As the sun began to sink behind the Citadel’s walls, I toweled off my face and returned the practice axe to its spot on the weapon rack. I’d spent the better part of eleven hours executing kata, combat drills, counter-attack techniques, and sparring with Niels. I may have taught him a lesson in humility during our hand-to-hand session, but he returned the favor in spades when it came to melee weapons. It didn’t matter what weapon I used. Or what weapon he used, for that matter. Even with everything I’d learned so far, he beat my ass with a spear, a sword, an axe, a whip.

I was ninety percent sure he could turn a pair of chopsticks into a weapon of mass destruction. Guy was a goddamned animal.

Still, I was feeling a thousand times more confident than I had when I stepped onto the training yard at sunrise.

After a quick goodbye to Niels, I took off the Suppression Manacles and headed out toward Wildespell. What I really wanted to do was make a beeline for the Citadel, take a hot bath, then spend the night trying to hunt down a Legacy Scroll or two. Unfortunately, there was a monster fucking around in the city and Raguel had tasked me with bringing it to justice. With Kerra indisposed, making arrangements for a field expedition, I wasn’t gonna get a better opportunity to launch my investigation. Especially since I had an active lead to chase down.

Getting out of the Citadel complex was far easier than I’d initially expected.

I’d been scheming about how I could potentially scale the walls or sneak out, tucked away in the bed of a merchant’s wagon. Turned out I could just walk my happy ass right through the front gate. All of the gates, sentries, and checkpoints were designed to keep people from entering, not leaving. The guards lazily waved through merchants, peddlers, and travelers as they trickled back out into the city, barely giving any of them a second look. When they saw me coming, they bowed and scarped as though I were royalty, and immediately cleared the way so I wouldn’t even have to wait in line with everyone else.

It was the ultimate VIP experience.

The people outside the Citadel weren’t much better. Sure, I didn’t receive the fan fair that Kerra had, but people still muttered prayers as I passed and made way for me like I had the plague. That wouldn’t work at all if I was going to get to the bottom of these killings. I needed people to talk with me and that was never going to happen so long as I looked like the red-eyed, embodiment of judgment. The second there was a break in the traffic, I slipped into a narrow alley, devoid of prying eyes, and swapped out my gear using Armor Evocation.

My cobalt blue Basilisk Brigandine Armor disappeared in a flash of silver mist, replaced by some plain linen pants, rough leather boots, and a baggy woolen shirt with a leather doublet over the top. It was the kind of outfit that wouldn’t stand out in a crowd. I wouldn’t look like a beggar, but neither would I look like a merchant or worse, a Vigil. It was the kind of outfit a day laborer or a wagon driver might wear.

That done, I tapped into my Arcana and let power flow out from my core.

Kerra might’ve given me a ration of grief for having Cunning Glamor in my arsenal, but it was good for more than just disorienting enemies during a battle.

I formed an image in my mind—a nondescript man, my same height and build, with light brown hair and brown eyes. His hair was longer than mine, greasy and slightly matted. The outfit I was wearing was meticulously clean thanks to the nature of Armor Evocation but, with a little thought, I added the suggestion of dirt and dust and grease stains. In theory, I could’ve made myself look like anything I wanted to. Hell, I could’ve convincingly cosplayed Kerra if I had a mind too. Thing was, the more drastically I changed my appearance, the more power it took. Adding dust was a helluva lot cheaper, magically speaking, than trying to disguise magical scale mail as cheap leather armor.

The picture I had in mind wasn’t me, but he could’ve passed as a close cousin or even a brother. Any Vigil with even moderate Insight would probably pick through the illusion in a second, but it would work like a charm on the normal folk of Wildespell. I slowly began to feed Arcana into the image until I felt something click and a barely perceptible shimmer rippled across my body. I quickly slipped out of the alley and headed over to a nearby shop, glancing at myself in the cloudy window.

Perfect.

Not that I really needed the window to confirm that my glamor had taken hold.

The fact that everyone on the street had transformed from awed-inspired worshipers to indignant assholes was proof enough. Instead of prayers, someone cursed me as they elbowed their way past.

“The sidewalks for walking, ya greasy fuck,” a slumped shoulder man growled at me.

Ah, a man of the people, at last.

I stepped into the flow of traffic, letting the press of bodies carry me toward the western gate, which connected with the Sprawl. I’d gone a few blocks when the chirp of a cat and the swish of a bright orange tail caught my attention.

