Chapter 233: Greedy Merchant

Adam turned and walked toward the stairwell, his footsteps silent on the worn stone. Isolde hesitated for a moment, her gaze lingering on the carved wooden box, then followed.

They climbed back up, past the unconscious guards, through the twisting corridors of Croft’s establishment. Adam moved with the same silent confidence, navigating by the rhythms of the guards’ patrols. Twice they pressed into alcoves as footsteps approached. Once, Isolde held her breath as a guard passed so close his elbow brushed her hood.

Finally, they emerged onto the main floor.

“The office,” Adam murmured, his crimson eyes fixed on a set of double doors at the end of a long corridor. “That’s where Croft will be.”

Isolde’s voice was tight. “And the guards?”

“Two at the door. Maybe more inside.” Adam’s lips curved. “But we’re not going to fight them.”

He reached into his pouch and withdrew the Null-Sense Ward Orb. Its surface pulsed faintly, the dark light swallowing the ambient glow.

“Stay close to me.”

He activated the orb, and a ripple of invisible energy enveloped them both. The guards at the door didn’t react as Adam and Isolde slipped past them, their footsteps muffled, their presence erased.

They entered the office.

Alistair Croft’s grey eyes snapped up from the letter in his hand as the door to his office swung open. His weathered fingers stilled, the parchment rustling softly in the sudden silence.

For a moment, he simply stared at the horned man, at the cloaked woman at his side, at the way they stood in the firelight as if they owned the room.

Then his hand moved, a sharp gesture toward the guard stationed by the bookshelf.

The swordsman stepped forward, his blade already half-drawn, his dark eyes sharp and hard as steel. His stance was perfect, balanced, ready to strike at the slightest provocation.

Croft raised his other hand, palm out.

“Stand down, Derrick.”

The guard hesitated, his gaze flicking to the crimson eyes that held no fear. Then he stepped back, his sword sliding back into its sheath with a soft click. But his hand remained on the hilt.

Croft set down the letter, folding his hands on the desk. His voice was calm, controlled, but there was an edge beneath it, the wariness of a man who had survived decades in Kaelthar by trusting his instincts.

“I received word not long ago,” he said slowly, his pale eyes fixed on Adam. “Lady Selena encountered… misfortune in the eastern clearing. It seems she lost a hand.” He tilted his head slightly. “Your doing, I presume?”

Adam’s expression didn’t change. His crimson eyes studied Croft’s forearms, the intricate tattoos coiled around his wrists, the shape of a dragon wrapped around them like living serpent.

’Those marks,’ Adam thought, his internal voice sharp. ’He’s made a contract with a dragon.’

His gaze lingered on the tattoos for a moment, then shifted back to Croft’s face.

“News travels fast in Kaelthar. She was working for you?”

Croft’s lips twitched beneath his mustache. “Selena is… was… an independent contractor. A small operation, nothing more. She paid for the privilege of operating in my territory, but her methods were her own.” He shrugged, the motion casual. “Her misfortune is of little consequence to me.”

He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. His pale eyes sharpened.

“You didn’t break into my office in the middle of the night to discuss Selena’s lack of a hand, I assume. State your business.”

Adam stepped closer to the desk, his movements unhurried. His voice was flat, direct.

“The Compass of Desire. I want it.”

Croft’s eyebrows rose. For a moment, genuine surprise flickered across his weathered features.

“The compass.” He repeated the words slowly, as if tasting them. “That’s… not a request I hear often… and what makes you think I would part with such a treasure?”

“I’ve been told you’re a merchant. Merchants sell things.”

Croft laughed—a short, dry sound. “True. But the compass is not for sale. Not for gold, not for artifacts, not for anything you could offer me in this room.” He spread his hands. “I’m afraid you’ve wasted your time.”

Adam’s jaw tightened. His internal voice was cold.

’He’s testing me. Seeing how far I’ll go.’

“We’re heading into the Wasteland,” Adam said quietly. “The compass is the only way to navigate it safely. I’m not leaving Kaelthar without it.”

Croft’s eyes narrowed. His fingers drummed once against the desk.

“The Wasteland.” He let the words hang in the air. “A fool’s errand. Nothing there but death and madness.” He studied Adam’s face. “What could possibly be worth such a risk?”

“Personal.”

Croft’s pale grey eyes studied Adam’s face for a long, silent moment. His weathered fingers resumed their gentle drumming against the polished wood of his desk.

