Velvet Veil

The carriage rolled slowly through the muddy streets of Silver March while Percival sat opposite {{user}}, hands folded neatly atop his cane. Through the rain-speckled window the town drifted past; shuttered shops, crumbling stonework, and citizens doing their best to pretend the frontier wasn't slowly dying around them.

"Before we arrive, Your Grace, there is something you should understand."

The elderly halfling adjusted his spectacles.

"The Velvet Veil is, technically speaking, a brothel."

His expression remained perfectly serious.

"However, reducing it to such would be like calling the royal treasury a coin purse."

The carriage turned down a narrower street.

"Adventurers drink there. Merchants gossip there. Caravan masters spend their evenings there. Travelers from distant kingdoms stop there. Guardsmen visit after shifts. Mercenaries visit before deployments. And unlike nobles, common folk tend to speak freely when they believe nobody important is listening."

Percival tapped his cane against the floor.

"I maintain informants throughout Silver March, but my network is limited. The Veil's people hear things my agents never will. Missing shipments. New smuggling routes. Goblin sightings. Strange travelers. Local grievances."

A small smile tugged at his lips.

"And occasionally who is sleeping with whom, though I admit that intelligence is rarely useful."

The carriage came to a halt.

"The establishment is owned by an elf named Sylvara. My reports suggest she is intelligent, cautious, and considerably more influential than she allows others to believe. Officially she runs a profitable business. Unofficially she operates a network called the Unseen Hand."

Percival lowered his voice slightly.

"Not spies in the noble sense. Informants. Guides. Smugglers. Messengers. The sort of people who survive by knowing things."

He reached for the carriage door.

"I trust her more than most merchants. Less than most priests. Which places her surprisingly high in the rankings of Silver March."

The door swung open.

Warm light spilled into the evening gloom.

A painted sign hung above the entrance depicting a silver veil draped across a moonlit rose.

Laughter and music drifted from inside.

"After you, Your Grace."

---

The interior was far more refined than expected.

Soft lantern light illuminated polished wood floors. Musicians played quietly near a stone fireplace while patrons occupied tables scattered throughout the common room. Adventurers shared drinks with merchants. Caravan guards played cards in one corner. Several travelers sat speaking in hushed voices.

The atmosphere felt less like a den of vice and more like a social hub for half the frontier.

A towering figure immediately caught the eye.

An enormous orc stood near the entrance with arms crossed over his broad chest. Scars covered his forearms and neck, yet his expression was surprisingly gentle.

He was carefully studying a small stone carving held between thick fingers.

The sculpture appeared to be a remarkably detailed horse.

Brakka noticed the newcomers and quickly tucked the carving into a pouch.

"Evening."

His deep voice carried easily through the room.

"Need a table? Drink? Company? Or are we pretending those are all different things again?"

Before anyone could answer, a younger woman appeared from behind the bar carrying a ledger beneath one arm.

The half-elf moved with practiced confidence. Dark chestnut hair framed sharp features while bright green eyes immediately assessed the new arrivals.

Recognition flashed across her face.

"The Duke."

She straightened slightly.

"So the rumors were true."

Her gaze flicked briefly toward Percival.

"Good evening, Castellan."

"Lady Lyra," Percival replied politely.

Lyra closed the ledger.

"I'll admit I expected someone older."

"And I expected someone shorter," Percival replied.

A grin tugged at her lips.

"Fair."

Before the conversation could continue, a calm voice drifted across the room.

"Lyra."

The single word carried no authority and yet immediately commanded attention.

A beautiful elven woman descended the staircase overlooking the common room.

Silver-blonde hair flowed over elegant shoulders while emerald eyes surveyed the room with effortless composure. Her dress was expensive without being ostentatious, tailored to perfection and worn with the confidence of someone entirely comfortable in her own skin.

Every conversation nearby seemed to quiet slightly as she approached.

Not because people feared her.

Because people noticed her.

"Sylvara," Percival said with a respectful nod.

"Percival."

Her gaze settled upon {{user}}.

For a brief moment it felt less like being looked at and more like being evaluated.

Then her expression softened into a warm smile.

"Your Grace."

She offered a graceful bow of her head.

"Welcome to the Velvet Veil."

Her eyes glimmered with quiet amusement.

"I imagine if Percival has brought you here personally, you're looking for something more valuable than entertainment."

Around them the Veil continued its evening business.

Merchants exchanged rumors.

Adventurers boasted of victories.

Travelers shared news from distant roads.

And somewhere amidst the noise of ordinary conversation, Silver March whispered its secrets.

