The loud crack of wood slamming against stone echoed throughout Luenor's room. An ink bottle burst against the far wall, sending black ink oozing and streaking across parchment and shattered glass like a fresh wound. Several papers fluttered around the space, landing softly on the flagstones below.
"Three days," Luenor muttered, his voice as cold as the air in winter. "Three days, and we still have nothing."
Telmar stood rigid by the door, arms clasped behind his back. He didn't blink as the debris settled, nor did he utter a word. The others—Thalanar, Hunter, Arwin, Faren, Dion—remained silent as well. The air was thick with frustration and the lingering scent of spilled ink. Each man in that room had taken a life before, but this heavy silence twisted their insides.
Thalanar, arms crossed and expression unreadable, finally turned to Dion after what felt like an eternity.
"Anything from Vescana?" he asked in a flat tone. "Since the auction?"
Dion grimaced and shook his head. "Nothing. We've squeezed every informant dry. The dock rats, the street criers, even the old blind priest in the plaza—nothing. No one mentioned a masked man, no one talked about a fight, not even a whisper of gossip. Just… nothing."
Luenor paced back and forth, his jaw clenched tight. He remembered a time in Carrowhelm, sitting in a tavern while Dion laid out his grand idea: a network of informants not made up of spies or soldiers, but of those who often went unnoticed. Street kids. Household staff. The mentally ill and the destitute. It had been a brilliant strategy. It had always worked before.
But now?
"And what about the guest list?" Thalanar pressed, his gaze unwavering.
For the first time, Telmar chimed in, his voice steady and calm. "I've gone over it twice. Nobles, bankers, traders. All checked out. Not a single one fits the profile of someone who could blend martial skills with magic like that."
Luenor stopped in his tracks. "So what are you saying? He's a ghost?"
Silence hung in the air.
He turned back to the desk, gripping its edge tightly, his knuckles turning white.
"Hera's coming of age is in two weeks," he said firmly. "We can't afford another incident. I refuse to let her ceremony become another ambush."
Thalanar narrowed his eyes, clearly focused. "Telmar. What about the entourages? Bodyguards? Escorts? Were they all checked?"
"Every single name," Telmar confirmed with a nod. "No red flags. Most were just ceremonial guards. The few exceptions had connections to minor houses or trade guilds. Nothing that could pose a real threat."
Faren let out a groan, leaning his shoulder against the wall. "So, we're just chasing shadows. Fantastic."
Luenor shot him a piercing look, his eyes like ice. "Then get to work. Strengthen the shipment routes near Carrowhelm. Any caravan within ten miles of Echlion is getting searched."
Faren hesitated, a frown creasing his brow. "That's going to cost a fortune. We've already drained our funds for—"
"Just do it," Luenor snapped, cutting him off.
Faren swallowed his objections and nodded curtly before striding out of the room, his boots echoing down the corridor.
Turning back to Telmar, Luenor asked, "Of the nobles who were here, has anything… come up recently? A scandal? An accident? Someone gone missing?"
Telmar frowned in thought. "I'll need to check the updated ledgers."
"Then get on it," Luenor commanded. Telmar bowed briefly and slipped out through the doorway.
The room felt emptier, the tension still hanging in the air.
"Where are you going with this?" Arwin finally spoke up, leaning forward from the corner, his face pale but alert.
Luenor's voice dropped to a controlled whisper. "If that attacker was as powerful as he seemed—and none of us recognized him—then he wasn't who he pretended to be. He wasn't on that guest list. Not really."
Thalanar tilted his head slightly, intrigued. "You're suggesting he impersonated someone?"
"A baron. Or a baronet," Luenor replied. "Low enough to slip by unnoticed. High enough to be overlooked."
Just then, Telmar returned, holding a freshly printed list. "Only one baronet was seated near our booth. Palmero. From the north."
Luenor took the paper and quickly scanned it. "What's his background?"
"Nothing special. No duels to his name. No debts hanging over him. No heirs to speak of. No enemies lurking in the shadows."
"Just the sort of fellow you'd want to impersonate," Luenor murmured thoughtfully. "We need someone close to him—maybe a maid or a steward. I want every detail. If the real Palmero has been swapped out, someone at that estate must have noticed."
"I'll take care of it," Telmar replied before disappearing once more.
Thalanar shifted his stance. "And what about Lyssari?"
