The tavern door swung open with a groan of old hinges, and Korb stepped inside, lantern raised high. He'd expected carnage, overturned tables, shattered glass, perhaps even blood on the floorboards. The boy, Elrik, had described an attack, a violent confrontation with an old man who wielded power beyond comprehension.
Instead, what greeted him was mundane tranquillity. Chairs stood neatly at their tables. Bottles lined the shelves behind the bar, undisturbed. Even the dust motes drifting through his lantern light seemed to float with lazy contentment, utterly unconcerned with tales of violence and supernatural assault.
"What in the Stars..." Korb muttered, his voice a lone intrusion in the tavern's silence. His boots thudded against the wooden floor as he moved deeper inside, checking corners, peering behind the bar. Nothing. Just an ordinary tavern on an ordinary winter afternoon, closed and quiet.
Had the boy been mad? Drunk? Or was this some elaborate prank that Korb was too tired and underpaid to appreciate?
A figure sat at one of the back tables, so still and unobtrusive in the dim light that Korb had nearly missed him entirely. A young man with distinctive yellow-blonde hair, hunched over as if he'd been dozing, or perhaps hiding.
Korb's hand dropped to his thin sword hilt. "You there! On your feet!"
The young man's head snapped up, eyes wide with startled alarm.
"I said—"
The boy bolted.
He exploded from his seat with the desperate speed of prey fleeing a predator, his chair clattering backwards as he sprinted not toward the front entrance, but toward the kitchen and the rear exit beyond.
"Stop! By order of the Watch!" Korb shouted, giving chase. He crashed through the kitchen after the fleeing figure, pots clanging as he knocked them aside, his lantern swinging wildly.
The back door was already open, banging against its frame. Korb burst through into the narrow alley, his eyes scanning. A flash of yellow hair disappeared around a corner to his left. He ran after it, boots pounding cobblestones, breath coming in sharp gasps.
The alleys of Zarethun were a labyrinth, a tangled web of service passages that locals navigated by instinct, while outsiders got hopelessly lost in them. Korb rounded corners, squeezed through gaps between buildings, always keeping that yellow hair just barely in sight.
Left turn. Right turn. A squeeze through a narrow passage.
Then nothing.
Korb skidded to a halt in a small courtyard enclosed on three sides. There was only one way in, the way he'd just come: no doors, no windows, no escape route.
But the boy was gone, vanished, as if he'd never existed.
Korb spun in a circle, sword drawn, eyes searching every shadow. "Where are you?!" His voice echoed off stone walls, answered only by silence.
Cursing under his breath, he turned and began the walk back, already dreading the report he'd have to file.
Inside the tavern, in the exact spot where the yellow-haired boy had been sitting, the air shimmered.
It was subtle, barely perceptible, like watching heat waves rise from sun-baked stone. Shapes formed, gained definition, and solidified into reality.
Julian Volkov materialised into existence, his body sprawled in the chair in the exact position his false image had maintained. His chest rose and fell with a breath he'd been holding too long, his heart hammering against his ribs.
｢Photographer｣.
The name of his salvation and his burden whispered through his mind with weary familiarity. [Picture Manifestation], the sub-skill that lets him create tangible copies of any subject he can visualise clearly. While the picture was active, his true body became invisible, imperceptible to sight, sound, even most forms of magical detection. The picture could walk, talk, interact with the world as if it were real, right up until the moment it dissolved into nothing.
He'd created the yellow-haired boy the instant he'd heard footsteps approaching the tavern, going invisible and letting the picture draw the watchman away. Once it had led him to that enclosed courtyard, Julian had simply dispelled it, leaving the man to search empty air while Julian remained safely hidden back at the tavern.
Too close. Way too close.
He pushed himself up from the chair, movements quick despite the lingering tremor in his hands. No time to dwell on close calls. He grabbed the long leather cloak draped over a nearby chair and threw it around his shoulders, the familiar weight settling like armour. Next, a small leather backpack he'd prepared earlier, dried meat, hard bread, a waterskin, a few coins, and a spare shirt. Not much, but enough to survive a few days on the road.
He adjusted the wand hidden under his shirt and moved toward the door. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to put distance between himself and this cursed town. But he forced himself to move with deliberate calm, checking the street through the window before stepping out.
