Brelgrik was sitting as if he had collapsed there, the body hunched, head bowed, hands trembling like dry leaves. But the eyes… the eyes had begun to shine again.
Not with madness.
With memory.
There was something in the air. A weight that wasn't mine. It was his. And no matter how loud my leg screamed for me to keep walking, no matter how much my survival instinct yelled "drop the goblin and follow the light," I stayed.
Because there was a story here.
And if there's one thing worth more than gold…
It's the ugly truth kept by someone who's already lost everything.
"So," I said, leaning against a stone and trying to find a position where my spine wouldn't protest, "what exactly brought you down? A love scandal? A coup? Or were you just really bad with spreadsheets?"
He didn't laugh. Didn't even react.
He just spoke.
Low.
Clear.
"I tried to change the cycle."
I paused. Frowned.
"Is that… metaphorical or literal?"
He raised his gaze.
And there he was — the king.
Beneath the goblinoid skin, the tics, the crooked teeth… he was there.
"The cycles of power. The dynasties. The traditions that suffocate. I was born into them. Molded to repeat them all. But I... I was a fool. I thought I could rewrite the rules without being devoured by them."
I crossed my arms, intrigued.
"So you decided to be a progressive monarch. A do-gooder dark elf trying to civilize an ancient manipulation machine?"
"Something like that."
"You deserved more than exile."
"You deserved a punch from your war advisor," I thought.
Still no reaction.
"I dismantled the hidden sections for summary execution. Abolished obedience runes. Outlawed the forced conversion of blood mages. Even control over the memory mirrors... was suspended."
"Well, well," I said theatrically. "Democracy."
"No."
He corrected me — for the first time, firmly.
"That's called ethics."
I laughed, shamelessly.
Because, see, that's the tragicomic part of this whole thing.
A dark elf king, last heir to a beautifully screwed-up lineage, suddenly decides one fine morning to get out of bed and be a better person. He messes with the system, removes the chains, offers freedom… and is surprised when his own allies bury him.
"Tell me," I said, stepping a little closer, "who exactly drew the first blade?"
Brelgrik sighed. A broken sound, but lucid.
"My Council. Led by Varein. The grandfather of Malderra's current ruler. They betrayed me during the Day of the Crossing. I thought I was being crowned for a second cycle. Instead, I was tied to the same altar where criminals were judged."
"And they didn't kill you?"
"They couldn't."
"Why not?"
"Because..." he hesitated, "because an execution would've made too much noise. So they erased me. Threw me down here with a fragmented mind. And let time and forgetfulness do the rest."
"Tell me something," I began again, my voice still tired, "why did you stay down here, exactly? I mean... okay, exile, memory runes, all that — but you could've died a long time ago. Why keep crawling through this arcane sewer instead of just… I don't know, blowing everything up?"
He looked at me with that hollow smile only the truly wise — or the truly broken — can wear.
"Because there are barrels that haven't exploded yet. And I'm one of them."
I sighed.
"Of course. Metaphors. Always metaphors."
"The safest way to tell the truth," he replied, content.
"Alright," I said, brushing dust from my shoulders, "so tell me — do you know anything about Ashveil?"
The name triggered a small earthquake behind his eyes. It wasn't fear, or surprise. It was recognition. Like he'd just stepped into an old trap.
"Ashveil…" he repeated, like tasting a word before swallowing it. "The city of false labels. Where magic is sold in nameless flasks. Where the shine doesn't come from the spell, but from the lie."
I leaned in, now more focused.
"What do you know? And please… no riddles. I want sentences with subject, verb, and object. In that order."
He frowned, as if that were some absurd linguistic demand.
"Ashveil is the largest hub of unstable magical artifacts on the continent. They receive shipments from Malderra, modify them, repackage, and resell them as if they were original creations. All of it off the record. No tracking. No containment."
My expression hardened.
"You're telling me they smuggle magic?"
