The night air in Rivermarch carried the scent of damp earth and freshly hewn timber, the sounds of a settlement still finding its footing murmuring in the background. Inside Tybalt's tent, the flickering glow of lantern light danced off stacks of parchment, maps, and half-eaten meals—evidence of an ever-busy mind. The flaps rustled as Maximus ducked his towering frame inside, the automaton's presence casting long shadows along the canvas walls. "My furry companion," Maximus rumbled, his voice a measured mix of metal and resonance. "Do you know of anyone who could help upgrade my gear? It seems I was not prepared enough for the owlbear fight. I have this enhancement for my sword, but I require a smith to attach it properly." Tybalt, seated on a makeshift stool, glanced up from his latest scribblings, his whiskers twitching as he considered the request. He studied Maximus for a moment, noting the scuffs and dents on the automaton's armor—battle scars from their last harrowing encounter. "I know just the place," Tybalt replied, rolling up the parchment and setting it aside. "We'll need to head underground—to the Warren." Maximus follows Tybalt. "Ysoki territory," Tybalt explained, standing and stretching. "A work-in-progress, but already the best place in Rivermarch for specialized work—especially for something as unique as you." He began gathering a few things, tucking a dagger into his belt before motioning for Maximus to follow. "Come on, let's get moving before the night's too far gone." The path to the Ysoki Warrens was hidden in plain sight, nestled behind the bustling market district, where the scent of roasted meats and freshly brewed ale mingled with the musty air of a settlement still taking root. Tybalt led Maximus past watchful eyes and shadowed alleys, their route winding toward a nondescript wooden hatch built flush against a weather-worn wall. Tybalt glanced around once, ensuring no unwanted eyes were on them before reaching down, lifting the hatch, revealing a sloped tunnel beyond. The passageway was cramped and uneven, a clear contrast to the broader avenues of Rivermarch above. Maximus paused, eyeing the narrow descent, then let out a slight hum. Still following, though it might get cramped. Tybalt grinned, dropping down first, his tail flicking behind him. "Welcome to the joys of Ysoki architecture." Maximus followed carefully, his large frame pressing against the earthen walls, forced to stoop as they navigated deeper. The air changed the further they descended—cooler, tinged with the scent of oil, alchemy, and molten metal. The rhythmic clang of hammers against steel and the distant murmur of hushed conversations echoed ahead, signaling that they were nearing their destination. With a final turn, the tunnel opened up, revealing the sprawling, unfinished spectacle of the Warren—a place brimming with ambition, ingenuity, and the promise of something far greater than its current state. Tybalt glanced back at Maximus, flashing a quick grin. "Welcome to the Warrens. Let's get you patched up." "Let's visit a smith first and have this sword looked at," Maximus suggested. The Ysoki Warrens sprawled beneath Rivermarch, a network of hidden tunnels, markets, and workshops where the underbelly of the city thrived. Tybalt led Maximus down a series of narrow, twisting corridors. The tunnels, built with Ysoki proportions in mind, forced Maximus to stoop slightly as he moved, his frame occasionally brushing against the reinforced beams. The deeper they went, the more the tunnels shifted from mere burrows to something engineered—a hidden masterwork of design and efficiency still under construction. This was Varrin Rattigan's domain. At the heart of the Warrens, the tunnels widened into a low-ceilinged cavern, its framework still being reinforced with beams and stone. Makeshift platforms and scaffolding lined the walls, evidence of ongoing construction. Despite its unfinished state, the warren already hummed with activity—Ysoki merchants bartered in hushed voices, thieves haggled over stolen goods, and tinkers hammered away at intricate mechanical devices. It was a place of ambition and ingenuity, a glimpse of the grand underground enclave it would one day become. Varrin stood at the center of it all, poring over blueprints at a table cluttered with mechanical sketches and structural models. His fur was streaked with silver, his fingers calloused and stained with ink and metal dust. Uncle Varrin stood near a large blueprint-covered table, poring over a set of plans with an intricate, mechanical compass in one hand. His fur was streaked with silver, his eyes sharp as ever, darting up the moment Tybalt entered. "Boy! Took you long enough to show up," Varrin grumbled, rolling up a parchment and tucking it into his coat. His fingers, scarred and calloused from years of planning and building, drummed against the table. "Thought you'd gotten too important to visit your old uncle." Tybalt smirked. "You'd know if I was, Uncle. You'd be reading it on some wanted notice by now." Varrin snorted. "Bah. Still trouble, I see." His sharp gaze shifted to Maximus. "And what do we have here? A proper automaton? Haven't worked on one of your kind since the Brevic Clockworks tried to push a walking forge through my tunnels. Didn't work, by the way—too heavy, fell straight through the flooring." He gestured toward the far end of the cavern, where the glow of molten metal flickered against the walls. "You'll want Ironpaw and his partner for this one. They've got a flair for... well, the unorthodox." Maximus turned to Tybalt, but Tybalt just shrugged. "That's about as warm a farewell as you'll get from him." Beyond Varrin's domain, the tunnels narrowed again before opening into a cavern lit with molten light. Here lay the heart of the Ysoki Warrens' ingenuity—a smithy unlike any other. The forge wasn't just a place of metal and fire; it hummed with unstable energy, arcane symbols glowing faintly along the stone walls. At the center of the workshop stood a Ysoki blacksmith, a wiry, frenetically energetic figure, his fur perpetually dusted with soot and metal filings. His eyes gleamed with the manic excitement of someone who truly loved their craft. This was Razek 'Ironpaw' Rattleclank. He hopped onto a workbench, landing with a clang, his metal-reinforced gloves sparking slightly as he rubbed them together. "Ahhh! A new project! And it's got legs!" He leaped forward, skittering around Maximus with alarming speed, tapping at the automaton's plating, prodding at the joints. "What are we working with? Basic reinforcement? Or are we going experimental?" Before Maximus could answer, a new presence drifted into view—an ethereal contrast to Razek's manic energy. A Ysoki wrapped in flowing robes, adorned with silver rings that hummed with magical energy, stepped into the forge. Her eyes gleamed with arcane light, her tail flicking lazily as if adjusting to unseen forces. This was Nyx Rattleclank, Razek's wife and the workshop's resident enchanter. "Experimental," she said before Maximus could speak, her voice dreamy yet assured. She circled him once, eyes narrowing in thought. "I see potential. A reforged blade, empowered not just with steel, but something more… esoteric." Razek grinned, flicking a switch on his mechanized gauntlet, causing a shower of harmless sparks. "I like the way she thinks!" Nyx ignored him, her gaze locking onto Maximus. "What do you seek? Precision? Power? Or… unpredictability?" Ironpaw snickered. "That last one's free, by the way." Razek finally leaned back, flicking his soot-covered fingers. "Ah! Tybalt! Didn't even see you there, cousin. You know how it is—new project, new puzzle, the world fades away." He grinned wide, tail flicking. "You should've said something earlier!" Nyx, still studying Maximus, finally turned her luminous eyes toward Tybalt. "Of course, it had to be family bringing us something this interesting. You never come by just to chat, do you?" Her smile was knowing, playful. "But then, neither do we." Tybalt chuckled, shaking his