There were four wooden walls carved with excellent craftsmanship, an Ezran lamp that dangled from the ceiling and swayed to the movements of the trees, a table with old playing cards and four uncomfortable chairs, and a rusty Ezran burner with a black kettle on top. The smell of Yellowbark Tea was in the air—a powerful smell that emanated from an even more powerful herb. But there was no one to complain about the oscillating light, no one to play the next card, no one to pour the tea from the boiling kettle. On one of the four chairs, the one to the north, Vance sat back with a relaxed expression, and against the southern wall, Fredrick was leaning and lighting his smoking pipe.

The second-in-command was in his twenties, but he was self-composed and charismatic. He didn’t seem too bothered by the present situation, and he took the time to light his pipe without rushing. He struck a match before he guided it carefully with both hands toward the pipe. The light danced off his chainmail and then lit his well-shaped face. Two gray-blue eyes. A straight nose. A pale set of lips. His blond hair was pulled back, and the sideburns were shaved almost completely so that they wouldn’t meet with his stubble. After he breathed in the smoke, he took another nonchalant look at Vance, and the latter looked back at him with almost the same amount of interest—or lack thereof.

“What happened to your feet?” Fredrick finally said, blowing out smoke.

“Monster attack … Verglas Spiders.”

“Good one.” He looked at Vance again—a studious inspection. “Do you work for the Helminsmages of Old Bastion? Did they send a slave to poison the fort or demand their cut of the profits?”

“I think you’re already doing a great job poisoning the fort.”

“Very smart. But I’ll have you know, my booze is the only thing keeping these conscripts from losing their minds.”

“I’m not working for anyone,” Vance said.

“Then why did you cause a scene like that?” Fredrick blew out more smoke.

“I wanted a drink.”

“You’re a funny guy. I’ll give you that.” With a straight face, the young deputy commander walked over to the table and sat on the chair opposite Vance. From this close distance, it became apparent that he had a burn scar on his neck—a ragged line of red and brown. Vance stared at this scar until Fredrick covered it with his hand and continued, “You know, I thought I’d be getting into all sorts of trouble with that ifrit you have in your party. Never thought it’d be a fellow Engelian trying to fuck me over. It breaks my heart, you know. We’re supposed to be looking after each other, watching each other’s backs.”

Vance said nothing, and Fredrick started to grow impatient.

“I won’t ask a third time. Why did you cause a scene like that?”

“I’m here on behalf of my party leader,” Vance finally said. The fun starts now.

“The Paladin?”

“His name’s Maxwell. I’d remember it well if I were you.”

“What does your leader want?”

“A pleasant cohabitation.”

“Enough with the jokes. Get to the point.”

“Access to the bar … and 20% to keep everything between us.”

“20%?” Fredrick blew out smoke.

“Of your net profits,” Vance smiled.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, adventurers.”

“Dangerous for you, yes,” Vance said, with his smile unchanged. “You’ve got a lot of gold, and it’s time you learned to share. 20% isn’t much if you get to keep your business operational … and Commander Lyon fast asleep.”

Fredrick took his pipe out of his mouth and paused to think.

Vance waited for a reply, but he wasn’t too eager to reach an agreement. Even if he refuses to pay up, I’ll still be profiting off his little enterprise. Money was never the goal. It was more lucrative to create a conflict—a struggle for power at Fort Hamadryad. Insiders versus outsiders. Locals versus foreigners. Greed versus naivete. Only in the cradle of such conflicts could a murderer nurture the sweet offspring of unpunishable crime. It was a well tested method. In fact, Vance was drawing inspiration from none other than Samuel Ackard and his array of long-established tactics—an irony that the Cromish Dawn might never notice because of their fixation with dwarves.

“I’ll give you what you want,” Fredrick said. He stood up from the table and drew on his pipe. After he had exhaled a nebula of smoke, he continued, “I’ll be mature about this. Generous, as well. 20% is fine as long as we all avoid trouble with big guy Lyon. So you can go back to your party leader … go back to my dear friend Maxwell and tell him he’s welcome at my bar at any time.”

“You made the right choice,” Vance said. He paused for a moment before he followed with the most incendiary comment possible—a jarring crescendo to ruin all harmony. “I’m glad you know your place. It’s smart not to mess with adventurers double or triple your level … if you know what I mean.”

Fredrick clenched his fist for a mere second before he relaxed it and smiled.

“Now that that’s sorted out,” Vance continued, “how about a drink or two? At our little secret bar. Your treat, of course.”

“Would you like me to mix your drinks, too, Your Excellency?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Vance laughed.

“Your leniency is wasted on my likes.”

The course had been set, and Fredrick was forced to get up and lead the way to his foxhole. He and Vance left the room before they turned away from the portcullis and the gate. As they walked, Vance pretended to know the way, but he was in fact memorizing it for the first time. The third ladder past the main stables. Down into the fortress dungeon. They walked through a long, narrow corridor lined up with prison cells. The cells were all empty, but Vance noticed something interesting on their walls: There were writings etched into the wood using knives and shivs. These writings, however, weren’t in Anthroform but in the alphabet of the dwarves—Lilliform.

“Did you have dwarven prisoners down here?” Vance said.

“Why are you asking?” Fredrick kicked a pebble.

“Just curious.”

“They used to keep illegal pilgrims locked up down here … but not anymore.”

“Dwarven pilgrims?”

“Yeah, used to come from the north … mostly Kunzites.”

“And then what happened?”

“Nothing much,” Fredrick scoffed. “Count Monet hired their asses, and no one could call them ‘illegal pilgrims’ no more. But I guess they missed their old cells. They like the dark. That’s why they turned on the Count.”

Dwarven pilgrims … What could the dwarves be worshiping in this unwelcoming forest? Rumors often circulated in the human world about elven pilgrims who crossed the border to visit the ruins of old sanctuaries, but the dwarven variant of these stories was never popular. Perhaps humanity never thought of dwarves as more than blacksmiths and miners; perhaps it was too used to their sight in its cities. Regardless, it seemed interesting that a religious connection existed between the Kunzites and this land. Are they really here just to destroy the Saturn Tunnel and disrupt the flow of gold, or is there more to it than that?

After the last of the dwarven writings peeked and disappeared, Fredrick and Vance reached the end of the long dungeon corridor. A guard was sitting there, under a large poster that advertised discipline. As soon as he saw Fredrick, he stood up and saluted him with the utmost respect. Then he removed his chair, rolled a monster-skin rug into a corner, and opened a hidden trapdoor in the ground. A secret ladder was revealed. It led into total darkness, but there were also the howling sounds of the wind and the unpleasant smells of the outside world. Without comforting words or reassuring instructions, Fredrick climbed down the ladder, and Vance could only follow him into the maw of darkness.

One wrong step sends you down a long way. Vance heard the wooden ladder creak under his feet. I guess it helps those drunkards sober up on their way back. He chuckled. Most of them, at least.

The harsh descent continued until he finally reached a massive tree root. This is almost three levels below the fort. There were no lights and no signs of life, but it seemed that the bar was somewhere ahead. Fredrick started walking as if he were strolling through his back garden, and Vance followed with more caution than before. The two traversed a lengthy, treacherous path for fifteen more minutes—past prickly burrs and thorns, around sharp corners and dangerous curves—before they arrived at another tree, much smaller and much humbler. Here Fredrick bent down and knocked on a circular door that resembled the lid of a barrel. Once. Twice. A pause of anticipation.

“Password?”

“The fourth dryad’s drunk.”

The barrel door opened sideways and revealed a blur of intoxicated lights.