"Sorry! Pardon me, s-sorry!"
Torik ducked beneath the open arm of a fishmonger hauling crates, nearly tripping over a spilled basket of onions as he jogged across the street. His shoulder struck a man in a wide hat, who muttered a curse, and Torik flinched like he'd been struck.
"Didn't mean it! Beg pardon-" he said again, hurrying off, head down, cloak flapping behind him.
He played the part.
Back hunched, eyes flickering to every corner, voice thin and cracked. Calwin the courier had no confidence to spare, and Watchfort's winding, filthy streets offered none.
The buildings around him leaned like gossiping old men. Wet laundry dripped over railings. Mud sucked at his boots. A dog barked somewhere, then another. The city was louder here than Valebast, but smaller, like someone tried to pack a full town into a single cramped attic.
Then he saw him.
A man leaned against the mouth of an alleyway, half-hidden by shadow and a drooping canvas tarp. A pendant hung from his neck, a jagged, tarnished symbol shaped like broken chains.
The Unbound.
Torik's stomach twisted.
He shuffled forward quickly, breath coming too fast, cloak clutched in one hand. "S-sir! Sorry, s-sir, do you-do you know-?"
The man turned his head, revealing hollow eyes and a thin mouth. "What?"
"I-I'm looking for the Unbound," Torik said. "I-please, I have something. A message."
The man's eyes narrowed, suspicious. "Never heard of it."
He turned, walking deeper into the alley.
Torik took three fast steps to follow, voice cracking on purpose. "Please! Please wait, I swear it's important, I-I was sent by Lord Kurten, of Melindes! He said to deliver this!"
The man stopped.
Slowly, he turned. The name had landed.
He eyed Torik like one might a bug on a dish, uncertain if it was food or filth. Then he gave a small nod.
"Follow."
They wound through alleys like blood through veins. Narrow, maze-like. Torik kept his posture meek, his stride a touch off-balance, eyes flicking from every noise.
Eventually, the man rapped three times on a door so weather-worn the wood looked gray.
A slit opened. A grunt. Then the door opened.
Two men flanked the entry, both in dark robes, their eyes glassy, red-rimmed, hungry. One shoved Torik against the wall and patted him down.
No dagger. No coin. Just ink-stained fingers, some crumbs, and the sealed message.
"Who's this?" one of them asked.
"Courier," the first man replied. "Says he's got a message. From Lord Kurten."
The robed man grabbed the envelope, examined the seal. After a beat, he nodded. "Bring him."
Torik swallowed and let himself be led.
They passed through a narrow hall, walls made of mismatched brick and beams. Somewhere to the right, chanting rose like smoke from under a door.
"May he be unbound," a deep voice intoned.
"Unbind him," answered a dozen others.
Again. Then again. A rhythm, like waves crashing against stone.
Torik was calm but Calwin trembled.
One of the escorts glanced at him. "Do you know our message, boy?"
Torik blinked. "N-no, s-sir."
The man's voice turned warm, almost gentle. "The First King. The liar. The thief. He locked the world in chains. But the titan came first. This world was Tharoghul's and it will be again."
"Why?" Torik asked not because Calwin would, but because he had to know.
"Because this world is wrong," the man said, eyes alight with something terrifying. "Look around, people starve. Order is a lie. Peace is theft. The titan will return to make things whole again."
Torik nodded like he understood. "That… that makes sense, I s-suppose."
"You'll see," the man said. "We always have room for more faithful."
Torik nearly scoffed but kept in character. "Th-thank you."
They reached a heavy door. One of the robed men opened it and bowed inside.
"Holy Mother," he said.
Torik stepped inside behind them.
The room was dimly lit, a single oil lamp swinging overhead. A woman stood at a small desk with scrolls, maps, and a chalk-drawn glyph carved into the wood.
She was perhaps forty, with braided hair coiled tight around her head and sharp, expressionless eyes.
She turned toward Torik slowly.
"This is a courier," the escort said. "From Lord Kurten."
Her gaze landed on Torik like frost on glass.
Torik hunched deeper, clutching the envelope with shaking hands.
"He wanted me to deliver this, m-ma'am, uh, Miss Mother," he stammered.
Her eyebrow raised slightly at the title, and then, slowly, she extended her hand.
Torik stepped forward. Let her take it.
She studied the seal first. Rubbed it with her thumb. Then peeled it open.
"Why didn't Lord Kurten make the trip himself," she asked.
"Well-uh he told me the roads had become ver-very dangerous, Mother." Torik stammered.
She waited a moment then finally, she nodded.
"You handled this well," she said, not taking her eyes off the paper.
Torik bowed slightly. "I-I do my best, Mother."
She looked up at that. A small smile touched her lips. Thin. Cold. But real.
"I presume you like our message, then?"
Torik straightened just slightly, as if inspired.
"It… makes sense, Mother. It really does."
She held his gaze a second longer. Measured him.
Then she folded the paper and tapped it against her palm.
"Very well. You'll be contacted. Until then, stay nearby. I'll send for you."
Torik bowed low again. "Thank you, Mother."
As the door closed behind him and he was escorted back into the city's night, Torik felt his heart trying to claw its way out of his chest.
He stayed in character.
But something about the chant still echoed in his ears.
"Unbind him."
He clenched a fist in his pocket, feeling the sweat in his palm.
If they found out who he really was...
He swallowed hard.
Calwin had made it in.
Now Torik had to stay there.