The wind carried a bite as Martin walked along the side of the old trade road, the Markand skyline a distant smudge against the horizon. He wasn't in a rush. Cults loved their ceremonial timelines—five days of chanting and ego inflation before they even tried anything meaningful. That gave him time to prepare. And time to pry.
A black trench coat had replaced his suit jacket, long and flowing, enchanted against the cold. His boots kicked up frost-dusted dirt as he walked, a half-eaten apple in one hand, a glowing scroll in the other.
He wasn't alone.
Next to him floated a lazy, fist-sized orb—a spirit he'd contracted for low-level intel collection. It pulsed occasionally, whispering details into his mind.
And those whispers had been interesting.
Very interesting.
Far east of Martin, in the heart of a ruined mountain fortress, Storm's Creed moved like frenzied ants. Their temple—once a forgotten watchtower—had been overgrown with ritual wards, carved stone glyphs, and fluttering prayer talismans. Inside, fifty acolytes knelt in perfect silence as the High Priestess circled a pedestal.
The artifact sat atop it: a crystalline heart, pulsing faintly with golden light. Not of this world.
It had no name, only function: an artificial womb for divinity. One of Varncrest's most closely guarded mistakes.
As thunder cracked outside the tower, the cult began its Five-Day Invocation. No longer hiding. The skies above Markand churned with unnatural clouds.
Southwest, in the noble citadel of House Solholme, the mood was less reverent and more calculating.
"Storm's Creed is no threat," Lord Alestan Solholme said, folding his gloved hands atop the table. "But the artifact they hold is."
The war room was stone and firelight, maps of local ley lines and divine loci sprawled across the table like battle plans. Several mages stood around him, each from Solholme's internal security corps—trained in subterfuge, diplomacy, and quick elimination.
"If Varncrest gets wind of this," the seneschal warned, "they'll invoke charter rights. We'll be forced to hand over territory for containment."
"Which is why we will contain it," Alestan snapped. "And when the false god rises, we will be the ones to kill it."
There were murmurs. Some uneasy. Others impressed.
"And the artifact?"
Alestan smiled. "Repurposed. Quietly. They lost it. We found it. No one needs to know anything else."
At Varncrest, silence had turned into alarm.
Within the Department of Artifact Oversight, the great brass doors slammed open.
Warden Belisarius walked in with the weight of law on his shoulders. He wore the traditional black coat and the Compliance Gauntlets, glowing with strips of embedded truth-metal. The moment he stepped into the room, conversation ceased. Not out of fear—but respect, tinged with dread.
"This is on me," he said flatly, addressing the assembled faculty. "The artifact was in my care. I let it slip. I'll retrieve it."
"You'll be walking into noble territory," one professor muttered. "If they're involved—"
"They are," Belisarius said. "They just don't know how deep."
"And if you find resistance?"
"Then we remind them what Varncrest is."
The Compliance Gauntlets clicked into place as he turned.
Meanwhile, Martin sat cross-legged in a half-collapsed tavern ruin just outside the Markand border, surrounded by unlit campfires and broken ale kegs. The magic broker he'd summoned appeared in a burst of light—not teleportation, but a summoned projection.
"You're sure?" Martin asked, tossing the scroll he'd just read onto the ground beside him.
"Positive," the broker said, his illusory form flickering. "I got the word from a relic smuggler who saw him pass through the Azure Cross checkpoint."
"Belisarius." Martin exhaled like the name was poison. "Of all the Wardens, it had to be him."
The Compliance Gauntlets were the worst part. They didn't just detect lies—they enforced the truth. If you tried to lie in their presence, your mouth would refuse to speak. If you tried to omit something vital, the gauntlets would burn your hand off for perjury.
"And that confirms it," Martin muttered. "The artifact's not just some cult trinket. It's the real deal."
He tossed the apple core into a nearby brazier and stood, dusting himself off. His mind raced with calculations. This had started as a side job—loot a cult, study a relic, maybe make some money selling the leftover limbs. But now?
Now the chessboard had flipped.
He was walking into a conflict between three parties:
A cult with dangerous ambition.
A noble house with everything to lose.
And Varncrest, a walking paradox of law and academic vengeance.
Martin grinned.
"Three kings. One pyre."
He walked to the edge of the ruined inn and pulled a small totem from his pocket—the one he'd nearly sold earlier. Now he was glad he didn't.
He whispered to it in a forgotten language, fed it a trickle of Animus, and the totem blinked to life. A small network map appeared midair—intersecting magical disturbances surrounding Markand, anchored by three sources.
The artifact. The ritual. And Belisarius.
Martin's red eyes scanned the field. He didn't plan on fighting all three. Just manipulating them into fighting each other.
Night fell over the valley as Martin resumed his journey, moving with purpose but not haste. Storm's Creed would begin phase two of their ritual tomorrow. House Solholme's agents would soon begin their "intervention." And Varncrest's warden was probably two days out, riding a leyline train through reinforced circuits.
Martin licked his lips and tapped his coat pocket, where he kept a small flask of Animus concentrate.
"Time to prepare the board."
He didn't need to win every battle. He just needed the right one to lose at the perfect moment.
And if all went well?
He'd walk away with a god's skeleton, a Varncrest relic, noble leverage, and enough research material to keep him occupied for years.