head. "Well, you two never disappoint. Now, let's see what kind of chaos you can cook up for Maximus." Maximus tilted his head slightly, optics narrowing as he studied the Ysoki craftsmen. "Before I proceed, I require clarification. Your expertise. Your experience. I must know the nature of your craft—both in steel and in sorcery." His gaze lingered on Razek's gauntlets, then drifted to Nyx's shimmering rings. "You claim mastery of the unorthodox. Detail your past works. Weapons. Armor. Enhancements beyond the mundane. I must know what you are capable of before I entrust my blade to your hands." His grip tightened briefly around the *Rune of Striking*, its etched markings catching the forge's glow. "I do not seek mere repairs. I seek optimization. Innovation. I seek an edge." He nodded once, a deliberate motion. "Impress me." "I have come across an artifact—a Rune of Striking. Its properties remain uncertain. I require analysis. Application. Optimization." He withdrew the rune, holding it up to catch the glow of the forge's molten light. "This must be affixed to my blade. Efficiency is paramount. I require full understanding of its function before implementation." His optics shifted momentarily to Razek's gauntlets, then to Nyx's arcane rings. "My armor remains sufficient. For now. But I will entertain improvements if they increase battlefield effectiveness without compromising structural integrity. If you have… ideas, present them." He waited, expectant, the flickering forge casting his bronze-and-steel form in shifting hues of light and shadow. The flickering forge cast jagged shadows across the cavern walls, the molten glow painting Maximus in shifting hues of bronze, steel, and firelight. His words—measured, precise, demanding—hung in the charged air, an unspoken challenge laid before the Ysoki artisans. For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then, Razek let out a delighted cackle, tail flicking behind him like a live wire. "Oh-ho! Now *that* is the kind of talk I like to hear!" He clapped his gauntleted hands together, sending a sharp metallic ring through the forge. Sparks spat from the seams of his mechanical gloves as he strode toward Maximus, grinning ear to ear. "You want credentials? You want proof? Oh, my dear war-forged friend, you've just walked into the finest damn workshop in Rivermarch—or anywhere in the Stolen Lands, for that matter!" He spun on his heel, gesturing grandly to the scattered racks of weapons, segmented armor plating, and half-finished contraptions littering the workshop. "You want weapons? I built a crossbow that reloads itself faster than a drunk gambler loses coin. You want armor? I reforged a breastplate with interlocking plates that collapse for stealth and snap back into place when the wearer moves to fight." He reached for a dagger sheathed at his belt, tossing it casually into the air. When it flipped, the hilt retracted, the blade splitting into three jagged edges before snapping back into place as he caught it again. "You want enhancements?" He grinned, flipping the blade expertly between his fingers. "I once inlaid a shortsword with a conductive core that crackled with arcane lightning. The idiot who commissioned it asked for 'a little spark,' so I made sure it discharged whenever he got too sweaty in battle. Fried his mustache clean off." Razek snickered at the memory, then gestured to Nyx. "And then there's my lovely wife—who makes all my best work actually *function*." Nyx, who had been watching Maximus with quiet intensity, tilted her head slightly, the glow of her silver rings pulsing in response to unseen forces. Unlike Razek, she did not waste words. She studied the rune in Maximus's grip, her gaze tracking the etched markings with an almost hungry curiosity. "Striking," she murmured, voice smooth, deliberate. "Power held dormant until awakened. Force waiting to be multiplied. No mere rune, this—potential is the real magic." She extended a clawed hand, not quite touching the rune but feeling the resonance it emitted, her rings flaring in response. "Runes have their limits. But limits can be rewritten. Stretched. Woven." She stepped closer, tilting her head up to meet Maximus's optics directly. "You seek optimization. We will not simply attach this rune—we will amplify it." Her tail lazily curled, her mind already whirring with calculations and possibilities. "I can embed arcane conduits within the blade's core—allow the force of each strike to ripple beyond steel. A phantom edge. A strike that lingers in reality, even when the blade has already withdrawn." Razek grinned, nodding rapidly. "Yeah, see, this is why I married her." Nyx continued, her gaze sharper now. "But that is only the beginning." She gestured to Maximus's armor, her rings flickering once more. "Your frame. Solid. Efficient. But bound by predictable motion. With the right attunements—arcane enhancements woven into the metal itself—your movements could become…" She paused, searching for the right word, then finally landed on it: "…intuitive." Razek leaned forward, resting his hands on his knees. "And by 'intuitive,' she means we could reinforce the structure with reactive plating—metal that bends when it needs to, but locks when force is applied. Keeps you light, but makes you hit like a siege engine." Nyx nodded. "Battlefield effectiveness. No compromise of integrity. Innovation—not just repair." Then, Razek laughed again, rolling his shoulders. "So? You wanted impressive? Consider us impressed with you for asking the right questions, big guy." He held out a grease-stained hand, offering the first step of the deal. "What do you say, Maximus? Are we going to build you something worth swinging?" Nyx merely smiled, the glow of her rings casting arcane fractals along the forge's walls. Maximus clarified, "I do not possess much gold, Lady Jamandi did not provide me with provisions just directives, I only have 50 gold would we be able to come to a solution on payment?" Razek leaned back, his mechanical gauntlets clicking as he flexed his fingers, a grin spreading across his soot-streaked face. "Gold? Pfft. Who cares about gold?" He waved a dismissive hand before turning to Nyx. "I mean, sure, it buys nice things—like food, tools, and explosives—but this? This is something new." He spun on his heel, gesturing at Maximus with wild excitement. "I've worked on war machines, tinkered with clockwork constructs, even reforged a Brevic battle golem that thought it was a cat. But a *living* automaton?" His eyes gleamed with unrestrained curiosity. "Oh, I have to see what exactly I can get away with." Nyx smirked, arms crossed as she watched her husband spiral into creative madness. "Meaning," she clarified, "you're getting an upgrade. No charge." Razek pointed at her. "Exactly! No charge. No gouging the pockets. Just a simple request." He turned back to Maximus, eyes alight with the thrill of innovation. "You let people know who did these enhancements. Spread the word—your family, your friends, any other automatons you cross paths with. Let them see what's possible." He leaned in, tail flicking, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "Because if this works? If I can *push* the limits of what you are? Then I'll be the first Ysoki smith in history to reforge something beyond steel." Nyx tilted her head toward Maximus, her silver rings pulsing softly. "So? Do we have a deal?" Maximus responded, "We have a deal furry ones, lets start with the sword." There was almost a hint of excitement in his metallic voice, not from getting a good deal but from the suspense of being improved. Razek let out a delighted cackle, rubbing his hands together before grabbing a heavy wrench. "Now *that's* what I like to hear!" With a flick of his tail, he pulled a workbench closer and motioned for Maximus to set his arm down. "Alright, let's crack you open and see what we're working with," the Ysoki smith muttered. He worked fast, surprisingly precise for someone with such frenetic energy. A series of sharp clicks and *shnnnkt* sounds followed as Maximus's