A lockpick trembled slightly between Velrik’s padded fingers, though not from nerves—his grip was steady, seasoned by years of practice. The brass lock, old yet well-crafted, yielded smoothly under his careful touch. With keen focus, he angled the pick just right, listening intently for the faintest click as the first tumbler fell into place. A slow breath escaped his lips, nearly lost amidst the distant murmur of the city beyond the office walls.

  Inside the chamber, all was quiet, save for the occasional creak of the wooden beams overhead. The air hung thick with the scents of ink and aged parchment, mingling with a hint of burnt candle smoke. This office, nestled snugly above a prosperous merchant’s storefront, bore the meticulous mark of its owner—a tidy, organized space reflecting a man who upheld detailed records. Moonlight filtered through the high window, casting silver beams across the cluttered desk nearby. Shelves lined the walls, filled to the brim with ledgers and scrolls—documents that might seem insignificant to most but carried immense weight for those who knew where to look. And Velrik certainly did.

  With a satisfying click, the last tumbler fell into place. His skills had been sharpened over the past four years, nearly rivaling those of Gareth himself. With careful precision, he eased the drawer open, mindful not to let it scrape against the wood. Inside lay stacks of parchment, neatly arranged, but his true prize rested at the back, concealed beneath a hidden panel—a sealed ledger embossed with the merchant's crest. If Gareth’s information was correct, it bound desperate borrowers to insurmountable debts.

  As he pried the panel free, images of the man flitted through his mind. Vosset masqueraded as a respectable merchant, yet he was nothing more than a predatory loan shark. His ledgers were filled with the names of hapless men and women, their lives ensnared too tightly in debts that grew as they slept, interest compounded overnight. Gareth had kept a watchful eye on him for months, gathering whispers from those trapped in Vosset’s malicious grip. Many of these borrowers had been sold into slavery when they failed to meet the impossible demands of their debts.

  This ledger held undeniable proof.

  Velrik slid it free, its leather cover smooth against the pads on his fingers. He barely tucked it beneath his cloak before his ears twitched at the sound of movement below—a door creaking open, the shuffle of footsteps.

  Aldren Vosset had returned home early.

  Without a moment's hesitation, Velrik slipped the panel back into place, quietly sliding the drawer closed and securing it before retreating toward the window. His heart beat steadily—not out of fear, but a sharpened focus. He had planned for this, rehearsed a clean escape in his mind, just as Gareth had instructed him countless times.

  The instant his hand brushed the windowsill, the door to the office swung wide. Light spilled in from the hall, casting a long shadow as Vosset stepped inside. Velrik didn’t wait to see if the man had caught sight of him—he was already moving, slipping through the window and into the night before Vosset could take another step.

  The cool night air enveloped him like an embrace as he landed lightly on the windowsill below. Using his claws, he gripped the wooden surface and eased himself down into the alley. He barely made a sound. Above him, he could hear Vosset’s frustrated curses, the office window slamming open just as Velrik vanished into the cloak of darkness.

  By the time the merchant raised the alarm, the young rogue was already long gone.

  Velrik moved like a flickering shadow through the alleyway, paws barely whispering against the cobblestones as he wove between stacked crates and barrels. The distant shouts of Vosset’s guards sent a thrill through him—not fear, but exhilaration. They stood no chance of catching him, not in this dark embrace where his sharp eyes sliced through the gloom, and his ears caught every scuff of a boot, every clink of chainmail.

  He darted behind a stack of wooden crates and paused, ears flicking as heavy footsteps echoed towards the alley's entrance. Two guards—one grumbling about the cold, the other muttering curses about the intruder who dared breach Vosset’s office. Velrik remained motionless, his small form lost amid the deep shadows of the alley. Once their footsteps faded, he exhaled slowly and pressed on.

  The meeting place wasn’t far. Gareth had designated an abandoned storeroom near the southern river docks, a location where closed doors and hooded figures would raise no questions. Velrik took care, ensuring he wasn’t followed, stopping often to listen before slipping through the narrow passage between two nearby buildings.

  Upon reaching the storeroom, he rapped his knuckles against the door in a specific rhythm. After a brief pause, it creaked open just enough for him to slip inside.

