Lead.

Hildrebrand was an ordinary city, smaller than Vash'kar, with quiet streets and a modest market square. It lacked the bustling energy of larger hubs, but that made it easier for secrets to hide in plain sight.

Rael moved through the crowd, his steps measured and his posture unassuming. He wore the appearance of a low-level adventurer—simple leather armor, a worn bow strapped to his back, and a nondescript hood that cast a shadow over his face. He looked like any other traveler passing through Hildrebrand, just another nameless face in the crowd. And that was exactly what he needed.

The token was long gone, but he hoped to uncover traces of the operation. Leads, whispers, anything that could point him in the right direction. His goal was clear: figure out who had the resources and audacity to pull off a heist under the Order's nose.

He had spent the better part of two days acclimating to Hildrebrand, mapping its districts and observing the flow of goods and information. The markets were a labyrinth of trade, the docks a hive of illicit activity. But it was the lower districts—the part of the city where buildings leaned into one another, casting the streets into perpetual twilight—that held the answers he sought.

His first lead came from a dockworker, an NPC with a perpetual scowl and a gruff tone. The man complained about increased cargo inspections, his voice low and wary. Normally, shipments moved smoothly through the docks, but lately, a new set of guards had appeared—not the Order's soldiers, but a private force clad in nondescript grays. Rael observed them from the shadows, his sharp eyes catching the barely visible emblem on their armor, a coiled serpent, its eyes rendered in dark silver thread.

The serpent emblem wasn't just a random mark—it was the insignia of a supposed merchant guild, Silver Coil Trading. On the surface, the guild dealt in spices, fabrics, and rare imports, but Rael knew better. His research had uncovered rumors of the Silver Coil acting as a front for smuggling operations, using legitimate trade to hide illicit goods and move assets undetected through the Order's watchful eyes.

He followed the trail to a warehouse by the docks. It stood at the end of a narrow street, its windows barred and its door guarded by two of the serpent-marked soldiers. Rael slipped into a side alley, his back against the cold stone as he activated Veil Step, a skill he had acquired from a skill book he'd purchased earlier. The ability rendered him semi-transparent for a few precious seconds. He moved quickly, slipping into a drainage channel that led beneath the warehouse.

Inside, voices echoed through the stonework. Rael lay flat against the grating, peering through into the dimly lit interior. Crates lined the walls, stamped with false insignias from distant cities. People moved among them—laborers, by the look of them—but their movements were too coordinated. He noted the way they lifted the boxes, how they communicated with subtle hand signals. Not random workers, then. Operatives of the Silver Coil.

Rael's breath slowed as he listened.

"…next shipment goes north. Make sure the markings match the manifest this time."

A gruff voice, the speaker out of sight. Rael squinted through the grate, catching the edge of a shadow.

"Who's paying for this one?"

"The same. Doesn't matter. Just get it done."

The other man didn't respond, merely nodded and moved to oversee the loading process.

Rael's mind churned. Shipments, disguised goods, and a private force. This wasn't a small-time operation. It was a supply chain, hidden beneath the guise of everyday commerce. Whoever was behind this had deep pockets and a careful hand.

He stayed until the guards changed, noting the rotation. The warehouse operated under a strict schedule, with shifts that blended into the natural rhythms of the city. By the time he slipped back into the streets, the sun had started its descent, painting Hildrebrand in shades of amber and shadow.

Rael found a quiet corner in a half-abandoned inn, the kind where patrons kept to themselves and the barkeep asked no questions. His room was sparse, but it offered privacy. He opened his inventory, pulling out a small map of the city. With a charcoal stick, he marked the routes he had seen—the paths the crates had taken, the docks, the warehouse. Each line connected to another, and slowly a pattern emerged.

The shipments moved in a circuit. They never left the city directly but instead transferred from one nondescript building to another. The serpent emblem appeared in three places—warehouses, a merchant's office, and a small guard post near the city's western gate.

The next morning, he shadowed a convoy. The guards wore gray, the same coiled serpent barely visible beneath their cloaks. He kept his distance, slipping into crowds, vanishing into alleyways whenever they paused. The convoy led him through the bustling markets, past the quiet residential blocks, and finally to the guard post he had marked the night before.

Rael didn't approach. Instead, he circled around, finding a vantage point on a low rooftop. He lay flat against the shingles, watching as the crates were unloaded and carried inside. He waited, the minutes stretching into an hour, until the last of the guards disappeared.

He moved as the sun dipped behind the city walls, shadows pooling in the streets. A side window, barred but not reinforced, provided his entrance. He slipped a lockpick from his inventory, the tool small and nondescript, and within moments the latch gave with a soft click.

Inside, the air was cool and smelled of old wood and damp stone. The building was more of an administrative hub than a guard post, its rooms filled with ledgers and documents. Rael moved silently, his footsteps muffled by the worn carpet.

He found what he was looking for in a back office. The papers were scattered, as if someone had left in a hurry. Manifests, trade agreements, most of them legitimate. But beneath them, hidden under a ledger, he found a slip of parchment marked with the same serpent emblem.