arm was completely disassembled—layer after layer of intricate gears, pistons, and reinforced plating laid out in a staggering display of engineering. Razek, for all his bravado, actually paused in stunned silence. "I, uh... Hells, this is complicated." He scratched his ear. "They really don't make 'em like this anymore, huh?" Nyx watched from the side, unimpressed. "And yet, I still bet you're going to 'improve' it anyway." "Obviously," Razek said, already focused on the next piece. Finally, he pried out the greatsword insert from Maximus's frame, laying it flat on the anvil. The automaton's old weapon was serviceable—but serviceable wasn't good enough. **The Birth of The Sundering Fang** Razek rolled his shoulders, then took the Rune of Striking Maximus provided and got to work. Sparks flew as he reforged the blade, reinforcing its structure and ensuring it could handle the deadly enhancements about to be infused. Meanwhile, Nyx began her work, her silver rings glowing as she carefully wove magic into the steel. The arcane sigils along the blade's length flared to life, pulsing as the *Weapon Potency* and *Striking* Runes took hold. The process wasn't just about power—it was about perfection. By the time the reforging was done, *The Sundering Fang* was something else entirely. A weapon of brutal efficiency, hidden away inside Maximus's arm like a coiled predator waiting to strike. The Ysoki engineers had rebuilt his greatsword to collapse into a compact, reinforced housing within his frame. With a powerful mechanical *shunk*, the segmented blade unfolded outward, locking into place with a heavy finality—ready to carve through anything in its path. The surface hummed with arcane energy, the runes glowing faintly along the reforged steel. Ratfolk engravings now adorned the fuller, tiny script reading "One Cut, One Kill" in looping Ysoki dialect. Near the hilt, a minuscule rat's paw symbol was etched in—a subtle mark of Razek's craftsmanship. As he tightened the last bolt and secured the internal locking mechanism, Razek leaned back, admiring his handiwork. "Alright, big guy," he said, wiping his brow. "No excuses. When you pull this thing out, make sure nothing gets back up." Just as he's about to reattach Maximus's arm, Razek paused. His ears twitched. His tail flicked. His eyes widened. "Wait—wait, wait, wait—I got it!" Without another word, he scurried to the back of the workshop, disappearing into the maze of half-finished projects and Ysoki-engineered chaos. Nyx sighed, shaking her head. "Here we go again..." Razek burst back into the workshop, tail whipping behind him, a wild grin splitting his soot-streaked face. "Alright, listen up, Max, because I just had a brilliant idea!" In his hands, he held what looked like a heavily modified *Everburning Torch*, but with clear Ysoki-engineered enhancements—mechanical joints, reinforced plating, and intricate arcane engravings worked into its structure. He slammed it onto the worktable next to The Sundering Fang and gestured wildly. "We're not just stopping at the sword. We're giving you *Dawnbrand*." **The Eternal Flame, Hidden Until Needed** Unlike most simple magical torches, *Dawnbrand* was a beacon of relentless endurance, a guiding light in the darkest of battles. The enchanted flame was housed within a collapsible structure, allowing it to seamlessly retract into Maximus's forearm, hidden until needed. With a sharp mechanical *click-clank*, the device unfurled—revealing a reinforced torch housing with jagged sunburst vents that cast eerie, shifting shadows as its smokeless, unwavering flame burned with steady intensity. Nyx stepped forward, her silver rings pulsing as she ran a careful claw along the torch's structure, inspecting the magical weaves laced through the metal. Unlike Razek, her excitement was quieter, more methodical, but no less present. "This isn't some crude modification," she said, her voice carrying a certainty that cut through Razek's usual theatrics. "This flame will never flicker, never dim, never be doused. No storm, no magic, no force will snuff it out." She gestured, and for a moment, the flame pulsed at her command. "The torch itself is more than just a light—it's a symbol. In ancient enchantment theory, a flame like this is a promise—unyielding, eternal. A sentinel in the darkness." Razek, nodding along, rubbed his chin. "And, of course, it's also a damn good way to make sure your enemies see you coming before you take their heads off." He grinned, tail flicking. "Symbolism's nice. Functionality is better." Nyx didn't miss a beat. "Spoken like someone who's never spent a night in true darkness." She gave Maximus a knowing look. "You, though… you understand the value of a light that never fades." Razek held up his hands. "Hey, hey, not arguing! I love it when something can be both poetic and lethal." He clapped a hand on Maximus's shoulder, grinning. "Now you can light the way, blind enemies, or crack skulls with something that never goes out." Nyx smirked, folding her arms. "And when the darkness rises, you'll be the one standing in the light." Razek gestured wildly at the modifications, practically vibrating with excitement. "And best part? We fit this next to that greatsword, see? Imagine the possibilities!" He threw his hands in the air. "You ever needed to see in the dark while crushing your enemies? Boom. Done. Need a light? Done. Need to blind some poor bastard mid-fight? Double done!" Nyx leaned in slightly, her golden eyes locking onto Maximus's optics. "The Sundering Fang cuts through steel," she said. "Dawnbrand cuts through the unknown. Both will make sure you never falter." Razek let out a delighted cackle, tail flicking. "I swear, Max—you might be the single greatest project I've ever worked on." **The Final Modification: The Hollow Vault** Razek stepped back, arms crossed, tail flicking as he admired his own work. *The Sundering Fang*, locked away like a coiled predator. *Dawnbrand*, its unwavering sentinel flame. Maximus was becoming more than a weapon—he was becoming a statement. But something still nagged at Razek. A little itch in the back of his mind, that one last missing touch. Without a word, he abruptly spun on his heel and vanished into the depths of the workshop again, tail disappearing around a corner. Nyx, still fine-tuning the last arcane stabilizations on *Dawnbrand*, barely looked up. "Should we be worried?" Before Maximus could answer, Razek reappeared, now lugging a wooden chest in one hand and a saw in the other. He set the chest down with a heavy *thunk* and grinned far too wide. "So! I have one last idea." He held up the saw like a surgeon about to perform a highly experimental procedure. "You ever looked inside an automaton's chest cavity?" He didn't wait for an answer. "I *HAVE*." He lunged forward, saw raised, aiming straight for Maximus's reinforced chassis. "Hold still!" Razek hesitated for a brief second—*wait, does he feel pain? Hopefully not!*—then went for it anyway. The horrifying screech of metal filled the workshop as Razek enthusiastically started cutting into Maximus's torso. Sparks flew in every direction. The saw bit through reinforced plating, shrieking as it worked its way through, the sound somewhere between a dying warhorn and an avalanche of rusted gears. Nyx finally looked up. "…What. Are. You. Doing." Razek barely glanced over, still sawing. "What? Oh! Right. Storage!" Nyx rubbed her temples, muttering something arcane under her breath—likely a prayer for patience. "And you thought explaining that *before* slicing into his frame was unnecessary?" Razek grinned, switching to a finer tool to weld a collapsible compartment into place. "Where's the fun in that? Besides—think about it! He's already a walking arsenal, so why not give him something practical? Extra storage. Hidden compartments. Space for contraband, if that's his thing. Smuggling emergency rations, maybe?" Nyx gave Maximus a look—a silent, *You agreed to this.