The wind curled against the stone-worn road, kicking up dust as I led our group forward. The captive walked stiffly between Kyr and me, while she trailed a half-step behind, her gaze shifting between him and the path ahead.
In the distance, an old fortress loomed, its tattered towers clawing at the overcast sky.
I slowed a bit, closing the gap. "Tell me again—how many are inside?"
The prisoner hesitated, his lips parting for a moment before sealing shut—a useless display of defiance.
Kyr sighed and clicked her tongue. "Don't make me regret reversing your deformity, bro."
He swallowed hard. "Thirty... maybe forty. They move in rotations."
I flicked a glance at Kyr.
She studied his face, eyes gleaming, then shrugged. "He believes it. Whether it's true or not is another story."
I exhaled, watching the fortress edge closer. If he was lying, I'd find out soon enough.
"You." I stopped and turned to face the felon. "How many entrances are there?"
"O-one, sir."
Damn it.
I hated this. Rushing in was the worst option for my style—especially if there were forty or more criminals waiting inside.
"B-but there's an opening up top," he stammered. "It leads to the storage supplies, so n-no one should be in there."
"Oh? Is that so? Then how do we get tothe top of the fortress?" Kyr asked, stepping up beside me.
"There are thick chunks of rubble to the right of the fortress—you can use them to climb up. I usually go there to―"
"I don't care about your hobbies," I cut in. "Kyr, stay here and watch the convict. I'll be back."
"So why the hell did I come? That's unfair."
"Because you wanted to. Just like every other time."
"Hmph." She folded her arms, her pout deepening.
Without another word, I turned, bypassing the obvious path and slipping into the forest. A wide field of open space surrounded the fortress, but I figured if I moved through the trees, I could get close enough without drawing any patrol's eye.
Now, how to clear the field?
A few stray stones dotted the landscape, but they wouldn't provide much cover. Too exposed.
I crouched low, scanning the terrain. The fortress walls stood tall. If I ran straight, I'd be seen. If I took too long, I could lose my advantage.
I shadow-traveled along the parapet, then exhaled sharply and adjusted my stance. I traced the outer edge of the field with my gaze—if I stuck close to the taller patches of overgrowth and kept my steps light, I could cut diagonally across without drawing attention. But that didn't mean I could take my time.
I surged forward.
The air bit at my skin, rushing past as I kept low. The fortress loomed closer―fifteen yards, then ten—Then the wind shifted.
I heard a voice.
The front entrance door creaked open on the lower level.
I dove down, pressing myself into the earth.
Footsteps.
One. Two. Then silence.
I gritted my teeth and waited.
They hesitated, then moved on. The door swung shut.
I exhaled and pushed myself up.
Just five yards left.
No more delays.
I sprinted the last stretch, slipping into the fortress's shadow. I pressed against the stone, forcing my breath to steady, then lifted my gaze toward the rooftop entry.
Time to climb.
The rubble the prisoner had mentioned stood ahead, jagged pieces piled high against the fortress wall. It looked like it might've been part of a watchtower that had collapsed over the years.
Or possibly due to an attack some years ago. And I might've known exactly which one that was.
But those were our first ever commands from High Lord Mournis, so we couldn't just ignore them. Not that I would've—even if given the option.
I pressed my palm against the sun-warmed stone, testing its sturdiness. Rolling my shoulders, I moved. My fingers curled around the rough edges as I pulled myself up, the stone warm beneath my grip. Each shift sent dust crumbling down, but I adjusted quickly.
Halfway up, I paused.
A flicker of movement—a shadow passing behind a window.
Someone was inside.
I clenched my jaw. The storage area was supposed to be empty. Either the prisoner had guessed wrong, or something had changed.
Unfortunate.
I pushed higher, careful with each handhold as the wind pressed against me, whistling through the cracks in the fortress stone.
I reached the ledge and hoisted myself up in one swift motion. From here, the fortress stretched wide beneath me, and I could hear voices carried by the wind.
So much for an empty storage room.
I crouched low, surveying the rooftop. The entrance was just ahead—a rusted hatch set into the stone.
I approached.
There was a faint metallic creak beneath my fingertips as I pulled the hatch open inch by inch, peering inside.
Darkness met me. Stacks of crates lined the walls, and a single beam of light shone through a lone window.
