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They reached the end of the hall, where a glamour concealed the entrance to the fourth floor. Skye stepped up instinctively to avoid tripping on the hidden stair.

The upper levels were eerily quiet. And empty. Vendors here kept to themselves. The scent of dust and wild magic replaced the warm spice of the market below. Ivain led him to a narrow mezzanine overlooking the main floor, the wooden railing so worn it looked like it might splinter under too much weight.

From below, no one could see them. A glamour cloaked this part of the Swap, making the vaulted ceilings appear to stop at the third level. Ivain was a good man, but he understood that the world was painted in shades of gray. Tempris was an unruly, lawless place—order had to be managed, not imposed. Some things he let slide. Some groups he let work under the radar in exchange for the occasional favor. His energy was better spenthunting the real monsters—the human traffickers, the killers spilling blood in the streets.

This? This was just business. Shady, not always clean, but business.

Ivain finally stopped in front of a door with green peeling paint and a gold harpy’s claw for a knocker. “Grizzlethorn’s Potion Shop” was written in gold script across it.

Ivain knocked twice. The door opened on its own, and a foul stench rolled out to greet them.

Skye grimaced. Ivain, however, seemed unfazed as he made his way in.

Inside, the shop was a chaotic maze of cluttered bookshelves and cabinets overflowing with brightly colored salts, quills, crystals, and anything else one might need for potion making. The air was thick with the scent of herbs, ink, and something unmistakablyrotting.The source seemed to seep from behind a heavy tapestry on the back wall.

A desk sat in front of it, strewn with glistening gems, rare metals, and precarious stack of brittle parchment.

Ivain settled into one of the two threadbare velvet chairs before the desk, gesturing for Skye to do the same. He announced to the room, “I believe we have an appointment.”

Something rustled behind the tapestry. A moment later, a graveled voice rasped, “Aye, aye. Ol’ Grizzlethorn’s crawlin’ in, ain’t he?”

The tapestry twitched aside, and Grizzlethorn hobbled forward. Barely four feet tall, a hobgoblin—the meaner, uglier cousin to the imp. His leathery skin was a sickly shade of gray, his limbs long and knotted, his clawed fingers curled inward like gnarled roots. Sharp teeth protruded from black-stained lips.

“And good morning to you.” Ivain smiled, pleasant as ever—like they were anywhere but the legendary backrooms at the Swap, meeting with one of the Goblin Queen’s representatives.

After the Schism, the hobgoblins took over the underground cities, turning them into smuggler strongholds. They were permitted to operate in Ryme so long as they agreed to keep human slaves out of their business model.

Ivain placed a paper-wrapped parcel on the desk. Meat. Skye could smell it.

“Payment up front, as always.”

Grizzlethorn sniffed and yanked the parcel toward him. Saliva dripped from his mouth. “Price’s gone up with all the ruckus lately. Ye get me?”

Ivain’s smile didn’t waver. “Need I remind you what happened the last time a hobgoblin tried to price gouge me?”

Grizzlethorn chuckled, but his jaw tightened. “Aye, I remember. But risk is risk, and the price should reflect that.”

Ivain leaned forward, resting a hand on the desk. The shift was subtle, but the threat was clear. “I know what you’re trying, Grizzlethorn, but don’t forget who holds the leash here. Keep pushing me, and I’ll tighten it.”

No theatrics, no raised voices—just the cold, mild-mannered assurance of looming consequence.

Crimson, beady eyes narrowed. The hobgoblin wasn’t stupid. Ugly, but not stupid. He took the payment without another word.

Wood creaked as he settled himself in a rickety chair that swiveled. His suit was expensive—fine blue silk with a red pinstripe and a matching scarf in his pocket. A solid gold earring hung from a tattered ear.

“So, what’s draggin’ yer hides into my den, then?”

Ivain pulled a polished wooden box from his coat and placed it on the table. “A puzzle,” Ivain said. “And a damn interesting one at that.”

Grizzlethorn dragged the box toward him and flipped back the lid. Inside, the collar Skye had removed from Kato’s neck gleamed on a bed of black velvet.

No, not gleamed—that wasn’t the right word. Itdrankthe light, making the already dim room seem a touch darker.

With deliberate care, Grizzlethorn reached out with one crooked finger, tracing the arcane symbols spiderwebbed across the surface. A sly grin tugged at the corners of his grotesque mouth. “Aye, that be a bit o’ darkness. Someone’s been meddlin’.”

He lifted the collar from the box, holding it up for closer inspection.

Ivain watched him carefully. “Do you know what it is?”