The late afternoon light was fading, the sun sinking toward the horizon and painting the clouds in shades of amber and blood. The street was empty, the winter cold having driven most people indoors. Perfect.
Julian pushed open the door and stepped out, turning toward the eastern portal. His exit. His escape.
Then he saw it.
A dark speck against the clouds, descending with purpose. Too large. Too fast. Not a bird.
The figure cut through the sky like a falling star, the setting sun at its back turning it into a silhouette wreathed in crimson light. As it descended, details emerged, a human form, arms outstretched behind, riding currents of wind as if they were solid stone.
Julian's breath caught. A soldier mage!?
He didn't wait to see more. His feet carried him left, toward the nearest building. His fingers found the rough edge of a windowsill, and he pulled himself up with the desperate strength of someone who'd learned that hesitation meant capture. Boot to the decorative stonework, push. Hand to the next ledge, pull. Don't look down. A year of working for Cerberus operatives had burned these movements into muscle memory, had taught him that the difference between freedom and a cell was often measured in seconds.
His hands were going numb from the cold stone, his arms screaming in protest, when thunder cracked below.
The entire building shook with the force of the impact. Julian's grip nearly slipped, his boots scrabbling for purchase. He hauled himself up and over the roof's edge, rolling onto the sloped tiles, his breath coming in ragged gasps that misted in the cold air.
He pressed himself flat against the roof, his heart a wild drum in his chest, and carefully peered over the edge.
The man who stood before the eastern portal was perhaps in his early thirties, with a short beard and dark hair pulled back in a tight tail. He wore a military uniform, black and red, the colours of the Imperial Army, bearing additional insignia that marked him as an officer. A lieutenant, if Julian remembered the rank structure correctly. The two guards at the gate, who had drawn weapons at his approach, now stood at rigid attention.
"Lieutenant Arthur!" one guard blurted. "Sir! We apologise—"
Arthur waved a hand dismissively, his eyes already scanning the street with the focused intensity of a hunting hawk. "New orders: tighten security and begin evacuation procedures. Move all civilians to the central square for processing. No one leaves this town without proper authorisation. Move."
"Yes, sir!"
The guards scattered, shouting orders into the gathering dusk. Within moments, doors began to open. Confused citizens emerged, some clutching children, others demanding explanations. The organised chaos of a military evacuation began to unfold.
Julian pressed himself lower against the roof tiles, forcing his breathing to quiet despite his racing heart. Why is the military here? A lieutenant, flying ahead of his unit, is ordering evacuations?
His first panicked thought was that they'd come for him; somehow, tracked Luthern's trail here. But that didn't make sense. If they knew about him specifically, they'd have gone straight to the tavern, moved with surgical precision. Not this broad, desperate sweep.
They're hunting something, or someone else.
The realisation brought no comfort. If the Imperial Army was here with this level of urgency, Julian wanted to be gone before whatever they were hunting decided to fight back.
His eyes tracked the evacuation as minutes crawled past. Citizens were being herded toward the centre of town, away from the gates. Arthur remained in the middle of the street, arms crossed, his gaze methodically sweeping rooftops, alleyways, and windows. Hunting.
Julian began planning. The eastern gate was blocked. The western gate would likely be too, once Arthur's unit arrived. But there were smaller exits, service passages used by merchants, perhaps even—
"Poop" A single finger pressed against his shoulder from behind.
Julian's body reacted before his mind caught up. His hand shot to the dagger hidden under his cloak, yanking it free as he spun—
"Easy there." A hand caught his wrist mid-swing with casual strength, but it wasn't just stopping; it was twisting, fingers pressing against pressure points Julian hadn't even known existed. His hand spasmed. The dagger slipped from his suddenly nerveless grip.
Alan caught it before it could clatter on the tiles, the movement smooth and practised. "Nice knife," he said conversationally, still holding Julian's now-empty wrist. "I'll borrow it. Thanks."
Julian found himself staring into the bloodied, grinning face of a young man his own age. Black hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and worse. A long coat torn and stained with dark patches that could only be blood, so much blood that Julian couldn't tell how much was Alan's and how much belonged to someone else. And eyes, bright, feverish, burning with desperate calculation.
"Alan?" The name came out as barely a whisper.