Cal, Renholm, and Jacob-Francis were waiting outside a tavern called the Blue Heron.

“I was starting to wonder if you guys were going to bail on me,” I said softly.

“Naw,” Cal said, falling in on my right, while Renholm and Sir Jacob-Francis fell in on my left. “We got bored waiting in your room, so we decided to do a little more reconnaissance on the flop house. The place is buttoned up tighter than a nun’s habit, but this little dickhead found a way in.”

“Indeed,” Renholm said with an indignant sniff. “The sigil work was competent enough, for a human, but far less than adequate for even a novice Fae spellcaster. Maintaining a plurality of separate defensive wards is a taxing process, which is why whatever mage crafted these particular wards took a shortcut. Instead of attaching each ward to its own energy source, these were interconnected on a circuit that drew from a single Arcane Diffuser Box, powered by an Affinity Scale.”

“So when one ward trips, they all trip?” I asked.

“Got it in one,” Cal said.

“So how did you trip them without getting nuked?” I asked, genuinely curious.

“Simple,” Renholm replied with a shrug. “I summoned forth a lesser sprite, new to this world, and offered it an Affinity Scale for crossing the threshold.”

“What happened to the sprite?” I asked, mortified.

Renholm shrugged. “I presume it was instantly incinerated,” he said, “though, really, how should I know? Moreover, why should I care? The sprite was nothing to me. It hadn’t even earned a proper name yet. The important thing is, I breached the wards and, honestly, you should be ashamed of your whole race for how easily I managed to do it.”

“You literally sacrificed a sprite to accomplish it,” I replied, “that doesn’t sound easy.”

He sighed and patted the toe of my boot. “One day we shall break you of your antiquated notions about the inherent value of life, my protégée. But apparently, that day is not today.”

I rolled my eyes.

“So what did you find out?”

“Best guess is it's some sort of criminal origination headquarters,” Cal said. “Equal parts drug den, dive bar, illegal fighting ring, gambling hall, and marketplace for stolen goods.”

“It’s the goddamned thieves guild, isn’t it?” I asked flatly.

“Hey, I didn’t say that,” Cal protested. “Would they say that if you asked them?” He seesawed his head back and forth. “No. But only because they are one-hundred percent the thieves guild and they wouldn’t want to blow their cover.”

“Great,” I said. “I’m sure this isn’t gonna bite us in the ass.”

***

It was full dark by the time we made it through the eastern gate and into the rough, overflow city known as the Sprawl. The city itself was enormous but the real reason it took so long was that following Renholm was like trailing a golden retriever with ADHD looking for a lost tennis ball. The pixie ushered us onward with complete and utter confidence, but nothing he did made a lick of goddamned sense to me. We took turns seemingly at random, walked up and down interconnected alleyways, and occasionally doubled back before setting off in the direction we’d just come from.

It was the most nonsensical path I could possibly imagine.

I decided that the opposite of “as the crow flies” was “as the pixie flies.” It did give me a good sense of the city, however. Despite the stink of sewage and the lack of indoor plumbing, it was clear that Wildespell was prosperous. There were far fewer dirty-faced street orphans tucked away in the alleys than what I remembered from Ironmoor. The houses were relatively clean, food was plentiful, and people walked without the fear of muggers or thugs hanging around every corner. Apparently, life under the watchful eye of the Citadel had its perks.

But there was a darker, uglier reason, I soon learn.

Wildespell didn’t have dirt or orphans or thugs, because they’d all been crammed into the ramshackle three-mile block known as the Sprawl.

If Wildespell stank like open sewage, walking through the Sprawl was like trudging directly through the sewers themselves. Instead of cobblestones, the roads were a mir of frozen muck, mixed with human waste, all churned up by lumbering horse hooves and the passage of countless feet. The alleys were overflowing with gaunt boys and girls who looked on with haunted eyes that had seen far too much for their years. Vendors sold ragged, winter-bitten vegetables or fried meat, more likely to come from a rat or a dog than a chicken or a cow.

More than a few passerbys looked at Jacob-Francis with hungry expressions etched into the lines of their faces.

Rough men, covered with scars and patchwork tattoos, prowled the shadows, carrying crude clubs or pitted daggers. They scanned the passing pedestrians, openly searching for easy marks. Several eyeballed me in passing, not even bothering to hide what they were doing. I’d spent plenty of times in places like this—both back home in Kentucky and in dusty cities scattered across the Middle East. These people weren’t necessarily bad, but life was hard here, and they had to fight for everything. Nothing was free. Nothing was easy. Respect was never given, only earned. And it was earned through strength and violence.