* Razek, completely unbothered, tightened the last bolt and stepped back, admiring his handiwork. Then he paused. His ears twitched. His tail flicked. He glanced down at the workbench. There, a handful of small gears and two important-looking bolts sat in a neat little pile. Razek's whiskers twitched. His eyes darted to Maximus, then back to the definitely leftover parts. Without missing a beat, he swiftly snatched them up and stuffed them into his pocket. Nyx saw it, of course. But she said nothing. Just crossed her arms, staring. Razek, brushing nonexistent dust off his vest, cleared his throat and clapped his hands together. "Tin Man, you're officially the best thing I've ever built that I didn't technically build." He took a step back, tail flicking with satisfaction. "A sword that hits like a war engine, a light that never dies, and now—pockets. Truly, you are a marvel." Nyx sighed, muttering, "A marvel held together by your questionable life choices." Razek grinned. "Exactly." Maximus flexed his newly enhanced arm, testing the weight and motion of *The Sundering Fang* within his frame. The smooth click of its locking mechanism and the steady hum of *Dawnbrand's* unwavering flame brought a sense of newfound strength—refinement, optimization, purpose. He nodded once, an approval that carried the weight of something more than mere gratitude. "You have done well," he stated, his voice carrying the quiet finality of an automaton assessing true craftsmanship. "These enhancements will serve their purpose. As will I." He reached into a compartment—one of many now available—and retrieved five gold coins, offering them to Razek and Nyx with a measured movement. "A token of appreciation. For your expertise. Your ingenuity. Your audacity." His optics flickered as he surveyed his modified form, then looked back to the Ysoki duo. "Rivermarch is in good hands. I am now prepared to protect it." *Data Banks Updated. Defend. Prevail. Everlast* "Now, let's go kill a beast in the woods." As Tybalt and Maximus exited the Ysoki Warrens, the night air was cool, carrying the distant murmur of Rivermarch's growing settlement. The streets were quieter at this hour, save for the occasional patrol or the flickering of torches guiding the way. The two made their way toward the outskirts, where the next hunt awaited. Yet, before they could slip fully into the wilderness, a figure stepped from the shadows of a side street—smooth, deliberate, as if he had been waiting. "Ah," the man exhaled, as if pleased with himself. "Tybalt Rattigan, the ever-elusive Emissary of Rivermarch. And Maximus, the city's implacable Warden." His voice was rich, cultured, carrying a tone of quiet amusement. He was dressed immaculately—his long coat draped elegantly, a crimson lining catching the dim light. His gloves were pristine, fingers steepled as he observed them. His emerald eyes gleamed with an unsettling mix of curiosity and certainty, as though he knew more than he should. "I do appreciate punctuality, though I suppose I can forgive you this time. You weren't expecting me, after all." Tybalt's tail flicked in irritation. "Depends on who you are and what you want." The man smiled, slow and knowing. "Valerius Crowne. A simple man with a simple interest—power, stability, and the delicate balance between the two." He tilted his head slightly, gaze flicking toward Maximus. "And, of course, I do have an eye for fascinating individuals. Like your rather formidable friend here." He stepped forward, though not enough to threaten, hands still lightly clasped before him. "Tell me, gentlemen… have you considered the weight of Rivermarch's ambitions? The burdens of leadership? The… necessity of alliances?" His gaze sharpened, locking onto Tybalt's. "Because you and I, dear Emissary, may have more in common than you think." The tension in the air was palpable—a moment balanced between intrigue and wariness. Maximus's frame shifted slightly, optics narrowing as he evaluated the stranger. Tybalt's whiskers twitched, his mind already working angles. Valerius simply smiled. "Well, then. Shall we talk?" Maximus deferred to Tybalt "Maximus will take Tybalts Lead" Tybalt exhaled slowly, steadying the surge of memory clawing at the edges of his thoughts. His tail, betraying none of the tension curling through his spine, flicked once—sharp, deliberate. The way a duelist would test the weight of a blade before the first strike. His whiskers twitched as he finally spoke, his voice even, casual—a gambler tossing the opening ante into the pot. "Well, well, well. Valerius Crowne. If I didn't know better, I'd say I was seeing a ghost." He took a single step forward, just enough to close some of the space between them but not enough to commit to anything—an old Restov trick, keeping yourself within reach but not within danger. His golden eyes, sharp as ever, studied Crowne not like a threat—but like a puzzle waiting to be solved. "Now, there's a name I never expected to hear in Rivermarch. Not one that walks the streets in broad daylight—or, in this case, moonlight." He tilted his head slightly, ears angling forward in quiet amusement. "So tell me, Valerius. To what do we owe the honor? Have I somehow found myself tangled in one of your webs? Or is this just a friendly visit from an old ghost looking for a new game?" He let the question hang in the air, heavy with unspoken meaning. Maximus shifted beside him—silent, watching, waiting. Good. Tybalt didn't need an automaton who spoke too soon. He needed a presence, a looming force to remind Crowne that this conversation was not happening on his terms alone. Then, slowly, deliberately, Tybalt grinned, flashing just the barest hint of sharp teeth. "Because if it's a game you're after, Crowne… you should know by now that I never sit at a table without knowing the stakes." Valerius Crowne exhaled, shaking his head with a theatrical sigh, as though deeply disappointed yet endlessly amused. "Tybalt, Tybalt, Tybalt…" He savored the name like an old wine. "You wound me, my dear emissary. Here I am, a weary traveler—an admirer of burgeoning nations, a humble student of power—come to pay respects to an old acquaintance, and you greet me as though I were a specter of ill fortune. What a tragedy." His hands—gloved, pristine, untouched by the toil of lesser men—came together in a slow, deliberate clasp. His emerald eyes gleamed, unreadable, weighing, measuring, deciding. "Ah, but you *do* remember, don't you?" Crowne tilted his head, watching Tybalt the way a well-fed cat watches a particularly interesting mouse. "The last time we were this close, it was aboard that charming little card game. The barge on the Shrike River. You played well, by the way—well enough to think you had me cornered. You read the players, calculated the angles, made your move." His expression darkened ever so slightly, though the amusement never fully left his voice. "And then… the fire. Such a shame, really. A marvel of controlled chaos—so precise, so beautifully timed. I often find that in life, my dear Tybalt, one must know when to fold. When to let the board burn, rather than be left holding the losing hand." The mist curled around them, the sounds of Rivermarch's night barely a murmur beneath the weight of the conversation. Crowne took a step forward, casual but precise, as if every movement were rehearsed long before it was made. His voice dipped lower, almost intimate, though never losing its playfulness. "And yet, here we are again. You, standing at the precipice of something grand, something important—and me, ever the interested observer. A ghost, as you so eloquently put it, drifting through the corridors of power." He turned his gaze to Maximus, the living construct of war, a walking testament to order and efficiency. Crowne nodded approvingly. "And you… a curiosity, indeed. A machine given purpose, order, structure. I find such things endlessly fascinating. Tell me, Maximus—" Crowne's lips curled at the edges, barely concealing his smirk. "What is it like to enforce laws in a kingdom that is still trying to decide what it is?" Before Maximus could answer, Crowne chuckled lightly, shaking