Deimos woke under a pale, unsettled sky.
The kind of morning where sunlight barely managed to pierce the clouds, settling for a gray, washed-out sky.
The Deimos in his memory usually came alive early, when it wasn't destroyed, of course. Today, the streets moved in cautious shuffles.
Doors half-opened, shops closed up everywhere, people only outside due to necessity.
Ryn felt the shift immediately. The same way birds sense a coming storm.
Beside him, Amelia walked with a practiced composure, speaking quietly with one of Baron Hayes' aides. Her tone always managed to catch him off guard, as behind the mask, she really was just a crybaby.
Ardan arrived at their side and dipped his head. "Lady Amelia, the Baron requests your assistance with the townsfolk."
Amelia's shoulders straightened. "Understood."
That was his moment.
Ryn stepped back a little, adjusting the cloak over his shoulders.
"I'll scout the town," he said. "Get a feel for the atmosphere."
Amelia turned to him, studying him briefly.
"Don't cause any trouble, okay?" she frowned.
Ryn saluted her in an exaggerated and corny way.
"Yes, ma'am."
She groaned, but her eyes didn't quite match her expression. It was obvious what she wanted to say.
Be careful.
But she didn't say it.
When she turned away to follow Ardan toward the granary square, Ryn let his smile fade. He waited until they were out of sight before pulling his hood up, shadowing the steel purple hair that always drew attention.
Right, no time to leisurely explore.
He headed for the town square, boots quiet on the cobblestone, weaving into the thin morning crowd. A nervous stillness settled over the market like dust.
Perfect. No annoyances to deal with.
Ryn slipped fully into the shade of a side alley.
The alley thinned the sounds of Deimos into distant echoes. The perfect place for thoughts he didn't dare speak aloud.
A cold understanding crept up his spine.
There was only one kind of organization capable of engineering danger this precise.
The Cult of Evernight.
Most people in the kingdoms only knew them as a whisper—a fringe sect obsessed with only one thing:
To bring Evernight to the world and reset from scratch.
They flew under the radar—until about two months before the Evernight started.
That was when the world finally learned about them, about what they were planning.
Ryn remembered it vividly. It was the night the 'hero party' lost its first member.
What was supposed to be a routine monster extermination quest turned into a full-blown fight with one of the Cult's high-ranking members, known as a Seat.
They ended up trading lives, both perishing during the fight.
Ryn tightened his grip on his cloak.
He knew this because the world didn't uncover the cult through investigation. Every truth learned about them only came after chaos had already swept through.
If even a top-ranked hero could only defeat a Seat by sacrificing their own life—what did that mean for everyone else?
That was why Ryn's stomach twisted now.
Not because he knew exactly what the cult wanted. But all of the events happening in Deimos thus far…seemed too familiar.
Ryn pulled his hood lower and slipped deeper into the alleys.
He needed answers.
And there was only one place in Dumos capable of giving him the kind he needed.
The Whisper Exchange.
A network hidden behind countless masks across the continent, all for a single purpose: To trade information.
If Ryn's memory served him right, it should be around the corner.
He looked around for any signs. Tucked away in a little corner, barely visible, he saw it:
Haywood's Fine Reserves.
A modest wooden sign, too elegant for Dumos and too discreet for real business.
Ryn pushed the door open.
A soft chime rang.
The scent hit him first. A warm blend of aged oak, dried fruit, and something sweetly acidic that clung to the air like perfume.
Rows of polished bottles lined the walls in careful, almost obsessive symmetry. Deep reds, sparkling ambers, pale golds—each arranged by region, year, and vineyard.
Small handwritten tags hung from every neck, boasting tasting notes like "hints of cherrywood" and "earthy finish."
It was a wine shop.
Unequivocally, unmistakably, a wine shop. The kind run by someone who cared more about the interest rather than profits.
Behind the counter stood its curator.
A man in a tailored vest and rolled sleeves, wiping down a crystal glass as if it were a priceless artifact.
"Good morning," he said, tone smooth, practiced.
"Looking for something bold? Fruity? Perhaps something to pair with red meat?"
It was the type of greeting only a true wine enthusiast—or a very talented actor—could deliver without sounding ridiculous.
Ryn stepped fully inside, letting the door close behind him with a soft chime.
"I'm not here for anything on the shelves," he said, keeping his voice light.
The curator didn't react immediately. He simply set the glass down, turned it so the rim caught the light, and resumed polishing another.
"Oh? Most first-time patrons prefer something familiar before venturing into the… rarities."
"I'm looking for a private selection," Ryn replied.
A subtle stillness entered the room.
"And what year?" the man asked casually.
Ryn met his eyes.
"Last week's. Mountainous regions."
The man stopped polishing and set his glass down. The curator's expression didn't change. Yet beneath it, thanks to [Enhanced Senses], Ryn could tell he was on edge.
"…I see," he murmured. "Then you'll need to offer a bottle of equal value."
Information for information. The Whisper Exchange's only rule.
"I have a name," he said quietly. "And a condition."
The curator finally looked up fully.
"A name, is it? Those tend to be… vintage." He folded the cloth neatly.
"Let's hear it, then."
Ryn took a breath.
This wasn't something he intended to give lightly.
"In the Holy Church of Rhea, Arctis Branch, there's a young paladin by the name of Seraphine."
A pause.
"She's the owner of an Ascended Blessing."
This time, the handler froze fully.
"An Ascended Blessing," he murmured.
"A skill capable of… evolving. Shifting rank. Altering its own nature."
His eyes narrowed.
"But information of that caliber is easy to exaggerate," he said softly.
"How do we know it's correct? And more importantly—" his gaze sharpened.
"What does the Exchange gain from entertaining this claim?"
Ryn exhaled slowly and lowered his hood. His signature purple eyes caught the curator immediately.
"Ahhh," the curator murmured. "An Arctis."
He tapped his finger on the counter, studying Ryn from head to toe.
Not impressed, but calculating.
Then he spoke:
"From what I remember, you hold a B-Rank skill, much less a middle child… What value do you hold?"
Ryn didn't respond. He knew the capacity of The Whisper Exchange— and knew that they would catch on.
He simply looked at the curator.
The man watched him for a moment longer, then reached under the counter and produced a glass bottle.
"Wine tastes best when chilled," he said smoothly.
"Do you mind?"
He offered it to Ryn.
Ryn had to give them credit—subtle, thorough, and methodical.
Exactly what made the Exchange trustworthy.
He placed two fingers along the bottle's neck. Cold Aura seeped down the glass. A thin frost blossomed across its surface, spreading in delicate white rime until the entire bottle was evenly chilled.
He set it back on the counter and slid it forward.
The curator was already standing with a bottle opener. With a practiced twist, the cork popped loose. He produced two long-stemmed glasses and poured the white wine, bubbles fizzing softly from the fermentation.
He slid one glass back toward Ryn.
Picking it up, floral notes hit his nose delicately, the kind of aroma only a top-grade champagne could produce.
"You're not just testing my skill," Ryn said quietly. "You want to know if I'll name an even bigger leverage."
The curator's eyes glimmered. "Go on."
Ryn tapped the rim of his glass once and took a sip.
"Strong body, clean and elegant finish," he murmured.
"But a fiery aftertaste." His gaze lifted. "Very…Amelia Grandal."
A slow smile curved the curator's lips.
"You're one interesting person, Mr. Arctis."
"Very well, let's discuss somewhere more private."
The curator walked over to a nearby wine rack. Pressing down on one of the bottles, a switch flicked. Gears turned and the brick wall behind started opening layer by layer, until it revealed a small meeting room.
"After you, fine guest."
He bowed, gesturing Ryn inside.