"You're sure this is the right way?" Deroq hissed, pulling his hood lower as they navigated the narrow passage. Water dripped from the ceiling, each drop landing with a maddening plop that echoed through the tunnel."Yes, sir," Prell whispered back, holding his lantern higher. "Third passage on the left, down the stairs, through the copper door. That's what Velth's contact said."Deroq grunted, unconvinced. The four men behind him shuffled nervously, hands never straying far from their concealed weapons. None of them belonged here—that much was clear from their stiff postures and darting eyes. Crimson Scale operatives were accustomed to guild halls and merchant offices, not this... underworld.The Undertow. Even the name left a sour taste in Deroq's mouth.Their guide paused at an intersection, scratching his scraggly beard. "Left here," he muttered, more to himself than to the others."You said that with remarkable little confidence," Deroq noted dryly.The guide—Marken, some distant cousin of one of their warehouse workers—shot him an irritated glance. "Been a while since I came this way. Market moves around.""The entire market... moves?" one of Deroq's men asked incredulously."Not physically, you idiot," Marken snapped. "The entrances change. The routes shift. Keeps the city watch guessing."They turned left into a passage so narrow they had to proceed single file, shoulders brushing against damp stone walls. The air grew noticeably thicker, carrying the smell of spices, smoke, and something else—something Deroq couldn't quite place but found deeply unsettling."Almost there," Marken said, his voice dropping to barely a whisper. "Remember, no guild colors visible. No mentions of Crimson Scale. You're just buyers. Ordinary buyers.""We're hardly ordinary," Deroq muttered, but he checked his cloak to ensure no crimson fabric peeked out.The passage ended at a steep staircase descending (...)