Forbidden Constellation's Blade-Chapter 155: Let’s Skip the Lies

The carriage slowed as the old dwarf eased off on the reins.

Khaz Vordun rose ahead, a gigantic fortress that Ryn never expected would be lying out here in the vast open space.

The gates opened quickly while guards waved the merchant dwarf through. Ryn quickly hid underneath the layers upon layers of the dwarf’s wares.

The guards didn’t even bother to check, just had a look and left.

As soon as they had passed the hurdle, the carriage stopped on a nearby empty street.

Ryn slipped out the back and brushed dust from his cloak. He reached into his coin pouch and pressed a few coins into the merchant’s hand.

"Thank you," he said sincerely. "For the ride."

The old dwarf closed his fingers around the coins, then gently pushed them back.

"No, no," he said, leaning forward with a small grin. "It’s fine. Just goodwill."

Ryn couldn’t help but give a soft grin of his own.

Even now, short on supplies and under an economic crisis, the dwarves still held onto hope and kindness.

"Alright," Ryn said, nodding toward the wagon. "Then let me buy some of your food stock. Fair trade."

The dwarf chuckled. "That I won’t refuse."

A few moments later, Ryn walked away with a merchant’s pack slung over his shoulder. He never knew when he’d get stuck in some ancient ruins again, better to be prepared.

As Ryn moved deeper into the city, the atmosphere really settled in.

The empty streets, along with gray skies and barely lit oil lamps, it was all too similar.

Ryn’s steps slowed.

Moran, he thought.

Not the place itself, but the feeling.

He looked around at the people, all pretending to mind their own business.

He exhaled softly.

I need information without alarming them.

Ryn adjusted the strap of the pack and took up a position near a narrower street leading toward the lower districts.

If this city was anything like Moran, and every instinct told him it was, the people here wouldn’t open up to coin.

Ryn stopped near a narrower street that fed into the lower districts and set the pack down.

"Food," he called lightly. "Free."

That did it.

The reaction was immediate. People slowed, eyes flicking toward the guards at the corner before returning to him. A woman stepped forward first, hesitant.

"...Free?" she asked.

Ryn nodded, already handing her a wrapped loaf of bread. "Take it."

She accepted it with both hands, bowing her head quickly before stepping away.

Then another came.

And another.

Ryn didn’t rush them or ask them any questions.

A small bundle to a man with calloused hands. Dried grain to an elderly dwarf who muttered a quiet thank you under her breath. Half a loaf to a child who stared at him with wide eyes.

"Hard times," Ryn said casually to no one in particular as he passed another bundle along.

A woman snorted softly. "Everything’s fine," she replied automatically.

The words were familiar now.

Ryn inclined his head.

"Of course."

A beat passed.

Then, quieter, she added, "Still... you shouldn’t stay long."

"Why not?" Ryn asked mildly.

She hesitated. Glanced toward the street.

"Heard some travelers made a mess at the royal palace," she continued. "Got thrown into the slammer."

As soon as she said it, she immediately stopped and placed a hand over her mouth.

She took the food and disappeared into the crowd just as quickly.

Travelers? Ryn thought to himself.

That didn’t make sense.

Unless it was another Hero Party coming from an airship, there was no way someone would be coming to Khaz Vordun willingly, or safely in that matter.

And in its public statement of being in lockdown? Ryn found it hard to believe there were other travelers—

Well...except his own Party.

Ryn exhaled slowly. Relief and complication tangled in his chest at the same time.

According to the dwarf, they’d made a mess and got thrown in jail...but throwing an authorized Hero Party in jail would be akin to disrespecting the Hero’s Path and Raias.

There was no reason for the dwarven royalty to do something like that.

Not unless—

Ryn shook his head, stopping the thought before it finished.

I’m missing something, he concluded. A Context or some kind of motivation.

Which meant acting now would only make things worse.

He adjusted his cloak and moved on, expression settling back into calm neutrality.

Information first.

Ryn packed up his bag and set out on his original destination within Khaz Vordun.

The Miner’s Guild.

He followed the slope of the city downward, occasionally stopping to ask for directions.

The streets grew narrower the farther he went, delicate stonework changed to reinforced supports and beams.

This was likely where the city worked. Well, used to work.

The Miner’s Guild wasn’t particularly hard to find. It sat at the end of a wide street, sign still polished and doors wide open.

That, more than anything else, felt wrong.

