By the time dawn light spilled over the distant hills, Torik was no longer Torik.
He adjusted the drab courier's cloak at the shoulder and slouched just slightly more, as if a stiff wind might knock him down. His hair had been tousled to look like it hadn't been brushed in days, and soot stained the hem of his travel cloak. A thin reed was tucked in his boot, not for a fight, but to chew nervously when he played the part.
"How do I look?" he asked, voice thinner, weaker. There was a stammer at the edge of his tone, one he'd practiced until it frayed the nerves.
Kell glanced over, giving him an up-down. "Like someone who gets kicked out of taverns before they even finish walking in."
"Perfect," Whistle said. "Real inspiring. I'm ready to follow this man into battle."
Torik offered a nervous chuckle in-character and glanced at his boots. It took effort to not meet their eyes. Calwin wouldn't.
The group had gathered at the southern gate of Valebast. Five of them along with some soldiers, cloaked and quiet. The city stirred behind them, cobblers opening their shops, the hiss of a street-seller's kettle, the clack of hooves over stone.
"Let's move," Kell said, and they set off down the road that would wind through the hills and bring them to Watchfort by nightfall.
Watchfort was a city in name only.
Torik expected stonework, well-maintained patrol routes, maybe even the polished iron of a garrison-trained guard. Instead, he saw sagging rooftops, rot creeping up wooden beams, and watchmen who leaned more on their spears than stood upright.
The city walls, once high, proud bastions of defense were cracked with ivy and time. Paint peeled from half-forgotten murals. Rust crusted on hinges and lamp-posts alike.
"This place," Torik muttered, forgetting his persona for a moment, "is a dump."
Dama snorted. "Used to be worse. Back before the treaty."
Whistle gestured to a broken statue in the town square. "I once tried to hide inside that statue. Got halfway into the robe before I realized it was hollow because someone else had been sleeping in it for two weeks."
Torik blinked. "And then what?"
"Made a friend. Shared a bottle. Woke up missing a shoe."
Dama stared out at the scenery. "I fought a skirmish outside these walls six years back. Lord had pushed a bit too close to the trade road. Took us the whole day to crack through their defenses."
Kell nodded. "I remember. You tried to punch the commander's construct with your bare hands."
"He deserved it," Dama said, not even pretending to be ashamed.
They passed through the gate with little resistance. Calwin's satchel of courier credentials, mostly forged by Maribel, with Ithren's finishing touch was barely glanced at by the guards, whose uniforms bore more dust than discipline.
By the time they reached the inn, dusk had draped itself over the rooftops like an old blanket. The building was called The Red Spade, and it looked like it hadn't been cleaned since the last war. But it had privacy, stabling, and a reputation for not asking questions.
Whistle kicked open the door with a flourish and immediately started bartering for rooms with the innkeeper, loudly, but deliberately playing the part of an annoying caravan escort.
Dama took up watch by the hearth while Kell scanned the common room's corners, noting exits and faces.
Upstairs, in a cramped room with slanted floors and threadbare curtains, Ithren pressed a sealed letter into Torik's hands.
"For the record," she said, "this paper is fragile. The seal was molded from a stamp I recreated based on Lord Kurten's real one. Do not smudge it."
Torik took it with both hands. He stared at the neat, tight script of a message written in the strange halfway-formality nobles liked to use when plotting dark things.
"What's it say?" he asked.
"That you're a courier delivering a coded reply to a contact in the city. That Kurten's interested in their 'goals.' That he's willing to trade chains for information. And that he's ready to negotiate."
"It's enough to tempt them," Kell said, stepping into the room. "And just vague enough that if they doubt you, they won't risk exposure by saying so."
Torik looked at the seal again. He wasn't used to being a piece on someone else's board.
This wasn't like the time he slipped through a banquet to lift a noble's ring. This wasn't some job from a crooked merchant, or a favor owed to a fence.
This was them trusting him. He still struggled to understand that.
"I'll pull it off," he said. And the stammer was gone now.
Kell clapped a hand to his shoulder. "Tomorrow, you make contact. We've got someone in the city watching for the signal. If it goes wrong, we pull you."
Torik nodded, slowly, this time. For the first time in a long time, he felt the weight of being part of something bigger.
And for once, he wasn't sure if that weight was a burden… or something else.