The cobbled streets of Varnholt reeked of damp straw and spilled ale, a stench that clung to the air like a beggar to a coin.
Torren Vale, barely twenty, slipped through the throng of Blackthorn Alley with the ease of a rat dodging a butcher's cleaver. His patched cloak—more holes than wool—flapped behind him as he wove past merchants haggling over turnips and a one-legged minstrel plucking a lute for coppers.
Torren's sharp eyes, the color of muddy ale, scanned every face, every shadow. In Varnholt, a man who didn't watch his back woke up with a dagger in it.
Torren was no lord, no knight, not even a proper squire. He was a nobody, a street-rat-turned-errand-boy for hire, known in the lower wards as the Fox of Blackthorn Alley. The name suited him. He had a fox's cunning, a fox's grin, and a fox's knack for sniffing out trouble—and profit. Today, profit was on his mind. A job had come his way, whispered in the smoky haze of the Drunken Sow tavern: deliver a sealed letter to a man called Sir Aldric Varn, a knight of middling renown who served the Earl of Dunmere. Simple enough, except nothing in Varnholt was ever simple.
The letter, tucked inside Torren's threadbare doublet, felt heavier than it should. He'd resisted the urge to break the wax seal—red, stamped with a boar's head—but the temptation gnawed at him. Information was currency in Varnholt, and Torren had a nose for secrets.
He patted the letter, reassuring himself. Deliver it, get paid, don't ask questions.
That was the plan. Plans, however, had a way of unraveling in Blackthorn Alley.
He turned a corner, ducking beneath a laundry line strung with linens that smelled faintly of lye, when a shadow loomed ahead. Three men blocked the alley, their cloaks as drab as the stones beneath their boots. The biggest, a brute with a scar splitting his brow, held a cudgel. The other two gripped short blades, the kind favored by cutthroats who didn't care for finesse.
"Torren Vale," Scarface rumbled, his voice like gravel underfoot. "You've got something don't belong to you."
Torren's grin was quick, disarming. "Lads, if it's my virtue you're after, I lost it years ago to a barmaid with a laugh like a mule."
He stepped back, hands raised, his mind racing.
The letter. They knew about the letter. But how? He'd only taken the job an hour ago.
Scarface didn't smile. "The letter, boy. Hand it over, and you keep your teeth."
Torren's fingers brushed the hilt of the dagger strapped to his thigh, hidden under his cloak. He wasn't much for swordplay—too much sweating for his taste—but he could handle a knife. Still, three against one wasn't his idea of a fair fight. He preferred talking his way out of trouble, a skill he'd honed since he was old enough to swipe apples from market stalls.
"Now, gents," Torren said, his voice smooth as watered wine, "let's not ruin a fine morning. I'm just a messenger, paid a pittance to carry a scrap of parchment. Surely you've got better things to do than harass an honest lad like me."
"Honest?" The shortest thug, a weasel-faced man with a crooked nose, spat on the ground. "You're about as honest as a whore's tears."
Torren clutched his chest, feigning offense. "You wound me, friend. My heart's pure as a nun's laundry." His eyes flicked to the alley's mouth behind them. A crowd was gathering, drawn by the promise of bloodshed. Varnholt loved a spectacle, and Torren loved an audience.
Scarface took a step forward, cudgel raised. "Last chance, Fox. The letter, or I break your legs."
Torren sighed, theatrical and loud. "Fine, fine. You win." He reached into his doublet, slow and deliberate, pulling out the letter. The wax seal glinted in the weak sunlight. Scarface's eyes locked onto it, greedy. Torren held it out, then—oops—let it slip from his fingers. The letter fluttered to the ground, landing in a puddle of something Torren hoped was just ale.
Scarface cursed and lunged for it. Torren moved faster. He kicked the letter under a crate, then darted sideways, shoving Weasel-Face into the third thug. The two stumbled, blades clashing against each other. Torren was already running, cloak flapping, as Scarface roared behind him.
Blackthorn Alley was a maze, and Torren knew every twist. He vaulted over a barrel, ducked under a butcher's awning, and slid into a narrow gap between two sagging tenements. His heart pounded, not from fear but from the thrill. This was his game—outsmart, outrun, outtalk. He crouched in the shadows, listening as the thugs' boots thundered past, their curses fading into the din of the market.
Safe for now, Torren leaned against the wall, catching his breath. The letter was gone, but he wasn't worried. He'd palmed a decoy—a crumpled note he'd written himself, sealed with wax he'd nicked from a tallow merchant. The real letter was still tucked against his chest.
He patted it again, grinning. Clever fox.
But the job was no longer simple. Someone wanted that letter badly enough to send three brutes after him. That meant it was worth more than the half-crown he'd been promised. Torren's mind churned. Sir Aldric Varn was a knight, yes, but also a man with enemies. The Earl of Dunmere's court was a nest of vipers—barons scheming for land, knights vying for favor, and merchants greasing palms to secure trade routes. A letter could be a weapon, a secret that could topple a lord or start a war.
Torren needed to know more. He couldn't read the letter himself—reading wasn't his strong suit, a fact he hid behind quick wit—but he knew someone who could. Lyssa, the scribe's daughter, owed him a favor after he'd "misplaced" a ledger that could've landed her father in the stocks. She'd read it for him, and maybe, just maybe, she'd blush when he flashed his grin. Lyssa was trouble in her own way—sharp-tongued, sharper-minded—but Torren liked trouble, especially when it came with hazel eyes and a laugh that made his knees weak.
He slipped out of the alley, heading for the scribe's shop in the weavers' quarter. The morning was still young, the sun barely cresting the city's walls. Varnholt sprawled around him, a city of stone and ambition, its towers crowned with banners of the Earl's boar sigil. Beyond the walls lay the fiefdoms of Dunmere, where knights jousted for glory and lords plotted in candlelit halls. Torren had no place in those halls, but he'd carved out a life in the shadows, where a quick tongue and quicker feet were worth more than a title.
As he walked, he thought of the letter. What could it hold? A bribe? A betrayal? A declaration of war? Whatever it was, Torren sensed opportunity. He'd deliver the letter to Sir Aldric, sure, but not before he knew its worth. In Varnholt, a man like Torren survived by playing all sides, and he intended to play this game well.
He didn't notice the figure watching him from the rooftops, cloaked in gray, a sword at their hip. Nor did he see the second shadow, slipping through the crowd, tracking his every step. Blackthorn Alley was awake, and it was hungry.