  Gareth was already there, leaning against a wooden crate with arms crossed. The older rogue’s sharp eyes flicked to the ledger tucked beneath Velrik’s cloak before returning to meet his gaze. “Trouble?”

  “Not for me,” Velrik replied with a smirk, pulling the book free and laying it upon the crate between them. “Vosset came home early, but he didn’t see me. He’s riled up, though. His men are looking.”

  “Let them look.” Gareth flipped the ledger open, scanning its pages. “By the time they realize what’s missing, we’ll already be ahead of them.”

  Velrik watched as Gareth’s expression darkened with every turn of the pages. Even from where he stood, he could see the meticulously recorded names, debts spiraling into impossible amounts. Marked beside several names were symbols Velrik recognized, notations indicating individuals sold to slavers. Dozens of them.

  “Bastard’s been busy,” Gareth muttered. “Lucien’s going to want to see this as soon as possible.”

  Velrik nodded, tail flicking with anticipation. He never expected Gareth to be working for Lucien, and Lucien didn’t know he was involved. “What’s next?”

  Gareth closed the ledger and tucked it into his own pack. “Your friend Lucien hired me to retrieve this, and he needs me to do one more thing before delivering it to him.”

  Velrik tilted his head. “You’re not going alone, are you?”

  A sly smirk crossed Gareth’s lips. “Didn’t plan to. You’re coming with me.”

  Gareth’s demeanor shifted back to seriousness as he tightened the straps on his pack. “Once we confirm the names, our next step is identifying those already sold off. Lucien has men who can break them free, but we need to know where they are, how many guards they’re under, and the best route to extract them without alerting Vosset too early.”

  Velrik crossed his arms, thoughtful. “So we’re scouting slaver operations next?”

  Gareth nodded. “We start with the warehouses along the northern river docks. That’s where the majority of these transactions occur. We’ll provide the key information to Lucien’s people and ensure a safe passage for them.”

  Velrik exhaled, rolling his shoulders in readiness. “Good. I’m ready.”

  Gareth chuckled, a glint of pride in his eyes. “I don’t doubt it.”

  They lingered in the storeroom for a little while longer, awaiting night’s embrace to set in before slipping out into the shadows. Dawn loomed ahead, along with the next phase of their mission. Velrik's grip tightened around the hilt of his dagger as they navigated the quiet streets. Years of training had prepared him for this—learning how to fight, how to move unseen, how to strike at those who prey upon the weak.

  Now was the time to put those skills to action.

  Velrik traversed the alleys like a flickering shadow, silent steps on damp cobblestones. The scent of the river thickened in the night air, tinged with fish, tar, and decomposing wood. High-stacked crates loomed around him, their rough surfaces catching the dim glow of distant lanterns. He flicked his ears at the faint creak of a shifting dock plank—a night worker, perhaps, or another scoundrel about—nothing to raise alarm.

  His mind remained sharp and focused. Every step of his was calculated, respecting the delicacy needed to avoid any stray shards of glass or loose stones that could give him away. Gareth followed at a careful distance; his movements heavier yet equally practiced. Velrik had long since adapted to matching his pace to others when necessary, but tonight, he moved with complete freedom.

  “There,” Gareth murmured as they approached the northern river docks. He gestured toward a cluster of warehouses lining the shore, where torchlight flickered invitingly at the entrances. “Two guards outside that one. Could be what we’re looking for.”

  Velrik assessed the scene with eyes that allowed him to see more than any human could in the dark. The guards weren’t casually conversing as typical dockhands would; they stood rigidly, scanning their surroundings. Armed, albeit lightly. Not the usual city watch, then—likely hired muscle. He inhaled subtly, catching the faint scents of sweat and leather, with an undercurrent of something metallic, blood? Old, not fresh. This was a lead.

  Slipping beneath his cloak, Velrik withdrew a small scrap of cloth that Gareth had provided earlier—something Lucien secured from one of the missing slaves. Bringing it closer, he inhaled deeply. Faint yet distinct—it carried the scent of fear mingled with salt—human, but not one of the usual dockworkers.

  He glanced at Gareth, dropped his gear and cloak, then nodded slightly before melting into the darkness.

