Introduction:
The characters have entered the Underground, a thieving organisation which is actually located underground. They are looking for the Thief-King, with whose help they are hoping to contact the Queen of Meira.
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Having followed the man’s directions, they came to a door with an engraved piece of wood on its front that read Cartachamber. Before Athrù could knock, the door was opened, although it wasn’t the Thief-King who came out. Instead it was a startled boy almost half Eoin’s height.

Once he had regained his composure, the boy turned around and said, “Thief-King, you have some guests arrived.” Then, walking past them, he said, “Remember to be respectful to the good King.”

Saera crossed her arms as the boy left them in the corridor. “There’s nothing like an innocent-looking little boy to make an inconspicuous thief.”

“Can’t judge anyone for being poor,” said Athrù. “At least everyone down here respects one another. You wouldn’t get any of that above ground. Maybe pity. But no understanding. Thievery isn’t always a choice. The Underground entitles everyone to a life, and the means they take don’t harm anyone.” Without another word, Athrù entered the room.

“Well someone’s certainly passionate,” said Saera as she, Eoin and Faine followed him inside. Again, this room was reasonably dark, but the firelight was more than enough to see the silhouetted shape of the Thief-King hunched over a table. He wore a thick robe that splayed on the floor. His whispers were strings of incoherent drivel, soft and meaningless.

“Your Excellency,” said Athrù.

The Thief-King grunted loudly, holding his hand over the map and drawing invisible lines. Eoin managed to decipher one of his whispers as behind the bazaar, where that bastard sleeps. From next to him he picked up a compass and placed its points on the map.

“Your Excellency.”

A bird squawked from somewhere in the darkness, making Eoin’s heart jump.

“Yes, yes, I need just one more moment. You would not want to be the cause of this boy’s death now, would you?” The tall, silhouetted man retreated to a desk nearby. He dipped a quill in its inkwell and scribbled a one-line note onto a piece of parchment. After tearing the note away, he lifted it above shoulder height, at which point a raven shot out of the shadows, snatched it up spiralled upwards, disappearing through some secret hole in the roof.

“You lads wish to speak with me?” said the Thief-King.

“I’m not a lad!” said Saera.

“Excuse me.” The Thief-King turned to face them and stepped into the flickering light. “You are not of my men.”

“No,” said Athrù. After a pause, he said, “We bring before you a matter of utmost importance, Your Excellency.”

“Of utmost importance to me, lad, is the safety of my men. If you are not here to report to me, then I hold no interest in your issues. Every second I waste could be another man gone red.”

Faine spoke coldly. “With all due respect, Excellency, these issues are not ours, but yours. They concern your men’s safety.”

The Thief-King’s face became less stern. “My name is Fórdhain. I rule the Underground, but monikers like Excellency, Liege and Highness please me not. This is no audience hall. I want to hear my name.”