The sun was already low when the carriage crossed the gates of Thirval. The air carried the heavy scent of sea salt and burnt iron. The coastal city rose between rocky hills and low towers, covered with dark slate roofs. In the distance, the sea reflected the golden light of dusk, and the distant sound of hammers echoed rhythmically, coming from the forges near the port.

Inside the carriage, Samira stretched impatiently.

"Finally. I thought this carriage was going to break down before we got there," she grumbled, pushing the door open with her foot.

Bellatrix pulled up her hood and looked out the small side window before getting out. "Wait," she said, observing the movement in the streets. The convoy mingled with merchants, cargo carts, and local guardsmen. No one seemed to pay attention to them—the disguise worked.

Thirval's main road was wide, paved with uneven stone, and sloped gently down towards the harbor. Men shouted orders as they unloaded crates, women sold fresh fish on the corners, and children ran between barrels of wine and fabrics. The city pulsed like a living organism—rough, honest, and full of stories that reeked of salt and sweat.

As soon as the carriage stopped in front of an inn, the two women got out. They went unnoticed: two ordinary mercenaries, with dark cloaks and looks that didn't invite conversation.

Bellatrix adjusted her belt with the holster and spoke softly:

"Let's get straight to the point. The tavern should be the best place to get information."

"Finally something interesting," Samira replied, smiling at the corner of her mouth. "I hope this 'Veil Trade' is worth the trouble."

They walked down the side street, where the air was heavier and the lights were beginning to come on in the windows. A wooden sign swung above the entrance of a large, aged building, its letters worn: "The Laughing Dolphin."

From inside came voices, laughter, and the familiar smell of strong beer mixed with grilled meat. Samira entered first, pushing aside the leather curtain. The place was large, lit by hanging lamps and the central fireplace. Fishermen, hunters, and blacksmiths crowded the tables. The plank floor was covered with boot marks and spilled drinks.

Bellatrix entered right behind her, her sharp gaze silently scanning the room. She observed everything—the exits, the groups, the counter.

Behind the counter, a robust man was wiping mugs with a cloth. He had a face marked by time, a thick beard, and a shrewd look. The scar on his neck betrayed a life of risks, but there was a peculiar calm about him—the kind of man who has seen it all and learned to survive.

"Good evening, ladies," he said in a hoarse voice as the two approached. "Travelers or hunters?"

"Both," Samira replied, resting her elbows on the counter. "And we're thirsty."

The man smiled slightly and served two mugs of mead. "Garron. I own the place. And you are...?"

"Mercenaries passing through," Bellatrix replied. "Looking for work, perhaps."

"Ah... Thirval always has room for more swords," Garron chuckled, serving the drinks. "Especially since the Veil Company started operating in the port."

Samira feigned disinterest, taking a sip. "The Company of what?"

Garron raised an eyebrow, surprised. "You don't know? The Veil Company is the soul of this city, ladies. If Thirval breathes, it's because of them."

Bellatrix exchanged a quick glance with Samira. "Tell us more." Garron rested his hands on the counter and looked around, as if making sure no one was paying too much attention. Then he leaned forward slightly, his voice lower but firm:

"They are a trading and contracting company. Specialists in hunting, forging, and mercenary work. No cheating or smuggling, understand? They work hard. The kind of people who earn their bread by the sweat of their brow."

Samira fiddled with the edge of her mug. "And who's in charge of them?"

"Erik Haldar," Garron said with evident respect. "A big man, with ice-cold eyes and a voice of steel. He used to be a soldier, they say, but he left the wars to found the group. Up there, in the stone fortress—that's their headquarters. The gate is always open, and their flag... a blade intertwined with a feather. A beautiful symbol, if you ask me. It represents strength and wisdom."

Bellatrix crossed her arms, listening attentively. Garron continued, his tone almost proud:

"In the courtyard, blacksmiths work day and night. Hunters return with game and furs from the north, and the forge workers melt iron until the ground shakes. The sound of the hammers is constant, it sounds like the heart of the city beating. Their motto is 'Work with your hands, fight with honor, trade with truth'."

He paused, serving another round. "It's not just talk. Everyone in Thirval knows there's no room for corruption there. They pay well, they honor their contracts, and they even help those who aren't part of the Company."

