Interlude 3.2

There were certain things Lysska had come to both loathe and grudgingly appreciate during her formative years in the lower district of Varkaigrad. After all, it was a place so tangled and treacherous it could twist even the straightest of spines into survivalists or well… corpses.

The upper-district folk, with their manicured hands and perfumed disdain, had given it a name, dripping with condescension: Shadow’s Warren. A fitting title, she thought, for the district's labyrinthine sprawl of sagging shanties and narrow alleys teeming with those allegedly too poor to afford even the middling misery of the middle district. Here, poverty wasn’t just a lack of coin but a predator that hunted in packs: hunger, despair, and betrayal.

Lysska adjusted a stray strand of dark hair in the cracked mirror beside her ground-floor window—her perch overlooking the winding streets below. This was her “office,” such as it was, where she offered her services as a self-proclaimed detective. The title lent a veneer of respectability to her otherwise questionable activities, and the coins it brought in weren’t unwelcome either. In Shadow’s Warren, every coin earned came at someone else’s expense. She was simply better at stacking her expenses on other people’s backs.

Her eyes fluttered closed for a moment, the corners of her lips curving into a faint smile, as if she could hear some distant, secret melody carried on the wind. She couldn’t, of course—not literally—but there was always music to the chaos if you knew how to listen.

The notes were the shouts of hagglers in the market. The scrape of boots on cobblestones. The muffled whispers of deals struck in shadowed alcoves. Lysska had long since learned to play her part in this cacophony, her ears and eyes attuned to it all, not unlike a spider in the middle of its web.

Her reverie was shattered by a shrill, whining voice.

“WHISPER! I’M BORED!”

Lysska’s head turned with a lazy precision, her amber eyes fixing on the younger Faerin sprawled on the threadbare sofa behind her. Vyra, well, part apprentice, part accomplice, and entirely too loud. She was tossing a small ball between her hands with all the drama of someone utterly uninterested in their surroundings.

“I’ve told you time and time again,” Lysska said, “not to call me Whisper when we’re working. Or, for that matter, ever when we’re not wearing our masks.”

“But Whisper’s such a cool name,” Vyra countered with a theatrical pout, her fox ears twitching. “Way cooler than whatever Lysska is supposed to mean. No offense.”

“Plenty taken,” Lysska replied.

Vyra shrank back under Lysska’s stare, mumbling, “It’s not like anyone’s around to hear… No harm done.”

The younger girl’s naivety sometimes grated on Lysska’s nerves. “Never assume you’re alone,” she said coolly. “Not here. Not ever.”

Even as she spoke, Lysska’s senses extended far beyond the dim confines of her office. She was watching the market square through the eyes of a sharp-eyed crow perched on the roof of a crumbling bakery. Her ears were tuned to the faint scuffles of a would-be pickpocket sneaking through the sewers beneath her feet. In the skies, another crow soared, surveying the district’s maze from above, while a pair of crows whispered secrets from the alleys.

Her network of creatures, her spies and sentinels. A lucky stroke of enlightenment had provided her with these unseen eyes and ears. Now these were her edge in a world where information was the only currency that mattered.

Of course, Lysska would never share the full extent of her abilities with Vyra—or anyone else, for that matter. Trust was a double-edged blade in a city like Varkaigrad, where loyalty was a currency spent far too quickly. A hint here, a breadcrumb there—that was enough. Anything more, and trust would curdle into expectation, which inevitably soured into disappointment. And disappointment? That led to betrayal, as sure as the sun rose over the upper districts.

She reached beneath the counter, pulling out a stack of ink-stained papers that begged for her attention. Records to review, leads to follow, discrepancies to resolve—a detective’s work was never glamorous. Especially in Varkaigrad, where every solved mystery seemed to unravel into three new ones, each more tangled than the last. Care was not just a virtue here; it was a survival skill.

And lately, something was stirring. Lysska could feel it in the air, in the whispers exchanged in darkened alleys and the wary glances traded across crowded squares. Questions stacked upon questions, each answer revealing another layer of rot beneath the surface. It was the sort of storm that could rip through the city like a wild beast, and Lysska intended to be ready when it hit. More importantly, she needed to ensure the few people she cared about didn’t end up as collateral damage. In a city of millions, it was far too easy to become a nameless casualty—forgotten and useless, swept away in the tide of chaos.

Her gaze flicked across the room, taking in her office. It certainly symbolized Lysska’s pragmatism and Vyra’s lack of it. Two mismatched, lumpy sofas dominated the center of the room, their stuffing escaping in tufts. The counter by the window served as both workspace and barrier, separating Lysska from the street outside. To one side, a cramped kitchen offered little more than a sputtering stove and a stack of unwashed dishes. Vyra lounged on one of the sofas, her lanky form draped across it like an abandoned marionette, tossing her ball in increasingly elaborate arcs.

