Han and his maids stood in a neat line outside the Underworld Clinic. The lantern above the door threw a soft ring of light that stopped just short of their boots.

Han wore a fitted suit beneath a black robe that dropped straight from shoulder to heel. The collar and cuffs held sharp.

His maids matched him in black. Sleeves were fitted and belts were tight at the waist. Boots gleamed with a deep polish.

Hair stayed pinned, with not one stray. Gloved hands hung at their sides.

Denver came leading a narrow procession at the front. The carriages followed in a long trainlike line, each coach lacquered black and trimmed with muted metallic gold.

Corners bore little sigils that smoldered like covered embers. Windows were dark panes that trapped the street's light and returned nothing back.

Steps swung out with a hush as every carriage halted. The harness wore chased silver that caught the lantern's edge.

The horses were a strain Han had never met. Coats held the color of wet midnight. Manes fell weighty as water and would not snarl.

Hooves struck the stone with a rhythm too perfect to be natural. They seemed like mounts from dullahan legends, patient and sure.

"Taking them all with you?" Denver asked.

Han smiled and glanced at Hanna. The private tilt of his mouth drew a faint bite to her lower lip.

Hanna's breath caught and she straightened. She smoothed an already flat seam on her skirt.

Denver said nothing. One eyebrow lifted as if he had seen more than he let on.

"Yeah, can't part with my lovely maids and pets," Han said with a small smirk. "So this is the carriage from Nevolnik? Quite eye-catching."

Denver smiled. "Enter the first one. You will love it. The others carry gear and gifts."

Han climbed into the carriage and paused. Dark timber had been polished to a glossy sheen. Fine filaments of gold followed the panels.

Seats ran deep, upholstered in black leather that softened beneath his palm. Mana lamps rested in the corners like bottled moons.

Their glow stayed gentle and constant. A thick runner taught boots to be quiet. Silver hooks stood for cloaks.

A small cabinet was sunk into the wall with a crystal decanter nested in velvet. Above it hung the Nevolnik crest carved in stone as thin as a knife.

The door shut with a neat click that felt final. A sigil array thrummed through the planks and calmed the ride.

"Lavish," he said. "And very practical."

When his maids settled into seats and their posts outside, Denver flicked the reins and the carriage moved into the street. The wheels whispered along the runner laid within the floor.

The roof lantern cast a ring of light ahead. It skimmed over the cobbles like a coin.

They followed the main thoroughfare that cut like a spine through the district. Chains of street lamps swung from iron posts and flung webs of light over the crowd.

A patrol in lacquered masks halted and noted the crest on the door. They moved aside with their heads lowered.

A beggar touched a string of tin charms to his brow and slipped into a doorway. The name Nevolnik passed down the street in a hush.

At the Underworld's exit, the road narrowed under a basalt arch. Runes crept along the stone like banked fire. An iron portcullis hung with teeth long like spears.

Denver took a slate token from his coat and held it up. The wardens looked once and rang a bell. Chains hauled the grate.

The air beyond was cooler. It smelled of wet stone.

They rolled into the slums. Roofs were stitched hides stretched over ribs of scavenged timber. Smoke walked low along the lanes.

A girl drew a horse with a coal nub and looked up with round eyes. A scrap gang leaned from a cut in the wall, counted carriages, then melted back.

A witch lifted a rusted key and blew on it. It whistled once and went quiet. No hand touched what carried Nevolnik's mark.

"That won't apply in demi-human territory," Han said.

Hanna nodded. "Their clans heed their own law. Boundaries are marked by stones that bite."

"Patrols walk the ridges," she added. "Tolls are favors or labor. They trade in oaths and teeth."

Fungal lumens bloomed in as they left the final lamp behind. Lichen glowed pale green along the tunnel's ribs.

A black river slid beside the road and made a soft glassy sound. They crossed by a chain bridge that groaned once and held.

On the far bank a row of menhirs lifted from the mud. Faces of cats, wolves, and antlered things had been carved into them and painted again fresh.

Braided grass strands hung between the stones and rattled with teeth and beads when the wind discovered them there. The horses would not shy.

Han set his jaw and let the border take his measure. The road lifted toward a ridge of dark cedars.

Five slave merchants came up on the road and fanned out as they drew level. Their carriages were peacocks made of iron and money.

One rolled in ribbed bone white panels and shone like wet tusk. Another wore a red canopy trimmed with coin fringe.

A third coach was mirror steel that threw back lamp light in thin slices. The fourth was tar black with shutters painted in tiny river scenes.

The last had carved teak sides and a rail of little bells that chimed in a steady pattern. Guards rode stirrup to stirrup around each coach.

Collars flashed and brands burned dull through cloth. House crests hung from spear shafts.

"Still chasing minnows, Denver?" called the man in the bone coach. He leaned from a window and smiled without showing teeth.

The woman under the red canopy laughed. "Heard your nets split last season. No deep catch. You sell scraps now."

The twins in mirror steel spoke in turns like a rope tossed hand to hand. "Nevolnik must be dry." "Or blind." "They send you to fetch what others leave."

From the tar black shutters a smoker's voice drifted. "You talk sweet at gate posts and slip past real work. Swindled your way onto this run."

The bell coach kept pace. Its owner tapped the rail and counted softly. "Five houses hunt the same grounds. Try to keep up, little clerk."

Denver sat straight and gave them nothing. His reins stayed light. His gaze held to the road.

The Nevolnik crest on the door caught the lantern and sent a thin bar of light across their sneers. No one crossed wheels.

One by one the coaches eased ahead, flicking grit at the wheels as if by accident. Denver neither sped up nor fell back. He let the road make its own choices and kept the team even.

Hanna shifted her guard line without a word. Two maids rode bumpers, two rode flanks, and one watched the ditches with a short spyglass. When the last bell faded, she tapped the window twice to tell Han the air was clear.

Denver spoke then, quiet enough to keep it inside the coach. He said the houses chased noise and left the work. He said big fish avoid places where drums beat too loud.

Han listened and looked again at the map. The marks were small, but the distances were not. He traced the ridge, the ash ring, and the streams that sank and rose again, and he set the order of the night.

Inside the carriage, Han looked at the mission scroll. He read the marks and traced the route.

"Ogres," he said. "Their wins in the Arena Pit put them in high demand. What do we know about their ground?"

Ogre territory started in forest belts where the canopy locked the sky and noon felt like evening. Trunks wore velvet moss and old claw scars.

Roots heaved out of the soil like ribs and caught the boots of strangers. Wind threaded bone chimes and seed rattles that marked clan lines.

Glowcaps beaded the fallen logs and threw a sick green light on traps laid in fern bottoms. Paths braided and split, then stitched together again.

Only a guided eye could tell which way led home. Thorn creepers hooked at sleeves. Deadfalls sat under leaf mats.

Shutter traps waited with woven saplings and stones. The air smelled of pitch, wet bark, and old blood.

At night the bands pulled into the warrens that ran like cities turned inward. Passages held shoulder grooves where thousands had brushed by.

Gates were slabs that pivoted on rawhide and closed with a dull knock. Gutters carried spring water into cistern bowls.

Terraces grew white mushrooms and violet shelf fungus. Forges sat in side caverns with stone hoods.

Slaves slept near the vents and woke to haul, scrape, and stir. Drums spoke in the ducts.

One hall could call another across a ridge without leaving the dark. The sound was a map. Followed wrong, a stranger never found the door again.

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