"In the flesh. Well, most of it anyway." Alan's grin widened, utterly inappropriate for someone who looked like he'd crawled out of an abattoir. "Surprised? You did tell me to get lost. But here I am, defying expectations as usual."
Julian's mind stuttered, then caught up. "You—you need to leave! Now! That's a military lieutenant down there, and if he finds you—"
"Oh, I know exactly who he is." Alan's eyes, despite his casual tone, were locked on Arthur below, tracking his movements with predatory focus. "Arthur. Nice guy. A bit intense. We've had some quality time together recently."
"Then you know you need to run—"
"Actually," Alan interrupted, his grip on Julian's wrist shifting, becoming firmer, "I need you to do me a favour."
Julian tried to pull free and failed. Alan's strength was surprising for someone who looked half-dead. "A favour? Are you insane? I'm not getting involved in whatever—"
"It's really simple," Alan continued, as if Julian hadn't spoken. "I just need you to stand still for a moment. Won't take long."
"No!" Julian twisted, trying to break the grip. His other hand moved to summon magicules, to create a picture, to do something—
Alan's hand clamped down on that wrist too, pinning both arms with frightening efficiency. "Sorry about this," he said, and he actually sounded apologetic. "Really. But I'm running out of options, and you're conveniently here."
"Let go of me!" Julian hissed, keeping his voice low despite his panic. Screaming would bring Arthur up here, and being found with a wanted man would make him look like an accomplice. "I don't know what you're planning, but—"
"Trust me," Alan said, his grin taking on a manic edge, "you really don't want to know."
Then he shoved.
Not toward the roof's centre, but toward the edge. Julian's feet scrambled for purchase on the sloped tiles, his balance gone. His toes found the gutter at the roof's edge, and he teetered there, balanced on tiptoe, staring down at the street two stories below.
Terror, pure and primal, flooded his system. Heights had never been his friend, and this—this was a nightmare.
"Stop—please—" Julian gasped, his body rigid with fear. One wrong move and he'd plummet.
Alan stepped up behind him, one hand closing around the back of Julian's neck, not choking, but controlling, keeping him balanced on that precarious edge. Julian felt his own dagger press lightly against his side.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" Alan's voice rang out across the street, bright and theatrical, cutting through the chaos of the evacuation like a bell. "Thank you all for coming to tonight's performance! I promise you won't be disappointed!"
Below, heads turned. Citizens stopped their panicked shuffling, looking up despite the guards trying to herd them along. Soldiers froze mid-order. And Arthur's head snapped up, his eyes locking onto the two figures on the rooftop.
Julian saw the recognition flash across Arthur's face, not recognition of him, but of Alan. The lieutenant's entire body went rigid, his hands already beginning to gather wind.
"Now, I have a question for you all!" Alan continued, his voice carrying with remarkable projection. A child's cry pierced the air from somewhere in the crowd, sharp and terrified, but Alan didn't pause. "For a soldier, a good, dutiful soldier, what is more important? A citizen's life?" His hand tightened slightly on Julian's neck, and Julian felt himself lean forward another fraction of an inch. "Or revenge?"
Arthur took a step forward, and Julian could see the cold fury in his eyes even from this distance. Wind began to coil around the lieutenant's hands, visible distortions in the air that made the very atmosphere hum with contained violence.
But there was something else in Arthur's expression too, visible for just a moment before his professional mask slammed down. Disgust. Not just at Alan, but at the situation itself, at being forced to play this game with a civilian as the stakes.
Alan turned his gaze down to Arthur specifically, and his grin twisted into something darker, more dangerous. "Personally," he said, his voice dropping to a conversational purr that somehow still carried perfectly, "I'm dying to know the answer."
"Don't—" Julian tried to say, but the word caught in his throat as Alan's hand shifted—
And pushed.
Julian's world was inverted. Sky became ground, ground became sky. The wind screamed in his ears as he plummeted, his stomach lurching into his throat, his limbs flailing uselessly. Terror consumed everything; he didn't even have time to scream before—
Arms caught him.
Not gently. Arthur grabbed him from the air with bruising force, the impact of being stopped mid-fall driving the air from Julian's lungs in a pained gasp. They hit the ground together, Arthur's boots cracking cobblestones as he absorbed the momentum with strength far beyond human, magically enhanced muscles taking the impact that should have shattered bones.