“Do you ever do anything useful?” Lysska asked, her eyes still scanning the papers in her hand.

Vyra caught the ball mid-toss and sat up, her ears flicking with irritation. “Useful is boring. Exciting is better. When do we get to do something exciting?” Then, as if struck by a sudden thought, she perked up. “Oh! Speaking of exciting—didn’t you say you were going to try and recruit that Venom girl?”

Lysska’s lips twitched into a half-smile. “She’s still on the list,” she replied, setting the papers down. “But someone like her? You don’t just walk up and say, ‘Fancy joining us?’ She’s the type to bolt—or bite—if you make the wrong move.”

“So… we’re waiting?” Vyra asked.

“Patience isn’t just a virtue; it’s a strategy,” Lysska said, leaning back in her chair. “She’s bold enough to attack Iron. That tells me two things: she’s got guts, and she’s after something specific. Whatever it is, she’ll come back for it sooner or later. And when she does, my little network will let me know.”

Her gaze drifted to the window. Truthfully, Lysska was intrigued. Venom wasn’t just a potential recruit; she was a puzzle, waiting to be solved. Lysska trusted her instincts, and her instincts told her this girl was more than just another street-level brawler.

“She’ll come around,” Lysska said, more to herself than to Vyra. “And when she does, we’ll see what she’s made of.”

Vyra leaned back against the sofa, arms crossed. “You’re always so sure about these things. It’s annoying.”

Lysska smirked. “Doubt is a slow emotion, Vyra. And I don’t have the time.”

Her eyes flicked to Vyra, one brow arching. “Also, we might need to revisit your definition of exciting. Since when does ‘exciting’ include getting shanked in an alley or hauled into a sewer by someone twice your size?”

Vyra groaned, rolling her eyes like a seasoned professional. “I’m just saying, sitting here, waiting for something to happen, feels like a slow death.”

“Torture builds character,” Lysska quipped, tone dry.

The truth was, Lysska got it. She really did. Vyra’s restlessness was a tangible thing, buzzing around the room like an insect you couldn’t swat. But the past few days? They’d been what Lysska generously labeled as eventful.

First, there was Iron and his gang, who’d started shifting into their beast forms with a disturbing frequency and even more disturbing recklessness. Subtlety? Not on their agenda. They were picking fights with every other gang in town, trampling on the unspoken rule to keep their chaos under wraps. Then there was that strange incident in the market square—some attack that didn’t add up. And the disappearances? Fifty children gone from the lower district, snatched up like smoke.

Also the Elven ambassador from Lithrindel, supposedly cozying up to the FrostFang sect’s ruling family—one of the five who held the reins of Varkaigrad. The city was a stew of unrest, bubbling just shy of boiling over.

And as if that wasn’t enough, shadows from Lysska’s own past had started slinking into the picture. She and Vyra had been running for a while now, fleeing a life they’d both outgrown and barely survived. The organization that had once trained them, molded them, turned them into tools—it was resurfacing. And Lysska had burned more than one bridge with them, running off with a few of their tightly held secrets in the process.

She shook her head, snapping herself out of it. As long as they kept their heads down and their presence as inconspicuous as a whisper, they could stay ahead of trouble. She had the upper hand here in Varkaigrad. Years of careful groundwork had given her an advantage.

On the surface, she was just a clever detective. A dogged investigator who knew how to dig where it hurt. But beneath that mask? She was Whisper, a member of a gang that moved like smoke through the city’s underbelly. That name came with its own weight, its own set of complications. Juggling her double life took skill, cunning, and a flirtation with luck. Fortunately, Lysska had all three in spades, or so she liked to believe. Luck, though? That one was a capricious partner.

“Get used to the quiet,” she told Vyra without looking up. “It never lasts.”

As if summoned by her words, the faint chime of the bell above the office door rang. Lysska’s head snapped up. A figure stumbled inside, hurried and nervous.

The boy stumbled in like a breathless ghost, no older than fifteen or sixteen. His oversized robe hung loose on his wiry frame, and the round hat perched atop his head didn’t suit him in the slightest. Borrowed? Stolen? Both options danced through Lysska’s mind. Maybe scavenged from someone who wouldn’t be needing it anymore. Another mental note filed away for later.

But she recognized him—oh, she remembered this scrappy little survivor. She’d helped him once, yanking his sorry hide out of trouble when an Iron Pact enforcer had him cornered for nosing around the wrong places.

Before Lysska could greet him with some biting remark, the boy blurted out, “Help me!” His voice came in a frantic hiss, and only then did Lysska notice his face—flushed, panting, fear bleeding into his wide eyes.

Vyra leapt from the sofa, tension snapping through her like a taut wire.

Lysska’s gaze flicked upward, catching a murder of crows circling in the distance. Through the eyes of the flock, she spotted the threat—a lone enforcer cutting a direct path toward her shop. Well, wasn’t that convenient?

