Date: 11 Neth, 4707 AR
Time: Mid-Morning
Place: The Crypt – Common Room Beneath the Ruined Chapel, Old Korvosa

The crypt’s damp air carried the scent of stone and witch-light, its shadows flickering as Brinna Flintnose—Click to the Crew—crouched by the fire pit. She struck flint against steel, coaxing sparks from a tool she swore had once belonged to a Shoanti pyromancer. Kaelus Shade, leaning against the altar-table, knew better than to believe her tall tales, but the grin on her face was worth the lie. Nearby, Caldus, shirtless and weathered, stretched slowly near the old altar, muttering half-forgotten prayers or perhaps cursing a lingering hangover. His movements were deliberate, as if each flex could shake loose some private burden.

The stone steps groaned, heralding Selene’s descent. Her polished walking stick rapped sharply against the frame, a prelude to her entrance. Gone was the silk of noble salons; today she wore a black, waxed riding coat, split for movement, and boots that whispered of purpose. Her eyes swept the room, landing on Kaelus with a raised brow. “You’re all awake. Good.”

She extended a folded square of violet parchment, stamped with a minor noble seal Kaelus didn’t recognize. “Invitation,” she said, her voice crisp. “Job. Possibly profitable. Definitely dangerous.”

Click’s head snapped up, eyes gleaming. “Oh, we *like* that combination.”

Selene handed the letter to Kaelus, her gaze steady. He unfolded it, the parchment crisp under his fingers, and read the elegant script:

*To the one who operates in shadow but does not slink, whose silence buys peace and whose blades are honest: I require discretion, initiative, and finality. I have coin and a problem I cannot bring to the city’s proper instruments. If you are willing to entertain my offer, come to the Wintering House on Mercy Street, two bells past sundown, and ask for Aric of House Jeggare. Come alone. Your crew will be... considered.*

Selene nodded toward the final line. “That’s not a threat. It’s how nobles say, ‘Prove your people are worth my gold.’ House Jeggare has deep coffers and deeper closets. If Aric’s reaching to us, someone in his family’s done something very un-Jeggare-like.”

Click leaned back against the wall, smirking. “Sounds like a fine way to get stabbed in a velvet room. I love it already.”

Kaelus tapped the note against his palm, the rhythm steadying his thoughts. He looked at Selene, her sharp eyes waiting for his move. “Last time I got a letter like this, you said this was your alley—operating in the clouds, not the shadows. You were right, by the way.”

Her lips curled, half-smirk, half something warmer. “I’d call it an improvement if you didn’t go alone. He wants you solo because nobles love control. Bring me, and we’re still playing their game—just not by their rules. I can be your scribe, consort, bodyguard—whatever the mood demands.” She stepped closer, voice low. “And let’s be honest, Kaelus… if a noble gets you alone and it goes wrong, nobody’s sending flowers.”

Click raised a lazy hand. “If you die in a velvet room, I’ll stab someone for you. Probably not the right person, but I’ll feel better.”

Caldus grunted. “I’ll pray. Might help.”

Kaelus ignored them, his focus on Selene. “Don’t want you quiet. Want you to help. We’re going together. If Jeggare doesn’t like it, too damn bad.”

Click barked a laugh. “Oh, please die then. I’ve been itching to stab Vancasterkin for months.”

“Stab Vancasterkin,” Kaelus shot back without looking her way. “Make my death worth it.”

Selene’s smile was rare—not the courtly mask, but genuine pleasure. “Then I’ll dress for war and talk like silk. If Aric doesn’t like it, I’ve ruined nobler men with half a sentence.” She tapped the parchment in his hand. “Wintering House, Mercy Street. Two bells past sundown. It’s no flophouse—private estate, rented rooms for foreign lords and minor nobles. We’ll be watched from the moment we step inside. What’s my angle? Courtly advisor? House liaison? Sister with a sharp tongue?” Her voice softened. “Or equals, two operators looking for opportunity?”

“Equals,” Kaelus said without hesitation. “But I should probably get gussied up. Don’t want to play someone I’m not, but I’m not walking in like a street rat either. Help me find something suitable? I wouldn’t know fine clothes from a hole in the ground.”

Selene’s eyes gleamed, dangerous and delighted. “I thought you’d never ask.” She clapped her hands, sharp and commanding. “Click, you’re in charge of not burning anything down for a few hours.”

Click saluted with a dagger that hadn’t been in her hand moments before. “Aye aye, your high courtlyness. Go turn him into a prince.”

Caldus sighed. “He’s gonna hate this.”

Selene was already in motion, grabbing Kaelus’s coat and arm, marching him up the stairs before he could protest.

 

Date: 11 Neth, 4707 AR
Time: Late Afternoon
Place: South Shore – Selene’s Discreet Tailor

The tailor’s shop was a secret Kaelus hadn’t known existed, hidden behind a flower stall and marked only by a bronze knocker shaped like a laughing fox. The front room smelled of cedar and ink, its air heavy with the weight of ruthlessly guarded reputation. The tailor, an older man with needle-thin fingers, took one look at Kaelus and declared, “Mercenary. But potentially handsome. Let’s fix that.”

Selene took charge, her commands precise—colors, cut, style. She didn’t dress him like a noble, but like someone nobles noticed. When Kaelus stepped out of the changing room, the mirror showed a man he almost didn’t recognize. A high-collared, charcoal-gray longcoat hugged his frame, its matte fabric embroidered with subtle silver threads in geometric patterns. A midnight-blue tunic gleamed faintly beneath, fastened with obsidian buttons. Black trousers tucked into polished boots with silver buckles, silent soles betraying their practical design. A black leather belt, its silver buckle etched with an arcane symbol, completed the look. Selene tossed him a silver ring with a blood-red stone, shaped like a slitted eye. “Wear it on your left hand,” she said. “Says ‘don’t underestimate me.’”

She circled him, adjusting a fold, tightening a sleeve, then stepped back with a nod. “There. Kaelus Shade, the man who makes powerful people nervous.”

Kaelus raised an eyebrow at his reflection. “I don’t hate it. That’s surprising.” He turned to Selene, a smile tugging at his lips. “Someday my job might actually need clothes like this. Might as well get used to it. Good job, my lady.” He bowed, the gesture half-mocking, half-earnest.

Selene returned it with a curtsy, her eyes glinting with mischief. “You wear it better than most born to it. Let’s go make the bloodlines nervous.”

They stepped into the fading light of South Shore, ready to face the Wintering House and whatever House Jeggare had in store.

