"Iron Shields?" Arthur repeated, his voice thoughtful. "A self-made name, then. How long have they been operating here?"
The vendor gave a hesitant nod, lowering his voice as if the name alone might summon danger.
"They showed up around a month ago. At first, no one took them seriously—just a few men claiming to be part of some 'private security group' offering protection. No uniforms. No banners. Just a name… and weapons."
Arthur's gaze sharpened.
"They demanded coins in exchange for safety. Merchants thought it was a bluff—until carts started going missing at night. Stalls vandalized. One trader found his entire inventory soaked in oil and set ablaze while he was sleeping."
Arthur didn't interrupt. He was letting the man speak freely—every word was another clue.
"Then came the disappearances," the vendor continued. "Nothing major at first. Just a few apprentices vanishing for a day. Then they returned with broken fingers, cracked ribs… too scared to speak. A warning."