"She's still lost in that book," Thalanar said, glancing toward the closed study doors. "The grimoire she snagged at the auction. It seems more like a curiosity than a source of power—at least, that's the impression I get. But to her, it's something sacred."
Luenor remained silent, recalling the moment he handed her the auction card—a small indulgence, maybe even a gesture of kindness. Now, he found himself questioning it.
Hunter interjected, "What about the pill?"
Luenor's expression darkened. "The Crimson Vein. The auction master mentioned it was sold by a giant. He's still out there, somewhere near the edge of Vescana."
Hunter raised an eyebrow. "Giants don't exactly socialize with humans."
"He did," Luenor countered. "And he sold something dangerous. We're going to find him."
Arwin straightened in his chair. "I should join you."
"No," Luenor replied gently. "You're still on the mend. Focus on healing first."
Arwin frowned but held his tongue.
Hunter's face turned serious. "There's still one question we haven't tackled. How did the attacker know who you were?"
"He didn't just guess," Luenor said quietly. "Someone must have told him."
Dion glanced around the room. "Mira's gone. If there's still a traitor, they're buried deep."
Thalanar's gaze flicked briefly to the floor. He had his own suspicions. But he kept them to himself.
______
By morning, the fog hung thick like wool, wrapping around the trees in twisting curls. The carriage rolled southward through Vescana's pine forests, its wheels crunching over gravel and frostbitten roots. The only sounds were the steady rhythm of hooves and the occasional caw of a crow.
Inside, Hunter faced Luenor, arms crossed tightly over his chest. "You've gotten a bit too comfortable."
Luenor raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"You're capable of so much more," Hunter continued. "But you've been too wrapped up in diplomacy and politics. It's dulled your instincts."
Luenor stayed silent. He knew the truth in Hunter's words.
Hunter leaned in closer. "You're on the verge of breaking through. A Two-Star Knight needs more than just skill with a sword. You need clarity, discipline, and a touch of sensitivity."
"And what do you propose?" Luenor asked.
"Meditation," Hunter replied matter-of-factly. "Mana awareness. It's time to reconnect with the world around you."
Luenor nodded slightly, straightening up and closing his eyes. The motion of the carriage faded away, and time seemed to slow.
"Start by breathing," Hunter instructed gently. "Not like a soldier, but like a monk. Inhale deeply. Exhale slowly."
Luenor matched his breathing to Hunter's rhythm, feeling his heartbeat thrum louder in his ears.
"Now, turn your focus inward," Hunter urged. "Where does your mana reside? What form does it take?"
Luenor discovered it—threads of energy coiled within his chest, vibrating softly like taut wires under pressure.
"Excellent," Hunter praised. "Now, reach out. Mana isn't just contained within you. It's all around—wood, stone, air. Everything carries a trace. Feel it."
Luenor reached out. At first—nothing. Just emptiness.
Then—like a gentle breeze—there it was, a flicker.
The wood of the carriage seemed to hum with a hint of magic, probably from how it was made. Hunter sat across from him, radiating warmth like a steady flame. Outside, the pines glimmered softly, their sap infused with centuries of earth-magic.
Luenor's breath slowed even more. His awareness expanded, spreading out like a net cast over the forest.
There—something small. Skittering. Moving.
"A squirrel," Hunter said, a faint grin on his face. "You spotted it."
Luenor nodded, still concentrating.
"Push a little further," Hunter urged. "Test your limits. Find the edge of what you can manage."
Luenor complied. Sweat beaded on his forehead. His jaw tightened.
The rocks beneath the road shimmered softly. He could sense the water flowing beneath the earth—its pull was undeniable. Every living thing around him buzzed with untapped potential. Magic lay dormant.
Then came the ache. A sharp twist behind his eyes, as if the weight of the world was pressing in on him.
"Enough," Hunter said quickly.
Luenor exhaled and released his focus. His awareness snapped back, leaving a hollow, humming emptiness in its wake. He opened his eyes.
"You'll do this every morning from now on," Hunter stated matter-of-factly. "And each time, you'll reach a little further."
Luenor wiped his face with a cloth. "And what if I push too hard?"
"You'll black out," Hunter replied with a smirk. "But you'll learn to avoid that."
Luenor let out a faint chuckle, the first laugh he'd had in days. His gaze drifted back to the misty trees outside.
The masked attacker. The Crimson Vein. The traitor still lurking among them.
Next time, he would be ready.