 

Date: 11 Neth, 4707 AR
Time: Evening – Two Bells Past Sundown
Place: The Wintering House, Mercy Street – South Shore, Korvosa

The Wintering House stood cloaked in twilight, its walled manor exuding a quiet respectability that belied the watchful eyes behind its gates. No sigils adorned the ironwork, and the guards—unmarked, unobtrusive—blended into the shadows with a practiced air of polite surveillance. Inside, the air carried the scent of old varnish and dried flowers, lamplight glinting off polished wood as a steward led Kaelus Shade and Selene through two hushed hallways and up a half-flight of marble stairs. At a set of double doors carved with towers, ships, and windswept cliffs, the steward paused. “Lord Aric is expecting you,” he murmured, then vanished without a backward glance.

Selene caught Kaelus’s eye, her lips curving faintly. “Showtime.”

She pushed the door open, and they stepped into a wood-paneled room, its high ceiling swallowing the soft glow of a single chandelier. Aric Jeggare sat alone behind a wide table, a decanter of dark wine at his elbow. Young, pale-haired, and rigid with a military bearing softened only by a violet sash, he looked up as they entered. “You’re late,” he said, his tone mild but pointed. His gaze flickered to Selene, a slight frown creasing his brow.

Kaelus’s silver eyes held Aric’s without flinching. “I’m not late. You said two bells past sundown. The bells just rang, and you know it.” His voice was steady, cutting through the room’s quiet. “Bringing that up means you want me on the defensive, playing games. If that’s your angle, I’ll walk out and you can find someone else to clean your mess.” He paused, letting the words settle. “Or you can drop the mule dung, deal in good faith, and get to the point. I do. Always. Rule 4.”

He gestured for Selene to sit, waiting until she’d settled gracefully into her chair before taking his own. “Up to you, my lord.”

For a moment, Aric looked as if he’d bitten into something unexpected—then his expression shifted, a grudging respect flickering in his eyes. He set down his glass, the silence heavy as a judge’s gavel. “Fair,” he said at last. “And refreshing. Most men through that door spend ten minutes proving they belong in the room.” He gestured to the wine. “Help yourselves, or don’t. But I don’t play games either. That’s why you’re here.”

Selene’s faint smile was a silent vote of confidence as Aric leaned forward, his voice tightening. “I have a cousin, Tyren. Younger son. Charming, reckless, and recently… missing.” He let the word hang, heavy with implication. “I can’t go to the Guard, the Society, or my house elders. If this becomes a scandal, I lose my position, my influence—and someone else decides Tyren’s not worth the embarrassment.”

Kaelus’s face remained impassive, but his mind raced. He knew the Red Moth—knew it wasn’t just a den of vice but a shadowed labyrinth of indulgence and danger. Tucked behind a failed artist’s loft in East Dock, it was an invitation-only haven where Korvosa’s elite chased “aesthetic liberation” through masks, magic, and whispered rituals. Rumors spoke of darker trades—drugs, enchantments, even memory auctions. Three nights ago, the Moth had hosted its equinox masquerade. Nobody stumbled into that by mistake.

Aric continued, his gaze steady. “He was last seen three nights ago at a private party at the Red Moth. You know it?”

Selene’s brow lifted slightly, catching Kaelus’s glance. She hadn’t heard the name, but she read his stillness, the way his fingers tightened imperceptibly on the chair’s arm. He gave a small nod, enough for her to know he’d fill her in later. “Define ‘no noise,’” Kaelus said, his voice calm but probing. “Not mincing words—looking for boundaries. Is it just noise pointing back to you and your house, or no noise at all? Those are different things.”

Aric sat back, his eyes narrowing as if reassessing the man before him. “Good question,” he admitted. “No noise that traces to me, my house, or the fact I hired anyone. Break things, make someone vanish, let a rumor pin it on someone else—I won’t blink. But the name Jeggare stays clean. Completely.” He paused, his honesty stark. “If it’s too late for that—if someone’s using Tyren as leverage or bait—I want to know first, before the city’s tongues wag.”

Selene’s faint smile carried a hint of approval. “Permission to get creative. How thoughtful.”

Kaelus allowed a small smile of his own. “I’m not a thug. But I’m not noble either.” He nodded to Selene. “This is my partner, Selene. She’ll handle all communication from now on. She moves in your circles, won’t draw attention or questions. That’s why I brought her, despite your instructions. Some instructions are better ignored.” He stood, extending a hand. “I’ll retrieve your cousin, my lord. Can’t vouch for his condition, I hope you understand. Lady Selene will have questions about Tyren. She’ll be in touch.”

Aric rose slowly, his movements measured, and clasped Kaelus’s hand with a firm grip. “Understood. And accepted.” His gaze flicked to Selene, who inclined her head with practiced grace. “You’ll find Tyren’s associates insufferable. Be discreet enough to remind them their masks won’t protect them.” He turned back to the decanter as they moved to leave. “May Abadar watch your coin, and may the Moth be too drunk to notice when you take what’s yours.”

Selene’s elegant smile lingered as they stepped into the hall. “We’ll be in touch, Lord Jeggare.”

 

Date: 11 Neth, 4707 AR
Time: Late Evening
Place: The Crypt Beneath the Ruined Chapel of Aroden, Old Korvosa

The stone slab groaned as it sealed the crypt’s secret stairwell, plunging Kaelus and Selene into momentary darkness. The faint glow of witch-light sconces flickered to life, casting silver glyphs along the archways into sharp relief. The crypt was cool and quiet, its silence broken only by the clink of gear and the rustle of coats shaken free of the night’s chill. Kaelus’s mind churned with the weight of Aric Jeggare’s request, the noble’s measured sharpness, and the shadowed threat of the Red Moth.

Selene pulled back her hood, her cheeks flushed from the cold, her eyes already scanning the room. Brinna Flintnose—Click—sat up from a stone bench near the brazier, goggles perched on her forehead, a metal pick twirling between her fingers. Rhyssa turned from her alcove, her witch-light flaring red before settling. Caldus, flask in hand, leaned forward, his prayer-tattooed forearm flexing as he stood. “You’re back,” he said, voice gruff. “Still in one piece. That a good thing?”

Selene’s lips quirked. “Depends on how much you like nobles who offer favors with poisoned edges.”

All eyes turned to Kaelus. He settled at the altar-table, the crew’s expectant silence pressing against him. “Selene’s the face for this one with Jeggare,” he said, his voice steady. “She’ll lay it out.” He turned to her, a grin tugging at his lips. “Floor’s yours, my lady.”

