As the first streaks of dawn poked over the horizon, painting the eastern sky in soft hues of rose and gold, Meko, Katarina, and Anya began the quiet, practiced routine of breaking camp.
Meko, the most grounded and observant of the group, watched Doren. The boy was pale, his eyes bloodshot, and the tension in his jaw was unnerving. He approached slowly.
"Are you alright, Doren?" Meko asked, a genuine concern softening his usual direct tone. "That was a hell of a scream. You look like you haven't blinked since the fire went out."
Doren didn't immediately answer. He slowly closed his hand around the Focal Stone, shoving it deep into his pocket before looking up. His voice, when it finally came, was rough and low, stripped of its former innocence.
"The rally point," Doren stated, bypassing Meko's concern entirely. "The Weeping Willow Fountain in Stonecutter's Square. We can't go there. It's too obvious. And I think that they'll be waiting."
He didn't explain the dream or the precise horror of his father's betrayal; he gave them only the tactical conclusion. He needed Meko to trust his instinct, and he knew Meko trusted logic and immediate danger more than nightmares.
"We need a new plan for the meet-up," Doren insisted, the urgency of his father's voice still ringing in his ears. "We shorten the time in Limka, and we never go near the city center."
Doren's sudden shift from exhaustion to intense, unexplained paranoia instantly put Meko on guard. He studied Doren's pale face, recognizing the hollow look of someone who had faced a truth too ugly to share.
"A bad feeling, huh?" Meko asked, his voice calm, even though his military instinct was screaming. "Fine. We trust gut feelings that strong."
He quickly consulted with Katarina, who was wrapping up their bedding with swift, efficient movements. "If the city center is a trap, we need the least obvious spot," Meko decided, sweeping his gaze across the theoretical map of Limka in his mind. "We can't use a landmark. We need something ordinary."
Katarina immediately supplied the answer, leaning into her knowledge of trade routes and low-level finance. "The Limka Central Timber Yard. It's just inside the western gate—far from the archives and Stonecutter's Square. It's too busy, too loud, and too full of low-value work for the King's Guard to patrol regularly. We can blend in with the wagons and the dust."
Meko turned back to Doren, his new plan already formulated. "Alright, here is the new plan, kid. We trust your gutv see ass xfeeling, but we shorten the timeline. This means speed is everything."
"The Central Timber Yard." Meko pointed to the ground. "It's chaotic, dirty, and far from the Weeping Willow Fountain. You all finish your tasks and immediately head there. We meet at the highest stack of seasoned logs by the west gate one hour before sunset. That's the only time we check in."
"We shorten the entire operation, Doren has a bad feeling," Meko commanded. "You all have until mid-afternoon to get your jobs done. Doren, you get the gold and the contact for Sophron's history. Katarina, you get the archive location and any whispers about the war. Anya, you get the clothes and sell that meat."
Meko clamped a reassuring but firm hand on Doren's shoulder. "Your job is still the hardest, Doren. You need to be fast and flawless with that stone. No mistakes, no drawing attention. We're going in and out like a gust of wind. Now, let's get moving. We lose too much time sitting here."
With the new, frantic plan established, the companions quickly finished packing and moved toward the rising sun and the massive, foreboding city of Limka.
As the group pushed through the final, dense thicket of trees, the sight of Limka, the massive city tucked into the Erenian Forest, erupted before them. The change in atmosphere was immediate and jarring. The low, peaceful hum of the Erenian Forest was overpowered by a distant, deafening din of industry. The rhythmic thud-thud-thud of massive hammers, the shrill clang of metal, and the shouts of hundreds of men, women, and children.
Doren, still clutching the small, pressure-formed amethyst in his palm, looked up. Dominating the skyline were structures of heavy, dark timber and cut stone, far taller than anything in Havenport.
Limka was not built on elegance; it was built on survival and resource extraction. The city was entirely encircled by monolithic, towering walls, that weren't decorative. They were a true fortress, built from ancient, quarried stone and the thickest logs the forest offered. They cast a permanent, deep shadow over the surrounding approach—a visible barrier meant to keep out not just things and bandits, but also the dangerous, chaotic creatures of the deep forest.
