Chapter 34: Shadows in the Mine

The ride back to the Ashborn estate was a masterclass in misery.

The biting wind howled across the frozen mud of the outer rings, slicing straight through Arthur’s heavy wool cloak. In front of him, Elias rode in rigid silence, his gloved hand resting tensely on the pommel of his sword, the gray gelding beneath him exhaling thick clouds of white steam.

As they crossed into the inner rings, the scenery barely improved. There were no grand stone manors or glowing glass windows here, just tightly packed, slightly larger timber-framed houses that offered marginally better protection against the wind. The raw despair of the slums was replaced by a grim, shivering endurance.

Ashford City, in its entirety, was losing the battle against the cold.

As they left the city limits behind, their horses turned onto the main road that cut through the vast, snow-covered fields. The Ashborn estate loomed ahead, entirely detached from the city, built on elevated ground. It stood like a solitary fortress overlooking the sprawling, freezing populace.

The elevation only made the blizzard strike harder, the wind whipping off the open fields and tearing at their cloaks as they rode up the winding path.

The moment the heavy iron gates of the estate closed behind them, Arthur dismounted.

He marched straight down the corridor, leaving a trail of melting snow on the stone floors. He pushed open the heavy oak doors of the library.

A wave of heat hit like a physical wall, a stark contrast to the freezing cold outside the estate.

High Mage Marcus was seated exactly where they had left him, a leather-bound ledger open on the desk, the fire roaring in the hearth behind him. He looked up, his ember colored eyes tracing the snow clinging to Arthur’s hair and the grim expression on Elias’s face.

“You return,” Marcus noted dryly, closing the ledger. “I take it the mud was suitably freezing?”

Arthur did not answer right away. He walked directly to the desk, reached into his pouch, and dropped two items onto the polished wood: a handful of half-smoked cigarillos and a rusted, iron crossbow bolt.

They hit the desk with a heavy clack.

Marcus stared at them for a long moment before raising his gaze. “Explain.”

“The lower coal shafts are flooded,” Arthur reported, his voice clinical and completely devoid of the exhaustion he felt. “And the water is too deep for a standard suction pump. I have a theoretical design to bypass the pressure limit, but that is a secondary problem right now. The primary one is the upper tunnels.”

The young heir tapped the rusted crossbow bolt.

“They aren’t abandoned. The dry veins are likely occupied by armed men. Judging by the fresh tracks and sheer amount of tobacco left near the entrance, it isn’t just a handful of scavengers. It’s an established camp.”

Elias stepped up behind Arthur, his armor clinking softly. “I advised the Young Master to retreat immediately. If they are enforcers for a syndicate, attempting to clear that mine will start a war we do not have the manpower to finish.”

Marcus picked up one of the cigarillos, rolling the cheap, pungent tobacco between his fingers. He smelled it, his expression unreadable.

“We can’t plan based on assumptions,” Arthur said, leaning over the desk to meet the High Mage’s eyes. “We need to know exactly who is in that cave, how many are there, and who they report to.”

Marcus held the boy’s gaze for a second before shifting his eyes to Elias. A silent, veteran understanding passed between the two men.

“Very well,” Marcus said softly, tossing the cigarillo back onto the desk. He nodded to the servant. “Elias. Go shake the trees. Find out who is sleeping in our mines.”

The servant gave a short nod.

Arthur watched his departing figure and felt a quiet certainty settle in his chest.

━━━━━━━━━━━━ ◦ ❖ ◦ ━━━━━━━━━━━━

The air inside the Broken Anvil was thick with the stench of stale ale, wet wool, and unwashed bodies huddling together for warmth.

Situated in the lower rings, the tavern was less of a business and more of a drafty wooden shelter for desperate men trying to escape the biting wind. Elias kept his hood low as he stepped through the door, his eyes immediately scanning the dimly lit room.

In the corner, a group of grimy, soot-stained men clustered around a meager hearth fire, passing a dented tin cup back and forth.

“That good for nothing lord,” a gap-toothed man spat, his breath pluming in the freezing air of the tavern. “I bet he is enjoying the warmth of his grand estate while we are freezing here in the mud.”

His companion let out a coarse, barking laugh, wiping ale from his frozen beard. “Aye. Sitting by a roaring fire, eating roasted meats. And with that wife of his, too. Lady Cecilia… I’d endure a hundred blizzards if I could spend just one night warming her b—”

A hand clamped down on the man’s shoulder.

The words died in his throat. The entire table froze as the shadow of a towering figure fell over them.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

The man slowly turned his head.

Elias stood there, snow melting off his thick woolen cloak.

A dangerous glint in his cold, veteran eyes.

The servant didn’t draw his blade, but the sheer, crushing weight of his killing intent suffocated the space around the table.

“Finish that sentence,” Elias whispered, his voice dangerously smooth. “I dare you.”

The man went pale, his bravado shattering in an instant. He swallowed hard, shaking his head rapidly, his eyes wide with terror.

Elias stared at him for what felt like an eternity before violently shoving the man’s shoulder, sending him tumbling backward. “Hold your tongue, or lose it.”

Ignoring the terrified silence he left in his wake, the servant adjusted his cloak and moved toward the back of the tavern. He slid into a secluded booth hidden in the shadows, across from a wiry, rat-faced man nursing a cup of watery wine.

“You’re drawing a lot of attention, Elias,” the informant muttered, not looking up.

“I don’t have time to chat with you today, Garrick,” Elias replied curtly. He reached into his pouch and placed the rusted crossbow bolt and a half-smoked cigarillo onto the sticky wooden table. Beside them, he placed a pristine silver coin.

Garrick’s eyes darted to the silver. He picked up the cigarillo, sniffing the burnt end, then ran a thumb over the fletching of the heavy iron bolt.

“Vipers?” Elias asked.

Garrick snorted, pocketing the coin with lightning speed. “Not a chance. The Vipers have coin; they smoke imported Southern leaf. This is cheap, harsh northern cut. And the Vipers use distinct black fletching, not this one.

The servant leaned forward, his expression hardening. “Then who is sleeping in the upper coal drops?”