Selene laughed, sharp and brief, as she shed her cloak and stepped into the firelight. Her silver-blue sleeves caught the glow, a noble’s color from a life she’d left behind. “I prefer the shadows behind the throne,” she said wryly, then straightened, commanding the room. “Lord Aric Jeggare—young, ambitious, tied to his lineage. Wants something done his house can’t be seen touching. His cousin, Tyren, is missing. Last seen three nights ago at the Red Moth.”

The name landed like a spark in dry grass. Rhyssa’s witch-light flared. Caldus muttered, “Hell’s bells,” and took a swig. Click’s eyebrow shot up. Selene pressed on, her tone dry. “Not a brothel. Not exactly. A place for masks, for erasing who you are—magic, alchemy, names traded like coin. Buried in rumor, but real. And dangerous.” She glanced at Kaelus, her voice sharpening. “Aric wants discretion. Five hundred gold for Tyren’s return. More if we uncover why he vanished and who gains from it.” She stepped back, nodding once. “That’s the shape of it.”

Click broke the silence, grinning. “So, we’re diving into a place that messes with identity and nobility. Fantastic. Do we get to wear masks?”

Rhyssa’s voice drifted from the shadows. “Only if you want your face forgotten by morning.”

Caldus’s eyes narrowed on Kaelus. “You trust this Jeggare?”

“No,” Kaelus admitted, his fingers tapping lightly on the table. “Don’t trust most clients. That’s the business. But I trust he’ll pay and honor his favor.” He leaned forward. “Selene laid it out. Constraints: nothing points to House Jeggare or Aric. Non-negotiable. We can make noise, just not noise tied to them. Reasonable enough.” His tapping paused, his gaze sweeping the crew. “Problems: we don’t know where Tyren is, only where he was. We’re on a timer—the longer he’s gone, the more likely he’s missed or dead. No payday then. And we can’t plan an extraction without a location. This one’s looser than I like.”

He turned to Selene. “We need Tyren’s friends, who he went to the Red Moth with. You move in those circles—that’s our best lead. Find it fast.” To Rhyssa: “Track him with scrying, any magic you’ve got.” To Caldus: “Same, but divine. See what the gods whisper.” To Click: “Handheld things that go boom. No killing, but hurt and stun are fine.”

Click whistled, leaning back. “You had me at ‘boom.’ Flash-crackers for alley brawls—blinds ‘em for thirty seconds. I’ll rig more. Maybe sting pellets to leave ‘em wheezing.”

Caldus snorted. “That’s one way to clear a dance floor.” He grew serious. “I’ll see what the flames say. Sarenrae may not hear me, but I’ll burn incense, use the old words. Might cost me, but I’ll pay.”

Rhyssa’s fingers hovered over a twist of bone. “I’ll try the seeing mirror at midnight. If the Red Moth echoes his passing, I’ll trace footsteps, faces. A name’s a thread, but blood’s a cord. We have only thread.” Her shadowed eyes met Kaelus’s. “Unless Aric gave you more.”

Selene was already at the writing desk, retying her hair. “Aric was guarded, but arrogant. Tyren ran with a fast crowd—nobles, not-quite-nobles, names that don’t like daylight. I’ll check the Red Asp, Siren’s Solace, Vencarlo’s old fencing salon. He drank with someone, danced with someone.” She smiled faintly. “Two days, I’ll know who drew him in—or wanted him gone.”

Kaelus’s voice cut through. “Make it quicker if you can, Selene. Time’s not on our side. And see if Aric can ‘misplace’ a hair, a brush, jewelry—something for Rhyssa to strengthen the thread.”

Selene nodded, her face all business. “I’ll press the right people, smile at the wrong ones. And I’ll get Aric to lose something sentimental.” Click was on her feet, rolling her shoulders. “Flash-crackers by tomorrow night. Silent pouch, spring trigger. Maybe something spicy if the Moth’s freaky.” Caldus pocketed his flask, muttering, “Time to see if the light still speaks to me.” Rhyssa lit blue candles, her voice soft. “I’ll begin the circle. If Selene brings something close, I’ll look deeper.”

One by one, they moved—Selene slipping through a side passage, Click to her workbench, Caldus to the stairs, Rhyssa to her candles. The crypt emptied, but its air thrummed with purpose, the crew’s gears turning toward the Red Moth and the shadows it hid. Kaelus sat alone at the table, the weight of the job settling like a blade across his shoulders.

 

Date: 12 Neth, 4707 AR
Time: Morning
Place: The Hidden Crypt – Kaelus’s War Room, Old Korvosa

Kaelus sat hunched over a scattering of notes, the lantern’s glow casting jagged shadows across the crypt’s stone walls. The air was heavy with the scent of wax and old earth, the silence broken only by the faint scratch of his quill. A soft knock echoed from above—two short, one long. Not the crew. Not a client. Someone outside his carefully guarded circle had found him.

He rose, hand on the hilt of his dagger, and opened the hatch. A hooded figure descended, cloaked in dusty traveler’s garb, the faint aroma of incense and parchment trailing in their wake. Thin, sharp eyes gleamed beneath the hood as Eria Vale, archivist of the Jeggare Library’s sealed collection, stepped into the crypt. Her reputation as a keeper of noble secrets preceded her, and her presence here was no small thing.

“I heard,” she said without preamble, her voice crisp as she set foot on the stone floor. “You’re chasing masks. Red ones.” She tossed a small bundle onto the table, tied with faded ribbon and stained with something dark. It hummed with faint, unsettling magic, the air around it shifting like a held breath. “I came because I know what the Red Moth really is. And you’re walking into something old, Kaelus. Older than masks or missing heirs.” Her gaze locked onto his, unflinching. “Do you want the real story?”

“Morlen,” Kaelus called, loud enough for the raven to hear wherever it lurked. “Fetch Rhyssa, please.” He pulled out a chair for Eria, his movements deliberate. “I don’t get many archivists as visitors, Mistress Vale. Forgive me if this sounds distrustful, but why bring me this? I want the information—just waiting for the team’s resident spooky person to join us.”

Eria settled into the chair with wary grace, her gloved hand resting lightly on the bundle. “Distrust is sensible,” she said, her tone devoid of offense. “Especially in your trade.” Her eyes flicked across the crypt—the faded runes, the cold altar, the lingering weight of its sacred past. “I’m not here as an archivist. The Jeggare Library holds sealed records—noble debts, not all financial. Some are older.” She tapped the bundle. “This is part of one.”

Footsteps whispered down the side stairs, measured and bare. Rhyssa appeared, her robe loosely tied, hair unbraided, a faint shimmer of incense clinging to her. Her gaze swept from Eria to Kaelus to the bundle, her silence heavy with assessment. Above, Morlen’s shadow settled on a ledge, eyes glinting.

