The Wardog rose and thrust out his hand, "Well, that's just grand — exactly the kind of good news we needed. Come, let us share what we know."
Arc stepped forward and clasped the offered limb, though he wished he had more to share. Old Yon was not so much a fool as to spill the details of his plan in an unguarded letter — not even to him.
….
Cronte did his best to bury himself in a book, using its pages to hide the tension in his jaw as he sat in his bunk.
It was utterly ridiculous that he didn't have his own room. Hidden bunker or not, he was a gods-damned Silver — there was a minimum level of respect he deserved, and this wasn't it.
The words blurred past his eyes. Some historiographic treatise from the native peoples of the western Vaastivarian coast. It was hard to pay attention, not to when he could feel the scornful gaze of the rogue across from him, parked at the table with their own book — one they ignored.
The help Old Yon called in had trickled in over the last few weeks. Rogues and skirmishers; rangers and vanguards; bastions and brawlers — even a bloody Spire-trained Mirror mage, to match the control and binding mage from the Roanwheat delver team he'd pulled in.
He hadn't bothered to learn their names. Hired help and washouts Old Yon had put under his thumb decades ago. Frankly, with the sheer number of Silvers they now had in one place, you'd think they were preparing for a dragon hunt — not to take down a wayward pack of Steels.
Cronte absently scratched at his left arm, flushing with shame as he remembered how much it had cost him for a draft of regeneration.
Regardless of how powerful that team was, they were still only Steels. Even with a couple of months in the Depths, the delve they must have entered would have been a low-level one — they couldn't have gained too much. Eleven Silvers — more than enough. Hells, with a Mirror Mage, they would shut down the team's solar caster entirely.
And yet…he couldn't shake the feeling that he was only reassuring himself.
He remembered those eyes.
He'd kept that boy locked up for months — tortured him every day — and not once had Kaius shown so much as a flicker of emotion beyond disdain and hate.
Oh, he'd seen pain, but that was it. They should have cracked. They always cracked!
Sometimes the hard ones took months — even years — but you could always see it, the slow grind wearing them down; the effort it took to suppress their responses as it became harder with each day of pain.
Yet that boy had shown none of it. Only contempt, as he'd been flayed alive. It wasn't natural.
Old Yon didn't understand — that boy had been cast from adamant. The only time Cronte had seen something light up in those green-and-gold eyes was the look of righteous fury and battle-hunger plastered over his face as he'd torn through men by the dozen.
As he'd hacked off Cronte's arm while outnumbered, surrounded, and weakened from months under the knife.
That was not the action of a Steel.
For all he was detestable, Torrin had understood. They hadn't had the chance to speak in private, but Cronte could see it — the wariness within the hunter, a mirror to his own. Their new 'comrades', the ones he hadn't bothered learning the names of, thought them weak for being bested by those half their level.
That was a mistake.
They shouldn't have been asking 'what kind of Silvers lose to Steels?', they should have been asking 'how strong must a Steel be to best a Silver?'
Flicking another page just to keep up the pretense of reading, Cronte pondered the battle ahead.
That team needed to die. So he could bury his shame, but more importantly because if they lived, they would be enemies for life — and they had the kind of talent to climb further than he ever could.
Months of quiet reflection, with nothing but sneers for company, had made him admit that he might have misjudged. He would not flee — not at first.
Eleven Silvers should be more than enough.
But if it wasn't, nine should last long enough to buy him some time.
Nine, because there was no doubt in his mind that Torrin was thinking the same thing.
He had been tempted to sell the hunter out at first, to curry some favour. Yet in this dark hole, their mutual shame had become an unspoken alliance. An awareness of how precarious their situation truly was.
The Guild raid had been the turning point, but now he was certain: this was beyond fucked — all he wanted now was to salvage what he could.
Cronte suppressed a sigh, rubbing at the tension that ached behind his forehead.
Unfortunately, they were forced simply to wait until the team reappeared. Gods, how he hated brushing shoulders with those who despised him. But wait he would.
Until an opportunity arose — one way or another.