  The night would be his ally. Moving low, he slinked toward the warehouse, his small form hidden among the stacked barrels and discarded fishing nets. The flickering torches threw shifting patterns onto the ground, but he remained shrouded in shadows, each motion fluid and effortless.

  One of the guards shifted, turning his gaze slightly in Velrik's direction. Velrik froze, pressing himself tightly against the crates, ears pricked to catch every sound. A sigh. A scrape of boots. The man adjusted his stance—bored yet still vigilant.

  Patience.

  He waited until the guard turned away, then darted forward on all fours, slipping beneath the edge of a raised platform. A loose board jutted out slightly, and he pressed a clawed hand against it, testing its stability. Loose, but not enough to create noise. He eased himself under the structure, where slivers of light filtered through gaps in the planks above, accompanied by muffled voices.

  "Shipment goes out tomorrow," one guarded voice remarked. "Extra coin for those still healthy. The others... well, you know."

  "Yeah. Boss said no dead weight. If they can't work, they're not worth keeping."

  Velrik's fur bristled at the cruel words, but he maintained his steady breathing. He inched closer, peering through a crack in the planks. The scent on the cloth was stronger here. This was the place. Now, he just needed to ascertain how many captives were inside—and how to extract them.

  Velrik navigated the shadows, his body low as he maneuvered around the maze of crates and barrels scattered across the warehouse. The scent of damp wood and sweaty bodies clung to the air, mingled with the metallic undertone from the river’s edge. Every creak of the wooden planks beneath him sent a flicker of alertness through his being; his senses were honed for such a task.

  He had trained for nights like this—endless hours spent mastering the art of concealment and silent movement. His diminutive size provided an edge, allowing him to slip through gaps too tight for any man and hide in places where no human would ever think to look. To any passerby, he was just another fox scavenging for food along the docks. But his focus remained razor-sharp, locked on the cages stacked against the far wall.

  Heavy iron barred cells reinforced with thick wooden beams. The bars, though rusted, remained sturdy. The scents of unwashed bodies, a claustrophobic blend of fear and resignation, seeped from within. Velrik’s nose twitched as he sorted through the various aromas. He needed to find the right ones—the people Lucien tasked them to rescue.

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  Tucking himself low to the ground, he crept closer, ears flicking at the sound of quiet breaths and the occasional shuffle of limbs. Most of the slaves appeared either asleep or too fatigued to stir. A few murmured in their dreams, soft whispers steeped in despair. He paused, scanning the faces visible through the bars. His heart clenched at the sight of a child curled against a woman’s side, both their forms little more than skin and bone, evoking memories of his own difficult past.

  Then he caught it—a scent that stood out amongst the others.

  His head snapped toward the cage at the far end. A man sat slumped against the bars, wrists shackled, breathing slow yet steady. Velrik edged closer, inhaling deeply—yes, this was the one. The faint remnants of the scent from the fabric Gareth had given him earlier aligned perfectly with this man’s tattered tunic.

  Now, he just needed to escape without drawing attention.

  He retreated artfully, navigating through crates and barrels with precision to avoid disturbing anything in his path. His ears caught the echo of distant murmurs—guards, two of them, engaging in lazy conversation.

  Then, just as Velrik neared the exit, a sharp voice cut through the air.

  “What the hell is that?”

  Velrik froze. He turned his head just enough to see a guard near the door, torch held high, its flickering light casting wavering shadows across the walls.

  The man squinted, furrowing his brows in confusion.

  “Damn rats,” the other guard muttered. “Or a stray fox. Plenty of them around here.”

  Velrik’s tail flicked at the comment. He took a slow step forward, lowering his head as if to sniff the ground. Then, without warning, he darted to the side, quick and fluid, slipping into a darkened gap between barrels.

  “Tch. If it’s a fox, let it be. Probably just after scraps.”

  The first guard grunted but made no move to investigate. Velrik held his breath, ears keenly attuned to their movements, muscles coiled like a spring. When their footsteps retreated, he exhaled slowly and glided toward the exit, slipping through a narrow gap in the door and vanishing into the night.

  By the time he arrived at Gareth’s hiding spot, he was moving swiftly yet controlled, senses heightened from the recent mission. He spotted the older rogue first, crouched within the shadows beneath a stack of shipping crates, a hood drawn low over his face.