“Good,” Eria said. “She should hear this too.” She unwrapped the bundle, revealing a lacquered wooden mask, red as dried blood, carved to mimic a butterfly’s face. Its cracked edges and empty eyes radiated unease. “This is a Moth Mask. Not from the Red Moth—that’s just a name. These belonged to a splinter cult in Old Korvosa, before House Arkona crushed them, before Aroden’s temple fell. They believed power came from shedding your self—name, face, ties.”

She slid the mask toward Kaelus. “The Red Moth isn’t a brothel. It’s a breeding ground for these.”

Rhyssa’s voice cut through, soft but sharp. “And if someone wears it?”

Eria met her gaze. “They’re not just themselves anymore. Some spirits the cult called on? They never stopped listening.”

Kaelus leaned forward, his voice steady. “Are we talking possession here? Spirits aren’t my wheelhouse.” He turned to Rhyssa, seeking clarity.

Rhyssa circled the mask, her movements slow, deliberate, never touching it. “Not possession. Not exactly.” Her eyes met his, calm but shadowed. “This is about invitation. The mask blurs boundaries—your name, your past, your self. It makes letting go easy. And once you do…” She gestured to the mask. “Something else steps into the space. Not a rider. A reflection, cast differently.”

Eria nodded. “I’ve read accounts—nobles who wore these for weeks. They spoke differently, wanted different things. Some renounced their names.” Rhyssa’s tone darkened. “And if they put it back on, they disappeared entirely.”

Eria’s expression hardened. “If Tyren Jeggare wore one, you may not be bringing him back. The mask helps them choose to forget. You need to act before that choice is permanent.” She hesitated, then added, “There’s more. A name in the records: The Sable Key. It keeps appearing with these masks. I don’t know what it means, but someone’s reawakening that old magic. Tyren might be a test case.”

Kaelus leaned back, his mind turning over the implications. “This is useful. Very. But it doesn’t change much. We’re moving as fast as we can to find Tyren. Our job is to retrieve him and return him to Jeggare. If he’s chosen to change his nature, we can’t fix that. We’ll explain it to Aric, but dealing with it’s beyond us. That’s just facts.”

Eria’s eyes narrowed, evaluating his resolve. “Good. You’re not chasing ghosts or playing exorcist. That’s what gets people killed.” She rewrapped the mask, her movements precise. “I’ll keep digging into the Sable Key. If something bigger’s moving, you’ll want to know before you’re in too deep.” She stood, smoothing her coat. “Move quickly. If Tyren’s worn the mask, the line between who he was and what he’s becoming is paper-thin.”

Rhyssa’s voice was cool, resolute. “I’ll begin tracing tonight. If I find the thread, I may see where he is—or what mask he’s wearing.”

Eria turned to Kaelus, solemn. “You’re doing more than a job, whether you meant to or not. But you’ll do it like it’s just a job, and that’s why you’ll survive.” She left without fanfare, her boots whispering against stone as the crypt swallowed her shadow.

Rhyssa lingered, her gaze heavy. “I’ll need hours to prepare. And if she’s right… you might want to think about what happens if the man you bring back isn’t Tyren Jeggare.” She drifted to her ritual alcove, leaving Kaelus alone with the narrowing path ahead.

 

Date: 12 Neth, 4707 AR
Time: Evening
Place: The Hidden Crypt – Central Chamber, Old Korvosa

The crypt’s air thrummed with purpose as Selene tossed a red-and-black silk cloth onto the altar-table, its merchant-prince sigil glinting in the witch-light. The faint scent of spiced wine and perfume clung to it. “That,” she said, “is from a handkerchief Tyren gifted a chambermaid at a noble ball. Aric parted with it grudgingly, but he knows we need a stronger link for Rhyssa’s scrying.” She pulled a slim folio from her cloak, opening it to sketches of faces. “These are Tyren’s associates. Three were seen at the Red Moth within a week of his disappearance: Varlo Montaire, Lucette Arkona, Bren Tanneth.”

Click looked up from her tangle of detonators and vials, smirking. “Let me guess—nobles with enough coin to bury a problem.”

“Exactly,” Selene replied. “Lucette’s the key. A gambler, a rebel—half her nights in masked salons, the other half throwing knives at loudmouths. If we follow her, we might get an invitation to the Moth.”

Rhyssa stepped forward, laying the handkerchief across a dish of dark water. She whispered words in an unfamiliar tongue, and the water trembled, then stilled. Her voice was flat, certain. “He’s alive. Confused. Deep underground. Surrounded by mirrors.” She met Kaelus’s eyes, grim. “His sense of self is breaking. We don’t have long.”

Click clapped her hands. “So, boss? Stake out Lucette and ride her coattails? Smash through the bookshop front? I know a back channel through the sewers under Trail’s End if you don’t mind the smell.”

Kaelus’s gaze flicked to Click. “You got the boom sticks done?”

Her grin was wildfire. She slid a padded satchel across the table, popping it open. “Six. Three flashbursts—bright as lightning, loud as thunder. Blinds and deafens for half a minute. Two sting bladders—tear gas and nettle dust, a garden party from hell. And one stunner—short-range shock wave. Knocks ‘em down or makes ‘em puke.” She looked up, eyes gleaming. “Won’t kill. Won’t maim. Gives you time to move. Want a carry rig?”

“A carrier’d be best,” Kaelus said, “but do it after you check the sewer tunnels.” He turned to Selene. “Tail Lucette. I need to intercept her somewhere private—either where she goes or where we trick her.” To Rhyssa: “Can Morlen shadow Selene?” To both women: “I’m probably going to do things that are questionable, distasteful. Time’s too tight for subtlety. Problems with that?” He paused, scanning the room. “And where’s Caldus?”

Click saluted, snapping the satchel shut. “I’ll scout the Trail’s End tunnels, see if they line up with Erasme’s Folios. I’ll mark the path, maybe set a polite fallback charge for a loud exit.” She vanished down a hallway, her steps eager.

Selene stepped close, her voice low and firm. “I trust you. Doesn’t mean I won’t call you out if you cross a line you shouldn’t.” Her smile was sharp but warm. “Do what needs doing. I’ll get her where you want her.” She pulled her cloak tight and headed for the stairs.

Rhyssa’s unease flickered, brief as a candle’s waver. “Morlen will shadow her. He’ll keep to the rooftops unless it rains. Whistle twice when you’re ready—he’ll lead you.” Her eyes held Kaelus’s. “Don’t let her wear the mask. You can’t force someone back once they choose to vanish.” She turned to the summoning perch, whispering to Morlen. The raven’s wings beat once, then carried him into the night.