The dining room of the ducal estate looked considerably more welcoming than it had only weeks ago.

Fresh candles illuminated the long table. A fire crackled in the hearth. The scent of roasted meat and fresh bread lingered pleasantly in the air.

Slowly, piece by piece, life was returning to the estate.

Percival sat near the far end of the table nursing a glass of wine while making occasional notes in a small leather journal.

Across from him sat one of the evening's guests.

Sylvara.

The proprietress of the Velvet Veil looked entirely at ease despite dining in the residence of Silver March's ruler. Silver-blonde hair cascaded over one shoulder, emerald eyes reflecting firelight as she sipped calmly from a crystal goblet.

One might have mistaken her for nobility.

In some ways she carried herself better than most nobles.

"The roads east of the river are becoming increasingly dangerous," she was saying. "Two caravans reported goblin sightings this week. Another one never arrived."

Percival nodded thoughtfully.

"That aligns with reports from our scouts."

"Naturally."

The faint smile Sylvara gave him suggested she had expected nothing less.

At that moment the dining room doors opened.

Elira entered carrying a silver serving tray.

The elven maid's expression remained perfectly composed.

Only someone paying very close attention might notice her eyes immediately settling upon Sylvara.

Or the slight narrowing that followed.

Sylvara noticed.

Of course she noticed.

Her smile widened by the smallest fraction.

"Lady Elira."

"Madame Sylvara."

The greetings were flawlessly polite.

The atmosphere somehow became colder anyway.

Percival quietly took a sip of wine.

This promised to be entertaining.

Elira approached {{user}} first.

Not Sylvara.

Not Percival.

{{user}}.

With practiced elegance she replaced a drink that was barely half empty.

Adjusted silverware that did not need adjusting.

Straightened a napkin that had somehow become imperfect.

Sylvara watched the entire performance with visible amusement.

"Remarkable."

Elira paused.

"What is, Madame?"

"The dedication."

Sylvara rested her chin lightly against her hand.

"I don't believe I have ever seen a servant monitor a wine glass so attentively."

Elira's smile remained flawless.

"I simply take my duties seriously."

"I can see that."

Their eyes met.

Neither looked away.

Percival hid a grin behind his glass.

The old halfling had survived enough political meetings to recognize a duel when he saw one.

Even if this particular duel involved table settings.

Sylvara eventually returned her attention to {{user}}.

"I must confess, Your Grace, I was curious."

"Oh?"

"When I first heard Silver March had received a new ruler, I imagined another distant noble sent to collect taxes before disappearing back to the capital."

Her emerald eyes lingered on {{user}}.

"Instead I find someone rebuilding estates, feeding peasants, hiring adventurers, and somehow convincing half the town to become optimistic."

Elira appeared beside {{user}} once more.

Entirely by coincidence.

Naturally.

"The Duke is quite busy," she said smoothly.

Sylvara's smile grew warmer.

"I've noticed."

The madame leaned back comfortably in her chair.

"Busy men are often the most interesting."

Percival nearly choked on his wine.

Elira's expression did not change.

The room temperature somehow dropped another few degrees.

"I imagine," Elira replied, "that Your Grace has many responsibilities more pressing than being interesting."

Sylvara laughed softly.

"Oh, I don't know."

Her gaze returned to {{user}}.

"I think leaders benefit from being interesting."

"Madame."

"Elira."

Neither woman broke eye contact.

Percival looked as though he was witnessing a theater performance.

A particularly expensive one.

The old halfling finally cleared his throat.

"Ladies."

Both women glanced toward him.

Percival folded his hands atop the table.

"I feel obligated to remind everyone that our beloved Duke is attempting to eat dinner."

A pause.

Then the old castellan smiled.

"Though I admit it is nice seeing Silver March become popular."

"Percival," Elira sighed.

"What?" the halfling asked innocently.

"Only a few months ago nobody wanted this position. Now I find respected merchants, adventurers, nobility, and mysterious elven businesswomen inventing reasons to visit."

Sylvara laughed.

Even Elira seemed momentarily defeated.

Percival's smile only widened.

"I've known Your Grace for quite some time."

The old halfling lifted his glass.

"I reserve the right to be proud."

The warmth that followed softened the tension without entirely dispelling it.

Sylvara settled comfortably into conversation once more.

Elira resumed her duties.

Yet throughout the remainder of dinner, the two elven women continued exchanging occasional glances across the room.

Polite.

Civilized.

Perfectly respectful.

And unmistakably competitive.

For reasons neither seemed willing to explain.

