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Skye shook his head. True, he wasn’t as soft a target as he used to be.

But three of the nobility were dead, and the public was hungry for gossip.

Better they sink their teeth into him than go sniffing around Taly.

He was used to being the subject of whispered speculation, and, unlike her, he had nothing to hide that could get him killed.

“I don’t like him,” he said. “Kato thinks he’s a riot, but… he just gives me a bad feeling.”

Unsurprising, given Kalahad’s rumored—but never proven—ties to several major human trafficking rings.

“I agree,” Ivain said, leading them to a less-used area of the third floor.

“Unfortunately, we can’t act on bad feelings.

Or I suppose we could , but I doubt it would go well.

He’s the favorite brother of the High Lord of Earth—a man half the town believes will swoop in any day now with his fleet of lightships to save them.

We either need proof, or we need him to make a mistake. ”

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 spent hunting 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 unmistakably rotting.

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. It drank the 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?”

The hobgoblin nodded. “Aye. This ‘ere, the crystal it’s etched in, it’s meant to be as dead as a stone in a swamp. But now it’s like a starvin’ beast. Can ye feel it?”

He extended it toward Skye.

A sharp pulse of something wrong crawled up his spine, and he leaned away. Even without touching it, the thing bit at him.

Grizzlethorn gave a hideous little laugh. “He feels it.”

“Would one of you please explain?” Skye asked a bit testily.

“Watch this.” Ivain plucked a water crystal from the desk’s clutter. It burned blue at its center, a basic purifying enchantment etched into its surface. He placed it near the collar.

There was no surge, no violent pull—just a flicker. Then, slowly, the glow inside the water crystal dimmed, wavered… and winked out entirely. It took seconds.

Skye blinked. “What?”

“What indeed,” Ivain murmured. “It’s draining the magic… somehow. Everything I’ve thrown at it so far gets eaten up too fast to figure out how.” He shook his head, his expression grim. “I’ve never seen hyaline behave like this.”

“Hyaline,” Skye echoed. “That’s… that’s impossible.” Hyaline was dead crystal. Inert. Unenchantable.

Ivain rubbed at his eyes. Maybe the smell was getting to him too. “At this point, I know only two things for certain—this collar is made of hyaline, and it has been enchanted to somehow… alter magic. Kato described it as a drain on his aether, but this? This is something else.”

Skye reached for the crystal. Dust coated the smooth surface, gritty beneath his fingertips.

Ivain turned back to Grizzlethorn. “I need to know if your great lady has any knowledge of this. The enchanter, the method, anything.”

The hobgoblin’s sharp ears twitched, but he nodded.

“I was also hoping you’d be able to help me with this.” Ivain withdrew another object from his pocket—this time, an amulet. The same one Azura had taken from Vaughn’s body. The same one Skye had, rather stupidly, inserted into that strange console in the woods.

Grizzlethorn’s eyes widened. He lunged for it with greedy anticipation, but Ivain jerked it back.

“This isn’t for sale,” Ivain said. “I’m trading for information only.”

“Yes, yes,” Grizzlethorn panted, fingers flexing like he might snatch it away. “Let me see.”

Ivain dropped the amulet into his waiting palm.

Grizzlethorn turned it over, inspecting it closely. Then, with a sharp little cackle, he bit the stone. When it didn’t give, he giggled.

Ivain asked, “You know what it is?”

“Aye. ‘Fore the Schism, there was a hidden passage system. A way of flittin’ ‘cross the isle in the blink o’ an eye. Meant for fancy folk, nobles, and such.” He trailed his claws over the surface, grinning wide.

“This ‘ere be a key. And keys have doors. Match the key to the door, and that’s when things be getting’ right excitin’. ”

“I wouldn’t call it a door so much as a one-way portal into hell,” Skye remarked dryly.

Grizzlethorn’s ears perked. “Ye found one?”

More like tripped directly into it, but Skye nodded.

Ivain held out his hand. Grizzlethorn reluctantly placed the amulet back into it.

“I remember the rumors,” Ivain said. “That’s all they were.

Of a secret network of sorts that spanned the island that the Crystal Guard used to move the Queen securely.

Half the island collapsed during the Schism, and then with all the looting during the Hunt, I figured that even if it had been real, it was one of those secrets of the island lost to time.

Certainly wouldn’t be the first. And it would explain why our enemy has been so impossible to pin down.

Sometimes, the scouts swear it’s as if they’ve transported—one moment there, the next, gone without a trace. ”

Ivain pocketed the amulet. “Thank you, Grizzlethorn.”

“Ten thousand gold,” the hobgoblin said quickly, eyes darting between them

“No.”

“Twenty. Fifty !”

Ivain rose. Skye followed, relieved to be done.

“Sixty!”

Ivain didn’t slow. “Not even for a hundred. But I will pay double my usual fee if you can dig up any information about the royal riftway system in the underground libraries.”

The little hobgoblin was still shouting numbers as the door swung shut behind them.