A guild without work usually locked its doors.

Ryn stepped inside.

The smell hit him first. Stale alcohol, along with old sweat and stone dust fused into an insufferable atmosphere.

The hall was large enough to hold dozens of miners, maybe even more.

Only a handful were awake.

Most were slumped over tables, mugs tipped on their sides. Others leaned against the walls, eyes glassy and pretty much not present in reality.

No tools were laid out. The nearby assignment board was empty.

No one was preparing to leave.

Ryn walked slowly, taking it in.

A dwarf behind the counter noticed him and scowled.

"We’re not selling," he said gruffly. "No manalite coming in, no shipments going out. Come back another time."

"I’m not buying," Ryn replied mildly.

That earned him a look.

"I’m just passing through," Ryn continued. "Heard work was scarce."

The dwarf snorted and took a long pull from his mug. "Scarce? That’s one word for it."

"What happened?" Ryn asked.

The dwarf shrugged, already turning away.

"Veins dried up. Some mines got overrun by beasts. Can’t dig what you can’t reach."

Ryn nodded anyway. "Must be rough."

"Rough enough," the dwarf muttered.

"Now, unless you’ve got manalite to sell, move along."

He sighed slowly.

"Except the whole part about you saying you can’t mine?" he questioned. "That’s bullshit."

The words cut through the hall like a blade.

A few heads tilted. One of the miners at a nearby table stopped mid-sip.

The dwarf stiffened. "You got a problem?"

Ryn shook his head. "No. I’ve got experience."

He tapped the counter once. "Veins don’t dry up across an entire region at the same time. And beasts don’t overrun every mine unless something drives them there."

A dwarf at the back let out a short, bitter laugh. "Listen to him. Like we haven’t gone over this a thousand times."

Ryn looked around the guild hall again.

The slumped bodies. The spilled drink. The way no one met his eyes for longer than a heartbeat.

He sighed.

"So this is it," he said flatly.

A few dwarves glanced up.

"The great Miner’s Guild of Khaz Vordun," Ryn continued, unimpressed. "Reduced to a room full of miserable drunken sods."

"If the mines were really dry," he went on, voice calm but cutting, "you’d be angry. If beasts really took them, you’d be sharpening axes."

He finally looked back at them.

"But you’re not."

"So I stand until corrected: a bunch of—Miserable. Drunken. Sods."

The nearest dwarf charged.

He sidestepped at the last second, guiding the man past him with a light touch to the shoulder. The dwarf stumbled, barely keeping his footing as he collided with a table.

Another came from the side.

Ryn ducked low, feeling fingers brush the air where his head had been a moment ago. He twisted, letting the attacker’s own momentum carry him forward, then stepped away again.

The guild hall erupted into motion. Dwarven miners shoving, tripping over each other as Ryn weaved between them.

He brushed past right hooks, slipped under wild waist grabs, and redirected shoulders with open palms.

But every moment put him closer to the truth.

Ryn used [Enhanced Senses], honing his eyesight to its maximum capacity...all to inspect each and every one of the dwarves’ hands.

Most were as expected.

Old callouses, worn smooth, it fit the narrative of them not working for a while.

A dwarf lunged late, overcommitting. Ryn pivoted, letting the man spin past him—and there it was.

His palms were fresh, knuckles split, and callouses sharp and dented into his fingers.

Ryn moved immediately, locking a hand around the dwarf’s neck and slamming him into the ground.

He held the dwarf’s head there while raising a hand to gesture to the others.

They all instinctively froze.

"Seems like we have a liar," Ryn said. "Someone here’s been working recently."

The pinned dwarf’s eyes darted around wildly.

"Look, Gordon!" he pleaded. "I don’t know what this kid is talking about! Make him get off me!"

The guild hall had gone completely still, like a breath held too long. The dwarf that talked to Ryn before, Gordon as it would be, frowned.

No one rushed Ryn or tried to get him off.

He released his grip fully and stepped back another pace, giving the dwarf space to breathe. The man scrambled upright, retreating instinctively toward the wall, eyes darting from face to face.

No one stepped in.

That, more than anything, told Ryn all he needed to know.

"So," he said lightly, dusting his hands together as if he’d just finished a chore.

A few dwarves flinched at the sound.

"Let’s get some information out of you."

Then he looked back to the miner with the fresh callouses.

"And this time," Ryn added calmly.

"We’ll skip the lies."