  Velrik offered a quiet huff of acknowledgment before padding closer. Gareth’s keen gaze flicked toward him, scanning the fox's form before nodding.

  “Safe?”

  Velrik stood up, releasing a slow breath. “Safe,” he murmured, voice quiet yet steady.

  Gareth handed over a neatly folded set of clothing, and Velrik wasted no time slipping into the comforting embrace of his gear. As he tightened the straps of his belt, he recounted everything he had witnessed—the cages, the guards, the scent that had led him to the right man.

  “They’re moving them tomorrow,” Velrik concluded, tugging on his cloak. “I don’t know the time, but they’ll likely do it before noon. If we’re going to act, we have until then.”

  Gareth nodded, contemplative. “Then we need to plan carefully. Lucien requires this information tonight.”

  Velrik rolled his shoulders, tail flicking behind him. He had done his part, yet this was merely the beginning. After first light, Lucien’s men would apprehend the slavers and free the slaves.

  Velrik settled into the shadows, ears flicking as he maintained watch over the warehouse. The night lay quiet, reduced to the occasional murmur of voices or the shuffle of boots on stone. The slavers had no reason for suspicion just yet. Most loitered near the entrance or patrolled in half-hearted circuits, their focus lax.

  Gareth had already slipped away to deliver the news to Lucien. Left alone, Velrik ensured stability before they moved to strike. He curled against the base of a crate, blending seamlessly with the darkness, watchful eyes fixed on the building's entrance. The scent of salt mingled with decaying wood, a constant reminder of the river’s presence. It was the perfect location to smuggle people out unnoticed—if they could act swiftly enough.

  Then came the movement.

  A figure darted through the alley; hurried footfalls barely audible on the cobblestones. Velrik's ears perked as he observed a messenger, a lanky man wrapped in a dark cloak, acknowledged by the guards at the front before disappearing into the warehouse. Alarm erupted at the back of Velrik’s mind. This was not routine.

  Quiet as a breath, Velrik straightened and crept forward. Keeping low, he pressed against the ground as he padded across the alley. The guards outside remained oblivious, engrossed in idle chatter about a card game. Perfect. He skirted the edge of the warehouse and slipped inside through the opening he had used previously.

  Within, the slaves remained caged while Velrik tuned into the voices ahead. He glided toward the rafters, claws finding firm purchase in the wooden beams as he climbed. Perched above, he could see the guards standing rigidly while the messenger spoke in hushed, hurried tones.

  “The ledger’s gone. Someone knows,” the messenger hissed. “We can’t risk waiting on the ship. It’s too slow. If the authorities come after us—”

  The guards’ faces darkened. “Then we change plans. Are the wagons ready?”

  “They’ll be here within the hour. We move them to a different port. Less traffic.”

  Velrik's stomach twisted in response. This complicates matters. If the slaves departed before Lucien's men arrived, their chances of stopping them would plummet significantly. He couldn’t afford to wait any longer.

  Descending as stealthily as he entered, Velrik darted out of the warehouse and into the night. He wove through the alleys, paws whispering against the stone. Upon reaching the rendezvous point, he found Gareth returning with a small group of Lucien's men. Velrik stood tall, wasting no time in relaying what he had discovered.

  “They’re on the move now. The wagons will arrive any minute,” he announced.

  Gareth cursed softly but nodded, a sense of urgency creeping into his demeanor. “Then we must act before they depart.” He turned to Lucien’s men. “Split into groups. Some of you need to cut off the street to the south—block their exit. The rest are with me.”

  Velrik tightened the straps on his gear, pulling the hood over his head. The real task was finally underway.

  The first wagon rattled into view just as Velrik slipped back into his position near the warehouses. Two men leapt down from the driver’s seat, waving to the guards as they readied themselves to load the captives. Another wagon followed closely behind. The slavers worked quickly, hauling chains and prodding the captives forward.

  From his hidden vantage point, Velrik remained alert, every muscle drawn tight. They couldn’t afford to hesitate. Gareth and the others had positioned themselves, but the slavers held the numbers advantage. Precision was non-negotiable.

  A sharp whistle sliced through the air—Gareth’s signal.

