The weavers' quarter of Varnholt buzzed like a kicked beehive, with looms clacking and hawkers shouting over the din of cart wheels. Torren Vale slipped through the narrow streets, his patched cloak blending with the crowd of apprentices and washerwomen. The letter, still pressed against his chest, felt like a hot coal. Someone wanted it badly enough to send cutthroats after him, and that meant it was worth more than a half-crown. Torren didn't plan to hand it over to Sir Aldric Varn until he knew exactly what he was carrying—and how much he could squeeze out of it.
The scribe's shop sat at the edge of the quarter, a squat building with a warped oak door and a sign that read "Gerrin & Daughter, Words Wrought True." Torren pushed inside, the bell above the door jingling like a warning. The air smelled of ink and old parchment, a sharp contrast to the street's reek of sweat and wool. Shelves lined the walls, stuffed with scrolls and ledgers, while a lone candle flickered on a desk littered with quills.
Lyssa Gerrin stood behind the desk, her auburn hair tied back in a loose braid, her fingers stained black from ink. She was no courtly beauty—her nose was too sharp, her mouth too quick—but her hazel eyes had a spark that could make a man forget his own name. She glanced up from a half-written page, her quill pausing mid-stroke. "Torren Vale," she said, her voice dry as autumn leaves. "What trouble have you dragged to my door this time?"
Torren flashed his best grin, the one that had coaxed free ale from barmaids and spare coins from merchants. "Trouble? Me? I'm but a humble messenger, Lyssa, seeking the wisdom of your pen."
She snorted, setting the quill down. "Humble as a peacock. What do you want? I'm busy."
He leaned against the desk, casual but close enough to catch the faint scent of lavender in her hair. "A small favor, for an old friend. I've got a letter needs reading. Sealed, official-like, but I'm curious what's inside."
Lyssa's eyes narrowed. "You stole it."
"Borrowed," Torren corrected, his grin widening. "Temporarily, and with noble intent."
"Noble intent?" She crossed her arms, her sleeve brushing a stack of parchment. "The last time you had 'noble intent,' my father nearly lost his head over that missing ledger."
"And I made it right, didn't I?" Torren said, his voice smooth as polished steel. "No stocks, no chains. Just a happy scribe and his lovely daughter."
Lyssa rolled her eyes but didn't argue. She owed him, and they both knew it. Last spring, Torren had "misplaced" a ledger that showed her father, Old Gerrin, had underreported taxes to the Earl's reeve. Torren had never asked for payment—just a favor, to be called in when needed. Today was that day."
Show me," she said, holding out her hand.
Torren hesitated. Lyssa was sharp, maybe too sharp. If the letter held dangerous secrets, she'd know them too. But he needed her skill, and besides, those hazel eyes made it hard to say no. He pulled the letter from his doublet, the red wax seal with its boar's head glinting in the candlelight. "Careful, now. It's worth more than my neck."
Lyssa took it, turning it over in her hands. "Sir Aldric Varn," she read aloud, her finger tracing the address scrawled in elegant script. "Knight of Dunmere. Why are you mixed up with him?"
"Mixed up? I'm just the delivery boy," Torren said, feigning innocence. "But I'd rather not deliver a noose to my own hanging. Can you read it without breaking the seal?"
Lyssa raised an eyebrow. "You think I'm a miracle worker?" She held the letter to the candle, squinting at the wax. "It's thick parchment, double-folded. I can't see through it, but I can try steaming the seal loose. No promises it'll hold together."
"Do it," Torren said, leaning closer. "And quick. I've got a feeling this letter's got more enemies than I do."
Lyssa fetched a small kettle from the back room, setting it over the candle. As steam curled upward, she held the letter above it, her movements precise. Torren watched, impressed despite himself. Lyssa wasn't just a scribe's daughter; she had a knack for secrets, same as him. Maybe that's why he liked her, even if she could cut him to ribbons with a single quip.
The seal softened, and Lyssa pried it open with a thin knife, unfolding the parchment with care. Her eyes scanned the text, her lips pursing. "It's coded," she said, her voice low. "Not a simple cipher, either. Looks like a merchant's code, but with noble flourishes. Whoever wrote this didn't want just anyone reading it."
Torren's stomach tightened. A coded letter meant big players—lords, maybe even the Earl himself. "Can you crack it?"
"Given time," Lyssa said, "but it's not a quick job. There's talk of a 'shipment' and a 'rendezvous at the Iron Bridge.' Sounds like smuggling, or worse."
"Smuggling?" Torren's mind raced. Varnholt sat on a trade route, its river choked with barges carrying grain, iron, and wine. Smuggling was common, but a knight like Sir Aldric dealing in it? That was a scandal worth gold—or a blade in the dark.
"Anything else?" he pressed.
Lyssa frowned, tilting the parchment. "A name. 'Lady Elara.' No title, no house. Just that."
Torren didn't know any Lady Elara, but the name sounded like trouble. Noble women in Varnholt were either pawns or players, and neither was safe to cross. "Seal it back up," he said. "I need to deliver it before someone else comes looking."
Lyssa worked quickly, reheating the wax and pressing the seal back into place. It wasn't perfect, but it'd pass a glance. She handed it back, her fingers brushing his. "You're playing a dangerous game, Torren. Sir Aldric's not some tavern thug. If this letter's what I think, you're wading into deep waters."
Torren tucked the letter away, his grin returning. "Deep waters? Good thing I swim like a fish."
"More like a rat," Lyssa shot back, but there was a flicker of a smile on her lips.
He was halfway to the door when it burst open, the bell clanging wildly. A man stepped inside, tall and lean, his cloak embroidered with the Earl's boar sigil. A longsword hung at his hip, its hilt worn from use. His eyes, cold as winter stone, locked onto Torren. "You," he said, his voice clipped. "Torren Vale, yes?"
Torren's heart skipped. He didn't know this man, but the sword and the sigil screamed trouble. "Depends who's asking," he said, keeping his tone light. "I'm a popular man."
The man didn't smile. "Sir Aldric Varn wants his letter. Now."
Torren's hand twitched toward his dagger, but he kept his grin in place. "Letter? Oh, you mean that bit of parchment I'm delivering? Funny thing, I was just on my way—"
"No games," the man snapped, stepping closer. His hand rested on his sword. "Hand it over, or I drag you to the keep in chains."
Lyssa stepped forward, her voice sharp. "This is a scribe's shop, not a battlefield. Take your threats outside."
The man glanced at her, his eyes narrowing, but Torren seized the moment. "Easy, friend," he said, pulling the letter from his doublet. "No need for steel. Here's your precious letter."
He held it out, his mind racing. This wasn't Sir Aldric himself—probably a retainer, maybe a captain. But why send a man like this for a simple delivery? Something was off. Torren handed over the letter, watching the man's face. No relief, no satisfaction. Just a curt nod as he tucked it into his cloak.
"Wise choice," the man said. "Stay out of trouble, Vale." He turned and left, the door slamming behind him.
Torren let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding. Lyssa glared at him. "You're going to get yourself killed."
"Maybe," Torren said, his grin crooked. "But not today." He needed to move fast. The letter was gone, but he'd heard enough—smuggling, Lady Elara, the Iron Bridge. There was profit to be made, and Torren wasn't one to let opportunity slip. He'd head to the Iron Bridge tonight, see what he could learn. And maybe, just maybe, he'd find this Lady Elara.
As he stepped into the street, he didn't see the gray-cloaked figure from the rooftops watching him, nor the second shadow trailing behind. Varnholt was a city of secrets, and Torren was about to stir them up.