“Personal,” he repeated, as if tasting the word. “A man who breaks into my office, threatens my guards, and demands my most valuable artifact, all for personal reasons.” He shook his head slowly. “You’ll forgive me if I’m not moved.”

Adam’s expression didn’t change. His crimson eyes remained fixed on Croft’s.

“Then what will move you?”

Derrick’s hand tightened on his sword hilt.

Croft raised a hand, his weathered fingers stilling the air.

“Let’s not be hasty. Before you make any threats you might regret, you should know the compass may show you the way, but it is not entirely reliable.”

Isolde’s pale eyes narrowed beneath her hood. “What do you mean?”

Croft gestured toward the door. “Kurt.”

The lean man with wire-rimmed glasses slipped into the room as if he had been waiting just beyond the threshold. In his hands, he carried the ornate wooden box Adam had seen in the vault. He set it on Croft’s desk, then stepped back, his dark eyes watchful.

Croft lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled in faded velvet, lay the Compass of Desire.

“This artifact no longer functions as it once did,” Croft said quietly. “You could call it… malfunctioning.”

Adam’s jaw tightened. His crimson eyes fixed on the compass, then snapped to Isolde.

“Seriously? So I came all this way for nothing?”

Isolde’s voice sharpened. “Don’t blame me. I only suggested it. I didn’t promise it would work.”

She crossed her arms, turning her face away.

Adam’s hand shot out, his fingers flicking against her forehead.

“Ow!” Isolde stumbled back, one hand flying to the reddening spot. Her pale eyes blazed. “What was that for?!”

“For wasting my time.”

“You—!”

Croft cleared his throat, drawing their attention back to him. His pale grey eyes held a flicker of amusement.

“If this compass functioned perfectly, do you think I would still have it?” He spread his hands. “I am a greedy merchant. If it worked, I would have used it long ago to find treasures beyond imagination. I would not be sitting here, negotiating with intruders in the middle of the night.”

Adam’s gaze remained fixed on the cracked compass.

“So why keep it?”

“Because broken artifacts can still be valuable. To the right buyer.” Croft’s lips twitched beneath his mustache. “But I am not without… resources. I have heard of a blacksmith, a specialist in artifact restoration. She works in the lower district, away from the city’s prying eyes. If anyone can repair the compass, maybe it is her.”

Adam’s eyes narrowed. “You expect me to trust you? After you just told me the compass is broken and you’ve been keeping it as bait?”

Croft shrugged. “I expect you to be desperate enough to try.” He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers. “The Wasteland is no place for the unprepared. You need the compass. I need… something else.”

The room fell silent. Derrick’s hand remained on his sword hilt.

Adam’s internal voice was sharp.

’He’s setting terms. This is the real negotiation.’

“Name your price,” Adam said flatly.

Croft’s smile widened just slightly, just enough to be unsettling.

“The assassin guild has been causing problems in my city. They take contracts from anyone, even demons. Their presence threatens my business.” He leaned forward, his pale eyes gleaming. “I want them gone. Destroy their leadership, scatter their operatives, burn their safehouses. Do that, and I will give you the compass.”

Adam’s crimson eyes held Croft’s gaze for a long, silent moment.

“One guild. For one compass.”

“One guild,” Croft agreed, “for one compass, and my gratitude. Which, in Kaelthar, is worth more than gold.”

Isolde’s voice was barely a whisper, meant only for Adam.

“He’s using you as a weapon.”

Adam’s response was just as quiet.

“I know.”

He turned back to Croft.

“Where do I find this blacksmith?”

Croft reached into his desk and withdrew a folded piece of parchment, its surface covered in a rough sketch of Kaelthar’s streets. A single red X marked a location near the edge of the lower district.

“The Sable Forge. Look for a sign with a broken anvil. The blacksmith’s name is Hilt.” He slid the parchment across the desk.

Adam picked up the map, folding it into his pocket.

“And the assassin guild. Where do I find them?”

Croft’s smile faded. His voice dropped, serious now.

“They have no single headquarters. They operate in cells, scattered throughout the city. But I have information on three of their safehouses enough to draw out their leadership.” He pulled a second parchment from his desk, this one covered in dense text and crude diagrams. “This is what I’ve gathered. Use it, or don’t. Either way, the compass is yours when the guild is no more.”

Adam took the second parchment, glancing over the contents before tucking it away.

“If you’re lying…”

Croft raised a hand. “I am many things, stranger. A liar is not one of them. Better to deal honestly in Kaelthar, a reputation for truth is worth more than any single transaction.”

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