The altar door creaked, and Caldus emerged, rubbing his eyes, a half-burned scroll in hand. “Been trying to reach the Lady,” he muttered. “Burned incense, blood, damn near my beard. Got a whisper: ‘The mirror lies.’” He blinked at the emptying crypt. “What’d I miss?”

“I may be about to injure someone,” Kaelus said, his voice steady. “Get ready and come with us. I don’t want them permanently hurt, and your healing’s just the thing.”

Caldus chuckled dryly, concern shadowing his eyes. “Explains the tingling in my shoulder.” He tucked the scroll into his belt, grabbing his satchel—flask, healing kit, and the sun-faded book from his Sarenrae days. “Got a name, or am I playing divine triage?”

Kaelus waved it off. “Doesn’t matter. You’re with us.”

Caldus gathered his gear, the worn book a quiet anchor. Outside, Morlen’s wingbeats faded into the night, scouting the rooftops above The Heights. Selene was moving into position. Kaelus glanced at the fine clothes Selene had chosen for him—charcoal coat, midnight tunic, silver-ringed hand. Time to become the man Lucette Arkona would notice, whether for his charm or his threat. The path to the Red Moth was narrowing, and the shadows it cast were growing longer.

 

Date: 12 Neth, 4707 AR
Time: Near Midnight  
Place: The Heights – South Edge of the Promenade, Korvosa

Rain-slick cobbles gleamed under the lanterns, the evening’s drizzle lingering on slate roofs and wrought-iron balconies. The faint strains of music—laughter, clinking crystal, and strings—drifted from the Marble Dagger’s open-air patio two blocks away, a noble’s haven wrapped in smug refinement. Kaelus Shade stood in the shadowed mouth of a narrow alley, framed by a shuttered apothecary and an ivy-draped wall. His tailored charcoal coat, chosen by Selene, blended into the darkness, its subtle silver embroidery catching the barest glint of light. The blade at his side was hidden but ever-present, a silent extension of his intent.

Caldus loitered nearby, cloaked in the guise of a bored attendant, his flask just visible beneath his low-draped hood. He could pass for noble help or hired muscle—both useful tonight. His presence was a quiet anchor, ready to mend what Kaelus might break.

Above, Morlen circled, a silent dart of shadow against the clouded sky. The raven dove to a third-story ledge on a crumbling townhouse, cawing once—low, three beats. The signal.

Kaelus moved, his boots whispering on wet stone as he emerged from the alley. The coat’s clean lines and midnight-blue tunic lent him an air of understated danger, a man who could walk among nobles or cut through their shadows. He approached Lucette Arkona, who stood alone beneath a gaslamp at the curve of a garden wall, its path choked with dead vines and wild bramble roses. Her porcelain butterfly mask, crimson-winged, rested atop her head, revealing dark eyes and a faint smirk as she scanned the path behind her. One hand rested lightly on the dagger at her belt—habit, not alarm. A noble predator, at ease in her element.

She hadn’t seen him.

Kaelus closed the distance with the silent grace of second nature, seizing her long locks and jerking her head back. In the same motion, he pressed his dagger’s blade between her shoulder blades, the steel biting just enough to pierce her awareness. “Lady Arkona,” he murmured into her ear, his voice low and deliberate, ensuring she knew this was no mistake. “You and I are going into that alley for a chat. Cry out or resist, and this is your last night of fun. Play along, answer my questions, and you’ll go home safe. Nod once if you understand.”

Lucette stiffened, a sharp inhale catching in her throat. Her body went taut, but she didn’t scream or flinch. After a moment, she nodded—sharp, controlled. “You have no idea what you’re doing,” she hissed through clenched teeth, but she moved, stepping carefully into the alley’s shadows. The lamplight faded behind ivy and crumbling brick, leaving only the dim glow from a cracked second-story window. Caldus remained at the alley’s mouth, his drunken posture a perfect ruse, watching their backs.

In the alley, Lucette stood with her back to the damp wall, Kaelus’s blade still close. Her eyes glittered like a cornered wildcat’s, dangerous even now. “You’ve got thirty seconds before someone misses me,” she spat. “Make them count.”

Kaelus’s conscience screamed, but his face was stone. He balled his fist and drove it into her stomach with brutal force. Lucette doubled over with a choked grunt, gasping as he yanked her upright by her hair. “Lady Arkona, I *know* what I’m doing,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of mercy. “I don’t have time for defiance or convincing you I’m serious. Answer quickly and truthfully, or you’ll be found here come morning, corpsified, with evidence pointing to some violent gang. Everyone will believe it. Everyone knows you push boundaries.”

She coughed, spitting onto the moss-slick stones, her body trembling with pain and fury. For a moment, she said nothing, her eyes rimmed with tears she refused to shed. Then, breathless, she rasped, “You’re dead. You don’t know it yet… but you are.” Another beat, and she straightened, her voice raw but steady. “I’ll talk. Because I like breathing.” Her hands spread slightly, palms open. “What do you want, street ghost? Who paid you to crawl out of the dark?”

“Everyone dies, my lady,” Kaelus said, his tone calm, twisting her hair tighter. “There are games here you know nothing about. You don’t want to know who sent me—that’s dangerous knowledge. Not the petty danger you court. The kind that disappears even a lady like you. You’ve grazed against plans you shouldn’t have, but you can still walk away. Give me a name, and I’ll be the least of your worries. Keep being stupid, wasting my time, and I’ll mark this a mistake and leave you here permanently. Choose quickly.”

Lucette’s lips curled, defiance warring with pain, but something shifted in her eyes—recognition of a larger, darker game. She stopped resisting, her voice quieter, stripped of theatrics. “I didn’t name him,” she said. “But I brought him in.” She turned her head slightly, meeting his gaze. “Tyren Jeggare. He begged to be lost, to feel something. The Red Moth gave him what he wanted. I gave him the key.” Her throat worked as she swallowed. “I wasn’t alone—Bren, Varlo—but I introduced him to the Attendant, the masked one who speaks for the house. Once the mask was on… he didn’t want to take it off.”

Kaelus’s eyes narrowed. “You know more. Don’t lie.” He released her hair, stepping back, watching for defiance. Her hand might go for the dagger—she loved that blade. His hands were quick, ready. “Tell me now, and we part ways with no harm done.”

