Nightfall had draped Bordertown in shadows, but the city’s energy hadn’t faded. Torches and lanterns flickered along the streets, casting pools of light on the cobblestones and reflecting off muddied puddles from the day’s traffic. The din of the market had mellowed into a quieter hum, punctuated by bursts of laughter from taverns and the occasional clatter of hooves as riders passed by. Peela made her way back to Bawld's Pledges, as the city transitioned into its nightlife. The pawnshop was just as unremarkable as before, its weathered sign swaying gently in the cool evening breeze. As she approached, her steps slowed. Through the grimy window, the faint glow of lamplight illuminated two figures standing at the counter.

  The men were rough, looking, their postures tense and aggressive. Both were broad, shouldered and clad in patched leather armor, the kind cheap mercenaries or low on the ladder thugs might wear. One of them had a long scar running diagonally across his cheek, while the other sported a shaved head and a sneer that seemed permanently etched into his face. They loomed over Tarlan, who stood behind the counter with his usual air of indifference, though Peela noticed his fingers drumming lightly against the wood—a subtle, restless rhythm. Peela moved closer, leaning against the doorframe, her head tilted to catch the muffled voices inside.

  “…you’re late again, Bawld,” one of the men growled, his voice thick with a Libertan accent. “Boss ain’t happy.”

  Tarlan’s reply was low and hard to make out, but his tone carried the same confidence Peela had seen earlier, even in the face of their aggression.

  The other man leaned in, slamming a hand on the counter. “You think this is a joke? Next time, we’re not coming to talk.”

  Peela felt her muscles tense as she listened. The words weren’t clear enough to piece together the full conversation, but the vague threats in their voices were unmistakable. Tarlan muttered something in response, and whatever he said caused the shaved, headed man to bark a bitter laugh. A moment later, the men turned, their boots thudding heavily against the floor. Peela stepped back, pressing herself into the shadows as the door swung open. The two emerged, their conversation now muted grumbles. As they passed her, their eyes fell on her, sharp and lingering. The scarred one leered openly, his eyes dragging across her face and down to her belt.

  “Better watch your step, lass,” he muttered, his lips curling into a smirk. Peela met his eyes with an even stare, her hand resting lightly on her belt. She said nothing, her silence speaking louder than any retort. The man sneered but moved on, his companion following close behind. They disappeared into the night, their shadows blending with the dark alleys of Bordertown.

  When they were gone, Peela pushed the door open and stepped into the shop. The brass bell above the door gave its familiar chime, but this time, the sound seemed sharper in the quiet space. Tarlan looked up from behind the counter, his expression surly as he watched her approach. He hadn’t moved from his spot, but there was a tension in his posture that hadn’t been there earlier, a slight stiffness in the way he leaned on the counter.

  “What was that about?” Peela asked, her voice casual but pointed as she gestured toward the door with her thumb.

  Tarlan’s lips twitched faintly, but he didn’t smile. “Nothing that concerns you.”

  Her brow arched, and she crossed her arms. “Didn’t sound like nothing.”

  He leaned back in his chair, his single hand resting near the haft of his boarding axe. “Didn’t ask you what it sounded like, did I?”

  Peela studied him for a moment, noting the way his eyes darted briefly to the window before settling on her. He was guarded now, his usual air of confidence tinged with a subtle wariness. Whatever the men had wanted, it wasn’t small.

  She shrugged, deciding not to press—for now. “Fair enough,” she said lightly, though her curiosity burned in the back of her mind. “I assume the shop’s closed?”

  Tarlan nodded, his voice gruff. “Aye. Just you and me now.”

  Peela walked closer, pulling out the chair across from him at the counter. “Good. Let’s talk.”

  Tarlan’s eyes narrowed as Peela settled into the chair across from him. He leaned forward slightly, resting his elbow on the counter, and fixing her with a look that felt more like an appraisal than casual conversation.

  "Who are you?" he asked bluntly, his voice carrying the same no, nonsense tone he’d had earlier.

  Peela met his eyes evenly, her expression calm. "Peela, from the Val, E, Naa wastes."

  Tarlan snorted softly, leaning back in his chair. "That much is apparent," he said, gesturing vaguely at her sun, kissed skin and her robe. "It’s clear you’re one of them."

