B3 Chapter 411: Argent Clash, pt. 1

Kerel sighed and flipped the page of his book — a treatise by a researcher that chronicled a wayward expedition. The fool’s party had gotten pinned, forcing the mage into the Depths. This chapter was one of the better ones: detailing his desperate flight from a Champion on his second day there, barely surviving alongside the sole survivor of his initial chaperones — a guild Skirmisher.

It had been riveting the first time — good enough writing that Kerel had felt his heart pound with the man’s, legs burning as a Stone Terror crashed through the undergrowth behind the mage.

On the seventh read in under a month, it was less compelling. It had become too easy to pick out the embellishments he’d previously ignored. The romanticisation irked him, especially when he compared it to the hardship he’d experienced. There were few opportunities to grow strong as a highwayman in a low mana zone, so he’d been on plenty of his own delves.

He sincerely doubted an Iron-ranked swordsman and Copper mage would have fared so well on a delve with an average level that equaled their own. Most likely, if the whole thing wasn’t a complete fiction, the delve had been far below their level. Enough that an unbalanced pair would still be forced on the defensive, but nothing quite as…heroic as the book suggested.

Snapping the book shut in disgust, Kerel cast his eye across the room.

At least this stone hole had something like a common room. He shuffled deeper into the couch’s crook and turned another page. Despite Old Yon calling in a small army of hardened Silvers, most were the ornery sort, and a chunk of the rest were brutish idiots. Only three had brought books and were willing to share. Ten books between them. With nothing else to do, he’d read them all front to back what felt like a dozen times.

“That’s a shoddy bluff. There’s no way you have that card!” Boruk yelled across the room.

The man’s voice was as gruff as his build. Six strides and a hair, weathered and sun-beaten — exactly what you’d expect from someone who treated piracy as a holiday from black-market merc work. Capable enough, and the more Silver bruisers Kerel had between himself and danger, the happier he was.

“It’s not my fault you’re a damned fool who doesn’t know strategy from his own arse,” Lunli said, acerbic as ever, snatching coins across the table with fingers that moved faster than a blink.

The bruiser growled, fist clenched, but didn’t move. The third at their table — Vros, an exiled Hiwiann archer — smirked and shook his head. Kerel had heard the rumours about the man: Vros put arrows into stray travellers for pay — and for sport.

They’d been at it for ages — playing Conqueror to whittle away the time. Kerel had been tempted to join them, but unlike most that fell in with the underbelly of society, he’d never been one for gambling.

Oh, he could bluff like the best of them, but he worked far too hard for his coin to part with it chasing a little momentary distraction.

Plus, the arguments could get fierce, and he had little time for that.

As much as they were at each other’s throats, all three players were Mystral folk. In their line of work, anyone who’d made it to Silver knew everyone else by deed if not by name; they’d likely worked the same jobs more than once.

Of the nine Old Yon had called in favours from, Kerel alone was from Baanswell in the Dukedoms. The remaining team not present — Gorosh, Oroma, Minha, and Jurm — were from Roanwheat. Insular bastards, more dodgy Delvers than true criminals. They’d been working together since Bronze.

The final occupant of the common room was from Mystral as well, yet as isolated as Kerel. He glanced to where she sat alone at a table, a stack of books fifteen high beside her. Tall, platinum hair, a hint of elven lineage.

Yena, a mirror-mage who had an icy, permanent sneer plastered on her face. Spire-taught and smug.

Despite being rich enough for a storage ring — gods only knew how many books she had stuffed in there — she refused to share. That annoyed Kerel the most. He eyed the stack. While half were technical mage manuals stuffed full of theory he had little interest in, others were academic works that he would have loved to dive into.

Histories of old Empire settlements that had been abandoned in the Dukedoms; a diary of an exploratory ship that had tried to cross the oceans to the barely-known continents beyond them; a historiographical piece on the elven conclaves — that last one grabbed him the most. He’d always been curious about the deep Sea, and the many terrors within. So few were strong enough to visit, and the elves welcomed even less.

Plus, he was bored out of his skull, trapped reading the same scraps while they waited for wayward kids to exit a delve that was gods-knew-where in the Deadacre region.

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Deadacre itself was a shithole in and of itself. No good food, no good wine, and far too small for him to blend in as a Silver. Being buried in a literal hole on the frontier? Maddening.

He frowned at Yena as his finger twitched. He pictured pulling a thread of stamina from his soul; imagined a knife sliding from his sleeve as he flicked straight into that selfish bitch’s furrowed brow.

Yena looked up over the page, scowl deepening into disgust. “What?” she demanded. “Got something interesting to look at?”

“Just wondering what sort of fuck-up a Spire mage has to be to fall into debt with someone like Old Yon.”

He meant it. Him and the others made sense. Be a scoundrel long enough — back-alley murderer, cutthroat, or illicit alchemist — and you had to grease palms, trade favours, and put yourself in debt if you wanted to survive, let alone start climbing the chain.

You didn’t make Silver without owing someone, so you might as well owe someone important.

But a Spire mage? She didn’t need to be here. She could’ve been sitting pretty, casting for coin in her Spire. He hated her type — tourists.

Yena inspected him like he was her boot sole after she had smelt something foul. “What’s it to a pickpocket like you? I owe him a favour, just like everyone else here. Not my fault Old Yon saw the need to drag in some useless lout like yourself.”

Kerel clenched his fist.