For a moment, Arthur held him there, steadying him, and Julian caught a glimpse of his face up close. The disgust was clearer now, not directed at Julian, but at the situation, at being forced to use his power to save a pawn rather than catch the criminal who'd orchestrated this entire spectacle.
"Stay down," Arthur commanded, his voice allowing no argument as he set Julian on the ground. The lieutenant's jaw was clenched so tight that Julian could see the muscle jumping. Then Arthur turned his gaze skyward, and the expression that crossed his face made Julian's blood run cold.
It wasn't just anger. It was something deeper, more personal. Arthur's eyes held the look of someone who'd just had a sacred memory desecrated.
He punched the air.
The wind obeyed with explosive force. It detonated beneath Arthur's fist, a concussive blast that launched him upward like a stone from a catapult. He rocketed toward the rooftop, his trajectory perfect, his face a mask of cold fury that promised violence.
Julian collapsed to his knees on the cobblestones, gasping for air, his entire body shaking. Around him, the evacuation had dissolved into chaos. Parents clutched their children, pointing at the rooftop. Guards shouted conflicting orders, some moving to secure Julian, others trying to restore order to the panicking crowd.
Above, Arthur landed on the roof with enough force to crack tiles.
Alan was waiting.
He'd stepped back from the edge, hands raised in a gesture that was either surrender or a theatrical flourish. But as Arthur's boots touched down, Alan's expression shifted. The manic grin smoothed into something more controlled, more calculated.
The role had to be played perfectly.
Inside, Alan's mind was screaming. Don't look at his hands, don't look at the wind spear, don't let him see you're terrified, keep talking, keep moving—
"I see you're fast," Alan said aloud, placing a finger thoughtfully on his chin as he began to pace along the roof's peak. His voice was steady, almost bored. Each step was agony; his legs trembled with the effort of not running, not collapsing. But his tone stayed casual, conversational. "Makes me wonder... where was all that speed when the Commander died?"
The words hit like a physical blow. Arthur froze mid-step, his hand halfway to forming a wind spear. His face, already set in hard lines, went absolutely rigid.
The Commander. Johan Eisenhower. The man who'd recruited Arthur from the academy, who'd trained him personally, who'd been more father than commanding officer. The man whose body Arthur had found in that tent, chest pierced through, life stolen by cowards who'd struck from behind.
And this boy, this murderer, dared to—
"You—" Arthur began, his voice shaking with barely controlled rage.
"Me," Alan confirmed, his peripheral vision tracking Arthur's hands with desperate focus. The moment wind began to gather, he'd have maybe a second to dodge. Maybe. "It's amazing, really. All that power, all that training, and yet..." He spread his hands in a gesture of mock sympathy. "Too slow. A shame. He seemed like a decent man."
Arthur's fists clenched so hard his knuckles went white. The Commander had been decent. More than decent. He'd been a pillar, a foundation, someone Arthur had built his entire understanding of honour and duty upon. Strong when strength was needed. Strict when discipline faltered. Competent beyond measure. Trustworthy to his very core.
And this creature, this thing wearing a boy's face, spoke of him with such casual disrespect—
"Who told you?" Arthur demanded, forcing the words through gritted teeth. He took a step forward. Wind began to spiral around him, making his clothes snap and billow. "Who's your informant? What organisation are you with?"
"Organisation?" Alan tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. His mind was still screaming—Luthern?—but his voice remained steady. "Now that's an interesting assumption. What makes you think I'm not independent?"
"Because getting detailed intelligence on a military operation is no small feat," Arthur growled. His mind was working through the implications even as fury threatened to overwhelm logic. Someone had fed this boy information. Someone with access to operational details. Someone who knew the Commander's schedule, the camp's location, everything. "Someone fed you that information. Someone with access. I want names."
A woman's scream cut through the air, high, terrified, someone in the crowd below losing control of their panic. Arthur's head twitched toward the sound instinctively. His duty was to protect these people. They were afraid, being crushed together at the gates, children crying, families being separated in the chaos—
But the spy was right there, the key to everything, the path to justice for the Commander.
"Maybe~," Alan sang, drawing the word out with infuriating playfulness.
