The city of Oakhaven didn’t smell like oak. It smelled of wet soot, rotting cabbage, and the metallic tang of the nearby foundries. Jovan dragged his heavy burlap sack across the cobblestones, his shoulders aching with the familiar, dull thrum of exhaustion. Being a scavenger wasn't glorious, but it kept the guards from asking why a man of his build wasn't currently holding a spear in the barracks.He paused by the mouth of a dark alley near the municipal dump, his boots scraping against the slick refuse. Suddenly, a rhythmic thump-thump echoed against the brick walls. It wasn't the frantic scuttle of a rat or the pacing of a stray dog. It was heavy. Deliberate.Jovan gripped the handle of his rusted utility knife, his knuckles whitening."Who’s there?" Jovan called out, his voice raspy from disuse. "Look, if you’re looking for coin, you’ve picked a real bad spot. I’m just pulling trash tonight."No response, only that persistent thump.He crept forward, peering into the gloom. The ai

The damp, moss-slicked walls of the lower tunnels pressed in on them, smelling of brine and ancient, stagnant rot. Jovan leaned against a rusted support beam, his chest heaving as the adrenaline of their flight finally began to ebb, replaced by a dull, aching soreness in his limbs. Beside him, the creature—the one he had started to think of as a stray—shook its fur, sending a spray of foul water against the brickwork."You’re okay," Jovan whispered, wiping grit from his forehead with the back of his hand. "We made it. The hunters don't like it down this deep. Too many traps, too little light."The creature sat, its amber eyes fixed on Jovan with a piercing, unnerving clarity. It tilted its head, a low, melodic trill vibrating in its throat. Then, it nudged Jovan’s hand with a velvet-soft nose."You’re hungry again, aren't you?" Jovan asked, reaching into his empty satchel. He sighed, pulling out a small, dried bit of crust he’d saved for later. "It’s not much, but it’s the last of it.

The trek back to the surface had been a grueling dance through steam vents and rusted conduits, but Jovan had made it. His skin was caked in a cocktail of grime, iron dust, and the lingering damp of the deep tunnels. When he finally hauled himself through the hatch into his cramped, attic-like room, the silence of his living space felt alien.His heart was still hammering a frantic, uneven rhythm against his ribs. He locked the door, slid the heavy bolt home, and slumped against the wood."Safe," he wheezed, the word tasting like copper. "For now."He didn't waste time catching his breath. His hands, still stained with the dark residue of the under-city, moved with a feverish intensity as he reached into his satchel. He pulled out the bundle the troll leader had given him. He cleared his small, scarred wooden table of its sparse collection of junk—a cracked cup, a rusted bolt, a stack of unpaid dunning notices—and laid the parchment flat.As he unfolded the hide, the golden ink pulsed

The damp morning mist of Oakhaven clung to Jovan’s cloak like a second, heavier skin. He didn't look up as he navigated the crowded thoroughfare of the Low Market. Above him, the soot-stained rafters of the district groaned under the weight of the city’s endless, grinding industry. He kept his head down, his pulse steady, his mind a fortress of practiced indifference.He wasn't Jovan the scavenger today. He was just another face in the gray sea of laborers, his shoulders hunched, his hands deep in his pockets.He reached the threshold of Garrick’s Goods, a cramped stall that smelled perpetually of damp salt and cheap spices. He leaned against the counter, tapping his fingers in a rhythmic, casual pattern."Morning, Garrick," Jovan muttered, his voice raspy and bored. "Market’s slow today, huh?"Garrick, a man whose face looked like a topographical map of bad decisions, didn't look up from his ledger. "It’s the patrols, kid. Ever since the Inquisition started their ‘clean-up’ mandate,

The damp air of the filtration chamber felt heavy, vibrating with the latent power of the ancient city. Elena’s hand hovered over the burlap sack, her knuckles pale against the darkness. Jovan stood perfectly still, forcing his breathing to remain shallow."Go on then," Jovan said, keeping his voice light, almost mocking. "It’s not like it’s going to bite you, El. Unless you’re afraid of dried fish and grain."Elena didn't blink. She peeled back the edge of the burlap with a single, sharp motion. Inside, nestled beneath a layer of stale, slightly damp bread, were several small, vacuum-sealed pouches of common, pungent cat feed—the kind used by the slum-dwellers to keep the vermin population somewhat managed.She stared at the contents for a long, heavy moment. The faint, fishy odor wafted up, blending with the metallic tang of the tunnel."Cat food?" Elena asked, her voice flat, devoid of any inflection.Jovan shrugged, feigning a look of sheepish annoyance. "It’s for the strays. The