With a resigned sigh, Lysska turned to Vyra and signed for her to move.

Vyra grabbed the boy, hauling him toward the back of the shop. She shoved him into the farthest closet and slammed it shut. A quick thread of mana sparked to life, activating the protective runes etched into the doorframe.

Moments later, the front door swung open with an ominous creak. No knock, no hesitation. A man stepped in, carried by a hovering sword like he had someplace far more important to be. His flowing blue robes screamed self-importance, and the Force spell he used to let himself in announced he wasn’t big on formalities. His face was all hard angles and disdain, carved out of pure arrogance.

Enforcer.

Lysska forced a smile, rising from her seat with deliberate grace, her robe swishing at her heels. “Welcome, sir. How may I help you?”

The man sneered at her, the kind of expression reserved for something you’d scrape off your shoe. His eyes swept the room, and it was clear he expected to find filth—just by glaring hard enough.

“Keeping that mouth of yours shut would be a good start,” he snapped, brushing past her as if she were furniture.

Lysska’s smile didn’t falter, but internally she rolled her eyes hard enough to rattle her skull. Gods, the arrogance. Iron Pact enforcers were a special breed of audacious, especially in the Lower District. Strutting in here like he owned the place, alone, without a hint of backup? Bold move. A move that would’ve had him groveling if she were still Whisper, not Detective Lysska. Too bad for him. Too bad for her, too, because this charade of hers had its limits.

Vyra bristled at his tone, but Lysska placed a hand on her shoulder, steadying her before the girl could snap. Vyra pouted but stayed put.

“Sir,” Lysska said, her voice smooth as silk, “it’d be a lot easier if you told me what you’re looking for. I’m just an upright detective trying to help.” She held out a card, its council stamp gleaming faintly. “See? Official and everything.”

The enforcer gave the card a cursory glance, his lip curling in disdain. “A boy,” he barked. “Fifteen, maybe sixteen. He came here. Tell me where he is, and I’ll let you all walk out of here.”

Well, wasn’t he generous.

Lysska tilted her head, her smile sharpening just a fraction. “I can assure you, no one’s come through here. Perhaps you’re mistaken?”

“Shut the fuck up!” he snapped.

Lysska’s tongue flicked over her lips, her patience wearing thin. One wrong move and this man wouldn’t walk out of here alive. But no—this wasn’t the time. There was too much she didn’t know yet, and her every instinct screamed to tread carefully.

A flicker of mana rippled through her, and her eyes glowed faintly crimson as she assessed him. His core blazed in her vision—yellow. Mid-yellow, if she had to guess. She frowned inwardly. That explained his overconfidence. New to the district, maybe? Someone who only operated in the cushy Upper District, where danger wore silken gloves. That’d explain the disdain—the utter lack of awareness of just how much peril lurked in these streets.

The enforcer rummaged through her shop, his pompous robes swishing as he crouched and checked the most absurd hiding spots. He finally reached the closet, yanking it open with a flourish.

Nothing. Just stacks of paper.

His jaw tightened, and a frustrated growl escaped him. With a glare sharp enough to slice glass, he spun on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

The moment the shop settled into silence, Lysska exhaled, her smirk returning as she glanced at Vyra. “See? Told you the quiet wouldn’t last.”

The crows above tilted their heads, black eyes gleaming as they watched the enforcer’s figure shrink into the distance. Only when he was well out of earshot did Lysska let out another subtle pulse of mana. The runes on the closet door shimmered faintly before fading away, their magic dispelling with a soft hum.

The boy stumbled out, coughing and panting like he’d just sprinted through a battlefield. Not that Lysska could blame him—those enchantments weren’t exactly designed with human comfort in mind. Once activated, they sealed off the inside space completely, swapping it for an isolated dimension. Perfect for hiding secrets, less so for, you know, breathing.

Lysska folded her arms, looking him over with a sharp, unimpressed gaze. “Well, well. We meet again. Although I’d have preferred a reunion with fewer theatrics.”

The boy opened his mouth to respond, but before he could get a word in, Lysska’s expression shifted. Her eyes glazed slightly, her focus slipping elsewhere, as if she were hearing something beyond the room. A second later, the glassy look vanished, her sharp gaze snapping back to him.

“We’re going to have a little chat when I return,” she said curtly. “For now, stay here. Lay low. Maybe entertain Vyra.”

Vyra grinned mischievously, holding up a battered leather ball she’d seemingly produced from thin air. “I’m an excellent babysitter, you’ll see.”

Lysska ignored Vyra’s theatrics, already turning toward the door. Her steps were quick, her movements deliberate. “I’ve got urgent business to attend to,” she called over her shoulder.

The boy blinked at her, confused. “Wait, where are you going?”

Lysska didn’t answer. She didn’t need to. Her thoughts were already miles ahead.

Miss elusive Venom had finally decided to crawl out of her hole.