The Silver Stag was unusually lively that evening.

A fire roared within the stone hearth. Tankards clinked together. Merchants argued over caravan routes while adventurers loudly exaggerated their accomplishments for anyone willing to listen.

In the inn's rear office, however, things were considerably quieter.

Bradley Bower sat across from {{user}} behind a sturdy oak desk cluttered with ledgers, invoices, and half-finished mugs of ale.

The portly innkeeper adjusted his spectacles.

"So if I'm understanding correctly, Your Grace wishes to establish a standing delivery?"

"Correct."

Bradley nodded thoughtfully.

"That can be arranged. Ale's easy enough. Wine will be trickier. Most of the vineyards we used to import from are either bankrupt or occupied by goblins."

He scratched at his beard.

"Which, admittedly, is terrible for business."

A burst of laughter erupted from the common room beyond the office door.

Bradley sighed.

"Or that's Brakka again."

Another voice carried through the doorway.

A very deep voice.

Reciting poetry.

Poorly.

---

"My heart is like a horse."

A pause.

"My heart is like a horse what runs."

Another pause.

"It runs across fields."

Longer pause.

"Towards a prettier horse."

Silence followed.

Then several patrons burst into laughter.

Bradley slowly closed his eyes.

"Oh dear."

{{user}} could hear Brakka continuing.

The massive orc was apparently standing atop a chair.

"Her eyes are like stars."

Another pause.

"Or maybe cows."

The laughter became louder.

"Because cows have nice eyes."

A woman nearly choked on her drink.

Bradley pinched the bridge of his nose.

"He's been working on that poem all week."

---

Curiosity eventually won.

Both men glanced through the office doorway into the common room.

Brakka stood proudly atop a chair.

The enormous orc looked entirely sincere.

Across from him sat Becca.

The half-minotaur maid had apparently stopped by after work.

A tankard rested in her hands.

Her cheeks were already turning red.

Unfortunately for Brakka, it wasn't because of the poetry.

It was because half the tavern was watching.

"...and your smile shines brighter than..."

Brakka hesitated.

"...than very bright things."

The room erupted again.

Becca stared into her ale.

"Brakka..."

"Yes?"

"I think you're very nice."

Several nearby patrons winced.

Brakka's hopeful expression faltered.

"Oh."

"Oh."

The second one came out smaller.

Even Bradley looked pained.

---

Brakka slowly climbed down from the chair.

The tavern suddenly became very interested in its drinks.

Nobody wanted to witness the rest.

Unfortunately everyone absolutely wanted to witness the rest.

The orc approached Becca's table.

"Is there somebody else?"

Becca nearly dropped her tankard.

"W-what?"

"Someone else."

Brakka shrugged.

"I can take rejection."

That was almost certainly a lie.

"But if there's somebody else, I'd rather know."

Becca's face immediately turned crimson.

Her ears flattened.

Her grip tightened around the mug.

The reaction lasted barely a second.

It was enough.

Brakka's shoulders sagged.

"Oh."

"Oh no."

The enormous orc sat heavily in a chair.

The expression on his face suggested a man realizing a battle had ended before it began.

"There's somebody else."

Becca looked horrified.

"I didn't say that!"

"You didn't have to."

Brakka reached for a nearby bottle.

---

Inside the office, Bradley sighed deeply.

The kind of sigh produced only by middle age.

"Poor bastard."

Another drink disappeared down Brakka's throat.

"Poor girl too."

{{user}} glanced toward him.

Bradley swirled the ale in his mug.

"Becca's not exactly subtle."

The innkeeper gave a small shrug.

"Sweet girl. Hardworking. Kind."

He looked out into the common room.

Becca now appeared determined to crawl inside her tankard and never emerge.

Brakka appeared determined to drink enough ale to forget poetry existed.

Neither seemed likely to succeed.

Bradley shook his head.

"A maid setting her heart on a duke..."

His voice carried no judgment.

Only concern.

"I've seen that story before."

The innkeeper leaned back in his chair.

"It rarely ends the way they hope."

Out in the tavern, Brakka raised his bottle.

"To unrequited love!"

Several patrons immediately joined the toast.

Mostly because they were already drunk.

Becca looked as though she might actually die from embarrassment.

And somewhere between sympathy for the heartbroken orc and concern for the flustered maid, Bradley found himself wishing Silver March's problems were always this simple.

The meeting had already run longer than expected.

Maps covered most of the table inside the estate's war room. Reports from scouts, tax ledgers, supply inventories, and requests from villages were spread between half-empty cups of tea.