his head as though dismissing the thought. "But I digress. You asked why I'm here, Tybalt. My dear emissary, I simply grew… bored. The world turns, the cities rise and fall, and I find myself in need of new entertainment. I heard whispers—delicious whispers—about the great Tybalt Rattigan, living in a tent, playing at politics in the wilderness. And I thought, 'Well, now *that* is something worth seeing.'" His gloved fingers traced the signet ring on his hand—a slow, absentminded motion, though nothing Crowne did was ever truly absentminded. "Oh, and while I was passing through, I thought I might as well restock some… let's call them supplies for our dear Tartuccio." His smirk sharpened, but his tone was dismissive, almost bored. "You understand, of course. He plays at scheming, though I do wonder if he truly knows who is moving the pieces on the board. But then, every game needs a few expendable pawns, doesn't it?" His gaze flicked back to Tybalt, sharp as a dagger, measuring the ratfolk's reaction. "So here I am. Curious. Watching. Ever so slightly intrigued by what you and your… companions might be building here." He leaned in just slightly, his smile never wavering. "And, of course, wondering… Do you truly know the stakes of the game you're playing?" Then, as though the entire conversation had been nothing but a delightful aside, Crowne stepped back and clapped his hands together. "But come now! Let's not be so grim. I'd much rather enjoy our reunion over a fine drink. Do they even *have* fine drinks in Rivermarch yet, or shall I be forced to donate from my personal collection?" His smirk widened, and with a half-bow, he gestured toward the night. "Shall we walk, gentlemen? There's ever so much to discuss… and I do so love a good conversation." Tybalt tilted his head ever so slightly, the gleam of his golden eyes never wavering from Valerius Crowne's polished, effortless smirk. The ratfolk's whiskers twitched, but his grin remained measured, practiced—a gambler's face, built from years of knowing when to hold his cards and when to fold the whole table. "Ah, Crowne, always the poet. Always the scholar of calamity, the admirer of collapse. It's good to know some things never change." He took a slow step forward, his tail curling idly behind him, each movement calculated to mirror Crowne's own deliberate grace. His fingers brushed the hem of his coat, light as a whisper, though he resisted the urge to check if his knives were still precisely where he left them. He wouldn't need them for this game. Not yet. "I *do* remember that game. Quite the performance, really. The stakes, the tension, the way you played the table like a bard playing a lute." He exhaled, a soft chuckle, though his eyes remained cold. "And the way you burned the board when you thought I was getting too close." His smile didn't falter, but there was steel beneath it now. "Tell me, Crowne—was that an admission? You knew I had you. That if we'd played the hand to the end, you would've lost?" The flicker in Crowne's expression was nearly imperceptible—a fraction of a second where the amusement thinned. But for Tybalt, that was enough. The game was still on. Tybalt let a mock sigh escape, placing a hand over his chest with exaggerated disappointment. "But alas, you're right. You folded, the board burned, and here we are. Another table, another game. And this time, it's Rivermarch on the board." His tone sharpened ever so slightly, though his smirk never faltered. "I appreciate the concern, truly. But I don't think you came all this way just to check my grasp on the stakes. No, no, that's not your style." His eyes flicked briefly to Crowne's fingers, the ones idly tracing the signet ring, before returning to his gaze. "You're here to see if I know the rules. Or better yet—if I'm rewriting them." He let that sink in for just a breath too long, before chuckling again, as if the weight of the conversation had been nothing but light banter all along. Tybalt finally rolled his shoulders, shaking his head as if amused at himself. "Now, as for drinks—ah, Crowne, you wound me. Do you think I'd be playing at politics in the wilderness without ensuring a decent bottle is within reach?" His tail flicked once, a lazy gesture toward Rivermarch's growing center. "There's a place. Not as refined as your tastes, I'm sure, but it'll do." Then, and only then, did he turn his back on Crowne—just long enough to take the lead, but not long enough to be careless. "Let's walk." And with that, the game continued. The mist curled thick around Rivermarch's fledgling streets, dulling the torchlight into flickering embers. Valerius Crowne moved with languid ease, a man who had already mapped every alley and shadow in the settlement long before his feet ever touched its soil. He walked just behind Tybalt, hands clasped behind his back, the crimson lining of his coat catching the dim glow as he surveyed the bones of a rising kingdom. "You know," Crowne mused, voice warm as honey over steel, "there's something compelling about a nation still finding its shape. A kingdom in flux, teetering between potential and ruin." He sighed, shaking his head as though reminiscing. "It's the moment before the coin lands, before the die settles—where *anything* is still possible." He cast a glance at Tybalt, eyes sharp beneath the casual words. "That is where the real power lies. Not in the throne, but in the hands that guide its fate before the ink dries on history." A slow, deliberate sigh, his attention flicking lazily toward the dim lanterns dotting the streets. "And yet, the underground has grown so dreadfully boring. The same petty games, the same predictable players. Then I hear that *you*, of all people, had taken to living in a tent in the middle of nowhere." A smirk curled at the corner of his lips. "Well, I simply had to see it for myself." His words were effortless, his pace unhurried. And then, just as casually, he let his voice dip into something richer, something weighted. "Of course, since I was passing through, I thought I might bring you a bit of relevant news." His fingers idly traced the signet ring on his gloved hand, the motion unhurried, but drawing just enough attention to be notable. "Linzi Fairwind." He said her name with the easy familiarity of someone who had spoken of her in rooms she would never enter. "Quite the little firebrand, that one. Her… enthusiasm for storytelling has made her rather famous in Pitax." A pause. "Or rather, infamous." A soft chuckle, though it was absent of warmth. "You do know she once studied at the Kitharodian Academy, don't you? Ah, but of course you do." He waved a hand, as if brushing the detail aside. "A bard's dream, that place. A grand stage, the halls brimming with talent, ambition—potential." His smile thinned. "And yet, she got herself exiled." A pause. Letting the word settle. Letting it sink in. "Oh yes, our dear King Irovetti did not simply disapprove of her… lyrical critiques of his rule. No, no, no. He kicked her from the Academy, stripped her of her place, had her marched to the gates of Pitax itself and cast out." He chuckled, the sound like a quiet applause at the grand absurdity of it all. "Quite the poetic turn, isn't it? The storyteller, exiled from the place she once called home. What a shame." Crowne sighed, as though genuinely lamenting the cruelty of it all. "But of course, that was not enough." He exhaled, slow and deliberate. "No, Irovetti may be many things, but he is not the sort of man to forget an insult." His eyes flicked toward Tybalt, reading him, gauging, waiting. "A bounty, of course, was the natural next step. A price placed upon the head of a poet. Rather fitting, in a way." He smirked, shaking his head. "But we both know Pitax would never publicly dirty its hands with something so… unrefined. Instead, they let men like Tartuccio do the work for them." His voice didn't change, still light, still easy, but the meaning behind the words was a razor's edge. "Yes, the dear gnome is circling, slithering into place. Getting close. But we both