Rheinsted City Arc part 2

A Courier’s Coin
Rheinsted was quieter after dawn. The fishermen worked in near silence, the ferrymen murmured as if afraid to wake the river, and the market stalls opened slower than usual — like the whole city was catching its breath.

Maybe it was just me. Maybe, after what I’d seen beneath the Kwo Ning, I couldn’t look at the river without expecting it to whisper back.

I wasn’t planning on taking another job so soon. My hands were still raw from hauling rope and river-soaked sigils. But coin doesn’t wait for conscience — and neither did Postmaster Elric.

The Old Postmaster
Elric’s office was a shrine to lost letters. Parchment piles leaned like towers, wax seals of every color, and the smell of ink that had dried in too many sleepless nights.

He was an older man, gray hair tied back, his spectacles slipping to the end of his nose. When I entered, he didn’t look up right away.

“Ah, another able body,” he muttered, riffling through a stack. “You can read, I hope?”
“Enough to find trouble,” I said.
He grunted. “Then you’ll do.”

From a drawer, he produced a sealed missive, bound in black twine and stamped with the Rheinsted customs sigil. The wax shimmered faintly gold.

“This needs to reach Officer Miao Ren, across the river in the Xin Long docks. Normally, I’d send my regular courier, but he’s gone and caught the fever — or ran off with someone’s wife, I forget which. Either way, you’ll cross by ferry, hand it over, and come straight back.”

He leaned closer, voice lowering. “And don’t open it. It’s for official eyes. Not yours. Not mine. You do the job; I’ll pay in silver.”

He slid a single coin across the counter — a half-moon drachm, old Imperial mint. “To start. The rest when you’re back breathing.”

Crossing the Golden River
By midday, the ferry was half-full — farmers with baskets, merchants with crates, and a few travelers whose eyes never stopped scanning the water. The Kwo Ning stretched wide and gold beneath the sun, calm but deceptively deep.

The ferryman, a wiry man with river tattoos up his arms, gave me a sideways glance. “First time crossing east?”

“First time carrying something important,” I said.

He laughed softly. “Then keep your purse close. Xin Long docks are busy this season — and not everyone out there loves the Empire’s seal.”

Halfway across, the current shifted. A gust of wind tugged at my cloak, and something small bumped my boot — a driftwood branch, or maybe something watching.

Then I felt it: the faintest vibration, like a heartbeat under the ferry’s planks. Not dangerous, just… aware. The river spirits were still restless.

Trouble on the Docks
Xin Long’s docks were a splash of color and noise — silk banners, incense smoke, and the sharp scent of fish oil. The customs office sat at the far end, its red-tiled roof gleaming against the river haze.

I hadn’t made it halfway when a boy ran into me. Or tried to.

His shoulder hit my belt pouch — and in the same instant, his hand slipped beneath my cloak.

Old trick.

I caught his wrist before he could pull back. He froze, eyes wide, no older than thirteen.

“Nice try,” I said quietly. “But if you’re going to rob someone, pick one who looks more gullible.”

He winced, muttering something in Xin Long dialect — apology, maybe. His stomach growled audibly.

I sighed, tossed him a small copper instead. “Buy food. Stay away from postal seals. They bite.”

He bolted into the crowd, vanishing between crates.

Small trouble. But a reminder — even peace has teeth on the border.

Delivery
The customs office smelled of tea and parchment. Officer Miao Ren was tall, immaculate, and polite in the way only someone constantly suspicious can be.

“You are the courier?” she asked, examining the seal before I spoke.
“Yes, ma’am. From Postmaster Elric of Rheinsted.”

She broke the seal carefully with a small bronze knife, read the letter, and frowned.

“This… concerns adjustments to river tolls,” she murmured. “Always the same dance — your Empire raises fees, ours demands apology. But at least this one arrives on time.”

She folded the parchment neatly and tucked it away. “Tell Elric the docks will honor the new tariff. And… thank you. Few couriers volunteer for river work lately.”
“River’s not the same as before,” I said.
Her expression softened. “No. The water remembers things.”

She pressed a small lacquered token into my palm — payment, stamped with a dragon crest. “For your crossing fee back.”

The Spirits’ Gesture
The return ferry left at dusk. The sky turned copper, the river molten gold. The wind carried songs from both shores — traders calling, temple bells echoing faintly from across the water.

I leaned on the rail, letting the current rock me. That’s when I saw them again.

Figures beneath the surface — faint, translucent shapes. River spirits.

They moved slowly, as if walking on the riverbed. Then, in unison, they turned — not toward me, but toward the old watchtower ruins half-buried in the reeds upstream.

The tower’s stones were slick with moss, but for a moment, I saw a pale blue glimmer at its base — a light like the ones from the docks.

The spirits raised their hands — a gesture of warning, or invitation — before fading back into the current.

When the ferry bumped against the western pier, I could still feel their eyes on me, even through the reflection of the setting sun.

The Old Watchtower Ruins
The river spirits weren’t wrong. They rarely were — only cryptic.

For three nights after the courier job, I couldn’t shake the image of their pale hands pointing toward the reeds. Every time I walked by the Kwo Ning, I’d glance upriver, and the shape of the old watchtower would stare back — a jagged shadow against the horizon, half swallowed by fog.

By the fourth morning, I gave in. Curiosity, as it turns out, pays worse than silver but costs more to ignore.

The Watchtower Path
The trail south of Rheinsted was quiet except for the hum of crickets and the slap of the river against the bank. The old road had long since broken apart — just cracked stones and tufts of grass.

I followed the ruins’ silhouette, the tower leaning like a crooked finger above the meadow. The closer I got, the colder the air felt. Not wind — presence.

