The spy's medallion glinted under the light of Sabel's flickering illusion. It was old—older than it should've been—and etched in a language that hadn't been spoken aloud since the days of the Hollow Kings. The moment Sabel brushed his fingers across it, the medallion pulsed.
"Yep," he muttered. "Definitely cursed. Or enchanted. Or very, very nosy."
Behind him, the tunnel groaned. Dust fell from the stone ceiling as if the city itself was listening.
Sabel took the medallion, placed it between two slices of stale bread, and bit into it with a straight face. "There. Now if anyone's tracking it, they'll think I've eaten lunch. Misdirection: my favorite spice."
With his robes fluttering and pockets jingling with half-spent spell tokens, Sabel made his way out of the secret tunnel and into the back alley behind Mirth & Muddle Books, the city's most understocked bookstore and also home to the worst-smelling ferret in existence.
He needed someone who could read ancient magical scripts, someone trustworthy.
So naturally, he went to the one person who wasn't either of those things.
Inside Mirth & Muddle, behind a stack of cookbooks about boiling frogs for curses and stews, was Grinkle, a goblin archivist with three monocles and a reputation for charging extra if you so much as sneezed near his scrolls.
"Grinkle," Sabel said, laying the medallion down on a counter that hadn't been cleaned since the monarchy changed hands. "Tell me this isn't some ancient spy society run by the King's old chess club."
Grinkle sniffed it, bit it, then stuck one of his monocles into his own eye backward.
"Oh-ho!" the goblin squeaked. "This is bad news and fancy boots, my friend."
Sabel blinked. "Explain like I've had only one cup of coffee."
"It's a key," said Grinkle. "To a vault. The Vault. The one they locked up during the Silent Revolt—the rebellion that never made it into the history books."
Sabel's grin faded. "The one where loyalists turned against the royal line... and vanished without trace?"
"The very one. This medallion wasn't just worn. It was bonded to the one carrying it. Whoever held it... was chosen."
Sabel's voice dropped. "Chosen by who?"
The goblin leaned in, whispering, "By the Council of Cinders."
The name hung in the room like the breath of a sleeping dragon. The Council of Cinders was the bedtime story used to scare royals into behaving: shadow agents who could twist memories, erase identities, and even move kingdoms like chess pieces.
No one had proven they existed.
Until now.
Back at the cafe rooftop that night, Sabel stood alone, the wind pulling at his cloak, the medallion wrapped in five different anti-scrying cloths and buried in a coffee bean jar.
He looked at the stars.
The Council of Cinders. Vaults. Spies. Kidnapping. This wasn't just a rogue attempt—it was coordinated. Deep. Dangerous.
Somewhere, the commander's son was being used as a pawn.
His illusion spell flickered and shifted. For a brief second, Sabel faded and the Prince stood there in full.
"Alright then," he whispered, brushing the hair from his face. "Time to stop being a barista. Time to be... inconveniently heroic."
Down in the cellar, he scrawled a message on enchanted parchment using invisible ink:
"Found trace of Council. Child likely alive. Following lead.
Send no one. Trust no one.
If anyone asks, I'm inventing a new coffee named 'Untraceable Espresso.'– Sabel (and maybe Prince Percival, but shhh)"
He fed the parchment into a tin pigeon named Maurice. With a wheeze and a belch, Maurice took off toward the royal citadel.
Sabel strapped on his travel boots—the squeaky ones—and grabbed his satchel of illusion dust and old coffee filters.
There was only one vault that fit the key. And it lay far beneath the old catacombs outside the city wall—deep in the buried district of Ashmoor, where shadows still whispered.