Chapter 21 – The Fifth Name

The snow had stopped by morning, leaving a brittle hush that made every board in the loft creak louder under my step. The air inside was thick with the scent of old wood and dust, the remnants of a life that had long since moved on. Pale light spilled through the shutters, catching the tokens where I'd left them on the table—three small circles of brass, each stamped with a mark that could open doors or close them forever. I gathered them into a scrap of cloth and tied it shut, their weight pressing into my palm like a secret too heavy to carry but too dangerous to leave behind. They felt heavier than coin, heavier than most things I'd carried, as if they bore the burden of the choices tied to them.

**The List and the Ledger**

The list lay beneath the ledger, its edges curled from handling, the ink faded but still sharp against the parchment. Two names remained. I ran my thumb along the ink, feeling the faint texture where the quill had dug into the page, each name a potential ally or enemy. The fifth was a name I had never heard spoken aloud: *Harel Yvane*. Elinne's note beside it was brief, a warning wrapped in expectation: *Known to deal in restricted scrip. Approach with caution.* I traced the letters once more, the parchment cool against my skin, before folding it and slipping it into my coat. Caution, then. But not hesitation.

Before I left, I added a final line to my ledger: *Four alliances pledged. Two unknown.* The words felt like a tether, grounding me in the choices I had made and the risks still ahead. I closed the cover and set my hand against the worn leather, as though steadying it—or myself. The ledger was more than a record; it was a testament to the path I had chosen, a story written in ink and parchment that would speak for me when I could not.

**The Departure**

I paused at the door, feeling the chill seep through the iron latch into my palm. For a moment, the impulse came to lock the ledger away, to hide it where no one else could turn its pages. But I did not move. Whatever ledger I left behind would speak for itself when the time came. It was a part of me now, as much as the tokens or the list—a burden and a shield. When I stepped into the street, the last of the night's frost cracked beneath my boots, the sound sharp and final. I did not look back.

**The Journey Through Hallowmere**

The quarter where Yvane kept his office was older than the rest of Hallowmere, a labyrinth of ancient buildings that leaned close as if sharing secrets. Their facades were weathered and cracked, some so bowed with age they seemed to whisper to one another across the narrow lanes. The cobblestones were uneven, slick with ice and snow, and the air was colder here, stiller, as though even the wind had learned not to linger. Shadows pooled in the alleys, dark and watchful, and the silence pressed against my ears like a warning.

I moved carefully, past shuttered shops and the dark mouths of alleys where the light dared not reach. Twice, I caught the flicker of movement behind me—a hint of motion at the edge of sight, a scrape of snow that could have been a footfall. The first time, I stopped and turned, scanning the length of the lane. Empty. The second time, I did not stop. Fear, I had learned, was not an argument worth repeating. It was a companion now, a shadow that walked with me, sharpening my senses but never slowing my steps.

**The Door and the Encounter**

At last, I found the door I'd been told to look for: unpainted wood, reinforced with iron braces so old they had gone dull as lead. No sign. No knocker. Only the hush of a place that expected no visitors—and tolerated even fewer. I rapped twice with my knuckles, the sound swallowed by the stillness. Silence answered, thick and unyielding. I set my palm flat against the wood, feeling the chill seep through my glove. The door was old and weathered, its surface scarred by time and neglect, radiating a sense of foreboding as if it guarded secrets too dangerous to be spoken aloud. Some part of me thought, absurdly, that it might feel me there—some hidden awareness behind the grain.

Then a bolt scraped back, the sound grating against the quiet like a blade drawn from its sheath. The door opened a crack, and a woman's face appeared, pale and drawn in the dimness. Her eyes were sharp and colorless, as if whatever warmth had once filled them had been drained away by too many disappointments. They flicked over me, assessing, judging.

"State your purpose," she said, her voice as cold as the air that seeped from within.

"My name is Ren Arcanon," I said, my voice steady despite the tension coiling in my stomach.

Her gaze darted over my shoulders, scanning the empty street behind me, then back to my face. A flicker of recognition passed through her eyes, quickly masked. "Who told you to come?"

"Elinne."

She did not blink. "And you expect that to mean something to me?"

"I expect it to mean you'll listen."

A long pause stretched between us, the silence heavy with unspoken calculations. Her eyes narrowed, studying my mouth, my coat, the way my breath clouded in the cold. It was as if she could see through me, to the tokens hidden in my pocket, to the weight of the choices I carried. "You carry something," she said, her voice softer now, almost accusatory.

"Perhaps."

"Then you'd best step carefully."

She closed the door with a soft click, leaving me alone in the cold. I stood there, counting each heartbeat as though it might be the last before I turned away. Snow began to fall again, slow and deliberate, dusting the shoulders of my coat like a shroud. At last, the bolt drew back a second time, and the door swung wide, opening into a hall so narrow I would have to turn sideways to pass.

"Come in," the woman said, her voice flat as an old ledger, but something in her eyes had shifted—caution, perhaps, or calculation. I stepped across the threshold, feeling the hush of the place settle around me like a veil. It was colder inside than it had been in the street, the air thick with the scent of dust, old parchment, and the faint tang of something metallic, like ink or blood long dried. She closed the door behind me with a final-sounding click, and the darkness swallowed us whole.