The Mistress of Mischief lives in a boiler room.

Waist-high stacks of volumes and tomes line nearly every inch of the small floor space, their worn spines highlighted by the glowing gems hanging from the ceiling. A single table is placed at the end of the room, behind which sits a woman smoking from a cigarette pipe made of glass. She's wearing a low-cut black dress that belongs more in a nightclub than a tiny basement closet.

11 leans towards Safir and whispers, "This is the soul-sucker?"

Safir whispers back, "You see any other ominously clothed individual here? Now please stop saying things that will get us killed."

The woman pays no mind to Safir and 11's exchange. She has three books opened flat on the table before her, and is leafing through them so quickly 11 doubts she’s actually reading them.

“Trade!”

A crow is perched on the woman’s bare shoulder. It squawks at the duo as they stop in front of the table.

“Traaade!”

The woman taps a slender finger against the side of her pipe. “My, my,” she says, a thin trail of white smoke rising from the corners of her red lips. “I almost do not recognize you, Dwarf of Fortunes.”

“Dwaaarf,” says the crow. It starts to preen its feathers, sneaking peeks at 11 over its wings.

“My most beautiful Mistress Hephoene,” Safir says with a deep bow. “It has been too long, yet it delights me to see that you look the same as you did back then.” 11 catches the dwarf glancing her way, so she bows as well.

The Mistress looks up finally, her golden eyes softening as she gestures for the duo to rise. “There is no need for theatrics between us, Silverbeard,” she says. “Have you come to take another one of my kin?”

Safir grins abashedly. “You ask as if you do not already know, Mistress.”

"Always the flatterer," says Hephoene. She sets her pipe down onto the table, next to a golden scale, and starts closing her books shut. One by one.

11 does not expect this. She imaged the Mistress of Mischief looking like the yaojin in the tunnels, but this woman’s features are elegant and human, with sharp cheekbones and long black hair that cascades down the curves of her full chest.

My god, she's even bigger than Censa. But there's... something off about her.

11 tries scanning.

Species cannot be identified.

Damage potential levels unknown.

“Trade!” the crow screams, flapping its wings. “Trade!”

Safir speaks again. “You no doubt know that we have come to barter, Mistress Hephoene, and I’ll also wager a toe that you already know why.”

Hephoene smiles at that. “Your toe can rejoice then,” she says. “But I’d be lying to say I didn’t wish you were here to chat.” Her voice is soothing enough but there is an edge to it, as if she's always on the verge of laughing. 11 watches as the woman slides the golden scale towards them.

“Alas,” says Safir. “We are in too much of a hurry, kind Mistress.”

Hephoene sighs. "You said that last time, too." She picks up her pipe again. “The cards are in the usual place.”

11 steps back to allow Safir to squeeze past her. There are so many books in this room that she doesn’t dare move, for fear she might knock one of them over.

Safir makes his way over to the corner of the room. A stack of cards sits on top of a small wooden pedestal, and he takes one.

11 wants to go closer to look but Hephoene calls out to stop her.

“You mustn't look, sweetling,” says the yaojin sorceress. “Secrets belong not to those who peek.”

“See-krit!” screams the crow. “See-krit!”

The words sound joking but there is that edge again, unmistakable this time. 11 stays put and watches with bated curiosity as Safir scribbles something down onto the card. Once he's done, the dwarf folds the card in half and comes back with it cradled in his hands like it’s a wounded bird.

“You’ve come prepared, I see,” Hephoene muses.

“I only wish it is enough,” Safir says, carefully depositing his card onto a dish at one end of the scale. Intricately designed and cast in pure gold, the scale looks incredibly expensive, yet 11 can see no units of measurements anywhere on its body.

Gradually, the scale begins to tilt, lowering the dish towards the table.

Hephoene sips on her pipe, looking almost bored. The smell of burning incense hovers around 11 like smog.

With a dull sigh, the scale finally finishes lowering.

“Now,” Hephoene says, “your question, Hero of all Trades.”

“If I did not know any better, my Mistress,” Safir says, “I’d say you are making fun of me. I believe you already know what we are here to ask.”

“I do,” Hephoene says, “but you must ask all the same.”

Safir nods grimly. “Very well.” He takes in a heavy breath. “Where has Yue’ling Basilona been taken?”

Her expression unchanging, Hephoene reaches over to a stack of paper cards on her end of the table. She raises it to her lips, blows a string of smoke onto it, then places it face down on the other end of the scale.

