"I need a boat to get out of the city without being seen."
Rook looked up from the ledger she'd been examining, one eyebrow rising toward her hairline. She closed the book with deliberate care and studied Morgana across the cluttered desk.
"We provide information," she said mildly. "Not boat-lending services."
The Copper Lantern was quieter during early daylight hours. A few patrons nursed drinks in shadowy corners, conducting business in hushed tones. Morning sunlight filtered through grimy windows, illuminating dust motes and the smoke from Rook's pipe.
"I know that," Morgana said. "I need information on who to contact for an extraction. Someone reliable, who can move at a moment's notice. Once I've done what I need to do, I'll need fast transport to Karsova."
"Karsova?" Rook rolled the word around her mouth like she was tasting it. "The port city on the edge of the Free Territories? Interesting choice."
She tapped her pipe against the side of an empty cup, knocking loose ash.
"What you're planning is a bad idea."
"Do you have a better one?" Morgana leaned forward. "I saw him, Rook. I saw what they've done to him."
"And?"
"And I need to get him out."
Rook snorted. "Buy him, you mean? With what? The Fallen Star brings in more gold for Thorne than any ten fighters combined. The man wouldn't sell him for all the riches in Sundar."
"I don't need to buy him." Morgana's fingers drummed against the wooden desk. "I just need access to him. I need to let him see me, recognize me. He'll do the rest."
Rook gave her a flat look. "You've grown into a pretty woman, I'll grant you that. But do you honestly think any level of beauty could make a man just decide to—"
"It's not about beauty," Morgana cut in. "It's about hope."
She explained what she'd seen in the arena. How Bedivere's Fluid had flickered and dimmed. How the source of his power had been hope, and how that hope had been all but extinguished.
"When I called his name—his real name—something changed. Just for a moment, but I saw it. He remembered who he was."
"And who is he to you?" Rook asked. "Really? Not just your father's right hand."
"He was like an uncle to me," Morgana said softly. "When my mother died, he was the one who sat with me at night when I couldn't sleep. Told me stories about the old wars, about my grandfather. He taught me how to ride a horse, how to hold a sword." She looked up. "And he was there the night my father was murdered."
"What exactly are your intentions here, Princess? What's the plan, long-term?"
Morgana didn't flinch at the title. "Vengeance. I'm going to kill the Sundarian Emperor for what he did to my father."
Rook stared at her for a long moment, then leaned back in her chair. It creaked under her weight. Finally, she nodded.
"Sure."
"Really?" Morgana blinked.
"Why not?" Rook reached into a drawer and pulled out a small wooden box, intricately carved with symbols Morgana didn't recognize. "You know, when I was young, my parents raised me to believe in something - someone - they called the Architect. Some chosen one who would appear and restore some semblance of balance to the world."
She opened the box, revealing a small pendant—a stylized compass rose made of tarnished silver.
"My parents were part of a group called the Order. Used to be they actually tried to make the world better. Help people, spread knowledge. Then they got obsessed with prophecies and signs and politics and power." She picked up the pendant, letting it dangle from her fingers. "I'm forty-three now, and there's still no Architect."
Her eyes fixed on Morgana's. "So I figure, why wait for someone else to fix things? Take your goddamn destiny in your own hands. You want vengeance? Go get it."
She tucked the pendant back in the box. "I've got contacts in the harbor district. Smugglers who can move you out on short notice. It'll cost you, but they're reliable. Won't ask questions."
"I can pay."
"I'll reach out to them." Rook closed the box with a snap. "They'll be ready when you need them."
Morgana studied her. "I didn't take you for the religious type."
Rook chuckled. "I'm not, not really. My parents were true believers, but the Order lost its way long before I was born. Started hoarding knowledge instead of sharing it. Started believing their prophecies more than the evidence in front of their eyes."
She shrugged. "For a while I believed what they taught me—that this Architect would come and usher in a new era of peace and understanding. Used to dream about being there when it happened."
She gestured at the tavern around them. "Now I deal in information and survival. Less disappointing than waiting for saviors who never show up."
"And the pendant?"
"Sentiment," Rook said, tucking the box away. "Not faith. Now, about getting you access to The Fallen Star..."
*****
"He saved my life once," she said softly. "A long time ago. I owe him."
The brothers exchanged a glance.
"Family?" Kafi asked.
"Not by blood," Morgana replied. "But yes, in the ways that matter."
Raz studied her, something shifting in his expression. Then he sighed heavily. "Double the price you offered. And we need specifics. When, where, how long the distraction needs to last."
"So you'll help?"
"Against my better judgment." He grimaced. "But it beats huddling in alleys waiting for rich tourists to get lost."
"I'm not a tourist."
