Date: April 2, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
The smell of the underground seemed to still haunt Dur, ingrained in his pores and the fibers of his clothes, but the heavy purse at his belt served as an excellent antidote to unpleasant memories. In this purse, besides his base pay, now lay five silver coins—a generous bonus from Horn for preventing the "Shakers'" sabotage. For Dur, this was a fortune. At the "Old Pine" orphanage, they never dreamed of such money, and Torm, in six months of hunting, had rarely seen this much silver at once.
"Today we don't just eat, Dur. Today we feast!" Maël waved his arms so energetically he nearly knocked over an apple stall. "No more rusks and empty stew. We need a change of scenery and, more importantly, to wet your official 'Shadow' status."
They headed for the Worn Cauldron. Evening on Grumbler's Street was filled with workers returning from their shifts. Ligra lived by its own rhythms: the daytime hum gave way to an evening murmur, when over a mug of ale, people allowed themselves a little more criticism of the Family's taxes, knowing the guard usually patrolled only the main thoroughfares at this time.
The tavern was packed. Thick steam from a huge vat of stewed beef mixed with acrid tobacco smoke. Maël, squeezing through the crowd, took a table in the corner, where there was slightly less light.
"Barkeep! The best roast, fresh bread, and a pitcher of 'Mountain Echo'!" Maël threw a couple of alums on the table.
Dur sat down, feeling the muscles in his back relax. The tension of the last day was beginning to ease. The food arrived—the meat was succulent, seasoned with wild herbs, and the ale, despite its strength, pleasantly cooled the throat. Maël ate with an appetite Dur had only ever seen in Kaedan after a full day of training.
"You know," Maël moved closer, his eyes gleaming in the candlelight. "With your token and my knowledge, we could pull off things bigger than catching lone moles. I heard they're preparing a major inventory of confiscated goods at the southern warehouses. If we…"
Maël suddenly laughed, remembering some joke he'd heard at the market. His laugh was loud, ringing, and… too well-bred. It lacked that strained hoarseness characteristic of street children. He crossed his legs and leaned back on his stool with such effortless grace, as if he were sitting not in a smoky tavern, but in a luxurious hall.
"Hey, forest man! Don't be so serious! You're a hero of Ligra now. Come on, let's play dice with those guys by the hearth? I feel luck is our faithful friend today."
Dur smiled, watching his exuberant friend. Maël had a way of infecting others with his optimism. For a moment, Dur forgot about caution. He allowed himself to relax, sipping his ale and listening to Maël spin tales about "unlucky guardsmen."
But the forest doesn't just leave a man.
Even in the midst of merriment, while Maël loudly argued with some tanner about the rules of "three dice," Dur continued to monitor his periphery. His vision, accustomed to catching the flicker of a hare's ear in thick grass, snagged on something strange.
In the darkest corner of the tavern, at a table where two gloomy laborers sat, a woman had placed herself. She looked utterly ordinary—a worn dress, a kerchief hiding her hair, a half-empty mug before her. But she wasn't drinking. And she wasn't talking.
Her head was slightly tilted, and her eyes… Dur felt that gaze with his skin. It wasn't just attentive. It was appraising, like a hawk choosing its target.
Dur noticed how the air around the woman's fingers, resting on the table, momentarily trembled. A thin, barely perceptible haze—like heat haze over a stone on a hot day. This wasn't a combat spirit; it was something from the category of Anima or Abstract spirits. In Ligra, they were called "Whisperers"—informants whose spirit allowed them to sharpen their hearing or detect lies in a voice.
She was looking directly at Maël. Not at Dur with his copper token, but at Maël, whose manners at that moment contrasted too sharply with the surrounding environment.
Dur felt a chill run down his spine. His hand under the table involuntarily clenched into a fist.
"Maël," he said quietly, interrupting his friend mid-sentence.