For a second, nothing happens.

Then the scale starts to tip. Sighing softly, the arm attached to Hephoene's dish lowers, leveling out in the middle. But it does not stop. The arm keeps going, falling until the sorceress's dish is an inch lower than Safir’s.

The crow hops down Hephoene's shoulders and pecks at the base of the scale.

“How could this be?” Safir says, his chest deflating. He looks at 11, despair written all over his face. “I failed you, lassie. I thought the information I had was surely enough.”

Hephoene turns her golden eyes from the scale to Safir. “Ten years should've been plenty for you to learn some interesting things about the world, Silverbeard. But no matter. You are wise to bring another with you this time.”

“Guess that means I have to write something,” 11 says, already going to the podium in the corner. She picks up the quill there and takes a minute to think, twirling the sharpened feather between her fingers.

The existence of an information broker is not new to her, but there are never any set rules when dealing with an invisible currency. Hephoene seems to rely on the golden scale on her table to judge the worth of whatever information is placed in its dishes, but with 11's limited knowledge about the magic of this world, how can she even be sure this isn’t all just some sort of trickery?

The crow’s cries distract 11 from her thoughts.

“Mischief! See-krit!” It hops across the table, dancing in front of the scale.

11 decides to start with something simple. She writes,

The wraith that was stealing the children in Oakroot village was created by a man who lived there.

His name was Varnon and he is now dead.

She folds the card in half, walks over to the scale, and places the paper on the left dish, right on top of Safir’s paper.

The scale doesn't move.

“Gossip counts little in the realm of information, sweetling,” Hephoene says. “Heed this advice also. Underestimate not the knowledge of one who barters in it.”

11 can’t help the skepticism in her voice as she asks, “Are you saying you already know what I’ve written?”

“Sweetling.” Hephoene waves her pipe, drawing rainbows through the soft light. “I have eyes and ears in places you wouldn’t even think is appropriate.”

“Fine,” 11 says. She snatches the card off the table and marches over to the podium to grab a blank one.

On this one, she writes,

By mixing Sulfur, Charcoal, and Potassium Nitrate in the right amounts, you can create a slow-decomposition, low-explosive powder.

She pauses, the quill in her hand hovering uncertainly above the card.

I feel like I’m messing with time travel here… but if this will help us save Yue'li...

In a flurry of letters and numbers, 11 writes down the exact compositional ingredients to make gun powder. Then before she can second guess herself, she comes back and places it on the scale.

This time, the scale tips until Hephoene's dish is high in the air.

“Ha!” says 11. “Try get this information with your eyes and ears.”

A flash of emotions crosses Hephoene’s face. She looks between the scale and 11 in disbelief. Then in a surprising show of good sportsmanship, she throws back her head and laughs.

“I expected nothing less from you, sweetling,” she says, stretching her arms out as if wanting to embrace 11. “Ask away and you shall know the answer.”

“Thanks,” 11 says. “But I just want to know where Yue’li is.”

Hephoene’s smile falters. “Are you sure? You are giving up much by forfeiting your question.”

“I don’t care,” 11 says. “I didn’t come here for anything else.”

She witnesses another array of emotions cross Hephoene’s face, ending in disappointment.

“Very well then,” says the sorceress with a sigh. “I declare to the goddesses thus. Mischief complete.”

“Mischief!” In a flurry of black feathers, her crow takes flight. From nowhere, a mighty gust of wind blows through the room, throwing up the three pieces of papers high into the ceiling.

“Mischief!” Quick as a dart, the crow snatches two of the papers from the air and drops them in Hephoene’s waiting hand.

Safir picks up the remaining paper as it falls back to the table.

“Thank you, Mistress,” he says, unfolding the paper.

His face pales.

"Two days ago," he reads, "a man was last seen traveling north from the Spires, carrying a bound-up...” His voice falters. "Yaojin girl in..." He shakes his head, unable to continue.

The room is hot but 11 feels cold. “The Spires,” she says. “Isn’t that… far?”

Safir turns to her. “More than two week’s ride away, lassie.”

“But this doesn’t make any sense,” 11 says. “How’d he get so far ahead?”

“The more important question is why he's going north,” says Safir. “He's already gone as far as the Spires. For what purpose can he have for changing course now?”

Hephoene hums as she reads the contents of her own card. “How very intriguing,” she says, setting it face-down on the table. With a gentle tap of her pipe, smoke curls out from its end and consumes the card until nothing remains. She then turns her golden eyes to them. “You look like you have more questions,” she observes.