Arthur's patience snapped like an overstressed wire. "Well," he said, his voice dropping into something cold and final. "It's not that hard to force answers out of you." A wind spear materialised in his hand, the compressed air razor-sharp and humming with barely contained violence. "It's best if you surrender quietly. I don't necessarily have to bring you in safely."
He began to advance, each step deliberate, giving Alan time to make the smart choice. The only choice.
Alan's face remained perfectly composed. His smile didn't waver. But inside, his mind was a single, desperate scream:
Luthern!
Arthur took another step, the wind spear raised.
LUTHERN!
Another step. Close enough now that Alan could see the individual threads of his uniform, could smell the ozone scent of his magic, could see the absolute conviction of violence in his eyes.
LUUUUTHEEEEEEEERN!
Arthur raised his arm, the wind spear aimed at centre mass, ready to throw or thrust. "Last chance."
A boot came down on Arthur's wrist.
The strike came from above and behind, impossibly fast, landing with enough force to drive Arthur's arm down and crack the roof tiles beneath. The wind spear dissipated as his concentration shattered. Arthur's combat instincts took over instantly. He spun, redirecting his momentum, channelling power into a new spear that formed and thrust toward the newcomer in a single fluid motion.
The old man dodged with insulting ease, swaying aside as if the lethal attack were a bothersome fly. He straightened, standing now between Alan and Arthur, his posture relaxed but his presence commanding absolute attention.
Luthern Varn had arrived.
He wore fine clothes now, somehow clean despite everything. His arm, the one that had been severed, was whole, perfectly restored as if it had never been lost. His expression carried mild amusement, as if he'd stumbled onto an entertaining street performance.
Arthur stepped back, his eyes narrowing as he reassessed the threat. This old man had moved faster than his enhanced senses could track, which meant something. Real thing.
"Identify yourself," Arthur demanded, though his stance had shifted to something more defensive.
"Identity?" Luthern's lips curved into a faint smile. "That is not what you should be worried about."
"Hah?" Arthur's head tilted, confusion mixing with irritation.
Luthern raised a hand, one finger pointing off to Arthur's right, toward the forest beyond the town's walls. "Look, you either talk fast or—"
*BOOM* The explosion cut him off.
It wasn't close, but it was massive. A thunderous sound that shook the buildings, rattling windows and sending roof tiles sliding. A fireball rose from the forest like a newborn sun, visible even in the fading twilight, followed by a column of black smoke that began to spread across the darkening sky.
Screams erupted from the street below, no longer the controlled fear of an organised evacuation, but pure panic. The press of bodies at the gate became dangerous as people fought to escape, shoving, trampling. A child's wail cut through the chaos, piercing and desperate.
Arthur's head snapped toward the sound, every protective instinct screaming at him. Someone was going to get crushed down there. Someone was going to die because of this chaos, this panic, this—
"Now," Luthern said pleasantly, turning back to Arthur with that infuriating calm, "excuse us."
Both Alan and Arthur were frozen, staring at the distant fire. Alan's shock was genuine; that explosion was too big, too violent, not at all what he'd planned for.
Before Arthur could recover, before he could form a question or a weapon or a decision, Luthern moved. He grabbed Alan, who made an undignified squawk of surprise, and hoisted him onto his back with the casual ease of someone picking up a sack of grain.
Then he jumped.
The rooftop fell away beneath them. For a sickening moment, they were airborne, suspended over the three-story drop to the street where soldiers were already pointing, shouting, drawing weapons. Alan's stomach lurched as the opposite building rushed toward them, too far, they'd never make it—
They landed with an impact that shattered roof tiles, sending fragments skittering over the edge. Luthern didn't hesitate. He took another leap, this time aiming toward a narrow merchant's house. Alan clung desperately to the old man's shoulders, his grip threatening to slip away with each landing, as the world blurred into a whirlwind of motion and vertigo.
Below, he caught glimpses of soldiers tracking their movement, heard Arthur's voice bellowing orders that were swallowed by the chaos. "There! On the rooftops! Box them in!"
Another jump. A chimney flashed past inches from Alan's face, close enough that he felt the heat of banked coals within. They skidded on wet tiles, Luthern's boots finding impossible purchase on surfaces that should have sent them tumbling. The sounds of panic, screaming, the crash of breaking glass, and the thunder of fleeing footsteps created a cacophony that masked their escape.