  Velrik moved.

  Dashing forward, he closed the distance to the nearest guard before the man could react. His knife flashed in the dim light, severing tendons behind the knee. The guard crumpled with a choked gasp.

  Shouts erupted around him.

  Gareth's men surged in from the sides, swords clashing as the slavers scrambled to defend themselves. Velrik ducked beneath a wild swing, leveraging his smaller stature to his benefit. He rolled forward, springing up behind another slaver to drive his dagger into the man’s lower back. A pained grunt echoed, swiftly stifled by the silence of death.

  Velrik had adapted to these conflicts now—the scent of blood, the tension that sprang from combat as he plunged his knife into the flesh of an enemy. His first kill had been a year ago—a vile criminal that still makes his skill crawl. Velrik had shown no qualms about cutting him down, though it took days for the weight of his actions to fade.

  One of the wagon drivers drew a crossbow, but Velrik was quicker. He hurtled toward the man, feinting left before twisting right, launching himself onto the driver’s back. Claws raked against fabric as he stabbed into the soft flesh of the man’s shoulder, forcing him to drop his weapon.

  A flash of movement caught his eye—another assailant.

  Velrik pivoted, narrowly evading a heavy cudgel that whistled past his ear. He slid low, sweeping the man’s legs out from under him before burying his knife deep into the man’s ribs.

  The fight was frenetic, brutal. The slavers fought fiercely, but their disarray left them vulnerable. Velrik glimpsed Gareth delivering a precise thrust of his rapier into the throat of a larger slaver. Lucien’s men advanced toward the wagons, eliminating any chance for escape.

  Within moments, the skirmish was at an end.

  The last remaining slaver dropped his weapon, hands raised in surrender. The others either lay dead or had fled into the night. The slaves now stood wide-eyed yet hesitant, clutching their chains while they awaited release.

  Velrik exhaled, heartbeat steadying as he cleaned his blade. Gareth turned to Lucien’s men. “Free them, but keep them here until the boss arrives.”

  Velrik watched as they moved to unlock the chains, one by one. The expressions of the captives transformed from fear to cautious relief. His hand instinctively touched his neck, feeling the absence of the collar that had once bound him.

  Vosset would not take this defeat lightly; however, Lucien held the crucial evidence he needed to dismantle the man’s operations.

  Lucien arrived just before dawn, his usual composed demeanor betraying flickers of fatigue. His coat was drawn tightly around him against the morning chill, sharp eyes scanning the scene—the remnants of conflict, slavers either slain or bound, and freed captives still lingering with uncertainty. Gareth stood at the center, orchestrating the sealing of loose ends.

  Velrik watched from a nearby rooftop, concealed in the lingering shadows. His tail flicked as he observed Lucien stepping cautiously through the aftermath, evaluating their night’s work. This was what Velrik wished him to see—not just proof of Vosset’s crimes, but also proof of his own growth, the value he could now offer.

  Lucien exchanged a steady word with Gareth, and the moment felt right. Velrik made his decision, descending from the rooftop swiftly and without sound, he then strolled toward them.

  Gareth was the first to notice, his expression inscrutable but layers of understanding evident in his gaze. He recognized what this moment signified for Velrik, the acknowledgment he sought from Lucien.

  Lucien's eyes fell upon Velrik, and for a fraction of a heartbeat, an unfamiliar emotion crossed his countenance. Not fear precisely—not quite. A sharp awareness. A realization. He had known Velrik as a clever boy, curious and observant, yet now, before him stood someone transformed—a young man tempered by blood and shadow, emerging out the other side newly sharpened, honed.

  Velrik met Lucien’s gaze with unwavering confidence as he absorbed the evolving impression on the man’s face. Lucien had always possessed the gift of identifying value where others did not, and Velrik could sense the rapid calculations unfolding behind his eyes.

  A collective breath escaped Lucien before he spoke, tension slipping from his shoulders, “This was you?”

  Velrik tilted his head slightly, tail flicking behind him in acknowledgment. “I told you I’d make good use of what I learned.”

  Lucien briefly glanced at Gareth, who merely smirked in response. “You didn’t tell me about your new apprentice,” Lucien murmured before returning his intensity to Velrik. “I knew you were intelligent, resourceful, but… this?”

