The news travelled faster than the rain.
By the time Elian and Borrun reached the elevator cages that led down to the Sump, the mood had shifted. Usually, the descent was noisy—miners shouting jokes, merchants haggling. Tonight, the cage was silent.
A dozen humans stood pressed against the rusted grate, staring at the watchmen. It wasn't the usual look of deference. It was fear mixed with something sharper. Resentment.
Elian shifted uncomfortably, his hand resting on the hilt of his truncheon. Not that it would help him much, it was more likely to break into pieces.
"Keep your head down," Borrun murmured, staring straight ahead.
"We didn't kill anyone, Borrun," Elian whispered back, his voice low.
"Doesn't matter," Borrun replied. "Tonight, we are not Elian and Borrun. We're just uniforms"
The cage shuddered and dropped, plunging them into the steam and smog of the Lower Ring.
The Sump was the armpit of Aurion. It was a tangle of pipes, leaking boilers, and shanties built from scrap metal stolen from the smelting yards. It smelled of sulfur and unwashed bodies.
They navigated the maze of alleyways, avoiding the busy main thoroughfares to make better time. Elian led them to a blind alley that ended in a heavy iron door, half-buried in a pile of coal slag.
Elian banged on the metal. Three hard knocks. Pause. One soft knock.
A viewing slot slid open. A pair of bloodshot eyes peered out.
"Closed," a voice rasped.
"Open up, Silas," Elian said. "I'm not here to arrest you."
The eyes flicked to Borrun. "You brought a Rock-Eater to my door? Are you mad, Elian? The word is out. They're saying a human shot a Royal. The Iron Guard is foaming at the mouth."
"That's why we're here," Elian said, pressing his face close to the slot. "I need to know who shot him. Or we're all going to burn."
The slot slammed shut. For a long moment, there was silence. Then, the heavy groan of bolts sliding back.
The door creaked open.
Silas was a man made of scars. A former sapper in the frontier wars, he had lost an arm and an eye, replacing both with crude mechanical prosthetics that whirred when he moved. His workshop was a chaotic museum of violence—disassembled muskets, rusted sabers, and illegal black powder kegs stacked against the wall.
"Quickly," Silas hissed, ushering them in and bolting the door. "If the neighbors see a Watch uniform in here, they'll torch the place."
He limped over to his workbench, sweeping a pile of gears onto the floor. "You want to know about the gun? Everyone wants to know about the gun. I've had three people ask me for a 'Royal Killer' in the last hour. Idiots."
"Did you sell it?" Borrun asked bluntly.
Silas spat on the floor, narrowly missing Borrun's boot. "I sell protection, dwarf. I sell hunting rifles for rats. I don't sell regicide. That's bad for business."
Elian stepped forward, leaning on the workbench. "The Justicar says it was a human radical. A high-velocity round. Small caliber."
"Small caliber?" Silas frowned, his mechanical eye zooming in with a soft whir. "To penetrate dwarven muscle and bone? You'd need a cannonball. Or you'd need to hit the eye."
"Hit the neck," Elian corrected. "Back of the neck. Severed the spine."
"Clean shot," Silas grunted. "Lucky."
"Maybe," Elian said. "But here's the thing, Silas. The wound was cauterized."
Silas froze. His human hand stopped polishing a barrel. His mechanical hand twitched.
"Cauterized?" Silas repeated slowly.
"Black edges," Elian confirmed. "Seared shut. No blood leak until we moved him."
Silas laughed. It was a dry, hacking sound. "Then it wasn't a gun, boy. Black powder explodes. It pushes. It doesn't burn. Not like that. To cauterize a wound instantly... the bullet would have to be white-hot before it even left the barrel."
Silas limped to the back of the shop and pulled a small jar from a shelf. He unscrewed the lid. Inside was a coarse, glittering orange dust.
"Smell that," Silas commanded.
Elian leaned in. It smelled like ozone and rotten eggs.
"Sun-Dust," Silas said. "Alchemical propellant. It burns three times hotter than black powder. It's used for deep-crust blasting. Mining charges."
Elian looked at Borrun whose face had gone pale.
"Humans don't have access to Sun-Dust," Borrun whispered. "It's a controlled substance. Restricted to the Mining Guild."
"Exactly," Silas said, capping the jar. "If your shooter used a bullet packed with this, the gun would melt in his hand after one shot. Unless the gun was made of Mithril or... Hells! It could also be some kind of magically enhanced weapon for all we know."
Elian straightened up. The pieces were clicking into place, but the picture they formed was terrifying.
"So," Elian said. "We're looking for a shooter who has access to Guild-restricted explosives, or a weapon that costs more than this entire district."
"You're looking for a rich man," Silas said, turning back to his work. "Or a hired hand working for one."
Borrun's crystal device suddenly flickered to life and a voice crackled.
"...beware of these suspects. They are armed and dangerous. Approach with extreme caution."
"What was that?" Elian startled by the sudden interruption.
Borrun spoke into the crystal, "Dispatch, can you repeat that please?"
The crystal device flickered once more and the disembodied voice came through again.
"This is an emergency dispatch. Beware of two rogue Watchmen suspected to be involved in the murder of Prince Thrain. Last seen entering the Sump. Please beware of these suspects. They are armed and dangerous. Approach with extreme caution."
Borrun and Elian looked at each other, dazed and shocked by what they just heard.
"I'm assuming you are the dangerous suspects," Silas said, then points a metal finger at the door. "I think its time for you guys to go."
Elian rushed to the viewing slot and looked out.
Down the street, toward the main market of the Sump, a heavily armed squadron of Iron Guards were harassing the common folk.
"Shit! It's the Iron Guards," Elian said.
"Two guesses on who they are looking for," Borrun said through gritted teeth.
"We have to move," Elian said, grabbing Borrun's shoulder. "If we stay here, we're trapped."
Silas didn't offer them a back way. He simply retreated into the shadows of his shop and slid the bolts shut, leaving Elian and Borrun in the damp alleyway.
They ran toward the main thoroughfare, hoping to reach the freight elevators before the Iron Guards cut them off. But as they burst out of the alley and onto the jagged cobblestones of the Sump Market, they realized they were too late.
They made it about twenty paces before the gleam of black armour was all around them.
Elian clutched his truncheon, his heart hammering against his ribs. There was no way out.
"Well," Elian breathed, watching the Iron Guards boxing them in. "It was a nice career while it lasted."