I slipped inside, lowering myself onto the cool stone. The scent of aged wood and dust hung thick in the air—undisturbed except for faint scuffs marking the floor.
Someone had been here recently.
The crates stood in uneven stacks, some pushed aside, others half-open—supplies picked through and abandoned. I moved carefully, adjusting to the dim light spilling from the window. I heard a sound—footsteps.
I froze.
Beyond the storage stacks, a figure moved.
I shifted closer, ducking low behind a crate, peering through the gap to get a better look.
The man had broad shoulders and a scar running from temple to jaw. He stood near the far wall, hunched over a table littered with parchment—maps, notes, and scattered belongings. His fingers tapped against the wood in slow intervals, lost in thought.
But he was alone. No guards. No watchful eyes.
Either this fortress was worse off than expected, or he didn't think anyone would make it this far.
I flickered forward, using shadow-travel to pull me closer. The man didn't notice. His focus stayed locked on the parchment, unaware of the presence forming just feet away.
Good.
I eyed the exits—one door, maybe a ladder leading further inside. If I acted now, I risked tipping him off before gathering what I needed. If I waited, I might get answers.
He exhaled sharply, rubbing his temple, then muttered something under his breath. Not the voice of a leader. Too tired. Too uncertain. A second-in-command, maybe. Someone valuable—but not the one I was looking for.
If he wasn't the one leading them, he sure as hell knew where to find the real boss.
I let the seconds stretch, watching him carefully. His fingers traced lines across the parchment, slow and methodical.
Maps. Supply records. Numbers scrawled in ink, marking movement.
This wasn't just a hideout—it was organized. Structured. Whoever ran this place treated it like an operation, and it wasn't him.
I shifted my weight, ready to act.
Then—
A voice.
Outside the door.
Low, firm. Someone giving orders.
I pressed myself against the crate, listening.
The man at the table stiffened slightly but didn't turn. His fingers froze over the parchment, waiting.
The voice continued—closer now.
Then the door swung open, and a figure stepped inside—taller, but thin. His gaze barely flicked toward the man at the table before shifting to the scattered documents.
"Have they arrived yet?" His voice was steady.
The man at the table cleared his throat. "Not yet. The watch spotted movement near the southern ridge, but it's unclear if—"
"He'll come," he said. It wasn't a question.
The tension in the room thickened. The second-in-command lowered his head slightly, acknowledging the weight behind the words.
I watched. I waited.
This was the person I needed.
The leader stood right in front of me.
Now—how to handle this without alerting half the fortress?
I steadied my breathing, pressing myself into the shadow of the crate. The leader's posture was unreadable—calm, maybe—but there was an edge to his voice, a certainty that cut through the air like a knife.
If I moved now, I might have an opening—but there was no guarantee I'd get the information I needed before the fortress was on high alert.
Slowly, I leaned forward, shifting just enough to find a better angle. I could silence this entire conversation with a knife at the right moment, but I needed more answers. I needed to know what they were doing here.
The leader's hand slid over the table, brushing against scattered parchment—then froze mid-motion. I noticed a tight swallow.
"He's already here," he whispered.
I went still.
He hadn't turned. He hadn't looked in my direction.
But I could feel it in the pit of my stomach, that cold certainty that told me he meant me.
The room fell silent.
No one moved.
Then the leader's hand shot out—not for a weapon, but for the parchment. He swept it into a roll and tucked it beneath his coat with a rush of urgency.
He gave a single nod to the second man.
No words exchanged.
He turned and strode out, quick and sure.
The door groaned shut behind him.
That left me and the second man.
He hadn't flinched. Just stood there, back to me, staring at the space the leader had just vacated.
Then—outside the window—a flicker of movement. A tethered banner caught the wind just enough to snap free, falling with a hollow whump against the stone.
The second man turned his head at the sound, just slightly, instinct drawing him toward the sudden shift.
That was my chance.
I let the shadows take me—slipping from cover without a sound, reforming past the toppled crates and into the side passage before his gaze could reset.
No interaction.
No alarm.
No sound.
The corridor breathed with age—damp stone, slick beneath my boots, and torches mounted too sparsely to cast more than shivering shadows.