Five buildings. Six. Alan lost count, could only hold on and pray his grip didn't fail. His arms burned with the effort. His ribs ached where Luthern's shoulder pressed into them. Everything was movement and terror and the sick certainty that one wrong landing would send them both plummeting to the cobblestones below.
Only when the soldiers' shouts had faded, swallowed by distance and the chaos of multiple fires now burning within the town itself, did Luthern finally slow. He landed on a wide merchant's roof and paused, his breathing barely elevated despite the exertion.
Alan slid off his back on trembling legs, gasping for breath, his heart hammering so hard he thought his ribs might crack. His hands shook as he wiped the sweat from his forehead. "What the heck did you do, Luthern?!" he managed between gasps. "That's not what I said!"
"Please calm down," Luthern replied, his tone maddeningly serene. "I'm as surprised as you are."
Alan wanted to scream. Things hadn't gotten completely out of hand; the plan could still work, the chaos was still usable, but this was not the controlled stage he'd tried to set. The explosion had been anticipated, yes, something to distract Arthur at a crucial moment. But that? That was a declaration of war, not a diversion.
His hands clenched into fists. "While I was setting up your required 'stage'," Luthern explained, settling into a comfortable lean against a chimney, "I came across one of those platoons clashing with an unknown group."
A third party?
The thought hit Alan like ice water. His entire plan had been built on a binary system—him and Company-375, predator and prey, a game where he understood both players. Two sides he could predict, manipulate, maybe even survive.
But three? Three meant chaos. Three meant variables he couldn't control, couldn't anticipate, couldn't even see. Someone was out there causing explosions, fighting the military, operating with resources and motives he knew nothing about.
And they were doing it now. While he was exposed. While Arthur was hunting him. While every second put him closer to a noose or a cell or something worse.
"You know something?" The urgency in Alan's voice wasn't tactical calculation anymore; it was raw survival instinct screaming that the board had just been flipped and all his carefully placed pieces were scattering into the dark.
Luthern was silent for a moment, his gaze distant, as if reading information from the smoke-filled sky itself. "While their motives remain vague," he said at last, "they are undoubtedly strongly anti-military. The Empire knows of their existence; there are several such organisations within its borders. Most are too small to warrant serious attention. The military focuses on a handful of major threats and largely ignores the rest."
He turned his attention back to Alan. "There's no possibility of their cooperation with the military, not as organisations. Individual exceptions may exist, but..." He paused. "They also have no knowledge of or interest in you at the moment."
"Are you sure?" Alan pressed. Every unknown was a knife at his throat. Luthern's cooperation was suspicious enough; why was this terrifyingly powerful old man going along with a desperate boy's scheme? He'd healed him, yes, but that didn't create obligation. Didn't explain this.
Talking about power, who the hell pushed him to the brink of death?
"I'm certain of that," Luthern replied, and something in his tone, a note of absolute conviction, made Alan believe him despite every paranoid instinct. Not like he had any better ideas.
Another series of explosions erupted, closer this time. Not from the forest, but from within the town itself, three distinct blasts in quick succession that sent orange blooms of fire skyward. The crashes that followed suggested buildings collapsing. Screams echoed through the streets.
Alan's expression soured. The residents had mostly evacuated, which was good; that meant fewer casualties, but the sheer scale of destruction, the panic, the way everything was spiralling...
But it isn't his fault, right?
"Looks like you had better luck than you claimed," Luthern observed, his gaze drifting toward the fires with something that might have been amusement dancing in his eyes.
"What do you mean?" Alan turned to him.
"I don't know what's between you and those soldiers, but they're fully engaged now. Distracted. Spread thin trying to manage the evacuation, the fires, the unknown attackers." Luthern's lips curved slightly. "Escape is within reach. All you need to do is slip away while they're occupied."
Alan met his gaze, and something in his expression made Luthern's smile falter slightly.
"I never told you," Alan said quietly, each word deliberate, "that my goal was to escape."
He turned and began walking across the roof, not away from the chaos but perpendicular to it, his steps measured and purposeful. Toward something. Toward a destination only he could see in the smoke and firelight.
Luthern watched him go, his eyes thoughtful. After a moment, he pushed off from the chimney and followed at a leisurely pace. "So what's your next move?" he called. "Whatever your motive, it'll be boring if you just watch."