The watchtower stood on a low hill, its base surrounded by reeds and collapsed stone. The lower half had sunk into the mud decades ago. Local ferrymen said it was haunted by drowned soldiers from some forgotten skirmish.

I didn’t see ghosts. I saw tracks.

Bootprints. Fresh.

Too heavy to be farmers, too organized to be wanderers. Someone was using this ruin.

The Hidden Basement
Inside, the tower smelled of wet stone and smoke. The ground floor was nothing but rubble and half-burned crates. But one wall — the eastern one — felt wrong when I tapped it. Hollow.

Behind a slab of false masonry, a narrow stairway led down, carved straight into the old foundation.

The air below was thick with the stink of oil and stale ale. I heard voices — gruff, low, speaking both Zarathi and Xin dialects.

Smugglers. And judging from the crates — contraband, stamped with both empires’ merchant marks.

I crept closer, keeping low behind a support pillar. The men down there argued — about missing shipments, a “river fee,” and something about “the red-eyed broker.”

Then I saw it.

A faint crimson glow coming from the far end of the cellar. Not lantern light — pulsing, rhythmic, like a heartbeat.

The Pact in the Dark
At first, I thought it was just a brazier. Then the heat hit me. Wrong kind of heat — dry, metallic, biting.

In the far alcove stood a creature half-shrouded in shadow, its form barely contained by human shape. Its eyes burned like coal through smoke.

A lesser demon.

I’d seen sketches in the Guild manuals, heard warnings whispered in taverns — true evil. But seeing one breathe the same air as men made my blood run cold.

The smugglers bowed their heads like priests before it. I heard one say, “The plan proceeds. The wards weaken — soon the empires will turn on each other.”

That was enough.

I stepped out of hiding and drew my blade. “Not if I turn on you first.”

Battle Beneath the Tower
The fight was fast and ugly.

Bandits scrambled, some too startled to draw weapons. The demon roared — the sound like metal tearing.

It struck first, flinging burning chains of ash across the room. One wrapped around my wrist — hot enough to blister through leather. I cut free and rolled aside, knocking a smuggler into the wall.

We exchanged blows, not words.

The demon lunged, claws slicing through the air, leaving trails of red fire. I slashed across its arm — the blade cut, but not deep. Only the silver inlay from my ferry payment, the coin Elric gave me, burned against its skin when I pressed the hilt.

The thing shrieked.

I drove the point through its chest, into the pulsing glyph carved into the floor. Light exploded — red first, then white, then gone.

The smell of sulfur lingered, then thinned like fog in sunlight.

When my eyes cleared, the cellar was empty except for broken crates, some corpses, unconscious smugglers, and ash where the demon had stood.

The Aftermath
I surfaced back into daylight, coughing dust. The tower leaned silently, the reeds whispering like nothing had happened.

The river below shimmered faintly, a ripple of gold crossing its surface. For a moment, I thought I saw the spirits again — bowing their heads before sinking back beneath the current.

I told the Rheinsted guard everything. Whether they believe it or not, the truth is the truth, and I refuse to carry a lie just to suit their limited worldview. I’ve done my duty by relaying precisely what happened.

So, I told them what happened: “Contraband ring. Cross-border operation. Also, demons involved. Dealt with.”

Sergeant Helmar looked skeptical but satisfied. “You keep turning up where the trouble is, don’t you?”
“Trouble keeps sending invitations,” I said.
He tossed me a coin purse. “Then consider this your courier’s bonus.”

That night, as I crossed the bridge back toward the inn, the moonlight hit the Kwo Ning just right — gold at the edges, silver in the heart. Somewhere out there, something tried to make two nations bleed each other dry.

And if a river spirit could point the way once, maybe it would again.

Letters Across the River
The river never forgets. That’s what the ferrymen always said — a superstition, maybe, but I was starting to believe it.

A week had passed since the demon beneath the watchtower burned away into ash, yet the Kwo Ning still felt watchful, as if it carried memory in its current. Every ripple seemed to whisper: “Not yet done.”

The summons came that morning, sealed with the Rheinsted Mayor’s crest — red wax, sharp corners, and the faint scent of incense.

Mayor’s Office
Mayor Sir Aldren Caine was not a man accustomed to asking favors. His office overlooked the river; from his window, I could see Xin Long’s opposite shore — their banners bright against the mist.

He turned from the view when I entered. “Ah, the courier,” he said. “Or the mercenary, depending on who you ask.”
“Depends who’s paying,” I replied.
That earned the smallest of smiles. “Good. Then perhaps you’ll be careful enough for this task.”

He gestured to the desk — a single letter lay there, sealed in white wax with a gold ribbon.

“This is a message of peace. A genuine one, not one of those ‘conditional’ treaties full of knives between the lines. It’s addressed to Lady Qiu Lan, the Xin Long emissary stationed across the river at the Border Pavilion.”

He paused, studying me. “The last courier never returned. The border’s tense, the patrols are jumpy. But if someone like you delivers it — someone without a uniform — it may just reach her hands.”
I nodded. “And if I’m caught?”
“Then I’ll deny ever knowing you.”
He smiled again, thin and tired. “I’ll also double your pay if you come back.”

The Crossing
The ferry rocked gently underfoot. Evening light painted the Kwo Ning in ribbons of gold and shadow. There were no other passengers this time — just me, the ferryman, and the river’s long sigh.

Halfway across, I spotted shapes along the eastern bank — Xin Long border scouts, their armor lacquered crimson, faces unreadable behind masks.

The ferryman muttered, “Keep your hands where they can see them.”
As we drifted closer, one of the scouts called out, “Purpose of crossing?”
“Delivery,” I answered, raising the sealed letter.

They looked at each other, then waved us on. “Stay to the path. Lady Qiu Lan awaits.”

I’d never heard soldiers sound that polite. Either she had real authority — or they feared her.