know his kind, don't we? The sort who would sell their own mother for a handful of coin and still haggle over the price." A beat of silence, a pause just long enough to be calculated. "Though, between you and me…" Crowne tilted his head, eyes glinting. "He has a problem." He tapped a gloved finger against his temple, as if imparting some grand, private revelation. "She wears a ring." A slow smile. "Shelyn's Embrace, I believe it's called. A rather fascinating little trinket, really. One of those rare blessings that only seem to appear in stories." A pause. A flicker of something amused in his gaze. "I suspect Linzi herself doesn't fully understand its nature. But it's quite simple, really. If someone were to run her through, put a blade to her throat—she wouldn't die." His smirk widened. "Not quite." A slow, deliberate adjustment of his cuff. "Instead, the ring would pull her away. Teleport her somewhere safe before death could ever claim her. A rather annoying little safeguard, don't you think?" He sighed, shaking his head. "Quite inconvenient for those looking to collect." Crowne exhaled through his nose, almost as if he were feeling pity for poor Tartuccio's predicament. "Oh, he knows, of course. As does Irovetti. One does not place a bounty without first ensuring it can be claimed." His voice dipped lower, his smirk becoming something darker, something knowing. "And therein lies the true task—Tartuccio does not merely need to *kill* Linzi." A pause. "He needs to take the ring *first*." Silence stretched, thick with the weight of inevitability. "And we both know—he will try." A breath, a shrug, the illusion of indifference. "A troublesome little complication, isn't it?" Crowne let out a slow sigh, shaking his head as if this were all just an unfortunate inconvenience. "Between you and me, I have my doubts. Tartuccio is a persistent little creature, but subtle? No, no, I'm afraid that's beyond him. But he doesn't *need* subtlety, does he? Not when he has patience." A single, idle tap against his temple. "And I do believe he has patience." Another pause. Another measured glance. "But, of course, I thought you might like to be informed." Crowne let the words settle, waiting, watching. Then, with an easy breath, the tension shifted, smoothed over as though the topic had been nothing more than idle chatter. "But truly, Tybalt, enough of such dark talk." His smirk curled at the edges, light, effortless. "Let's drink. I find all these matters of life and death so much more palatable with a decent vintage." And just like that, the threat was gone. The conversation was pleasant once more. But the warning? Oh, the warning remained. Tybalt walked in silence for a moment, letting the mist coil around them, letting Crowne's words hang in the air like the last echoes of a well-rehearsed sonnet. His tail flicked once, a lazy movement that belied the storm of calculations behind his golden eyes. Linzi. Of course. Crowne had spoken with such casual ease, yet every syllable had been placed like a blade at the throat. The warning was real. Tartuccio was coming. The bounty was no idle threat. And yet—this was something more. Tybalt had spent years moving through the underbellies of cities, playing the great game with men like Crowne—men who never said anything outright, yet left you drowning in meaning. This wasn't just a warning. It was a test. A measure of his response. So, Tybalt did what he did best. He smirked. A slow, knowing expression—not amusement, not dismissal, but a play made at the right moment. "A poet with a bounty. A ring that won't let her die. And a rat of a gnome thinking he's the one moving the pieces on the board." He clicked his tongue, shaking his head. "You're right, Crowne. That *is* quite the story." His voice remained even, smooth, as if he hadn't just been handed the kind of news that could crack the foundation of Rivermarch before it had even finished laying its stones. Because that was the game. Never let them see you flinch. Never let them know what truly hits. Tybalt turned his head just slightly, meeting Crowne's gaze with his own—a fox and a snake, each measuring the other. "Now, if I were the sort to be concerned, I might ask myself *why* a man like Valerius Crowne is taking the time to keep me so well-informed." His whiskers twitched, his voice light, playful, but pointed. "A rare kindness, really. You wouldn't happen to be developing a soft spot for old friends, would you?" His grin widened, just a touch. Just enough. "Or is it that you don't like the way Tartuccio plays? Sloppy hands at the table, a little too eager to tip his cards? You and I both know he lacks your… refinement." He let that sit for a moment—a carefully laid lure, watching for the flicker of interest, the shift in Crowne's ever-composed expression. Tybalt gestured ahead, toward the dim glow of Rivermarch's streets, as if Crowne's little revelation was just one more interesting detail in the ever-expanding web of intrigue. "But you're right about one thing, Crowne." He sighed, almost dramatically, shaking his head as if discussing the sad state of fine wine in a city still learning the difference between a tavern and a proper establishment. "We can't have this conversation dry." His tail flicked once more, a silent beat of amusement. "Shall we?" Tybalt turned a corner, leading the way through the mist-cloaked streets. Ahead, a squat but sturdy tavern stood at the edge of the settlement, its wooden beams still fresh, its sign swaying faintly in the breeze. The Broken Anvil. A humble name, a humble place, but the drinks were strong, the walls thick, and the ears inside belonged to those who knew how to keep their mouths shut. Tybalt didn't look back as he stepped toward the entrance, but he didn't need to. Crowne would follow. Because no matter how carefully he played his hand, Tybalt always knew when to let the dealer make the first move. The door to The Broken Anvil swung open, releasing a rush of warmth, the scent of roasted grains, aged cheese, and strong spirits spilling out into the misted Rivermarch streets. Inside, the place was lively—perhaps too lively for a settlement this young. The Anvil wasn't a proper tavern, not yet. It was a Ysoki operation, stitched together from salvaged wood, packed earth, and whatever scraps could be repurposed into a structure sturdy enough to drink inside. The walls were reinforced with planks from dismantled wagons, the ceiling patched with stretched canvas, and the furniture a mix of scavenged crates and homemade stools. Even the sign swinging above the entrance was clearly hand-painted, though someone had at least attempted to carve a proper anvil into the wood. The foundation was temporary. The community within? Anything but. And when Valerius Crowne stepped inside, the reaction was immediate. "Crowne!" A chorus of high-pitched voices called his name from around the room. A handful of Ysoki turned their heads, tails flicking excitedly as they took notice of the well-dressed man stepping inside. A few called out in Undercommon, others in rapid Ysoki chatter, and at least one particularly drunk individual from the back gave an exaggerated bow with a dramatic flourish, nearly toppling off his seat. One of the servers—a wiry Ysoki female with grey-speckled fur and a patchwork apron—scampered up to him, grinning wide enough to show off her sharp teeth. "Val! You look far too clean to be coming back here! What, did you miss our cooking?" Crowne, with the air of a man who had expected nothing less, gave a theatrical sigh. "Ah, Miri, my dear, you wound me. I leave town for a short while, and suddenly, I'm just a man in need of a good meal? What happened to missing my charm?" Miri cackled, swatting at his arm with a rag before scampering back toward the kitchen, already calling for "a proper drink for Crowne!" Tybalt's whiskers twitched. Of all the things he had been prepared for, this was not on the list. And then, the Ysoki behind the bar turned. The bartender was plump, by Ysoki standards, with golden-brown fur and a vest that