Any sign of weakness would be as good as an open invitation to fuck around.

I projected power. I met their eyes without flinching. I let my body language do all the talking. You can fuck around all you want, but you sure as shit are gonna find out.

Murderous gazes shifted away from me, continuing to roam and search for easier prey.

Eventually, we ended up on a dark, narrow street standing in front of a nondescript-looking two-story, half-timber house with chipped plaster siding and a sagging thatch roof. It looked exactly like fifty other run-down buildings we’d passed on the way in and was indistinguishable from the houses on its left and right. The door was plain wood, heavily scuffed, but otherwise unmarked. No one loitered around outside, which might’ve signaled that this house was somehow unique amongst its neighbors.

That was only because the sentries were better concealed. Even in the dark, my eyes were more than keen enough to make a dark figure lingering behind the chimney. A flutter of movement on top of the house directly across the street revealed another scout. A third was tucked away in an adjacent alleyway. If Cal and Renholm were right—and I had no doubt they were—there were probably several more guards that I didn’t see. I knew this was dangerous, but I also knew that if I wanted to make any headway with these killings, my answers were inside.

“This the place?” I asked Cal softly.

“The one and only,” he replied. “You sure you want to do this, dude?” he asked after a second. “You’re gonna be flying blind in there.”

“Indeed,” Renholm added. “They’ve reset the wards, and since I doubt I’ll be able to find another Sprite as foolish as the first on such short notice, you’ll have to venture forth without my aid.” He frowned and tapped at his chin. “I imagine you’ll perish immediately without my assistance, so I would like to be paid for services rendered in advance.”

“I’m not going to die,” I said, rolling my eyes. “I’m also not going to give you shit.”

He sighed. “Fine. I shall send Jacob Francis along in my stead. Should something terrible happen to you, he will seek me out.”

“You got this, Boyd,” Cal said. “This is just like that time we snuck into the Officers Mess. Pretend you belong and no one’s gonna say shit.”

I took a deep breath to settle my nerves, pulled out the golden serpent ring that Renholm had tactically acquired—which was Marine Corps slang for stealing—and slipped it onto my finger.

“Don’t worry guys, I got this.”

I made straight for the door, wearing confidence like a cloak, and rapped sharply on the wood three times.

There was a rustle of movement then, a few seconds later, the door squeaked halfway open, revealing a thin man, with beady suspicious eyes and a perpetual sneer tattooed on his mouth.

“Help you?” he growled, eyes darting around furtively, searching the street behind me.

“Yeah, you can let me in,” I said, investing my words with Arcana. I could feel my power slither into his mind, but there was a begrudging resistance waiting for me.

“I don’t know you,” he said, shaking his head. “Whatever you’re looking for, mate, it isn’t here.” He moved to shut the door. I was quicker. I slammed my hand against the rough wooden door, easily preventing him from closing me out. The golden serpent ring glimmered in the waning light coming from the house. The tiny, ruby eyes seemed to flash in displeasure.

“This is exactly, where I’m supposed to be,” I replied evenly.

The man’s eyes landed on the ring, and something broke a little inside of him. He licked his lips and hunched in of himself in uncertainty.

“You come up from Helgen, then?” he asked. The question was straightforward, but I could hear the lie on his tongue. This was a test. A trap. Thank God for Master Mentalist.

“We both know I’m not. I’m here on official business,” I said, playing a hunch. “It’s about Akser’s death. Now, are you gonna keep throwing questions at me, or are you going to let me in?” It was phrased as a question but wasn’t. The last part was a command. “We don’t want to draw any unwanted attention now do we?”

He flinched as though I’d just hit him in the face with an open hand slap.

“Yeah, of course, mate. Of course.” He ran a shaky hand across his stubby head. “Can’t be too careful, especially after what happened with… well, you know. Head straight on. Door’s on the right.”

“Much appreciated,” I said, shoving my way in.

“What’s with the cat?” he asked, sounding half in a daze, as Jacob Francis lumbered in behind me.

“He’s with me,” I replied, waving away the question. “And it's best if we keep this between us, yeah?”

“Of course, mate,” he stammered. “You, me, and the grave.”