Lucette staggered, bracing against the wall, wincing as she touched her scalp. She didn’t reach for the dagger. Her eyes met his, sharp and proud, but calculating now. “The Attendant runs the Moth,” she said quietly. “But they don’t own it. They serve someone called The Mirror That Lies. No name, no gender—just the title.” She paused. “Tyren met the Attendant on his second visit. He was slipping by then. I warned him to stop.” Her fingers twitched near her belt but didn’t move. “They let people vanish, your masters. The Moth changes them. A dozen noble sons and daughters have come out with new names, new eyes, new loyalties. And a few… never come out at all.” She stepped back, testing his reaction, her weight shifting to her back foot. “You get him back… but you don’t bring him back. Understand?”

Kaelus surged forward, seizing her throat and slamming her against the wall, tilting her head up and off balance. His body pressed her firmly into the stone, his voice a whisper in her ear. “Tell anyone about tonight, my lady, and I’ll know. Our next meeting won’t be polite. You’re not a lady to me—you’re a spoiled brat who delivers her peers to faceless evil for amusement or profit. You’re less than the lowest gutter trash. At least they’re loyal. If I come for you again, your parents will get you back piece by piece, every day, for a year. Think I’m bluffing?”

Her hand shot for the dagger, but Kaelus caught her wrist, pinning it. Her eyes widened in panic, then narrowed as she stilled, survival overriding pride. Her pulse raced under his grip. When he eased back, she gasped, inhaling like a drowning woman. “I believe you,” she rasped, shame flickering in her voice. Quieter, she added, “I didn’t know what the Moth was when I brought him. But I do now.” Her eyes met his, steady. “You won’t see me again. But if you want him, follow the Attendant. They only show themselves to those who’ve worn a mask once. That’s the door.”

Kaelus held her gaze, waiting until the last spark of resistance faded from her shoulders. He released her. Lucette slumped, hand at her neck, her breath uneven. She didn’t run or speak. Turning, she walked into the dark, her crimson-winged mask swinging loosely in her hand, a broken relic of her miscalculations.

Caldus stepped from the shadows, his expression unreadable. “You done?”

Kaelus took a deep breath, exhaling the weight of what he’d done. “Yes.” He turned and walked away, his steps quick but calm, the wet stones fading behind him. Caldus fell in beside him, silent, as the alley’s shadows swallowed the moment. Lucette’s arrogance was broken, and with it, a piece of Kaelus’s own moral compass, though he’d never admit it aloud. The night pressed close, damp and cool, but his path was clearer now. He had names—the Attendant, The Mirror That Lies—and a door to the Red Moth. Above, Morlen circled, angling toward the crypt, his work done.

Selene and Rhyssa would be waiting. The Red Moth wasn’t just a den of masks—it was a threshold, and Kaelus knew how to cross it.

 

Date: 13 Neth, 4707 AR
Time: Early Morning – Just Before Sunrise
Place: The Hidden Crypt Beneath the Derelict Chapel of Aroden, Old Korvosa

Kaelus pushed through the crypt’s hidden passage, the stone grinding softly as the first pale threads of dawn filtered through the slotted vents above. The air was cool, laced with burnt incense and the metallic tang of warmed steel. His boots echoed faintly on the stone floor, the weight of the night’s actions clinging to him like damp cloth. The blood on his cuff—Lucette Arkona’s, not his—drew Brinna Flintnose’s eye as she sat cross-legged on the altar, cradling two small bombs in a leather sling. She raised a brow and whistled low. “Blood on your cuff, boss. Not yours, I’m guessing?”

Selene stood near the scrying basin, arms crossed, her noble attire traded for neutral grays. Her eyes, sharp with fatigue, held no judgment, only vigilance. “She made it back to the Marble Dagger,” she said quietly. “Shaken, but alive. I watched from the rooftop.”

Rhyssa sat in her meditation circle, barefoot, her gaze lifting as Kaelus entered. She nodded once, a silent acknowledgment that carried neither approval nor censure. Caldus, dropping his gear near the southern alcove, muttered about needing a drink free of divine aftertaste, his weathered face unreadable.

Kaelus said nothing at first. He unfastened the bloodied cuff of his fine jacket, tossing it over a chair, and moved to the table with deliberate calm. Selene broke the silence. “Did you get what we needed?”

“Yes,” Kaelus said, his voice flat. He sat on the table’s edge, meeting their eyes. “Getting it… hurt. If you’ve got something to say, now’s the time. No judgments if you do—I’d be surprised if you didn’t. Let’s say what needs saying and move on. We don’t let this fester.” He waited, his posture open but unyielding.

Click tapped a bomb casing, her voice blunt. “You roughed her up. Didn’t kill her. Got the answers. She’ll think twice before diving into the deep end again.” She shrugged. “I’ve done worse for less.”

Selene leaned forward, hands braced on the table, her gaze steady. “I don’t like it. She’s an Arkona, but she’s a girl playing noble games, not running cults.” Her eyes held his, unflinching. “But I saw the mask in Rhyssa’s scrying. I saw Lucette after your talk. She’s scared, not broken. That’s useful. She’ll keep quiet.” She straightened. “I don’t like it, but I won’t let it fester.”

Rhyssa’s voice was soft, almost lost in the crypt’s stillness. “There’s a cost to everything. You paid one price. She paid another. The city will bleed more before this is done.” Her clear eyes met his. “I’ll follow you.”

Caldus raised his mug without turning. “Didn’t see it. Don’t need to. If it gets us in and the boy out…” He knocked back the drink. “Don’t make it a habit.”

Kaelus nodded, noting Caldus’s reserve for later. “For my part… I’m sorry. I wish there’d been time for subtlety. I hope I never do that again.” He bowed his head, shame flickering in his voice. “If it becomes a habit, do something about it. I want you to.”

Selene’s gaze softened, a rare warmth breaking through her guard. She nodded, stepping back. Click raised a sting pellet, grinning. “If you start enjoying it, I’ll bean you with one of these and ask questions later. Promise.”

Rhyssa’s voice was distant. “Your shame means you’re not lost. Most men don’t look back when they cross a line.”

Caldus poured another drink, slower. “Good. Stay human, and we’ll follow you.”

The moment hung, solemn but steady, the crypt’s air thick with unspoken trust. Kaelus took a deep breath and stood, beckoning them to the table. He laid out Lucette’s information—concise, complete, sparing the details of its extraction. The Attendant ran the Red Moth, serving The Mirror That Lies, a faceless figure. Tyren had worn a mask and didn’t want it off. The Moth changed people, remade them, and some never returned. The Attendant was the key, visible only to those who’d worn a mask.

He turned to Click. “Have fun running around in the sewers?”

