group that careful make a mistake on the headcount? I think someone slipped in, and the Circle didn't just miss it—they allowed it."

  Wolf nodded, a flash of pride in his eyes. "Sharp. Infiltrators in a temporary team aren't new, but the Circle's passivity is worrying. Remember this: trust no one you haven't bled with."

  "And the Library..." Ronen frowned. "What kind of organization is that, really?"

  "The Library is ancient," Wolf said, leaning back. "Older than most kingdoms. Their mission is to record history. Nearly every written chronicle in this world has been filtered through their pens. Even the epics sung by bards are often just echoes of their archives. They come from nothing and are everywhere at once." He leaned in closer. "But it's rare for them to embed themselves in a squad like this. I've never seen it in all my years. Keep an eye on those two. If it comes to blows, I suspect their strength is... at least equal to mine."

  Ronen stared in shock. "Equal to yours? But they look like scholars."

  "That is the terror of the Library. They are masters of the unseen. You cannot gauge their depth until they choose to show it." Wolf lowered his voice to a mere breath. "Then there is the gold. Fifty gold sovereigns per person for a mere 'investigation'? Do you know what that means?"

  He stared into Ronen's eyes. "Your last hunt for a Silver-Back Boar paid five coins. The Lapsus Merchant Circle aren't fools who overpay. If they're offering this much, it means the current beneath this mission is ten times deadlier than the surface suggests."

  "Then why did you let me take it, Uncle?"

  "Hah! Blaming me now?" Wolf gave Ronen a playful cuff on the ear. "I figured a public recruitment would have more people, and we'd split the pot. Usually, you'd have to pay for your own transport and supplies to the Frostlands. But they’re covering everything and paying top coin. That means they expect us to earn every copper of it—and maybe more."

  Before they could continue, a burst of lively music drifted through the door. The tension in Wolf's face vanished, replaced by a warm, tired smile.

  "Is there a festival tonight?" Ronen asked, looking toward the door.

  "No, lad. Just a Tuesday for the wealthy. When the sun sets, the banquets begin. This is the heart of the Empire; the richest blood in the land flows through these streets, drowning in wine and song."

  Wolf stood and pushed open the carved wooden window. The night air rushed in, carrying the scent of expensive tobacco, roasted meats, and distant laughter.

  Ronen joined him at the sill and gasped. Glory City was not consumed by the dark. Under the brilliant glow of magical industry, the city had defied nature. Countless mana-lamps lined the streets like a river of fallen stars. High above, the towers of the merchant guilds shimmered with cascading light, rivaling the stars in the heavens. Carriages flowed through the thoroughfares like jewels on a string.

  "Forget the shadows for tonight, boy," Wolf said, placing a heavy, warm hand on Ronen's shoulder. "It's your first night in the City of Splendor. Breathe it in."

  He paused, his voice turning solemn and formal. He turned to face the boy, his eyes reflecting the glittering metropolis.

  "Welcome to Glory City."