Samira raised an eyebrow. "Sounds too good to be true."

Garron shrugged. "You can bet whatever you want, lass. If there's any clean place on this dirty coast, it's there."

Bellatrix rested her chin on her hand, observing the tavern keeper. "And what do they want with information about the north?"

Garron looked at her curiously, but answered without hesitation. "I heard they tried to approach some guild… Aegis, or something like that. They wanted to understand about a reborn city. Asgard, I think." He scratched his beard. "Their master, Erik, is an honorable man, but curious. They say he wants to open trade routes there."

"Trade…" Bellatrix repeated, her gaze cold and distant. "It always starts like that."

Samira chuckled softly. "And ends with blood."

Garron raised his hands. "Hey, don't get me into trouble. I'm just repeating what I hear."

They drank in silence for a few seconds. The noise of the tavern filled the air: laughter, toasts, footsteps, distant music. Outside, the wind carried the sound of the sea and the smell of charcoal.

Bellatrix broke the silence:

"Where can we find this Erik?"

"At the top of the city. Follow the dock road up the hill. The fortress is impossible to miss." Garron wiped the counter, but his eyes narrowed. "If you go after him, go with respect. This man isn't a tyrant, but he's also not someone who's easily fooled."

Samira finished her drink in one gulp and stood up. "Respect isn't usually my strong point."

"Well, it should be, lass," Garron retorted, seriously. "The Company of the Veil is not like other mercenary groups. They don't live to kill. They live to prove that there is still honor in the work."

Bellatrix placed some coins on the counter and stood up as well. "Thank you for the drink and the conversation."

"If you want to come back alive, remember: inside, they don't fear swords... only lies."

Bellatrix simply nodded. Samira, on the other hand, smiled ironically. "Then I think I'll do just fine."

They left the tavern, stepping out into the cold harbor breeze. Outside, the sky was tinged with dark blue, and the lights of the fortress shone on the hilltop, golden under the moonlight.

…

The silence in the depths was almost absolute. Only the distant sound of underwater currents breaking against the coral formations and the soft echo of bubbles rising towards the surface. Everything there seemed motionless—a submerged and forgotten world, shrouded in shades of dark blue and gray.

Among the dead reefs and floating algae, Scathach lay on the cold sand, her body partially covered by a thin layer of marine dust. Her long crimson hair spread around her like a cloak, moving slowly with the flow of the water. Her eyes—once burning like embers—now stared upwards, lifeless, following the pale dance of the light that still managed to penetrate that abyss.

She hadn't moved for hours… perhaps days. Time had no meaning down there.

"Idiot…" she finally murmured, her voice muffled by the ocean, echoing only within herself. "I just wanted him to get rid of it. To… stop carrying that weight alone."

The words were lost in the void, dissolving into bubbles that slowly rose.

A school of pale fish passed by her, swerving with an instinctive reflex, as if they recognized that this presence did not belong in that calm. Her strength—even dormant—still pulsed, latent, like a storm contained beneath the skin.

Scathach turned her face, resting her cheek on the sandy seabed. The cold touch brought her a pang of lucidity. The memories returned like blades—the combat, the cutting words, his gaze.

Strax's gaze.

The same gaze that, for so long, she had believed to be merely arrogance, or a thirst for power. But no… now, recalling every movement, every moment of that argument, she realized her mistake… he looked at her with so much contempt…

"I was so stupid…" she whispered, her voice breaking like a weak wave.

A small crack opened in the coral in front of her, releasing a stream of bubbles. Scathach watched the movement as if she could see through it, seeing the reflection of the past.

"Stronger than I imagined…" she thought.

The currents of the seabed stirred, lifting sand in gentle swirls. Her body moved minimally—not by will, but by instinct. The water vibrated around her, reacting to her presence as if recognizing an ancient slumbering sovereign.

But discouragement seized her again.

She brought one hand to her chest and closed her fingers over her skin, feeling her own heart beat, slow and muffled.

"I just… wanted him to understand." Her lips barely moved. "I didn't think I would cause so much… hatred… what a mess… I ruined my second chance…"

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