The heavy, imposing architecture immediately confirmed This city was an earthy, industrial city. The air here didn't smell of salt or clean air, it was thick with the scent of sawdust, fresh-cut stone, and forge smoke. The noise Doren heard was the sound of wealth being generated in the form of huge, clanking sawmills, noisy tanneries, and immense storage silos where raw materials were processed.
The only way into this fortress was through the main gates, which now appeared as wide, deep structures crammed with activity. They were choked with massive timber wagons, grinding mining carts, and a constant stream of armed, dirty trappers. All of whom were the very workers who fueled the city's economy.
For the four elementalists, posing as the rough-and-tumble Blackwood Trapping Crew was the perfect, camouflaged entry into this chaotic, working-class hub. They would blend right in with the thousands of others focused on getting their wares sold and getting out fast. It was a place where everyone was too busy and too tired to notice a desperate group of fugitives hiding among the dust and the logs.
The four companions fell into the slow, agonizing queue leading up to the massive, reinforced timber and stone gates of Limka. The air was thick with dust and the industrial odors of the city, and the shouts of the gate guards mixed with the incessant creak of heavy wagons.
Finally, after half an hour, they reached the front. A large, stern-faced King's Guard, clad in dark leather and polished bronze armor, stood planted before them, his spear resting across the entryway. His eyes were cold and efficient, checking every face against a mental checklist of fugitives and trouble-makers.
Meko stepped forward, his posture deliberately slouched and weary, his face smeared with charcoal and sweat to look like a man who'd been sleeping rough for weeks. He immediately started talking before the guard could even open his mouth.
"Morning, Captain," Meko grunted, pulling his cap lower over his eyes. His voice was rough, carefully suppressing his usual clear, military precision. "Rough time getting here. We're the Blackwood Trapping Crew. Been deep in the forest for near a month. We was way too far in."
He gestured vaguely back toward the trees. "Accident two days ago. Ran into a Stonscur Bear, a nasty piece of work. Lost one of our lads and our entire manifest of pelts to the thing. Barely got out with the last of our supplies."
Meko rubbed his own dirt-smeared arm with a wince. "Those things don't just use claws; they hit you with giant fists of granite. And the barbed teeth... they latch on and tear you to shreds. We fought it off, but we're lucky to be standing. This is all we have left." He indicated the leaf-wrapped bundle in Anya's hands. "Need to sell this Turkshumu meat and our last few coins for some medicine and a quick rest before we head back in. Just passing through to resupply."
He nodded toward his companions and gave the summary of their roles with the fake Blackwood Trapping Crew. "This here's Anya, she handles the meat sales. This is Katarina, she handles the accounts and supplies. And this one," he nudged Doren, who looked pale and exhausted, "is Doren. Our newest rock hound. Still green, near died when the Stonscur came calling. We're trying to get him a steady meal."
Meko offered a convincing sigh of exhaustion and irritation. "We're not looking for trouble, Captain. Just looking for a place to get paid, patch up, and get out of your clean city before we make too much of a mess."
The guard maintained a heavy, cold stare on Meko, his eyes slowly tracing the lines of dirt and weariness on his face. The captain's mind was clearly busy. News of the fugitives from Havenport had spread through the city like wildfire. A bolo was out for a group of four, but the details were vague and did not mention the more discreet agents of The Order of the Sunless.
After a tense moment that seemed to stretch Meko's carefully constructed patience, the guard finally stepped aside. "Enter," he commanded, his voice clipped. He didn't look at Meko, but instead looked behind him at a younger guard holding a pad of paper and a pencil. "Record them: Blackwood Trapping Crew. Four individuals. Selling meat. Check on their departure paperwork later this week."
The group moved quickly through the gate, blending into the dense, churning flow of laborers, carts, and noise. The sound of the city swallowed the forest's silence entirely. Once they were well clear of the checkpoint, Meko let out a silent breath and glanced back at the gate.