I let the darkness pull me in—vanishing into the shadow between the first two torches, then flickering back into the light just long enough to catch the next patch of dark. In, out. In, out. Each step erased. The General had vanished deeper, guided by instinct more than a plan. I followed without sound—flickering in and out between torchlights as I made my way down the hall.
The first obstacle loomed not far ahead.
A sentry leaned against a doorway to the left, half-bored, half-drowsy. An old scatter rifle rested against his thigh, cradled casually, like he hadn't used it in years. His left boot tapped a slow rhythm against the floor—a habit. Predictable.
He wore a fraying satchel slung cross-body, bulging slightly at the seams. Not grenades—too soft. Probably ration pouches or cloth wraps. But a knife handle protruded from beneath the flap, polished smooth at the grip's edge. Worn more for comfort, not combat.
I pressed myself into the shadows of the hall, sliding along the stone until I reached a collapsed pillar just five paces from him. I waited, counting his taps. Four… five… then pause…
When his head turned slightly—toward the sound of footsteps echoing from above, not me—I moved.
Quickly, crouched, one hand steadying against the floor as I ghosted in. My blade flashed silently beneath his ribs, angled up—through the diaphragm and into the heart. There was no gasp. Just the hollow twitch of surprise before his knees buckled. I caught him beneath the arm and eased him to the floor like a drunken friend.
I dragged him behind the door, then closed it gently.
Onward.
I descended another flight—a spiral staircase chiseled into the stone, the walls closing in around me. Oil lamps flickered low with soot-black wicks, casting uneven shadows on the walls.
Another target.
This one patrolled—slow and methodical, weaving between the archways that might've once been a chapel or holding cell. He stood tall, grip tight around a heavy axe slung over his shoulder. His belt jingled with rings of keys and something glass—the faint clink of vials, maybe stimulants or sedatives.
I crouched behind a shattered altar and waited. He passed by—bootsteps sharp and deliberate, muttering under his breath, some tune or prayer he was too tired to finish. When he turned at the far pillar, I moved low across the open space.
I got behind him fast.
My dagger reached up across his throat—a clean cut, and my other hand silenced the keys as I slipped them free. He flailed, boots scraping against the stone, but I shifted my weight, bracing behind his knee. His body folded backward, collapsing into me just long enough for the sound to disappear into my shoulder.
I left him where the shadows pooled thickest.
The third target.
A woman stood at the threshold to the door ahead—a flintlock rifle slung barrel-down, sidearm at her hip. She was armored lighter than the others, her chestplate buckled loosely over a padded tunic. She rocked on her heels, clearly irritated by the waiting.
Worse, she was alert. Head on a swivel.
I backed off before she could spot me and slipped down a branching hall to the right—narrower, quieter. It bent around and climbed slightly, leading me to a room tucked behind the corridor wall. The space was cracked with age, the outer stones worn down by time. Through one fractured section, thin slits opened onto the main hallway below.
The corridor lay just beyond that broken wall—her silhouette visible from here, lit in flickers by oil lamps mounted too far apart.
I rifled through my pack and found what I needed.
A fragment of broken mirror and a pebble.
I angled the mirror toward the gap—just enough to glimpse her positioning. Still guarding the door. I flicked the pebble through a crack in the fractured stone. It bounced into the far hallway across from her with a sharp clatter.
She snapped toward the noise, unslinging her rifle as she stepped away from her post—ten paces out, just enough.
I didn't hesitate.
I slipped through the breach, dropping soft as I could behind her. My blade reached up between her shoulder blades, angling for the lung. She jolted, dropping her rifle, mouth open to scream. I caught it with one hand—tossed it gently down the hall to keep it out of reach. Then I pulled her backward, down into the dark.
She fought harder than the others. Scratched at my wrist. Boots drummed against the stone. But the blade held true.
When she stilled, I laid her flat and pushed onward.
The door she guarded opened easily.
The hallway beyond glowed.
This was it.
The last corridor curved down toward a chamber trembling faintly with energy. Crimson light pulsed from somewhere below, illuminating the cracked runes embedded in the walls. Each step hummed beneath my boots. Whatever the leader was fleeing to, it wasn't natural.
"Hey—who the hell are you?!"
Not ahead. Behind me?
I turned. Too late.
A panicked sentry stared wide-eyed, already reaching for the wall panel.
I lunged, blade flashing.
Too slow.
His hand slammed the panel.
The siren wailed.