Click’s grin was all teeth. “Oh, absolutely. Ever meet a tunnel rat offering smoked eel and a Norgerber prayer?” She shuddered theatrically. “Memory I won’t shake.” She slapped a charcoal-marked parchment onto the table, smoothing it out. The sketch detailed tunnels beneath Trail’s End and the Heights—service tunnels, storm drains, and a path to Erasme’s Folios. “Rusted maintenance door under the shop’s foundation. Locked, not warded. Dry channel to walk, if you can stand the stink. Marked it red.” She tapped a skull sigil. “Left a false fuse charge here to rattle bones if anyone gets nosy. Quiet access to the Moth—bypasses their charms and mask games.”

“Thoughts?” Kaelus asked, opening the floor.

Selene traced the red path. “Sewers keep us outside their game. Power in that. But we’re blind inside—no cover identities. If it’s a fight, we’re behind the curtain with no exits. Safer entry, not safer mission.”

Caldus grunted. “I like underground. Fewer politics. But she’s right—it’s their house, their rules. If this Attendant’s as spooky as we’ve heard, surprise won’t last long.” He tilted his flask. “I’ll go where you point. Don’t expect the Lady of Light to bless a sewer crawl.”

Rhyssa’s voice was calm, her eyes on the map. “The Moth feeds on identity—masks, choices, ego. The front door risks us becoming part of the ritual. The dark keeps us ourselves. That may be our only advantage.”

Kaelus leaned back. “You know what I think? This Attendant and their idiot masks irritate me. They lure in the young, the vulnerable, and remake them. They’re evil, insane, and I don’t like them.” His grimace deepened. “And I beat a girl who wasn’t evil—just bored and stupid. I don’t feel like being quiet. I want to blow the bloody hell out of their ritual, grab the kid, and toss the Attendant into the harbor. We just need to point the blame away from Jeggare.”

Click clapped, eyes sparkling. “I love it when you’re in a mood.” She tapped the skull sigil. “We sneak in, scout, confirm Tyren—then shatter mirrors. I’ve got charges to break stone without collapsing tunnels. Want a scene? We plant signs of a rival cult—blasphemous, messy, loud.”

Selene’s brow furrowed, but she nodded. “That’s a pivot, but I’m not against it. A spectacle hurts the Moth’s reputation. Guests panic, they lose control, and no one ties it to Jeggare—too chaotic for a noble house.” She paced. “We need one planted story—a terrified witness muttering about cultists, shadow gods, blood rituals. Credible enough to spread.”

Caldus raised a hand. “Want a ranting lunatic? I’ve got robes and a sermon voice. I’ll give them a prophecy they’ll never forget.”

Rhyssa nodded. “If it falls apart, we disappear. No names. Just noise and ruin.”

Click gathered her tools. “Give the word, boss. I’ll have enough bang for a new sewer entrance—or a small crater.”

Kaelus’s eyes swept the crew. “Caldus, you’re on insane cultist duty. Throw magic, make the panic chaos.” To Selene: “I need eyes on the streets for authorities. Stay out of the sewers—Morlen with you to message Rhyssa.” He glanced at Rhyssa. “Can he do that?” He pulled a piece of bread from his pocket, offering it to the raven. “Click, Rhyssa, you’re with me inside. Click handles explosives and locks. Rhyssa counters the Attendant’s mojo. I’m on bladework, keeping you safe. Goal: get in, get Tyren, get out. Lots of muss, lots of fuss. No detours.”

Morlen landed, croaking as he snatched the bread. Rhyssa nodded. “He understands intent, not words. I’ll mark messages he’ll recognize. He’ll find me or Selene.”

Selene smirked. “Good. I’ll watch the Heights’ guard circuits. If Hellknights or Korvosan Guard move, Morlen will signal.” She touched her stiletto. “If a masked creep slips out, they won’t get far.”

Caldus shook holy water into his flask. “Insane cultist duty. I’ll preach mirrors, lost souls, fire to come. Smoke, light, and wet breeches all around, then I’m gone.”

Click spun a metal ring. “I’ll set a fail-safe charge at the entry and a flashblast near the exit—fireball decoy to draw eyes.” She pointed at Kaelus. “Don’t stand too close when I light the candles.”

Rhyssa gathered her satchel, whispering over polished stones. “The Attendant won’t be unaware. But I’ll be watching.”

The crew was locked in, each piece moving. The Red Moth waited below, and Tyren Jeggare’s time was slipping away. Kaelus stood, the crypt’s shadows heavy with purpose, ready to deliver a message that would echo through Korvosa’s underbelly.

 

Date: 13 Neth, 4707 AR
Time: Nightfall
Place: The Sewer Passage Beneath Trail’s End, Approaching Erasme’s Folios, Korvosa

The sewer passage reeked of old water, rusted iron, and mildew, a century’s neglect etched into its slick brickwork. The narrow, arched tunnel echoed with each cautious step, boots squelching on damp flagstones. Kaelus Shade led the way, his shortsword drawn but held low, silver eyes scanning the shadows. Behind him, Brinna Flintnose—Click—moved with surprising stealth, her satchel of explosives slung tight, one hand resting on her crowbar. Rhyssa followed, her bare feet silent, her presence a shadow woven into the corridor’s gloom. No light glowed from her hands, but a faint shimmer of spell-thread pulsed beneath her skin, ready to unravel whatever magic lay ahead.

They passed faded maintenance sigils, their wards long dead. Click nodded toward them, whispering, “No alarms. Dead magic. We’re clear.” At the tunnel’s end, a corroded metal hatch loomed, just as she’d promised. She knelt, tools flashing in the dim light. “Fifteen seconds,” she murmured, fingers dancing over the lock.

Kaelus stood guard, every instinct taut. Above them, the Red Moth waited—mirrors, masks, and rituals that twisted identity into something else. Somewhere in that nest, Tyren Jeggare was unraveling, his self slipping away. Click’s soft *click-thunk* broke the silence. “We’re in.” She eased the hatch open, revealing a narrow stone stair ascending to a candlelit room—polished marble, velvet curtains, and a long mirror that reflected nothing. Incense curled through the air, sweet and wrong, carrying a distant murmur.

Rhyssa leaned close, her whisper barely audible. “He’s close. Second chamber. East.”

Kaelus crept up the stairs, blade ready, and peered through the curtain-slit to the eastern chamber. The circular room was a grotesque parody of a noble salon, silken hangings casting flickering colors across four black-glass mirrors that seemed to breathe. On a raised dais stood The Attendant, draped in crimson robes that shimmered like liquid, their face hidden behind a porcelain mask—white as bone, marked by black tears. They stood motionless, hands clasped. Before them, Tyren Jeggare sat in a high-backed chair, his golden hair dulled, eyes half-lidded. A crimson moth-mask dangled from his twitching fingers, his lips moving in a silent murmur. A glowing eye-and-wing glyph pulsed on his chest. A ritual was underway—no guards, just Tyren, The Attendant, and a watching air.