"Things have gotten tight around here," Meko muttered, his eyes narrowed. "They're taking a lot of details compared to the last time I was in. The news is definitely here, and they're looking for us, or someone like us. No slip-ups." He then grabbed the charcoal-stained shoulders of his companions and quickly began pointing directions, his voice low and urgent.
"Listen up, this is the only time we speak until the Timber Yard," Meko commanded, his eyes darting between their faces. "We've got half the time we wanted. We need to be fast, invisible, and focused. Remember the goal is Sophron, not survival."
Meko pointed toward a congested lane choked with laborers and small market stalls. "Anya, that Turkshumu meat goes first. Hit the low-end markets, sell it fast, and don't haggle. Use the coin to buy the darkest, roughest clothes you can find, then go wait. Get rid of those bright rags."
He pointed toward a cleaner, busier street that looked to be heading toward the city's central area. "Katarina, you move like the wind. Head for the Inns and Guild Halls. Listen for war talk and find the exact location of the Central Archives. We need Sophron's paper trail."
Finally, he looked directly at Doren, whose face was pale from the sleepless night. "Doren, your mission is the most dangerous. Get to the merchants. You use that Earth power to make that one perfect stone, get the biggest deposit you can, and use the money to grease the palms of any local historian or fence who deals in rare texts. We need to find the history of your family."
Meko then pointed towards a high wall of stacked lumber visible through the chaos of the city streets. "We meet at the Central Timber Yard. Look for the highest stack of seasoned oak logs by the western gate entrance. We came through the north gate. One hour before sunset. Not a minute later. If you aren't there, we assume you've been caught, and we leave." Meko was obviously not serious about leaving anyone but he wanted to ensure the possibility of a quick, flawless trip.
With a final, sharp look, Meko dissolved into the crowd, melting toward the market, leaving his three companions to face the dangerous, bustling interior of Limka alone.
Doren watched his companions vanish into the churning mass of Limka's industrial chaos. Meko disappeared toward the noise of the market, Anya melted into the crowd of laborers, and Katarina slipped down a side alley toward the administrative center. Alone, Doren felt the sudden, crushing weight of the city.
He knew he couldn't afford to be overwhelmed. He shoved the ominous Focal Stone into his tunic, then grabbed one last ordinary pebble from the dirt road. As he walked toward the city's interior, he channeled his fear and the chilling memory of the nightmare into desperate focus.
He squeezed the pebble as hard as he could, pouring his Earth element into the tiny stone. He wasn't relying on Meko's precise control rather he was relying on the immense, raw power of the Powerhart. He pushed and pushed, applying incredible pressure, mimicking the sudden, geological forces that turn coal into diamonds.
With a faint, almost silent burst of light, the transformation occurred right in his palm. The pebble's mundane grey surface flashed violently. It was first brown, then a deep, royal purple. When the light subsided, he was left holding a beautiful, perfectly formed amethyst crystal in his hand. It wasn't the rough, hastily-formed stone he'd been practicing with. This one was flawless, glowing with an internal energy that spoke of extreme purity and value.
He quickly pocketed the precious stone. He hadn't bothered to learn the confusing layout of the sprawling city. He only knew he had to follow the simple signs until they led him to the city's merchants. Ignoring the jostling crowd and the smell of sawdust, Doren kept his head down, scanning the rough, hand-painted signs pointing the way toward the Stonecutter's Square.
Doren found his target not long after the signs led him into the district dominated by stone workshops. He spotted a cramped, dusty shop whose window display, a dismal collection of cracked river gems and cheap iron scraps, screamed low standards, but whose single, massive iron door suggested high security. A small, brass plaque read, "Grell's Precious Finds".
He pushed the door open, stepping out of the midday sun into the dim, cluttered interior. Behind a scratched wood counter sat a stout, balding man. Doren figured the man's name was Grell, seeing as there was no one else in the shop. Grell's eyes were sharp and greedy, tracking Doren as soon as he entered.
"You lost, boy?" Grell asked, wiping his oily hands on a rag. "If you're looking for cheap rings, the market stalls are down the lane."
