Chapter 11: Poisoned Truth

The village of Frostspire slept beneath smoke-veiled skies, its crooked roofs clustered like teeth at the base of the Keep.

Alvin and Frey moved among the shadows, cloaks dusted in ash, hoods low.

“Trader couple,” he muttered. “That’s our cover.”

“I’d feel safer if my ribs weren’t grinding when I breathe.”

“You said you could walk.”

“I can. I didn’t say I liked it.”

They slipped into a tavern near the square, warm and loud with drunken laughter. A bard strummed near the hearth. Mercenaries filled the corner booths, voices slurred and vicious.

Alvin and Frey settled near the back.

Two men at the next table leaned in, speaking low.

“…said she’s still alive. The Silver bitch. Huge bounty if we bring her in during the Eclipse.”

“Alive?”

“Yeah. Pretender wants to make a show of it—bind her at the altar, let the moon finish what poison couldn’t.”

Alvin’s jaw tensed.

Frey reached under the table, gripping his hand.