"Whatever you say, lady." Raz grinned suddenly, his charm slipping back into place like a well-worn mask. "Now, about that payment..."
"But how exactly are you planning to do this?" Morgana asked, crossing her arms. "What kind of distraction could possibly occupy an entire city guard?"
Raz glanced at his brother, then turned back to her with a confident smile. "The bell."
Morgana waited for him to continue. When he didn't, she raised an eyebrow. "And?"
He looked at her like she was missing something obvious.
"And what?" she prompted.
Raz sighed, running a hand through his hair. "The Grand Bell in the Sentinel Tower. It only rings for three things: royal births, invasions, or fire in the market district."
"Bell very loud," Kafi added helpfully. "Whole city hear."
"When that bell rings," Raz continued, "the entire guard mobilizes. It's protocol. They seal the gates, establish perimeter zones, and sweep the city sector by sector."
"But there won't actually be a fire," Morgana said.
"No. There will be smoke. Lots of it." Raz's eyes gleamed. "We have a compound that produces thick black smoke but minimal flame. Set it off in three locations around the market district, and every guard in the city will be too busy evacuating merchants and protecting goods to notice one gladiator slipping away."
"Meanwhile," Kafi said, bouncing on his toes, "west gate guards always check smoke from tower. Position always empty for three, maybe four minutes."
"That's our window," Raz finished. "Get the Fallen Star, we move through the west gate during the confusion, reach the harbor before they realize what's happening."
Morgana nodded slowly. "And by the time they've determined there's no actual threat, we'll be on the water."
"Exactly. We'll already be far away."
Morgana glanced between the brothers. "Why can you speak Imperial so well when your brother can't?"
Kafi shrugged. "Not enough practice. Not many Sundarians talk to street boy like me."
"I made sure he learned the local trade languages first," Raz explained. "More useful in the docks and markets. As for me..." He grinned. "I spent two years working as a translator for a Sundarian merchant. Before he tried to cheat me and I relieved him of his purse."
"Imperial language will come with time," Kafi said confidently. "Already learning more words each day."
"He picks up languages quickly," Raz added with pride. "Just needs more people to practice with."
"I like it," Morgana said, returning to their plan. "But there's one problem. What's this 'we' you keep mentioning? I'm leaving with the Fallen Star. Just the two of us."
Raz barked out a laugh. "You think we're just going to set this up and stay behind? Do you have any idea what happens to people who ring that bell without cause?"
"They make examples," Kafi said solemnly. "Public examples."
"This isn't just stealing from a merchant or picking a noble's pocket," Raz continued. "You're putting the entire capital of a kingdom on emergency alert. People will lose business. Ships will be delayed. Goods will spoil. And someone will have to pay for that."
He leaned in closer. "Anyone connected to this will be hunted. That includes us."
"So that's your price? Passage out of the city?"
"That's the second half of our payment," Raz said. "The coin you promised, plus two spots on that boat."
Morgana considered this. The brothers were right—anyone involved in this scheme would have to leave Vethia immediately. And having local knowledge might prove useful until she reached Karsova.
"Fine," she said finally. "You can come."
Raz's face broke into a smile. Kafi let out a small whoop and did a quick spin.
"But," Morgana added, raising a finger to quiet their celebration, "I leave you at the next port. I continue alone with the Fallen Star from there."
The brothers exchanged a glance.
"Fine by us," Raz said with a shrug. "We just need out of Vethia. Where we go next doesn't matter much."
"Anywhere better than here," Kafi echoed their earlier sentiment.
"Then we have a deal." Morgana extended her hand. "Half now. Half as the passage to the next port."
Raz clasped her hand firmly. "Deal."
His palm was calloused, his grip strong but not aggressive. The hand of someone who'd worked hard his entire life.
"One more thing," he said, not releasing her hand. "What's your real name? If we're risking our necks together, I'd like to know who for."
Morgana hesitated, then decided a half-truth was better than a lie. "Mora."
"Mora," Raz repeated, as if testing how it felt on his tongue. "Pretty name. Suits you."
"Raz," Kafi groaned. "Stop flirting. Need plan details."
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"Right, right." Raz finally released her hand. "Let's find somewhere quieter to talk. There are too many eyes and ears here."
As they moved deeper into the alley, Morgana found herself wondering if she could actually trust these brothers. They were survivors, opportunists—exactly the kind of people who might sell her out if Thorne offered a better price.
But she needed them. And sometimes, the only way to build trust was to take a risk.
"When does the Fallen Star fight next?" she asked as they walked.
"In two weeks from now," Raz replied without hesitation. "Main event. They're billing it as 'The Rematch of the Century'—him against some desert warrior who nearly killed him last season."
Morgana felt her stomach tighten.
"Then we work fast," she said. "Tell me everything you know about the pits, the security, and exactly how that smoke thing of yours works."