Doren swallowed hard, trying to project exhaustion. He pulled his hand from his pocket and slowly opened his palm, revealing the flawless, deep amethyst crystal he had just formed.
Grell's eyes widened, transforming instantly from bored annoyance to blazing avarice. He saw perfect cut stone, so clean and a color so pure it defied the sloppy mining standards of the region. This was the opportunity of a lifetime.
"Where... where did you get that?" Grell hissed, snatching the stone across the counter and holding it close to his single oil lamp. He tested its hardness with a file, his jaw dropping when the file skipped uselessly across the crystal's surface. He instantly recognized Doren as a naive, desperate youth who didn't know the true value of his find.
"This is exceptional quality," Grell purred, dropping the amethyst into his drawer and immediately closing it. He pushed out a small pile of copper coins, no more than twenty in total. "Look, kid. I'm a good man. This is a nice little piece, but it's small. It's too soft for a true setting. Take this, go get a good meal, and forget you ever saw it."
Doren's brow furrowed and he held his ground, his father's warning urging speed and ruthlessness. He ignored the copper and leaned across the counter.
"It's not for sale, Mr. Grell," Doren said, his voice surprisingly steady. "That stone is just proof. I know what I have. I know how rare it is." He pointed to the closed drawer. "You want that stone? You want the entire vein where I found that kind of purity? That's not copper money. That's a mountain of gold."
Doren met the merchant's greedy gaze directly. "I'll tell you exactly where the vein is. All you have to do is give me a deposit of five hundred gold coins. You pay the deposit now, I give you the directions to the richest vein this side of Erenia. Otherwise, I take my sample and I go see your competitor across the street."
Grell stared at him, his face flickering between outrage at the demand and terror of losing this fortune. The boy was naive, but his eyes held a desperate conviction that suggested he truly did know where to find the source.
Grell let out a short, frustrated grunt. He picked up the amethyst again, its perfect facets catching the dim light, his fingers trembling slightly. The quality was undeniable, but the boy's demand was outrageous.
"Five hundred is ridiculous, kid. I don't know if five hundred is necessarily worth it," Grell grumbled, placing the amethyst back on the counter. He pushed it toward Doren, his hand hovering over it. "Look, I'd say, for the location of the vein, two hundred gold. I'm being generous. Frankly, I'd need about five hundred just to hire the crew, get the permits, and haul equipment out to a new forest claim in the first place!"
Doren didn't hesitate. His sleepless night and the raw fear from the dream lent his movement a decisive, desperate speed. He quickly snatched the flawless stone and tucked it into his pocket.
"You'd be using gold as furniture with how big this vein is, Mr. Grell," Doren retorted, standing taller and turning toward the door. "This vein is untouched. Pure. Two hundred buys you a day-trip to an old quarry. I'll just go across the street and talk to Mr. Vane. He understands rare opportunities."
Grell's eyes widened with genuine panic. Vane was his biggest rival, and if this naive child was telling the truth, even half of it, Vane would ruin him.
"Wait! Wait, wait, wait!" Grell scrambled, leaning far across the counter, his oily face betraying his fear of loss. "Hold on! Don't be rash! Three hundred. I'll give you three hundred gold deposit, cash on the counter right now!"
Doren turned back, meeting Grell's gaze with cold intensity. "You insulted me with the copper, Mr. Grell. The price just went up. Now, it's six hundred gold. And I want half of that deposit in easy-to-carry coin, and the other half in trade for information—information about old texts and historical collections."
Grell sputtered, running a hand over his bald head. "Six hundred! That's criminal! Four hundred! And I'll give you a discount on any of my worthless books for trade—that's the best I can do!"
"Five hundred and fifty," Doren insisted, his own anxiety making him push harder. "All gold. No discount books. And you tell me which back-alley scholar deals in Mercer family history."
Grell slammed his fist on the counter, the coins rattling. "Fine! Five hundred gold! And I'll give you the name of a rat-faced historian who deals in secrets, but that's all I'm doing, kid. That vein better be real, or I'll track you down myself!"
"It's real," Doren said, his voice dropping to a low promise. "Where's the gold?"