  “I had to find what I was good at,” Velrik replied, voice steady but lacking coldness. He held no shame for his actions, nor did he celebrate them. Velrik gestured to Gareth. “He recognized something in me years ago, and I’m grateful for it. It’s this experience that I need to find my home.”

  Lucien observed him closely for a long moment before he sighed, rubbing his temples in thought. “I should have anticipated this. You always had a knack for getting in trouble and uncovering what you weren’t meant to.”

  A hint of a smirk tugged at Velrik’s lips. “And you never deterred me.”

  Lucien exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking his head. “No. I did not.”

  Something new flickered in Lucien’s gaze—respect, perhaps, or understanding. Whatever fear had been briefly present faded as he internalized just how far Velrik had come. Lucien knew him—knew that behind the blood on his hands remained that same keen-witted, curious boy he had first encountered. Just… different now. More dangerous. More capable.

  And potentially, more valuable than ever.

  “Alright,” Lucien finally declared. “Let us talk.”

  He drew in his breath, shifting his weight between Gareth and Velrik. The evidence against Vosset was indisputable, dozens of slaves liberated, ledgers extracted from the wagons detailing transactions, and several captives on hand who could, with the right pressure, divulge their master’s secrets. It was everything Lucien required to take action.

  The silence stretched heavily between them, weighty with unvoiced thoughts. Lucien's gaze flickered to Velrik once more, his expression inscrutable.

  “You performed exceptionally well,” Lucien finally pronounced, voice measured. “Better than I would have anticipated. But this is where you step back.”

  Velrik's ears twitched at the statement, brow furrowing in disbelief. “Why?”

  Gareth stepped in closer, crossing his arms. “Because this isn’t your fight, lad. Not any longer.”

  Velrik’s tail flicked behind him, an untrained habit. He glanced between the two, sensing that a verdict had already been rendered. They were not asking him to set aside his involvement; they were informing him of it.

  Lucien sighed, rubbing his temple. “Velrik, this is not merely about dismantling slavers. This is politics. Vosset wields significant power and has allies at his back. You’ve contributed, but continuing to push forward risks entangling you in matters far beyond your readiness.”

  Velrik stiffened, ears flattening slightly. He understood the words, yet they did not sit well within him. He fought just as fiercely as the rest. He had earned his place here. “I can manage.”

  “No, not this time.” Lucien's tone remained firm, laced with no malice. If anything, there was a hint of concern beneath the surface. “You are talented, Velrik. More than just that—you are dangerous, and you turn heads. And that is precisely why you must know when to step back.”

  Gareth placed a firm hand on Velrik’s shoulder. “This isn’t a slight against you, lad. It’s us protecting you. There’s a greater scheme at play here than you realize. One day, you will have your chance, but today isn’t that day.”

  Velrik clenched his jaw but said nothing. He had faced danger for years and had no fear of it. Still, he respected Gareth and Lucien, even if their reasoning eluded him. After a moment’s reflection, he nodded, albeit reluctantly.

  Lucien scrutinized him a moment longer, before reaching into his coat and producing a small leather pouch. He tossed it toward Velrik, who caught it instinctively. The unmistakable weight of it hinted at gold.

  “A reward,” Lucien declared. “For your efforts. Think of it as another investment.”

  Velrik’s ears perked. “Investment?”

  Lucien smirked. “Let’s just say I have faith you’ll find a way to utilize it well.”

  Velrik stared at the pouch, tightening his grip around it as determination bloomed within him. He would put it to use—every step forward, every coin earned, every lesson learned—it all circled back to a singular goal.

  Finding his home.

  He exhaled deeply, tucking the pouch away into his cloak. “Fine. I will step back. Oh, and don't tell the others, I haven't worked out if I'm going to tell them yet.”

  Lucien and Gareth exchanged knowing glances before Lucien broke the silence, “Rest assured, your secret is safe with me.” Gareth ruffled Velrik’s head playfully. “That’s a good lad. Now go get some rest before the others notice.”

  Velrik remained silent, thoughts racing ahead. He may have taken a step back from the immediate fight, but he was far from done. Not by a long shot.