  "Does that matter?" she asked, her tone neutral, though there was an edge to the question.

  Tarlan shrugged. "Not much." He tapped a finger on the counter, his eyes glancing to her briefly before pointing to his own skin, which had a faint yellowish tint. "I’m half gobbo, in case you were wondering."

  Peela tilted her head slightly, studying him. The faint yellow undertones were subtle, but now that he mentioned it, they were there. She arched an eyebrow. "Half gobbo?"

  "Yes," Tarlan said with a humorless smirk. "On a very, very rare occasion, a human and a goblin can actually have a kid." He leaned forward, his tone dry. "And no, before you ask, I’m not a hobgoblin. That’s something else entirely. I’m what people around here like to call a Mudlap. Lovely term, isn’t it?"

  Peela nodded, her expression unchanging. "Good to know."

  Tarlan watched her for a moment, perhaps expecting more of a reaction, but when none came, he let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "Well, you’re not squeamish about it. That’s something." He tapped the counter again, his sharp eyes settling on her with renewed focus. "So, Peela from the Val, E, Naa wastes, why are you here?"

  Peela leaned forward slightly, resting her forearms on the counter. "Ashan Urda, the Longwalker, recommended you. He said you’re someone who can… find things."

  At the mention of the name, Tarlan let out a low chuckle, his scarred face twisting into something resembling amusement. "Ashan Urda," he said, shaking his head. "Now there’s a name I haven’t heard in a while. Hell of a caravan runner."

  "He’s busy," Peela said, her tone dry. "War profiteering in the wastes."

  That earned her a sharp bark of laughter. Tarlan leaned back in his chair, shaking his head again. "Sounds like him, alright. That scrawny bastard always knew how to squeeze a coin out of a battlefield." His grin faded slightly as he regarded her. "And that explains why you’re here, then. Ashan knows I don’t mind dealing with your kind."

  Peela gave him a small, knowing smile. "That factored in, yes."

  Tarlan nodded, rubbing his chin with his single hand. "Smart move on his part, sending you my way. You’ve got my curiosity now, Peela from the Val, E, Naa. What exactly is it you’re looking for?"

  Peela shifted slightly in her seat, her eyes steady as she chose her words. "A man," she said simply, "who has a thing."

  Tarlan raised an eyebrow, his lips curling into a faint smirk. "Well, aren’t you the queen of specifics. That’s vague, even for someone trying to be… vague."

  "I’m just making sure we have some trust first," Peela replied, her tone calm but deliberate. "Information flows more freely when both sides know where they stand."

  Tarlan chuckled under his breath, leaning forward, and resting his elbow on the counter. "Fair enough. So, that means the man you’re after is either important, dangerous, or both." His sharp eyes looked to hers, as if daring her to deny it.

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  Peela gave him a small nod, neither confirming nor denying the full scope of it. "Something like that."

  Tarlan tapped his fingers against the counter, studying her. "Alright then. What level of trouble are you looking to get yourself into?"

  Peela leaned back slightly, a hint of a smile tugging at her lips. "A fair amount."

  Tarlan snorted, shaking his head. "A fair amount. Of course you are. People from the Val, E, Naa don’t exactly come here looking for quiet lives." He gestured toward the counter with his good hand. "Fine. Let’s say I’m intrigued. What’s the next step?"

  Peela leaned forward again, her voice lowering slightly, as if sharing a guarded secret. "What I want is held by a man. Likely still held by him, anyway. I need to confirm that first. Then I’ll figure out how to… acquire it."

  Tarlan’s eyes narrowed as he watched her. He tilted his head, curiosity mingled with suspicion. "And what is this thing you’re after?"

  "A key," Peela said simply, her expression carefully neutral. "To get another key."

  For a moment, Tarlan stared at her, his face blank. Then he threw his head back and laughed, a deep, gravelly sound that echoed in the quiet shop. When he settled down, he leaned back in his chair, shaking his head with an amused grin. "You’re tomb raiding, then," he said, his tone more statement than question.

  Peela gave him a coy nod, her lips curving into a faint smile. "Something like that."

  Tarlan chuckled again, rubbing his chin. "You Val, E, Naa types always have a knack for getting yourselves into deep pits—sometimes literally. So, what’s this ‘key to a key’ unlock, eh? A treasure chest? An ancient door? Something that’s probably cursed six ways to sundown?"