"Not ours," Kafi corrected. "Need to steal first."
Morgana stopped walking. "What?"
Raz shot his brother an exasperated look. "He's getting ahead of himself. We don't steal the compound—we know someone who can acquire it for us. Discreetly."
"For right price," Kafi added.
"And you trust this person?"
Raz's smile was sharp. "I trust coin. And so does he."
It wasn't the most reassuring answer, but it would have to do. Morgana nodded for them to continue leading the way.
*****
"They're bringing in this new device from Sundar," he continued, undeterred by her lack of enthusiasm. "Some sort of communication tool. Lets you talk to someone across great distances—instantly! Can you imagine?"
This actually caught Morgana's attention. "What sort of device?"
"They call it a 'whisper stone' or some such. Uses a special kind of crystal that resonates with its pair. Speak into one, and your voice comes out the other, no matter how far apart they are." He tapped the side of his nose. "Even non-mages can use it. That's the brilliant part."
"Sounds useful," Morgana said, her mind already drifting back to the plan.
"Useful? It's revolutionary! Think of what it means for trade. For politics. For war, even." He studied her. "You're from Sundar, aren't you? That accent's unmistakable."
She tensed slightly. "Yes."
"Thought so. I've always admired Sundarian craftsmanship. Those people know how to make things last." He patted his belt, where a Sundarian-made dagger hung in an ornate sheath. "Had this twenty years, still sharp as the day I bought it."
A horn blared, signaling the start of the games.
The merchant shifted his attention to the arena floor, where the announcer strode out in his crimson robe. Morgana half-listened to the introductions, her thoughts on what was to come.
Kafi should be finishing placement of the smoke compounds now, hiding them where they'd go unnoticed until activated. Raz would be approaching the tower, counting down the minutes until the guard change.
The first match began—two women wielding curved swords that trailed electrical energy as they swung. The crowd roared as they clashed in the center of the arena, but Morgana barely saw them.
Her hand tightened around the cup of rose-milk. Everything had to go perfectly. If Kafi got caught placing the compounds, if Raz was spotted entering the tower, if the timing was off by even a few minutes—Bedivere would remain in chains, and they'd all likely join him.
"Not as exciting as a minotaur tearing a man in half, I'll grant you," the merchant commented beside her, mistaking her tension for disappointment in the match. "But these sword-witches are quite skilled. Watch how they—oh! There, you see? The way the lightning arcs between their blades? Fascinating technique."
Morgana nodded absently. She checked the sun again. The main event was still an hour away. Time seemed to crawl.
"You know," the merchant continued, seemingly determined to engage her in conversation, "I've been coming to these games for fifteen years. Seen fighters from every corner of the known world. But there's something special about the Fallen Star. A quality you don't see in the others."
"What quality is that?" Morgana asked, if only to be polite.
"Reluctance." The merchant's voice dropped, becoming unexpectedly thoughtful. "Most gladiators—they fight because they love it, or because they're desperate, or because they're too stupid to do anything else. But him? He fights like a man who knows exactly what he's doing and hates himself for doing it anyway."
Morgana glanced at him, surprised by the insight.
"Don't look so shocked," he chuckled. "I'm a merchant. Reading people is how I stay alive and profitable."
Below them, one of the sword-witches fell, clutching a wound that sparked and sizzled. The victor raised her sword, accepting the crowd's adulation.
"Oh, that was rather quick," Tiberius remarked, sounding disappointed. "Usually they put on more of a show."
The matches continued one after another. A man who could transform parts of his body into stone fighting against a pair of twin assassins. A massive orc against what appeared to be a child but was actually a halfling with poisoned daggers. Each victory was bloodier than the last, the crowd growing more frenzied with each death.
Morgana felt time slipping away. The sun had moved across the sky, shadows lengthening. Soon, very soon now, Bedivere would enter the arena.
Bedivere drove the blade into the arena wall and began to climb, using the embedded sword as a foothold. His movements were those of a much younger man, his injuries seemingly forgotten in the moment.
The guards reached Morgana just as Bedivere hauled himself over the railing of her box. He stood between her and the guards, sword raised.
"Step away from her," he said, his voice low and dangerous.
The guards hesitated, clearly not prepared to face a champion gladiator at close quarters.
Bedivere looked at Morgana, really looked at her, for the first time in eight years.
"How?" he asked simply.
Before she could answer, the Grand Bell began to toll.
GONG. GONG. GONG.
The sound reverberated through the building, so loud it seemed to vibrate in their bones.
"Fire!" someone screamed from outside. "The market district is burning!"
The guards looked at each other, torn between their orders and their duty to respond to the bell.
"I'll explain everything," Morgana said. "But right now, we need to run."