The ship groaned as it settled against the dock, ropes snapping taut as they were secured. The moment the gangplank hit the wood, Lyra stepped off, her boots meeting solid ground for the first time in days.

  The air was thick with salt and the acrid tang of fish left too long in the sun. Dockhands shouted over one another, their voices drowned in the din of crashing waves and the steady hammering of workers repairing hulls. The streets were wet from an earlier rain, the slick cobblestones reflecting the dim light of the sky.

  Brimmond. Lyra exhaled softly. This was a place where someone could disappear if they wanted to. Or where someone could be found if she knew where to look.

  She had no names, only a whisper of a riddle given to her in hushed words before she left the mainland.

  "The one who fled is stained with black magic. He knows the way to the bloodied halls, and he remembers his own. Find him in the shadow of the low lantern."

  Black magic. Bloodied halls. Shadows and lanterns.

  It was as much of a direction as she could hope for.

  She adjusted the weight of her pack and strode forward, ignoring the merchants hawking cheap trinkets and the beggars whose outstretched hands she could not afford to fill. Lodging was her first priority - she needed a place to return to, somewhere inconspicuous.

  An inn near the docks caught her eye, its wooden sign cracked and sun-bleached but still bearing the name The Seafarer’s Respite. The windows were smeared with grime, and the door was slightly warped from the sea air, but it would do.

  The innkeeper barely looked at her as she slid a few coins across the counter. “One night,” she said, voice even.

  He pocketed the money and handed her a key without question. No name asked. No unnecessary words exchanged. She appreciated that.

  The room was small, barely more than a cot, a rickety chair, and a washbasin with a water jug that smelled faintly of iron. She set down her pack but didn’t linger. There was no time to waste.

  Lyra moved through Brimmond’s streets with purpose, scanning faces, listening to conversations, watching the ebb and flow of the people who called this place home. She knew better than to ask outright about the cryptic riddle she had been given - subtlety was key in places like this. Experience had taught her that taverns and inns were always the first places to check when entering a new city. A place like Brimmond thrived on loose tongues and heavy coin purses. People drank to forget, to celebrate, to mourn. And people talked.

  At The Broken Oar, she bought a watered-down drink and leaned against the counter, listening. Talk of trade deals, of ships delayed by storms, of petty feuds between merchants. Nothing useful.

  This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  At The Rusted Coin, she approached a man who looked like he knew things. He was missing two fingers on his left hand, his teeth yellowed from years of pipe smoke. “Looking for someone,” she said, placing a single coin on the table.

  He picked it up, rolled it between his fingers, and smirked. “Aren’t we all?”

  She left before she wasted more breath on him.

  Hours passed. The sun dipped lower, painting the city in hues of burnt orange and crimson. Her patience, already running thin, was beginning to fray. The people she spoke to were either clueless or playing dumb, their empty words a waste of time.

  Then came the man who pushed too far.

  He was lean, wiry, his grin too sharp for comfort. He saw something in her, something he thought he could take advantage of. “I might have what you’re looking for,” he said, drawing out the words.

  “How much?” she asked, already tired of the game.

  “A hundred gold.”

  She scoffed. “Try again.”

  He leaned forward, that grin widening. “Information costs, love. Especially the kind you’re looking for.”

  Lyra moved fast. One hand slammed against the table, the other gripping the dagger at her belt as she leaned in close. “Do I look like I have a hundred gold?” she said, voice quiet but sharp as a blade’s edge.

  The man swallowed hard. “I- look, I was just-”

  She twisted the knife just enough for him to feel the cold metal against his gut. “I don’t have patience for games.”

  He held up both hands. “Alright, alright! I don’t know much, but I know where to start.”

  She eased the pressure just slightly. “Go on.”

  “There’s a place. The Low Lantern. You ask the right questions, maybe you’ll find what you’re looking for.”

  Lyra stilled.

  She had heard that name before. Seen it, even.

  A wave of irritation prickled beneath her skin, sharp and immediate. The one who fled is stained with black magic. He knows the way to the bloodied halls, and he remembers his own. Find him in the shadow of the low lantern.

  She had been looking at it all wrong.

  She had treated it like a riddle, some cryptic puzzle to be solved, dissecting its meaning over and over in search of a hidden answer. But it wasn’t hidden at all, was it? The Low Lantern wasn’t a metaphor or an abstract clue - it was a real place, and it had been sitting right in front of her the whole damn time.

  A quiet exhale left her nose, more controlled than the frustration coiling inside her. Typical. Whispers twisted reality, distorting what was simple until it became something far more elusive. How many hours had she wasted chasing shadows when the answer had been carved into a signpost somewhere in this city?

  The wiry man must have seen something shift in her expression, because he took a cautious step back.

  She sheathed her dagger with a flick of her wrist. “Where is it?”

  He hesitated.

  Lyra raised an eyebrow.

  “Central city,” he said quickly. “Two main roads cross there, can’t miss it. Just follow the lanterns.”

  She turned without another word.

  Frustration simmered beneath her skin, but it was tempered by renewed purpose.

  Now, at least, she knew exactly where to go.