  Peela sat back slightly, crossing her arms as she studied Tarlan. "I’m going to need some help," she said matter, of, factly. "I don’t know how to navigate Imperial lands, and this isn’t something I can pull off blind."

  Tarlan raised an eyebrow, leaning his good arm on the counter. "So you don’t just want information," he said, his voice laced with amusement. "You need me."

  "If you fit the bill," Peela replied with a faint shrug, her tone light. "But let’s be honest, I doubt just the two of us can manage this alone."

  Tarlan snorted softly, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Intriguing. But the vagueness isn’t helping me decide if you’re just crazy or ambitious. Lay it out, then—who’s this man, and what does he have that’s worth all this effort?"

  Peela hesitated for only a moment, then spoke clearly. "The man is Sir Benjamin Grimm. Captain in the Legion. Knight of House Grimm."

  Whatever trace of humor lingered on Tarlan’s face vanished. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly as he processed the name. "Grimm?" he repeated, his voice low. "A high house swordswinger? Lass, you don’t need me to tell you that’s bad. Real bad."

  "I figured as much," Peela said with a small nod. "But I’m not sure just how bad. That’s why I’m here."

  Tarlan exhaled slowly, running a finger along the counter’s edge as if weighing his words. "And this thing he’s got? What is it?"

  "It’s a key," Peela said evenly. "To get another key."

  Tarlan stared at her, waiting for more, but when it became clear she wasn’t going to elaborate, he let out a low grunt. "Not giving me much to work with, are you?"

  "Not yet" Peela replied, her tone unyielding. "For now, all you need to know is that it’s important."

  Tarlan grimaced, his hand resting near the haft of his axe as he leaned back in his chair. "You’re wanting to mess with a high house swordswinger," he muttered, shaking his head. "I hope this key of yours is worth it, because poking that hornet’s nest can end badly for folks like us."

  "It is," Peela said simply, her eyes meeting his with quiet conviction. "And that’s why I’m here. Are you in or not?"

  Tarlan was quiet for a long moment, his eyes narrowing as he watched her. Finally, he let out a dry chuckle and leaned forward again. "Still deciding. But keep talking—I’m listening."

  Peela rested her hands lightly on the counter, her voice calm but with a touch of persuasion. "I’ve got a decent amount of coin now, and the promise of more—spoils—when the job’s done."

  Tarlan chuckled dryly, shaking his head. "Promises don’t pay bills, lass."

  She leaned forward slightly, tilting her head. "Don’t pay bills... or don’t pay those fellas who were here earlier?"

  Tarlan’s eyes narrowed, his expression hardening just a bit. "That’s not your concern."

  Peela smiled faintly, her tone light but deliberate. "But what if it was?" She straightened, her eyes steady. "What if clearing that little problem of yours was part of my payment?"

  Tarlan studied her for a moment, the sharpness in his eyes giving way to something more calculating. He leaned back slightly, his hand rubbing his chin. "You’ve got my attention now."

  "Good," Peela said smoothly. "So, who were they?"

  "A pair of kneebreakers for Sakin the Lip," Tarlan admitted with a grunt. "A local loan shark. They’re here to remind me I’m… overdue."

  Peela arched an eyebrow. "How much?"

  Tarlan hesitated, his mouth narrowed briefly before he muttered, "Three thousand platinum."

  She let out a low whistle, her eyebrows rising. "Three thousand? For how long?"

  Tarlan grew visibly sheepish, avoiding her eyes for a moment before answering. "I’m… two weeks behind."

  Peela shook her head, letting the weight of that sink in. "Two weeks, and they’re already sending muscle? Sakin doesn’t waste time, does he?"

  Tarlan smirked faintly, though there wasn’t much humor in it. "He’s not known for his patience, no."

  Peela folded her arms, regarding him thoughtfully. "So, let’s say I can take care of this. Would that be enough to put you on my side for this job?"

  Tarlan’s eyes looked up to hers, his eyes tired for a moment. Then he leaned forward slightly, his hand tapping idly on the counter. "I’m not making promises. But if you can deal with Sakin—or buy me the time to get him off my back—that’d be a good start."

