The scent of ash clung to the wind like a warning. Ryker stood amid the smoldering ruins of the Eastern Trade Hall, the charred remnants of merchant stalls collapsing in embers around him. He stepped over the shattered sign of the Gemcutter's Guild, its gold leaf dulled by soot, and pushed forward toward the temporary command tent that had been erected where the city square once bustled with trade.
Inside, Brent leaned over a map pinned down by daggers. His brow was furrowed, his tunic streaked with ash and blood. He looked up as Ryker entered.
"They struck five guildhouses," Brent said without preamble. "Not just any—alchemists, jewelers, antiquarians. Each one trades in items that are... rare."
Ryker approached, eyes scanning the damage reports. "Not wealth. Artifacts."
Brent nodded. "And the assassinations weren't random. High Guildmaster Tolland was the only person with a key to the vault beneath the Hall of Relics of his guild. That vault's empty now."
Ryker felt a chill despite the lingering heat. The Shadowhand wasn't just targeting the economy—they were collecting. Piecing something together. But what?
Before they could speak further, a guard burst through the flap of the tent. "Captain Ryker—an emissary from the North has arrived. Says he barely escaped a ambush near the border."
They found the emissary slumped against a cot in the infirmary, his cloak torn, chest bandaged. He was gaunt, face grey with exhaustion, but his eyes sharpened at Ryker's presence.