11 ignores the woman. “He must’ve had a change of plans,” she tells Safir. “There isn’t any other explanation. Either way, we know where he is headed. We can beat him there.”

Safir nods in agreement. He folds the card and pockets it.

“You don’t seem excited,” 11 says. “Did I miss something?”

“Not exactly,” says Safir. “But methinks there is more to this man’s designs. The Spires border the ocean. He wouldn’t have gone there if he didn’t have a solid plan to cross it, unless he's simply following...”

Safir starts for the podium again. "I have one more question," he announces. "Please allow me to ask it, Hephoene."

“Of course,” the sorceress replies. “Given you have enough to trade for its answer.”

Safir picks up another card, but the moment he brings quill to paper, 11 springs over to yank him back from the door.

A second later, the red iron door explodes off its hinges and crashes to the ground. Armored knights thunder into the room with their swords drawn. Books and scrolls spill from their stacks, trampled under steel boots.

“Mischief!”

Hephoene's crow shrieks in terror and takes to the air. One of the knights fires a crossbow arrow. It misses. The crow darts into a shadowy part in the ceiling and disappears through a thin gap in the stone.

Safir clambers off the floor. “What in Nranhana’s toenails is happening?” he demands.

More knights pour through the door, surrounding the inhabitants. 11 helps steady Safir to his feet and pulls him behind her. Behind them, Hephoene is held at sword point by her table. But the woman doesn’t look alarmed. Instead, she seems amused by all this.

“How have you gotten past the tribes?” she asks one of the knights. "What have you done to my kin?"

The answer comes from somewhere out the door.

“Nothing they didn’t deserve, for sure.”

11 turns to see a one-armed man stride into the room. Half of his face is covered with a porcelain mask. The other half is twisted into a grin.

Sir Jernal walks right past 11 and Safir without looking at either of them, but 11 recognizes him all the same as the man who stopped her outside the South Gate on her first day into the city.

As if sensing her stares, Jernal turns to stare back.

“What is it, girl?” he says. “Now isn’t the time to look tough, for sure. If you want to argue your innocence, you may do so in front of the acting Lord Commander.”

He doesn’t remember me. Perhaps that’s a good thing.

Hephoene speaks quietly, but the edge in her voice is clear. “How did you find me, Sir Jernal?”

“That’s Captain Kanson to you,” says the one-armed man. He waves his stump at the knights around him. “Take this beast folk away.” He gestures to 11 and Safir. “These two as well, for collaborating with this traitor.”

Hephoene laughs, drawing every pair of eyes on her. “How absurd,” she says. “You may want to take off that mask of yours, captain, and see who it is you are accusing.”

“How dare you instruct me, creature?” Sir Jernal steps up to Hephoene and jams his stump into her face. “I am the captain of the South Gate of Kesrock. I will accuse who I damn well please, for sure. Men, take them away!”

The knights move in, chaining Hephoene and dragging her from the table. Safir starts to explain but a jab in the gut silences him. 11 tries to think of a way out but there are too many people here. She will not be able to get out of this situation without shedding blood. And if she does…

Reminder.

God Gier 11 is currently on Strike Two.

Any further displays of insubordination to the Protocol will be punishable by a system-wide shutdown.

11 lets the knights grab her. They cuff her hands together and push her from the room and into the tunnel outside. The light is bright. In the middle of the floor is a glowing circle with alchemical symbols written all around it.

She hears Safir gasp, “A transportation spell? But who is so powerful to move so many people at once?”

As if to answer him, a girl steps out of the shadows. She’s wearing a mint green cloak that covers down to her ankles. Every inch of her is covered, but by her height and the shape of her body alone…

11 stops moving, making everyone behind her to stop as well. She looks up, trembling, hoping, disbelieving, as Aralyn Windborne reaches up and pulls back her hood.

Her hair is kissed by fire. Her eyes hold a galaxy of lilac stars.

11’s legs go weak. She slumps towards the floor, forcing the knights to hold her up. All the feeling in her body disappears, taken over by numbing nausea and confusion.

“Come on now,” Sir Jernal says, pushing past 11 towards the spinning circle. “I do not wish to spend one more minute inside this putrid place. I’m going first, elf.”

“Sure.” Aralyn waves her hands across the circle and with a flash, Sir Jernal is gone. Then the elf girl turns to the rest of the knights and their chained captives, and smiles.

“Line 'em up,” she says.