Maël, in excellent spirits, didn't hear immediately. "…and then I told him: 'Your Grace, it's not contraband, it's medicinal roots for my grandmother…'"
"Maël!" Dur put into his voice that very note with which Torm commanded the dogs to fall silent before an ambush.
Maël stopped mid-word, feeling the change in atmosphere. He glanced at Dur, saw his motionless gaze fixed on the corner, and his cheerfulness instantly evaporated, as if it had never been. Maël's face became pale and focused again.
"What's there?" he asked with just his lips.
"Corner, left of the fireplace. Woman in a blue kerchief. She hasn't taken her eyes off you for five minutes. And her spirit is active."
Maël didn't turn. He slowly lowered his mug to the table. His fingers, which had been deftly rolling the dice moments before, now trembled slightly. "A Whisperer…" he whispered. "If she's from the Estate's Inner Circle, we're in trouble. They're not looking for saboteurs. They're looking for deserters."
Dur understood without further words. The celebration was over. "Get up slowly," Dur commanded. "Go to the exit through the kitchen, as we planned for a raid. I'll cover you."
Maël nodded. He masterfully feigned "drunken fatigue"—stretched, yawned, threw a last alum on the table, and, staggering, headed towards the service areas. Dur remained sitting, slowly finishing his ale. He saw the "Whisperer" rise slightly, her gaze following Maël to the kitchen door.
She made a sign to someone in the crowd. Dur noticed two sturdy men by the counter simultaneously set down their mugs and move towards the exit.
Dur stood up. His movements were smooth and silent. He didn't follow Maël. Instead, he headed straight for the woman's table. As he passed, he "accidentally" brushed the edge of his heavy cloak against her mug, knocking it over onto the table.
"Forgive me, madam," Dur stopped, looming over her with his considerable hunter's stature. He deliberately thrust his hip forward, so the copper "Shadow of the Eagle" token was directly before her eyes. "Fog plays tricks on the eyes, and in a tavern, it plays tricks on the feet."
The woman froze. Her eyes met Dur's. There was no fear in them, only cold, professional interest. She looked at the token, then back at Dur. Her Spirit, sensing intentions, encountered the absolute, icy calm of the tracker.
"Be careful, Shadow," she hissed. "Sometimes shadows wander into the wrong corners."
"I'll remember that," Dur nodded. "And you remember: the eagle doesn't like crows eyeing its prey."
He turned and left through the main door. As soon as he was outside, he ducked into the first dark alley and sprinted through the courtyards to the meeting place with Maël.
Ten minutes later, they met by the old water tower. Maël was breathing heavily, his face gray with fear and adrenaline. "Did she… did she recognize me?" he asked, grabbing Dur's sleeve.
"I don't know," Dur answered honestly. "But she definitely understood you're not who you pretend to be. Maël, your manners… they give you away faster than any informer. You need to learn to be 'dirtier' if you want to survive on Grumbler's Street."
Maël smiled bitterly, sliding down the tower wall to the ground. "Dirtier… I'm trying, Dur. Believe me, I'm trying. But sometimes… blood will out."
Dur looked at the quieting city. His first paycheck had been wet not only with ale, but with the realization that in Ligra, thousands of invisible eyes watched their every step. The Agrim system wasn't tyranny in its pure form, but it was a perfect organism that sensed any foreign bacterium.
"We need to change our refuge," said Dur. "And tomorrow… tomorrow I'm not going into the tunnels. I'm going into the forest. I need to check if we have a real tail."
Maël looked up at him, his eyes full of weary trust. "Thanks, Dur. If it weren't for your 'ear for the earth,' I'd be ending the evening in the Estate's dungeons today."
"We're a team," Dur replied simply. "Now let's go. The night in Ligra is just beginning, and we'll have to sleep with one eye open."
Above the rooftops of Ligra, the eagle flew again, but this time its cry seemed to Dur not a call to service, but a warning that the hunt had begun. And this time, they were the ones being hunted.