Kaelus ducked back, his stomach twisting. “Stunners,” he whispered to Click, pointing to the curtain. He stepped aside, next to Rhyssa. “Attendant’s there. Deal with him. I’ll get Tyren to you. Soon as you have him, get out.”

Click nodded, her grin all business. She primed the iron-edged stunner orb, counting silently. Rhyssa’s eyes closed, a syllable—“Vel astur”—unleashing runes of warding that shimmered around her fingers. Click rolled the orb under the curtain. A half-second later, a silent pulse erupted, the air struck by an invisible hammer. The chamber groaned, candles flickered, and the mirrors buckled like rippling water.

Kaelus surged through the curtain, shortsword flashing. The Attendant staggered, one hand flailing, the other snapping toward a half-shattered mirror. Their mask turned to him, a harsh whisper in a dead tongue spilling from their lips. Tyren jerked in his chair, the mask clattering to the floor, his eyes fluttering open—confused, disoriented, but present. Kaelus closed the distance, grabbing Tyren by the collar and heaving him toward Rhyssa. “Get him out!” he snarled, whirling on The Attendant. “Taking noble children shortens your lifespan.”

Rhyssa caught Tyren, her hand clamping over the glowing glyph. Her incantation tore a shriek from the mark, inaudible but bone-deep. Tyren gasped, then slumped, unconscious but free. Rhyssa vanished down the stairwell, Tyren’s arm over her shoulder. Click tossed a flash pellet into the northern curtain, smoke and sound flooding the chambers to cover their retreat.

The Attendant stood steady now, cracks webbing their mask. They raised a gloved hand, their voice clear, not whispered. “You carry the Eye. Others marked by it have come. Most never leave. Will you follow them, Kaelus Shade?” The mirrors shimmered—one showing a younger Kaelus in a Korvosan alley, another Rhyssa asleep in her circle, the third only his reflection.

Click’s voice cut through, sharp with glee. “Oh, you mean Mama Bang? Never leave home without her.” The *chk-CHK* of her igniter fuse echoed. Kaelus fixed the Attendant with a glare. “Rule 11, moron. Focus on the task at hand.” He tested them with a swipe of his sword, the blade deflected by a shimmering force. Not invulnerable—arrogant. Drawing his dagger, he darted back. “Click? Got the big one?”

The Attendant’s mask wept black ink. “You’re the first to refuse the mask. What will you become when your mirrors break?” Kaelus winked and bolted. “Leave the jackass a present, Click. Let’s get gone.”

Click cackled, slapping the breaching charge against a mirror. “Sweet dreams, freakshow.” They were halfway down the tunnel when the explosion hit—a pressure that cracked the world, shattering the chamber in a fury of glass, silk, and magic. Somewhere in the ruin, the Attendant’s mask split.

Kaelus, Click, and Rhyssa emerged from the sewer, breath ragged, grime-streaked, Tyren limp but alive in Rhyssa’s grip. Caldus waited at the chapel’s threshold, robes disheveled, reeking of fire. “You really lit the match, didn’t you?” The crypt door slammed shut behind them. The Red Moth was wounded, perhaps crippled. House Jeggare’s heir breathed again, his soul intact.

 

Date: 13 Neth, 4707 AR
Time: Late Night
Place: The Hidden Crypt Beneath the Derelict Chapel of Aroden, Old Korvosa

The brazier’s low crackle cast amber light across the crypt’s stone walls. Rhyssa knelt within a circle of cleansing salts and sigils, murmuring incantations to purge the mirror-magic from Tyren Jeggare. For an hour, she worked in silence, stripping away the residue that clung to him. His breathing steadied, the black mark gone, his eyes now tracking light and sound. Click, cleaning smoke and sludge from her gear, hummed as she filed burrs off a knife. Selene sat nearby in a plain tunic, brushing her hair, her tired eyes watchful. Tyren, cleaned and dressed in borrowed clothes, sat on a cot by the fire, a blanket loose around his shoulders. He looked like a boy who’d nearly drowned—pale, quiet, uncertain of solid ground.

Kaelus sat on a stool, close enough to speak, far enough to give space. The crew gave him room. Tyren’s hoarse voice broke the silence. “Am I… still me?” His gaze lifted, uncertain. “What did I do?”

Kaelus waved Caldus over. “That’s a question you’ll have to answer yourself, kid,” he said, calm but firm. “Far as I know, you didn’t do anything—except join an insane cult. After that, you didn’t have time to do much.” He placed a hand on Tyren’s shoulder. “Want to tell us about it?”

Caldus knelt, checking Tyren’s pulse and eyelids with rough care. “No fever,” he muttered. “But you’ve got the look of someone who stared too long into something that stared back.”

Tyren closed his eyes, exhaling shakily. “I didn’t mean to join anything. I just… wanted out.” He looked between Kaelus and Caldus. “My life was set in stone. Banquets, duels, performances—everyone smiling, lying, pretending it mattered because we’re Jeggares.” His voice caught, bitter. “Lucette said the Red Moth was a place to vanish for a night. Be no one. Free.” He pulled the blanket tighter. “But it didn’t stop. The more I went, the less I remembered why I wanted to leave. I felt light, floating, like I could breathe without being Tyren.” His voice dropped. “The Attendant said the mask wasn’t hiding me—it was revealing the real me. I almost believed them.”

Caldus glanced at Kaelus, eyes dark. “He got out just in time.”

Tyren’s gaze sharpened, tinged with shame. “Am I going back to Aric now? Or do you still need something from me?”

“I don’t need anything, kid,” Kaelus said, patting his shoulder. “You’ve had a time of it.” He started to rise but paused, turning back. “Tyren, you’ll inherit power and fortune. If you hate what it represents, hold onto that. When you have the reins, make it different. House Jeggare doesn’t need you to lose yourself—it needs you to be yourself, to make it better.” He turned to find Selene, adding over his shoulder, “And stay away from Lucette. That girl’s bad news.”

Tyren’s gaze dropped, then lifted, a spark of resolve flickering through his exhaustion. “I will. I’ll try, at least.” As Kaelus stepped away, Tyren called softly, “Thank you.”

Caldus murmured about sleep and the Lady’s forgiveness, guiding Tyren to rest. Kaelus moved toward Selene, the crypt’s firelight casting long shadows. The Red Moth’s wound was fresh, Tyren was safe, and the crew’s trust held firm—but the mirrors’ echoes lingered, a reminder of the cost of crossing lines in Korvosa’s shadows.