Alan didn't look back. "*sigh* You really are only interested in your own entertainment..."
The words carried a note of scorn, but beneath it was something else. Envy, perhaps. Luthern's demeanour was impossibly casual, remarkably indifferent to everything, the explosions, the danger, the death that had nearly claimed him in the forest. When Alan had found him bleeding out, he hadn't seemed to truly care about dying. And Alan couldn't help but envy that comfort, that absolute freedom from fear, that ability to view the world as nothing more than an interesting show.
"Wouldn't it be better if everyone did the same?" Luthern replied, his voice carrying the conviction of someone stating an obvious truth, as natural as observing that water flows downhill.
Alan stopped at the roof's edge, staring out at the burning town. Smoke rose to meet the darkening sky, obscuring the first stars. Below, he could hear Arthur's soldiers spreading through the streets like hunting dogs, systematic and relentless in their search. The stage he'd tried to set had become something larger, more chaotic, more dangerous than he'd intended.
But chaos was a tool, if you knew how to use it. And desperate men learned quickly.
"Maybe," he murmured, more to himself than to Luthern. "But I'm not everyone else."
His mind churned through the implications. I'm not exactly lucky for all this chaos happening... He watched another plume of smoke rise from the western district. But Silas would surely welcome it.
The thought crystallised with a clarity that was both sudden and deeply unsettling. Whatever story Silas planned to tell, whatever narrative he'd constructed to frame Alan as the Commander's murderer, this chaos made it infinitely more convincing. A group of criminals murdered the Commander and spread chaos through the town to cover their escape. Or maybe to strike at multiple targets simultaneously. Or any number of explanations that would seem perfectly logical in the aftermath.
Silas was luckier in this chaos than Alan. Far more lucky.
Wait...
Arthur's words echoed in his memory, sharp and accusatory: "Getting detailed intelligence on a military operation is no small feat. Someone fed you that information. Someone with access. What organisation are you with?"
Silas was luckier in this chaos.
Silas hadn't just seized an opportunity when these explosions started. He'd known. He'd prepared for this. The timing was too perfect, the Commander's murder, the frame-up, and then, conveniently, a coordinated attack by an anti-military organisation that provided the perfect smokescreen?
Alan's mind raced ahead, following the thread. Should he go to Silas? Confront him directly? Or wait for Silas to come to him, because he would come, wouldn't he? Alan was a loose end now. A witness who knew too much. Silas might not see him as an immediate threat, especially with Arthur's entire platoon hunting him, but keeping Alan alive wasn't wise. Not for a man orchestrating a conspiracy like this.
But what if Alan didn't show up at all from the very beginning? Or what if he actually did escape, disappeared into the wilderness or found some way to slip past the military cordon?
The thought made him pause. Silas would still need to complete his plan; the Commander was already dead, and that couldn't be undone. But without Alan to pin it on, without a convenient scapegoat to parade before Arthur and the rest of the company... Silas would need a different approach. Blame it entirely on the mysterious attackers, perhaps, claim the assassin escaped in the chaos. It would work, mostly, though it lacked the satisfying narrative closure of a captured murderer.
More importantly, though, and this was the piece that made Alan's stomach clench with new understanding, Silas would need to stay in contact with the attackers. Had to be in contact, actually, even now. Because if the timing went wrong, if the explosions came too early or too late, if Johan died at the wrong moment, the entire conspiracy would unravel.
Which meant there was a connection. A line of communication between Silas and this anti-military group. Something traceable? If Alan could find it. Some way they were coordinating in real-time, adjusting their actions to match the evolving situation.
Are they still in contact at this very moment?
The question burned in his mind. If Silas was back at the camp, and he had to be, someone needed to maintain the illusion of normalcy while Arthur tore the town apart, then how was he receiving updates? Sending signals? Magical communication? A runner? Some device or spell Alan didn't know about?
His thoughts shifted, almost reluctantly, to Evelyn.
The question burned in his mind. Silas would be back at the camp; he'd been wounded, after all, and needed to stay behind while Arthur led the manhunt. Which meant he was perfectly positioned to coordinate. But how? Magical communication? A runner who could slip through the chaos unnoticed? Some device or spell Alan didn't know about?