  Peela’s lips curved into a faint smile as she leaned back in her chair. "Great," she said, her tone almost breezy. "I’ll look into Sakin while you dig into Benjamin Grimm. I know he spent some time in Bordertown over the last year. See what you can find."

  Tarlan tilted his head slightly, his expression skeptical but not dismissive. "It can’t hurt," he muttered. "I’ll ask around, see what turns up."

  She nodded, satisfied, and gestured toward him. "Where can I find Sakin?"

  "Near Butchers’ Row," Tarlan said, his voice low and even. "There’s a tavern there called the Border March. You’ll know him when you see him—he’s got a split lip, a nasty old knife wound. Can’t miss it."

  "Good," Peela said, standing and brushing nonexistent dust from her robe. "I’ll be back in a few days. Do your legwork."

  Tarlan leaned forward, resting his single hand on the counter. "I’ll do mine," he said pointedly. "But don’t think that means you can slack off. You’ve got your own work to do, too."

  Peela smirked at his tone, offering him a nod of acknowledgment. "Fair enough," she said, turning toward the door. The bell gave a soft chime as she stepped out into the cool night air. The streets were quieter now, though still far from silent. Peela paused for a moment, looking up at the darkened sky as her thoughts shifted toward her next move. Sakin the Lip wasn’t likely to be an easy man to deal with, but neither was she. With a soft sigh, she pulled her robe tighter against the chill and began walking, her boots clicking lightly on the cobblestones as she disappeared into the restless city. The sounds of Bordertown began to change—less laughter and commerce, more gruff voices and the occasional clink of knives or heavy boots on stone. The smell hit her before she even saw the place.

  Butchers’ Row was an assault on the senses. The stench of raw meat, blood, and spoiled fat hung thick in the air, mingling with the acrid tang of smoke from the scattered braziers lining the street. Dimly lit stalls stood under crooked awnings, their tables piled high with cuts of meat in varying states of freshness. Some butchers barked out deals to passersby, while others worked in grim silence, their hands slick with blood as they hacked through bone. Stray dogs lingered at the edges, snarling over discarded scraps, and the cobblestones were dark with grime and filth.

  Peela wrinkled her nose but kept moving, her pace steady as she scanned the shops and alleyways for her destination. The Border March was easy enough to spot—its sign hung crookedly above the doorway, the faded lettering barely visible in the weak light of a sputtering lantern. The building itself leaned slightly, its wooden frame warped with age and neglect. Faint laughter and the sound of shattering glass spilled out from within, punctuated by the occasional shout.

  She stepped inside, her hand brushing against the hilt of her knife as a precaution. The Border March was every bit as run, down as it looked from the outside. The air was heavy with the reek of stale beer, sweat, and something more sour—like a room that had been scrubbed too few times and too long ago. The floorboards creaked underfoot, sticky in places, and the dim light from a handful of lanterns left much of the room in shadow. The patrons matched the establishment: tough, ugly, and full of bad intentions. Men with scarred faces and mismatched armor hunched over mugs of ale, while a few drunks lingered near the bar, their voices slurring as they barked insults at one another. Peela caught a few leers as she entered, their eyes raking over her robe and boots before turning back to their drinks. She ignored them.

  Her eyes moved quickly, scanning the room until they landed on a corner table. There sat Sakin the Lip, unmistakable even in the dim light. His face was sharp and narrow, his split upper lip twisting into a perpetual sneer that made him look perpetually angry—or amused, depending on the angle. The two men from earlier were with him, flanking him like hounds at a butcher’s feet, their eyes darting around the room with the wariness of men used to trouble. The trio was hunched over drinks, speaking in low tones that Peela couldn’t make out over the noise of the tavern.

  Satisfied, she moved to the bar, taking a seat on a battered stool near the edge. The bartender, a stout, bald man with a scar running down his temple, didn’t bother greeting her. He simply grunted and wiped a mug with a rag that looked no cleaner than the floor.

  "Something strong," she said simply, sliding a coin across the bar. He nodded and poured a dark, unidentifiable liquid into a chipped cup, setting it down in front of her without a word.

  Peela wrapped her fingers around the cup but didn’t drink, her focus lingering on the trio in the corner. She wasn’t ready to make her move yet, but she wanted them to feel her presence. For now, she simply sat, biding her time as she listened to the drunks behind her and kept one eye on the table where Sakin held court.