looked a little too fine for someone running a makeshift bar in a settlement barely older than the wood it was built from. His ears flicked once, then twice, before his face broke into a wide, toothy grin. "Well, well, well! If it ain't my favorite son of a bitch." The bartender vaulted over the bar—not an easy task, given that the bar itself was half a wagon wheel propped up on stone—and wrapped Crowne in a full-bodied Ysoki hug before dropping back onto his feet. Tybalt's expression remained even, but his tail flicked once in deep suspicion. Crowne, adjusting his coat with casual ease, let out a charmed chuckle. "Now, now, Grev, you're going to ruin my reputation. What will people think if I let it be known that I accept such enthusiastic greetings?" Grev snorted, waving him off. "People can think whatever the hell they like. We know better." He turned back toward the bar, already pulling out a mismatched collection of bottles. "Hell, Val, if I'd known you were dropping by, I'd have put out the good stuff." Crowne slipped onto a stool far too gracefully for someone in such a haphazardly built bar, steepling his fingers as he leaned forward. "Ah, Grev, my dear friend, your *worst* bottle is still leagues ahead of whatever Tybalt here has been suffering through in my absence." He shot Tybalt a knowing smirk. Tybalt did not react. Grev, still grinning, turned to the ratfolk beside Crowne and gave him an appraising look—one ear flicking in amusement, the other in something far too knowing. "Well, now *this* is a sight. The great Tybalt Rattigan, finally gracing my bar with his presence." His whiskers twitched as he leaned forward slightly, voice thick with exaggerated reverence. "And here I was, thinking you'd never leave those stuffy council meetings long enough to drink with your own people." Crowne exhaled a pleased sigh, gesturing lazily toward Grev. "You see, *this* is why I love Ysoki hospitality. No matter how high one climbs, there is always someone eager to remind them exactly where they came from." Grev snorted, already reaching for another bottle. "Damn right." Tybalt's eyes narrowed, tail flicking in consideration. How long had Crowne been in Rivermarch? How long had he known the Ysoki? More importantly—why did they love him? *How Long Had Crowne Been in Town?* This was not a man who had just arrived. No, this was a man who had been here before. Maybe not openly, but long enough to make himself known, to build rapport, to slide seamlessly into a community that didn't trust outsiders lightly. Crowne didn't need to introduce himself. He was already part of the conversation. And Tybalt? He was just now realizing how much of the game had already been played before he even sat at the table. Tybalt didn't move to sit just yet. He let the weight of observation settle over him, his golden eyes tracking every movement, every interaction, the way the Ysoki grinned at Crowne, called his name, welcomed him as one of their own. The way Crowne absorbed it all with effortless charm, as if he had belonged here from the start. How long? How long had Crowne been working his way into Rivermarch's underbelly? Because that's what this was, wasn't it? Not the council, not the kingdom's surface-level politics—but the *real* city, the one growing in the shadows, beneath the weight of laws still being written. This wasn't a new arrival, testing the waters. This was a man who had already taken his seat at the table. And Tybalt hated playing catch-up. Still, he schooled his expression into something measured, something indifferent, as he finally stepped forward and took a seat opposite Crowne. "Stuffy council meetings?" he mused, finally breaking his silence, tail curling absently around the stool's base. "Oh no, Grev, I do plenty of drinking—I just prefer to do it without an audience." He reached for the glass Grev had poured, lifting it just enough to let the firelight catch the liquid within, his ears angled forward, listening. Not to the conversation—but to the room. Because that was the next piece of the puzzle, wasn't it? Who was watching? Who wasn't? Who was *too* interested in Crowne and his arrival? And who pointedly *wasn't* looking at all? He swirled the drink absently, then let his eyes flick lazily toward Crowne. "You do have a talent for making yourself comfortable, Val." A smirk curled at the edge of his lips, though there was steel beneath it. "Would've been nice to know I had such a well-connected friend in my own city before now." There. A subtle shift. A reminder. Crowne might be comfortable, might be in control, but Tybalt wasn't just another Ysoki in the crowd. This was *his* game, *his* city. And he would not be played blind. He leaned back, finally taking a small sip from his glass, letting the burn settle before speaking again. "So tell me, Crowne—how long have you been here?" A simple question. Innocent, even. But in the flickering candlelight of The Broken Anvil, with the weight of the room settling around them, the meaning ran far deeper. Valerius Crowne let the question hang in the air, savoring it like a fine vintage. He could feel the weight behind it, the sharpened edge hidden beneath Tybalt's casual tone. The Ysoki might have smiled, might have made it sound like idle curiosity, but Crowne knew better. Oh, this wasn't a question—it was a move. A test. And Crowne, as always, played the game. He took his time, lifting his own glass, swirling the amber liquid within as though measuring something unseen in its depths. Then, finally, he exhaled a soft chuckle and leaned forward just slightly, his smirk deepening. "Oh, Tybalt," he sighed, voice rich with amusement. "You wound me. Here I thought we'd finally reached the stage of our relationship where we stopped pretending to be surprised." A lazy, effortless sip. Then, he placed the glass back down with a quiet *clink*, fingers tapping lightly against the worn wood of the bar. "How long have I been here?" His emerald eyes gleamed in the firelight, unreadable. "Why, my dear emissary, that all depends on how one defines *being* somewhere, doesn't it?" His fingers drummed a slow, deliberate rhythm on the bar—measured, calculated, a beat just off enough to be unsettling. "There are those who arrive with banners and proclamations, men who declare their presence as if the land itself must take notice." A small pause. A smirk. "And then there are those who arrive quietly, who slip between the cracks, who listen before they speak." A tap of his finger, a heartbeat's worth of silence. "I've always been rather fond of the second approach." He let *that* settle, watching Tybalt for the tell, for the smallest flicker of acknowledgment behind those sharp golden eyes. Because that was the truth behind the answer. Crowne had not just arrived. He had been watching, listening, positioning himself long before Tybalt had even known to look. But then, as if the moment had never held tension at all, Crowne reached into the inner pocket of his coat and— Produced something. A small, folded piece of vellum parchment, edges worn but intact, inked with something faint and deliberate. He slid it across the bar toward Tybalt with the ease of a man passing a meaningless receipt—except nothing Crowne did was ever meaningless. "No need for dramatic reveals," he murmured, tilting his head. "Consider this a welcome gift, from one well-connected friend to another." *What Is It?* A letter. Not to Crowne—but to Tartuccio. The handwriting was not Irovetti's, but someone within Pitax's inner circle. A courier's script, the kind used when you didn't want a document to be traced back too easily. And the contents? Simple. Direct. A command. *Secure the bard. Take the ring.* *Deliver her to the contact in Mivon. Discretion required. Payment upon confirmation.