His thoughts shifted, almost reluctantly, to Evelyn.
The First Lieutenant with those grey eyes that never seemed to blink. She'd been there during his interrogation, watching, assessing. She'd been in that command tent with the Commander's body.
It was strange, actually, that he'd assumed Silas was the only one involved. Evelyn had been right there. Her passive behaviour during the interrogation, her cool professionalism, had somehow made her seem... less culpable? Less active in the conspiracy?
Alan let out a long, frustrated breath that misted in the cold air. What's the point of being a stage director if you're not aware of all the characters?
He'd been so focused on Silas, the friendly one, the approachable one, the one who'd smiled and joked and seemed almost sympathetic, that he'd failed to properly account for Evelyn. The Kane siblings. Both lieutenants. Both are positioned perfectly to execute this plan. With the access, the authority, the opportunity.
And both, he realised with growing certainty, were working together from the very beginning.
The pieces were falling into place now, forming a picture that was both clearer and more terrifying than what he'd understood before. This wasn't a crime of opportunity. This was planned. Meticulously. With contingencies and backup plans, and enough foresight to coordinate with an external attack.
As for his teleportation, it's... still a puzzle.
He stood there for a long moment, the smoke stinging his eyes, his mind working through scenarios and probabilities with the desperate speed of someone who knew his life depended on getting this right.
Finally, he turned toward Luthern, who'd been watching him with that perpetual expression of amused curiosity.
"I have a couple of questions," Alan said, his voice carrying a new edge of certainty beneath the exhaustion. "But before that, are you up for one last role, old man?"
Something in his tone made Luthern's smile sharpen with interest.
...
Arthur stood alone on the rooftop where the spy had been, his hands clenched into fists that trembled with barely restrained fury.
The Commander's face flashed through his mind, not as he'd last seen it, chest pierced and eyes vacant, but as he'd been in life. Strong. Unshakable. The man who'd seen potential in an academy student others had dismissed as too emotional, too impulsive. The man who'd trained him with patience and discipline, who'd shaped him into someone worthy of wearing this uniform.
Where was all that speed when the Commander died?
The words burrowed under his skin like parasites. The accusation wasn't just an insult; it was a condemnation. Because it was true. He'd been in the camp. He'd been alive and whole and capable while the Commander had been murdered mere meters away. And he'd done nothing. Been too slow. Too blind.
Failed.
And now that the murderer had escaped again, using a civilian as a shield, as a prop in his twisted game—
"Leader! Your orders!"
The voice snapped Arthur from his spiral. He looked down to see soldiers in the street; the rest of the platoon finally arrived. The one who'd called up was Marcus, his second-in-command, a reliable veteran who'd served under the Commander before Arthur had even graduated from the academy.
"We've evacuated most of the town," Marcus reported quickly, professionally, his voice carrying clearly despite the background chaos. "The town watch is handling the stragglers. The fires are spreading, but are contained to three districts so far. Should we move to support Paul's platoon at the perimeter? Whatever hit them hit hard."
Arthur's gaze swept from the distant fires in the forest, Paul's position, where something had gone catastrophically wrong, to the town below, to the rooftops where his quarry had vanished into the labyrinth of buildings and smoke.
Every tactical instinct said support Paul. Reinforce the perimeter. Deal with the organised threat that was causing those explosions. Let the spy go and regroup.
But Paul was competent. Paul was serious when it mattered. If anyone could handle an unexpected attack and turn it around, it was him. And if the situation was truly desperate, Paul would send a runner or a signal.
The spy, though. He had answers. He knew about the conspiracy, about who was feeding information to the enemy, about everything that connected to the Commander's death. He was the key to unravelling it all, to finding justice, to making sure the Commander's sacrifice meant something—
No. Not sacrifice. Murder.
The Commander hadn't died in battle. He'd been assassinated. Butchered like an animal while Arthur had been playing stupid games with a so-called healer who'd been part of the setup all along.
"No," Arthur said, his voice hard as steel. "We stay here. Search everywhere. Every building, every cellar, every crawlspace. I want this town turned inside out." His hands clenched tighter, wind beginning to spiral around his knuckles unconsciously. "Don't leave an inch unsearched. That spy is here, hiding like the coward he is. And we will find him."
"Yes, sir!"
The soldiers scattered