Chapter 19 | Part 3

The settlement had grown in the ribcage of something massive.

Drusniel counted the bones as they approached—ribs curving upward like cathedral arches, each one wider than he was tall. Seventeen visible. Probably more buried beneath the ramshackle structures that clung to them like parasites on a corpse.

“What was it?” Elion’s voice was quiet. Five days of recovery had brought color back to his skin, strength back to his limbs. He could walk now. Run, if needed. But his eyes still held shadows.

“Srietz does not know.” The goblin moved ahead, his posture different here—hunched, calculating, watching. “Does not matter. Whatever it was, it died. Now others live in its remains. Wyrmreach is efficient that way.”

The smell hit them before they reached the gates—if you could call them gates. Smoke. Sweat. Desperation. Something rotten underneath it all, barely masked by the sharp tang of volcanic sulfur.

Drusniel counted exits as they entered. Three visible. Two more probable, based on the way certain alleys bent. His mind catalogued threats automatically: the cluster of figures near the left rib, weapons poorly concealed. A merchant stall with too many eyes and not enough goods. And the woman who tracked their movement with professional interest.

“Move fast,” Srietz murmured. “Buy fast. Leave faster.”

“What are we buying?”

“Supplies and information. And enough silence to get out alive.” The goblin’s hand went to a pouch at his belt—gems, Drusniel knew, from the goblin village. Currency that transcended language. “Srietz knows a trader. Reliable, within Wyrmreach’s definition of the word.”

They moved through the settlement’s twisted paths. Species mixed here—drow, goblins, things Drusniel couldn’t name, all of them watching from the corners of their eyes. No one attacked. No one helped. Everyone calculated.

Srietz found his trader in a stall that smelled of preserved meat and something chemical. A creature that might have been human once, its features blurred by age or alteration, looked up as they approached.

“Srietz.” The word held neither warmth nor hostility. Just recognition.

“Merchant.” Srietz produced two gems—small, but they caught the dim light with an internal glow. “Supplies for three. Four days travel. East.”

The merchant’s expression didn’t change, but something shifted in their eyes. “East. Through the contested lands.”

“Through the contested lands.” Srietz’s voice was flat. “Toward Szoravel.”

“Szoravel.” The merchant took the gems, examined them with a lens that appeared from nowhere. “The drow mage. Dangerous territory. Dangerous destination.”

“Srietz did not ask for commentary. Srietz asked for supplies.”

The merchant laughed—a dry, humorless sound. “Supplies I can provide. Safe passage, I cannot.” They began pulling items from hidden compartments: dried rations, sealed herb sachets for cleaning foul water, a thin rope that looked stronger than it should. “Szoravel is reachable. The road to reach them is—” They paused, weighing something. “Watched.”

“By the lords?”

“By everyone.” The merchant’s voice dropped. “The three fight constantly. Their servants watch the roads. Their scouts mark travelers. Anyone moving east with purpose gets—” Another pause. “Noted.”

“Noted,” Drusniel repeated. “Not killed?”

“Killing is inefficient.” The merchant’s eyes found him, held. “The lords prefer to collect. Useful travelers become useful servants. Dangerous travelers become—” A shrug. “Examples.”

Srietz snatched the supplies, handed over another gem. “Information about safer routes?”

“No safer routes. Only faster ones and slower ones. Faster means more visible. Slower means more time for things to find you.” The merchant’s mouth curved, humorless. “Choose your danger. That’s all anyone can do here.”

They left quickly after that. The weight of observation followed them—present and interested. Interested.

“That merchant—” Elion started.

“Already reported us.” Srietz’s voice was matter-of-fact. “Information is currency. Three travelers with unusual cargo, asking about Szoravel? Worth selling. Already sold, probably.”

Drusniel’s hand went to the pack containing the Beacon. Its pulse felt stronger here, more insistent. As if it knew they were being watched. As if it wanted to be seen.

“How long before someone acts on that information?”

“Unknown. Hours. Days.” Srietz adjusted his grip on the supplies. “The contested lands begin half a day’s travel from here. If we move now, we reach them before response can be organized.”

“And if we don’t?”

“Then we become what the merchant described. Collected. Or examples.”

They left the gloomy town as quickly as they’d entered.

Drusniel felt eyes on his back until they cleared the gate. The massive ribcage rose behind them, bone arches dark against the sky, and he wondered briefly what had killed something that size. What could kill something that size.

Then he stopped wondering and walked faster.

The path east stretched ahead, empty and waiting.

End of Chapter 19.3 —> 19.4: Direction: The Night