* A signature followed—only an initial. A single letter, marked with a sigil that Tybalt had seen before, buried deep in old underworld dealings. Crowne took another sip from his glass, letting Tybalt process the paper in silence. Then, ever so lightly, he exhaled through his nose and offered a knowing smirk. "You see," he murmured, tapping the edge of his glass, "I may have a talent for making myself comfortable, but I do hate sloppy work." A pause. A flicker of amusement. "And Tartuccio, well… he's very sloppy." Then, with a gesture, he raised his glass in a silent toast—waiting to see just how Tybalt would play his next move. Tybalt took the parchment without a word. No flourish, no show of curiosity, no sign of urgency—just a quiet, measured movement, as if Crowne had handed him nothing more than a receipt for a round of drinks. He let the edges of the vellum rest between his fingers, his golden eyes skimming the contents. And for just a fraction of a heartbeat—he hated how well Crowne played the game. Because this? This was a perfect move. It wasn't just information. It was positioning. It was Crowne, ever the magnanimous dealer, handing over something Tybalt *needed* before he even had a chance to ask for it. A gift that came with no stated price, but one that surely existed all the same. *Secure the bard. Take the ring. Deliver her to Mivon.* Tybalt's grip on the parchment tightened ever so slightly. *Mivon.* That complicated things. He let out a slow breath, forced himself to ease his grip, and casually folded the letter, tucking it into his coat like it was just another piece of paper in a life built from half-truths and stolen secrets. Only then did he glance back up at Crowne. The bastard was watching him. Measuring. Gauging. And Tybalt—Tybalt did what he did best. He smirked. A slow, knowing thing, tilting his glass in return to Crowne's silent toast, but never breaking eye contact. "Oh, Val," he murmured, swirling the liquor in his glass, letting the firelight catch in its amber depths. "Sloppy work is the best kind, don't you think?" He took a sip, the burn steady against his tongue. "It's predictable. Loud. A distraction. Makes it easy to see the *real* players." He set the glass down, leaning in ever so slightly, just enough to close the space, just enough to shift the game back into his favor. "But you already knew that, didn't you?" A soft click of his claws against the bar, like a gambler considering his next wager. "So tell me, Crowne… were you just feeling generous tonight?" His voice was silk over steel, pleasant but pointed. "Or are you hoping to nudge me toward a particular move?" He didn't expect a straight answer. But that didn't mean he wouldn't watch very closely for the lie buried beneath the truth. Crowne let the question settle between them, the weight of it curling between the words like smoke from a dying flame. His smirk remained, as it always did, but there was something behind it—something watchful, something measuring. He rolled his glass between his fingers, letting the last traces of amber cling to the edges before finishing it in a single smooth motion. "Tybalt," he sighed, as though indulging a dear friend's mild paranoia, "must we always assume an angle? Can't a man simply enjoy a fine drink in the company of old acquaintances?" A slow, deliberate pause. Then his smirk curled just a bit wider. "No? Ah, well. You *do* know me too well." The air between them shifted. Not dramatically, not overtly—but with the quiet precision of a man leaving behind something unsaid, something meant to linger long after he had gone. With the same lazy, unhurried grace that had carried him through the evening, Crowne pushed himself away from the bar, adjusting the cuffs of his coat as if this were nothing more than the natural end to an evening well spent. "As always, Grev, a pleasure. Next time, I'll bring something proper for the shelf." The bartender snorted. "You say that every time, Val." "And yet, you still hold out hope." Crowne's grin was all teeth. "That's why I like you." He turned back to Tybalt then, his emerald eyes flickering in the low candlelight, the gleam of something just beneath the surface. "You're right, of course," he murmured, tilting his head. "Sloppy work is predictable. Loud. A distraction." From within his coat, he retrieved a single gold coin, rolling it between his fingers with practiced ease before setting it deliberately onto the bar. He spun it once, watching it waver before it settled. "But distractions?" He exhaled softly, his voice dipping lower, just enough to press against the edges of the conversation. "They serve their purpose." His finger tapped the coin, making it slide an inch across the wood. "Tartuccio being removed from the board?" His smirk barely twitched. "That wouldn't change much." A pause. "Maybe," he mused, almost as an afterthought, almost, "you need to search deeper." Another silence. Another beat. Then, without a backward glance, he turned toward the door, his steps as effortless as they had been the moment he arrived. And just before stepping out, he spoke one last time, his voice a quiet hum that cut through the warmth of the tavern like a blade slipping between ribs. "I imagine we'll be seeing each other again very soon." And then—Valerius Crowne was gone. The door shut behind him with a soft *click*, and yet, the air he left behind felt heavier. The warmth of the fire, the murmur of conversation, the scent of spiced spirits—all still there. And yet, something about the room had changed. The click of the door shutting behind Valerius Crowne was not particularly loud. It was not final, nor was it the sound of something being closed and forgotten. No. It was the sound of a move being made. A game still in motion. Tybalt let out a slow breath, not quite a sigh, not quite an exhale of tension—just enough to mark the moment, to acknowledge it without letting it settle too deeply. His fingers drummed once against the bar, mirroring the absent slide of the gold coin Crowne had left behind. Not a payment, not a bribe—a suggestion. A hint. A distraction? Or an invitation? Grev watched him, the Ysoki bartender's whiskers twitching as he polished an already clean glass, waiting to see how Tybalt would react. Tybalt took his time. He reached for his drink again—not in urgency, not in thought, but in ritual. A slow swirl, the amber liquid catching the dim firelight, his reflection fractured in the ripples. Then, finally, he took a measured sip, setting the glass down with an absent-minded click. "Hells." His voice was quiet, but edged with something that was almost amusement. "I hate it when he's right." Grev snorted. "Then you must spend a lot of time hating things." Tybalt's whiskers twitched, but his grin never fully returned. Because Crowne *was* right. Tartuccio was sloppy. A fool. An opportunist. Someone who had been too loud, too desperate, too obvious in his schemes. Removing him from the board wouldn't change much. Which meant… What was beneath him? Tybalt reached for the coin Crowne had left, pinching it between his fingers and spinning it slowly, watching it catch the light, watching it waver before it settled. He hated playing catch-up. And yet, here he was. He glanced toward Maximus, who had remained silent through the exchange, the automaton's ever-watchful gaze tracking every detail. "Well," Tybalt murmured, "seems we've got some digging to do." His tail flicked once, his mind already turning, calculating, rearranging the pieces. Because Valerius Crowne had left. But the weight of his presence had not. The Broken Anvil still hummed with warmth and conversation as Tybalt pushed open the door, stepping out into the cool mist of Rivermarch's streets. The heavy scent of spiced spirits and aged wood clung to his coat, but the moment he crossed the threshold, the atmosphere shifted. Out here, beneath the dim glow of scattered torches and the murmur of a city still being built, the game was his again. His boots padded softly against the damp earth as he navigated through Rivermarch's rough-hewn pathways, his thoughts moving just as swiftly. Crowne's words still echoed, not in their sound but in their weight. *Maybe you need to search deeper.* The coin in his pocket was heavier than gold had any right to be. He needed eyes in the dark. He needed Rynara.