Chapter 43 Trouble Comes Knocking

### Chapter 43: Trouble Comes Knocking

The sun cast a golden hue over Salevo as the day settled into late afternoon. In the small, cramped room of the inn they had rented, Trill was hard at work. A cauldron bubbled faintly over a magical heating rune, and the air was thick with the pungent aroma of herbs and minerals. Trill's hands moved with practiced precision, grinding dried beetroot into powder before sprinkling it into the mix.

He stirred the potion carefully, his mind focused on its transformation from a viscous green to a pale blue. These brews, meant to enhance strength and speed temporarily, were valuable both in combat and for trading.

Just as he reached for another ingredient, a sharp knock came at the door. Trill's hand paused mid-reach. His instincts flared, and he silently set down the vial of concentrated foxglove extract. The knock came again, harder this time, followed by muffled voices.

"Open up! We know you're in there!"

Trill exhaled slowly, wiping his hands on a rag before strapping his sword to his hip. He walked to the door and opened it just a crack, enough to see two burly men in rough leather armor standing outside. Both had the hard, weathered faces of hired muscle.

"What do you want?" Trill asked, his voice calm but edged with warning.

The larger of the two men sneered. "You insulted the wrong man, outsider. Lord Renard doesn't take kindly to being denied."

Trill raised an eyebrow. "So, he sent the two of you to convince me?"

The smaller thug smirked. "Smart boy. Step aside and let us in, and we'll make this easy. Otherwise…"

Trill didn't let him finish. He slammed the door shut and locked it, then quickly overturned the small wooden table in the room to create a barrier. He reached into his pouch and retrieved a handful of small seeds, scattering them across the floor. Whispering a quick incantation, the seeds sprouted into thick vines that curled protectively around the entrance.

The thugs, now pounding on the door, shouted threats. "You think a locked door will stop us?"

Trill remained calm, picking up a flask of alchemical oil. He held it in one hand while drawing his sword with the other. The door splintered under the weight of a heavy boot, and the thugs burst in—only to be immediately ensnared by the writhing vines.

The larger thug struggled, his blade cutting uselessly at the vines. "What the—"

Trill hurled the flask of oil at the man's feet, and the liquid erupted into a flash of fire. The thug screamed, falling to the ground as the flames licked at his boots.

The smaller thug managed to slice through the vines and lunged at Trill. But Trill was faster. He parried the attack with a smooth twist of his sword, then delivered a swift kick to the man's chest, sending him sprawling.

"Tell Lord Renard," Trill said coldly, stepping over the smaller thug, "that if he wants to talk, he can do it himself."

The thugs, battered and humiliated, scrambled out of the room. Trill stood in the wreckage of his inn room, the vines retracting as he sighed. "So much for a quiet evening," he muttered, returning to his potion.

---

Meanwhile, Lyra had made her way to a quieter part of the city, where the Little Thieves Guild operated in the shadows. She had received a cryptic note earlier in the day, requesting her presence at an abandoned warehouse.

When she arrived, a small group of halflings and street urchins greeted her. Their leader, a wiry halfling with sharp eyes and a confident smirk, stepped forward.

"Didn't think you'd show," he said, tipping an imaginary hat.

Lyra crossed her arms. "You said you had information about Malgrin. I'm here for that, not games."

The halfling's smirk widened. "Straight to business. I like that. Word on the street is Malgrin's been snatching up kids from the slums. Nobody knows why, but it's happening more and more. Some of our own have gone missing."

Lyra's expression darkened. "Why tell me? What's your angle?"

The halfling shrugged. "We're thieves, not monsters. If Malgrin's up to something, it's bad for all of us. You've got the skills to do something about it."

Lyra studied him for a moment before nodding. "Fine. But if this is a trap…"

The halfling held up his hands. "No tricks. Just watch your back. Malgrin's people don't play fair."

As she left the meeting, Lyra's mind raced with questions. She needed to share this with Trill and Bren as soon as possible.

---

Bren wandered through the winding streets of Salevo, her mood restless. She had spent most of the day searching for leads on her old organization but had come up with little more than dead ends.

Her steps led her to a narrow alley, where a decrepit blacksmith's shop caught her eye. The wooden sign above the door was faded and cracked, but the faint outline of a sword was still visible.

Curious, Bren pushed open the door. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of metal and soot. A single, elderly blacksmith stood behind the counter, his hands calloused and his face weathered.

"Looking for something?" he asked, his voice rough but not unkind.

Bren hesitated before replying. "Just browsing."

The blacksmith nodded and gestured to the racks of weapons lining the walls. Most were ordinary—serviceable but unremarkable. But one blade caught Bren's attention.

It was a longsword, its hilt wrapped in worn leather and its blade etched with intricate, almost organic patterns that resembled vines. Bren reached for it, and the moment her fingers brushed the hilt, a strange warmth surged through her.

"This sword," she said, turning to the blacksmith. "Where did you get it?"

The old man's expression grew somber. "That blade's been here longer than I have. People say it's cursed, but I think it's just waiting for the right person."

Bren studied the sword, feeling an almost magnetic pull toward it. "I'll take it," she said, her voice firm.

The blacksmith nodded, a knowing look in his eyes. "Take care of it. And yourself."

As Bren left the shop, the sword strapped to her back, she couldn't shake the feeling that this blade held more than just steel.

---

Later that evening, the three of them regrouped at the inn. Trill recounted his encounter with the noble's goons, Lyra shared the disturbing news about Malgrin's kidnappings, and Bren revealed her discovery of the mysterious sword.

"This city's got more layers than we thought," Lyra said, her tone grim.

Trill nodded, his gaze thoughtful. "If Malgrin's involved, we need to tread carefully. But we can't ignore this."

Bren placed her hand on the hilt of her new sword. "Whatever's coming, we face it together."

For a moment, the three of them sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts. Trouble was brewing in Salevo, and they were right in the middle of it.