Percival stood beside the table reviewing notes while {{user}} worked through the latest stack of documents.

The old halfling adjusted his spectacles.

"If these numbers are accurate, the western grain stores are in even worse condition than I—"

The door burst open.

Percival nearly jumped.

A blur of dark hair and determination rushed into the room.

"Your Grace!"

Lyra practically skidded to a stop in front of the table.

Behind her came Brakka and one of the estates guards clearly unable to catch the woman.

Both visibly unhappy.

"Lyra."

The orc sounded exhausted.

"You cannot keep barging into noble estates."

"I absolutely can."

"You absolutely shouldn't."

"I'll stop doing it when important things stop happening."

Brakka groaned.

Percival blinked.

"Good afternoon to you as well."

Lyra finally seemed to realize she had interrupted something.

"Right."

She straightened.

Smoothed her clothes.

Took a breath.

Then immediately failed to contain her excitement.

"I found something."

Brakka folded his arms.

"Allegedly."

"I did."

"Allegedly."

---

Percival sighed.

"I assume there is a reason you've stormed into the estate rather than scheduling an appointment like a civilized person?"

"There are goblins under the city."

Silence.

The room became very still.

Even Brakka stopped arguing.

Lyra pointed at a section of the map.

"Old sewer tunnels."

Percival frowned.

"Explain."

The half-elf stepped forward.

"A homeless man approached Brakka this morning."

Brakka raised a finger.

"He approached me because I bought him breakfast."

"He sold us information."

"He sold us a story."

Lyra ignored him.

"He claims he saw goblins entering an abandoned drainage tunnel beneath the old silversmith district."

That got Percival's attention.

The old halfling's expression immediately darkened.

"The silversmith district?"

Lyra nodded.

"Specifically beneath one of the old warehouses."

Her finger tapped the map.

"This one."

Percival moved closer.

Recognition flashed across his face.

"The Talden warehouse."

"Exactly."

The building had once belonged to one of Silver March's wealthiest silversmith families.

Then the mines dried up.

The family left.

The warehouse remained.

Abandoned.

Forgotten.

Perfect.

---

"If he's telling the truth," Lyra continued, "and if goblins are using those tunnels..."

She didn't finish.

She didn't need to.

Everyone understood.

The city walls protected Silver March from enemies outside.

Not beneath.

A goblin warren under the city would be a nightmare.

Raids.

Kidnappings.

Rape.

Murder.

The possibility hung over the room like a storm cloud.

Brakka finally spoke.

"If."

Lyra turned.

"What?"

"If."

The orc pointed toward her.

"You keep skipping that word."

"He saw goblins."

"A drunk man said he saw goblins."

"He knew where the tunnel entrance was."

"He also claimed a giant rat stole his boots."

Lyra opened her mouth.

Closed it.

Opened it again.

"That's not the point."

"It feels relevant."

---

Percival pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Did you tell your mother?"

"No."

Brakka immediately pointed at her.

"Exactly!"

"There wasn't time."

"There was absolutely time."

"There wasn't."

"There was enough time to run across half the city."

Lyra threw her hands into the air.

"This is important!"

"So is informing the woman who runs our entire organization!"

"What if people are in danger?"

"What if the man was drunk?"

"What if he's right?"

"What if he's wrong?"

The argument continued.

Neither showed any sign of surrendering.

---

Eventually Percival cleared his throat.

Both immediately stopped.

Years of experience dealing with unruly nobles apparently transferred surprisingly well to information brokers.

The old halfling looked toward Lyra.

"You believed this information was important enough to bring directly to us."

"Yes."

No hesitation.

Not even for a moment.

Percival then looked toward Brakka.

"And you believed it was important enough to follow her here despite your objections."

The orc paused.

"...yes."

"Interesting."

Brakka frowned.

Lyra smiled triumphantly.

"Ha."

"Don't 'ha' me."

---

Percival slowly walked toward the map.

His gaze lingered upon the abandoned warehouse.

Then upon the sewer lines beneath it.

Then upon several nearby districts.

The expression on his face grew thoughtful.

Concerned.

Calculating.

Finally he looked toward {{user}}.

"Well."

The old castellan folded his hands behind his back.

"If this is nothing, we've wasted an afternoon."

His eyes settled upon the marked warehouse.

"If it isn't..."

The unfinished sentence carried all the weight it needed.

Across the room, Lyra stood a little taller.

Determined.

Hopeful.

Eager to prove herself.

While beside her, Brakka wore the expression of a man already preparing to tell Sylvara exactly how this meeting happened.

And exactly whose fault it was.