Chapter 5: The secret from the inside
The foothills of the mountains began to rise like the spine of a sleeping beast, the air sharpening with the scent of pine and cold stone. Arthor, ever the vigilant protector, was the first to see the figure. He raised a gauntleted hand, his eyes narrowing.
"Company ahead," the Knight rumbled.
Sitting atop a moss-covered milestone was a man who looked entirely too comfortable for a desolate mountain pass. He was tossing a heavy gold coin into the air, the metal catching the sunlight in a rhythmic, hypnotic flash. He wore high-grade traveling leathers and a smile that suggested he knew exactly what you were thinking, and he found it hilarious.
"Richard," Elvric sighed, his grip on his staff loosening. "The only man I know who can find a way to be fashionable in a wasteland."
Richard hopped down from the stone, his grin widening as the trio approached. "Legends! Heroes! And one very grumpy-looking dwarf!" he called out, his voice smooth and carrying a hint of a theatrical lilt. "I'd say it's a pleasure to see you, but judging by the look on Sheng's face, I'm about to ruin his afternoon."
Sheng pulled his horse to a halt, his heart sinking. Richard was a freelance information broker—if he was here, it meant the "fire" in Belvart was no longer just smoke.
"Richard," Sheng said, his voice flat. "How did you find us?"
"I didn't find you, Sheng. I found the trail of gossip you've been leaving behind. It's glowing like a beacon," Richard said, his expression suddenly shifting. The playfulness vanished, replaced by a sharp, professional intensity. He looked at Arthor and Elvric. "Gentlemen, I need the Assassin. Alone. Now."
Arthor's brow furrowed. "We don't do 'alone,' Richard. We're a unit."
"Not for this," Richard countered, his eyes locked on Sheng. "This isn't about the war, and it isn't about the King. It's about the specific... mess... our friend here started. It's sensitive, Knight. Professional courtesy."
Sheng hopped off his horse, his legs feeling heavy. "It's fine. Give us a minute."
Richard led Sheng nearly fifty yards away, deep into the shadow of a massive, ancient oak tree. The moment they were out of earshot, Richard grabbed Sheng's shoulder. His voice was a frantic whisper.
"Sheng, you have to listen to me. Whatever you think the situation is, it's ten times worst.
Then he continued further, as he finally finished.
Sheng leaned against the tree, feeling like the world was spinning. "My reputation... my career..."
"Is currently being used as a punchline and a target," Richard said grimly. "And there's more. Something Miran is spreading. She's telling people that you—"
"Sheng! Richard!"
The voice of Arthor cut through the air. The Knight and the Mage were approaching, their patience exhausted. The Knight looked suspicious, his hand resting on the pommel of his sword.
Richard's face transformed in a heartbeat. The frantic messenger vanished, replaced by the carefree freelancer. He leaned back against the tree, crossing his arms and laughing loudly just as the duo reached them.
"So I told him," Richard said loudly, winking at Sheng, "if you're going to be in Belvart anyway, you might as well test those daggers of yours! There's a tournament starting tomorrow—the weekly Grand Spar! It's the perfect place for a man of your talents to show off."
Sheng blinked, his brain struggling to keep up with Richard's lie. "A... tournament?"
"Exactly!" Richard said, clapping Sheng on the back. "He was just telling me he's a bit nervous about the public eye. I told him he's a Medal of Glory winner—he'll crush the competition!"
Elvric looked between the two of them, his eyes narrowing behind his spectacles. The Mage could smell a lie from a mile away, but he couldn't see the shape of this one yet. Then Arthor said looking suspiciously "A tournament? You two spent ten minutes whispering about a sparring match?"
"It's a very high-stakes tournament," Richard lied smoothly, his eyes dancing with mischief. "Lots of pride on the line. Right, Sheng?"
Sheng looked at the ground, his face a mask of misery. "Right. A tournament."
Arthor didn't look convinced, but he looked at Sheng's slumped shoulders and sighed. "If a tournament is what it takes to get you out of this funk, then we go to Belvart. But we aren't staying long."
As they walked back to the horses, Orthox looked up, hopeful. "Is there a tournament? Can I enter? I'm great at tournaments!"
"No," Sheng snapped, his voice trembling with the weight of the secret Richard had just dumped on him.
The group mounted up and began the climb toward the city of stone. Behind them, Richard followed slowly, his smile fading the moment they turned their backs.
Sheng rode in a daze. The "Tournament" was a lie—a cover-up to explain why they were heading into the hornets' nest. But as he looked at the mountains, all he could hear was Richard's whispered warning: They want your head on a platter, Sheng. Not because you're a killer, but because you're a creep.
He had never felt more alone in his life.