It was a coded document, the kind the system wouldn't translate automatically. Rael took a quick picture, slipping the parchment back into its place.

The exit was smooth. He retraced his path, slipping through the window and back into the maze of alleyways. His mind raced with the possibilities about the connections, the network, the hidden resources that this organization possessed.

As he reached the relative safety of the crowded market, Rael allowed himself a small, fleeting smile. He had a thread now, something to pull.

* * *

Rael returned to his rented room at the inn, the dim light filtering through the grime-covered window. He unrolled the parchment he had photographed, the serpent emblem staring back at him. Deciphering codes wasn't his specialty, but this one was hardly a challenge. It took him less than ten minutes to crack it.

The coded document unraveled slowly, revealing fragmented information. Keywords stood out: "Supply Chain," "Vault 7," and "Crowsfoot." A few names were listed, none of them significant on their own, but the repeated mention of "Crowsfoot" piqued his interest.

Rael tapped his fingers rhythmically against the table, his mind churning. He had heard the name "Crowsfoot" before—overheard during a hushed conversation at a bar. Back then, it had been nothing more than drunken rambling between two traders, a mention of smuggling routes and discreet dealings. But now, with the coded document in front of him, the connection seemed anything but coincidental.

The Crowsfoot were an underground syndicate of NPCs, specializing in logistics and black market trade. They thrived in the shadows, moving goods quietly through city borders, avoiding taxes and inspections. If someone needed to smuggle artifactst these were the people to use.

With this new lead, Rael planned his approach. The Crowsfoot operated out of an old distillery in Hildrebrand's southern district. The building itself was a front, a legitimate business by day, a hub of clandestine trade by night. Rael knew he couldn't just walk in and start asking questions. He needed to slip in, observe, and gather information without drawing attention.

As night fell, Rael donned a new disguise—this time as a courier. He borrowed the appearance of a common person by equipping a simple brown tunic and a cap that shaded his face.

The distillery loomed ahead, its exterior worn but sturdy. A few carts were lined up outside, barrels being unloaded by workers who moved with a practiced efficiency. Rael watched from a shadowed alcove, noting the rotation of guards. Unlike the warehouse, these guards were not as well-armed. They relied on blending in with the workers rather than intimidating with force.

Rael activated Veil Step and slipped through a side entrance. The distillery's interior was a maze of barrels, crates, and the heavy scent of fermenting grain. He moved quietly, his steps barely disturbing the dust. Deeper inside, voices echoed off the stone walls. Rael edged closer, peering through the gaps between crates.

A group of NPCs stood around a makeshift table, its surface scarred and stained. At the head of the group was a broad-shouldered man with a red scarf, his presence commanding. He leaned over a map of Hildrebrand, his fingers tracing routes with practiced precision.

"Thorne said the shipment needs to be out before dawn," a wiry man with a perpetual sneer muttered. His voice was low, but it carried, bouncing off the stone walls. "No mistakes this time."

Rael's eyes narrowed. Thorne. The name hung in the air, sharp and unplanned. The man with the red scarf didn't react, his expression remaining a careful mask. If he was Thorne, he wasn't about to draw attention to it.

"Then get moving," the red-scarfed man said, his tone measured. "We don't want any heat from the Order. Keep the crates covered and make sure no one asks questions. The boss doesn't pay for loose lips."

The others murmured assent, breaking off into smaller groups. The Crowsfoot weren't just workers—they moved with the ease of practiced routines, their roles ingrained. Rael watched them disperse, each one slipping into the shadows with purpose.

He crept further into the distillery, guided by instinct. The storage room he found was tucked behind a reinforced door, its lock old but stubborn. His lockpicking skill triggered a brief minigame, and within moments the door creaked open.

Inside, crates were stacked to the ceiling. Rael pried one open, revealing mundane items—grain, ale, basic supplies. But the next crate held something different. Carefully wrapped in cloth, he found a set of vials filled with shimmering liquid. Unmarked. No trade sigils, no guild stamps. The kind of cargo that would raise questions in official circles.

He ran his fingers over the vials, noting the weight and the faint hum of magic beneath the glass. Whoever needed these had a reason for avoiding scrutiny. Components, the sneering man had said. The word lingered, not quite fitting into place.

A sudden noise snapped Rael from his thoughts. Footsteps, heavy and approaching. He tucked the cloth back into place and slipped behind a row of barrels. Two guards entered, talking in hushed tones.

"...Thorne's orders. We're moving the special cargo out tonight. The boss doesn't want anything left behind if the Order starts sniffing around."

Rael's pulse quickened. Special cargo. The words were deliberately vague, but the urgency suggested value. He waited until the guards left, then made his escape through the same side door he had entered.

Back at the inn, Rael poured over his notes. The Crowsfoot's operation was large, but their secrecy implied caution. There was a line here, thin and nearly invisible, that connected them to something bigger. Rael couldn't act directly, not yet, but he could stir the waters. He drafted a letter, sending an anonymous tip to the Order's local enforcers about illicit activities at the distillery.

A smile tugged at his lips. "Let's cast a line and see what bites."