Web of treachery verik left behind
The scent of Verik's betrayal lingered long after his body had cooled.
Alaric stood alone in the chamber where Verik had died. The room had been cleansed by spellfire, scrubbed with iron dust and purified salts, yet something of the man still haunted the stone. Not just his body, not even his final words—but the intention he had carried. It curled in the corners like smoke. Not aimless hate. Not mindless treason. Something deeper. Purpose. Conviction.
That was the danger of this kind of enemy.
Verik had not been a pawn. He had been a believer.
And believers left trails—not just in steps or sigils, but in whispered faith, in handshakes behind closed doors, in glances too quick to catch. Alaric knew this game. He had hunted shadows before. But never in his own den. Never among those who once called him brother.
The first clue came not from a crypt or rune, but from a book.
Mira brought it to him at dusk, her hands trembling as she handed over the old tome wrapped in dream-silk. "It was hidden under his bunk. Inside the lining. He carved through the frame to hide it."
Alaric took it gently. The book was bound in ash-leather. Its pages yellowed, its ink hand-written. At first glance, it looked like a personal journal—pages filled with battlefield notes, philosophy fragments, diagrams of ritual circles.
But then Alaric saw the code.
The repeating phrase: The fire is not what burns. The shadow is not what hides.
It echoed like a cipher. A trigger. He ran his thumb along the edge of the pages and found that some were sewn together—not visible to any casual observer. He slit the seam carefully with a claw and opened the hidden folio.
Inside were names. Symbols. Coordinates.
Three stood out, circled in red ash:
— "Daven Hollow, stonecutter — defected to Ironfang, missing since ice moon"
— "Maelis — Temple healer, scry-touched, suspected latent loyalty"
— "Brenn Korr — captain of the outer sentries, awarded silence charm for 'valiant' service"
Alaric read the list three times.
Then he burned the book.
He didn't summon a full council. Didn't speak to Kael or Lira yet. These were not names for courts or assemblies. These were names to hunt.
And Alaric hunted alone.
The first was easy—Daven Hollow, the stonecutter who'd claimed sanctuary three winters ago. He'd helped design the vaults beneath Ironfang. Had a family in the upper rings. Quiet. Loyal. Smiled too often. Alaric found him carving a new altar near the eastern wall, hammer in hand, talking to a child.
Daven never saw the strike.
Alaric caught his wrist mid-motion, twisted until the chisel fell, and held him in place with nothing but presence.
"Where is it?" he asked.
Daven's eyes widened. "Wh—what—?"
"I read your name in Verik's own hand."
That was enough. Daven froze. He didn't deny it. Didn't plead. Just lowered his head.
"I only told them when it seemed safe. When they promised they wouldn't touch the children."
"Where did you send the signals?"
"Southward. The hollow cairn below the Cradle's End. There's a cave system there. They've been listening since before the wars."
Alaric released him.
"You have one hour to vanish," he said. "Tell no one. Leave nothing. If I see you again, I won't ask questions."
Daven nodded. Tears welled in his eyes, but he said nothing.
Alaric did not watch him go.
The second name—Maelis—was gone before he arrived. The healer's quarters were abandoned, every bed stripped, every trace scrubbed clean. But Alaric smelled her fear in the walls. The wards had been peeled like skin. Someone had taken her. Or perhaps she had fled.
He ordered her quarters sealed and set a pair of runic tracers on the site. The old sigil of the Ash Pact was scrawled beneath her bed, only visible under moonlight. A prayer for absolution.
He knew what that meant.
Maelis wasn't working alone.
She was protecting someone else.
He made a mental note.
Then came the hardest part—Brenn Korr. A friend. A soldier who had stood beside him at the Battle of Skystone Vale. One of the few who had seen Alaric shift for the first time and not flinch. The silence charm had been a gift from the council. It had also made him impossible to scry or track through magical means.
Alaric found him at the outer sentry towers, talking to another guard.
He waited until Brenn was alone, then approached.
Brenn turned slowly. No fear in his eyes. Just resignation.
"You found Verik's list."
"I did."
"I never gave anything away."
"But you listened," Alaric said quietly. "You let Verik speak. You gave him safe space to breathe."
Brenn looked out over the cliff. "I thought he was just afraid. Just tired. He said things I didn't agree with—but he believed them. I didn't think that made him a traitor."
Alaric walked to his side. "And now?"
"Now I think we waited too long to call poison what it is."
Alaric nodded.
"No chains?"
"No. You'll stay under observation. But I want your eyes, not your silence."
They stood there a long time, not speaking. The stars were rising.
Three names had been circled.
But Alaric knew the web didn't end with them. Verik had been part of a network—a living thing, a growing mind. And even with its mouth silenced, its limbs twitched.
He summoned Mira at midnight.
"Dreamwalk," he said. "I need to follow his final thoughts. Track the last message Verik ever sent."
"That's dangerous," she replied. "The mind's residue can lash. Especially one tainted by dark conviction."
"I know."
She placed her hands on his temples.
And Alaric dove into the mind of a dead man.
What he found was worse than he feared.
Verik hadn't just whispered into empty air.
He had spoken directly to a voice.
A voice older than Ironfang. Darker than Warrick.
A voice calling itself The First Moonless.
And it was still listening.
Waiting.
The spy was dead. But the true enemy had heard everything.
And Alaric knew, then, that Ironfang would not survive unless he brought the fight to the roots of this darkness himself.
No matter what it cost him