Date: April 1, 541, from the Fall of Zanra the Dishonored
Ligra stood on the bones of ancient civilizations, and its undergrounds were no less intricate than its streets. The eastern wall of the city, the oldest and most massive, rested on foundations riddled with a network of drainage tunnels and abandoned collectors. It was here, in the cool belly of the city, that Dur was to undergo his first official trial as the "Shadow of the Eagle."
At the entrance to one of the storm drains, hidden behind a pile of empty crates in a dead end of Tanners' Lane, Maël awaited him.
"Listen carefully," Maël handed Dur a small leather pouch. "Inside are three low-grade 'energy-stones.' Squeeze them in your palm, and they'll give off a dim light. Ordinary torches in the tunnels would be like shouting: 'Hey, I'm here, kill me!' Smoke would give you away from a hundred paces."
Dur took the stones, feeling their barely perceptible vibration. "You're not coming?" he asked, checking how easily his knife slid from its sheath.
"My job is to know where the entrance and exit are," Maël shook his head. "It's too cramped down there for two. Besides, if you get stuck, someone needs to be able to pull you out or… report to Horn. And another thing, Dur… there's water down there."
Dur froze. The word "water" echoed in his mind with a cold spasm. In the tunnels, it wasn't the bottomless ocean of his nightmares, but it was dark, flowing, and hidden in the gloom. "I'll manage," he replied curtly, pulling up his hood. "The water in the drains isn't deeper than my knee. Torm taught me to walk through swamps."
Maël nodded, but a shadow of doubt flickered in his eyes. He helped Dur shift the heavy iron grate, and the tracker slid into the shaft's maw.
Inside, it smelled of damp, old stone, and something sour. At first, Dur walked in absolute darkness, relying only on his fingers sliding along the slimy walls. He didn't light an energy-stone. In the forest, Torm had made him hunt in twilight, training his eyes to pick out the slightest gradations of gray. Here, under the city, this skill proved invaluable.
Descending two levels, Dur found himself in the main collector. Water sloshed underfoot—black, oily, it flowed slowly towards the river. The sound of each splash echoed off the vaults, turning into a multi-voiced whisper. Dur forced himself to breathe evenly. "It's just stone. It's just a stream in a cave," he repeated to himself.
He began moving along the eastern wall. His forest skills underwent a strange transformation here. Instead of trampled grass, he looked for disturbed slime on the stones. Instead of broken twigs, fresh scratches on the lime.
About an hour passed. Dur moved slowly, freezing every ten paces. At one point, he stopped and sniffed. The smell of sewage was momentarily overlaid by another scent—barely perceptible, but distinct to a hunter's nose. The smell of rancid fat, used for lubricating crossbow mechanisms.
Dur crouched, almost touching his knee to the water. He took out one energy-stone and slightly opened his palm. A dim bluish light picked out a fragment of the floor.
There was a track. A faint boot print on a strip of silt the water hadn't yet washed away. The toe of the boot was pointed—the kind worn in the East, in the lands of Alvost. And beside it—a tiny flake of burnt wood. Someone had been cleaning a pipe here.
"They were here no more than three hours ago," Dur thought.
He followed the trail, which led into a side branch of the tunnel not marked on the official maps Horn had shown him. Here the ceiling lowered, forcing Dur to crouch. The water barely flowed here; stagnant silence reigned.
Suddenly, Dur heard a sound. A rhythmic, metallic rustle. Thump… thump… thump…
He instantly doused the stone and pressed into a niche. The sound came from around a bend ahead. Dur drew his knife and, moving silently as a shadow, slid forward. His senses were stretched like a bowstring. He felt the vibration of the stone.
Around the bend opened a small chamber, where once, apparently, a sluice control node had been located. Against the far wall, by the light of a tiny oil lamp, sat a man. He wore a gray cloak, concealing his figure. He was methodically driving thin steel wedges, connected by copper wire, into the joint between the foundation stones of the wall.
These wedges weren't just iron. When activated by a Spirit or resonant stone, they could cause a directed vibration capable of collapsing a multi-ton section of wall.
The saboteur was alone. He worked intently, not looking back.
Dur could have attacked now. His knife was sharp, the distance ideal for a throw. But he remembered Horn's order: "I need live information." If he killed the saboteur, he wouldn't learn where the others were or when the explosion was planned.
The tracker began to slowly retreat. At that moment, his boot touched a fragment of brick floating in the water. A quiet, but distinct in the silence, splash sounded.
The saboteur froze. His hand instantly slipped under his cloak.
Dur held his breath, becoming part of the stone niche. He didn't move, even when a rat ran over his leg. Seconds stretched into an eternity. The saboteur slowly turned his head, peering into the darkness of the tunnel. His eyes glinted in the lamplight—cold, professional.
But Dur was a master of camouflage. He had merged with the shadows as Torm had taught him in the Gray Groves. The saboteur, seeing nothing suspicious, swore quietly in the Alvost dialect and returned to work.
Dur waited until the tapping resumed, then continued his retreat. Now he moved even more carefully. Escaping the side tunnel, he ran—as much as silence allowed—towards the exit.
Maël waited for him in the same spot. He looked alarmed. "You were in there forever!" he whispered, helping Dur out. "Did you find anything?"
Dur was breathing heavily, his clothes soaked with the stench of the collectors. "One saboteur under the foundation of the eastern tower. Setting resonance wedges. They're going to bring down the wall, Maël."
Maël swore under his breath. "Resonance… That means Alvost's main force is already approaching the forest. They're waiting for the signal. Run to Horn!"
At the guardhouse, Horn listened to Dur's report in silence. His usually stony face became even grimmer. When Dur described the placement of the wedges and the copper wire, the veteran slammed his fist on the table.
"Damn it! We were looking for them in the forest, and they've burrowed under us like moles. Dur, you're a good man. If it weren't for your nose, Ligra would have woken up tomorrow without its eastern gates."
Horn turned to the duty sergeant. "Rouse the 'Steel'! Quiet sweep of the tunnels. Take the saboteur alive if possible. If not—destroy all the equipment."
Then Horn looked at Dur again. In his gaze, there was no longer assessment—only complete trust. "You've proven your token, Shadow. Your report is as accurate as an arrow's flight. Go, get some rest. You'll get your bonus tomorrow. You saved hundreds of lives today, boy. Agrim Ma Rat values such services."
Stepping out into the fresh air, Dur looked at his hands. They still smelled of the tunnels' dampness, but they didn't tremble. His first mission was successful. He hadn't just found a trail—he had prevented a catastrophe.
Maël walked beside him, thoughtfully twirling an alum in his fingers. "You're growing, Dur," he said quietly. "Horn now considers you his golden nugget. But remember: the more lives you save for Agrim, the more valuable you become to their enemies. Today you officially crossed Alvost's path. And they really don't like it when their 'wedges' are pulled from the walls."
Dur only nodded. He knew that in the forest, the hunter always becomes someone's prey. Ligra had merely confirmed this law. But now he had silver, a reputation, and a friend who knew how to turn this knowledge into safety.