"More than that. They distill danger. They take the leftovers of northern experiments, refine raw silvarite energy, mix it with soul essence… and sell it as a fortune talisman."
I blinked.
"That's… insane. And extremely profitable."
"Exactly," he said, with that crooked smile of someone who knows both the price and the poison.
"And who buys it?"
"Those who need to kill discreetly. Those who need a shield that explodes. Those who want a necklace that poisons dreams. Desperate people. People in power. People like you."
I raised my hands, chuckling lightly.
"Hey. I just want to get rich, famous, and, if possible, stay alive. Not necessarily in that order."
He laughed.
A high-pitched, almost childlike sound that echoed far too harshly against the stone walls.
"But you understand. You see. You want to know. That already makes you more dangerous than they are."
"And you? Why never tell anyone?"
He shrugged, still smiling.
"Because no one listens to rats. They only step on them."
"I'm listening."
"Out of self-interest."
"Naturally."
He thought for a moment. Then stepped closer, like someone handing over a secret not because he trusts, but because he knows the other is dirty enough to use it well.
"Malderra sends the materials. Ashveil resells them. The mayor there? Just a pretty face to fool fools. The brain of it all is in the ruins. Beneath the city. Where the substance glows on its own in the dark."
"Substance?"
"Enchanted blood. Raw distillate from an artifact that should never have been broken. The mages call it 'vital echo.' I call it bottled death."
I tried not to react.
"So, basically, Ashveil is a basement full of unlabeled magical bombs?"
He nodded.
"And each of them is screaming to be set free."
I closed my eyes for a moment.
The image was clear: magical trafficking, corruption, unstable energy, and a city built atop a warehouse of traps waiting for someone to trip.
I sat down on a rock, finally convinced that after being nearly killed by a monster and later interviewed by an exiled goblin with poetic delusions, I deserved at least a moment of precarious comfort.
Brelgrik walked in slow circles, like his mind was more agitated than his body. His fingers still danced in the air, drawing invisible runes whose meanings he might have long forgotten.
"You know," I began, without much ceremony, "the more you talk about Ashveil, the more I realize it's a political joke waiting to happen."
He turned his face toward me, eyes lit up, like my words had sparked a candle in a room he thought was only smoke.
"A joke?" he said, with the enthusiasm of a cursed bard. "No. It's a tragedy disguised as a joke. A lie so well told even the liars believe it."
"What I mean," I went on, ignoring the flourish, "is that Ashveil is the perfect front. Politically, no one takes it seriously. It has no military strength, no royal representation. It's a city that looks harmless — like a dwarf without an axe."
"But under the beard, it still bites," he muttered.
"Exactly," I said, nodding with my chin. "Geographically, it's perfect. A route between mountains, underground access, a direct tunnel to Malderra, and most importantly: no one expects it to be the rotten link, because everyone pretends it's just… that place."
Brelgrik spun fully in place before stopping, eyes on the ceiling.
"A glass castle with foundations of mud. You tread lightly, or sink with everyone else's vanity."
"And no one treads lightly," I added. "Not with that kind of profit running beneath the street."
"Nor with that kind of silence being sold every week," he whispered.
"You think Malderra controls everything?"
He laughed. A sad and childlike sound at once.
"Malderra doesn't control. Malderra doesn't need to. They let it burn slowly. They provide the ingredients and watch the recipe fall apart. And when there's nothing left but smoke… they sell it as diplomatic incense."
I sighed. One of those sighs from someone who understands the game and just hates to admit he's already in it.
"And the mayor?"
"He's a bag of bones with an official badge. Doesn't speak unless someone presses the right runes."
"So he's just a front."
"Facade, wall, curtain. A folding screen with a signature at the bottom."
I went quiet for a while, letting it all sink in.
Ashveil wasn't the center of anything. But it was the channel through which everything flowed.
A blind spot between great powers. Useful. Ignored. Perfect.
"All right. Now I just need to get out of here and write all this down."