The great hall of the Rael estate felt like a tomb lit by torches. Curtains were drawn against the cold night air, and the long table groaned under plates of untouched food. None of it mattered; the men and women gathered there had only one thing on their minds.
At the head of the hall, Lord Rael sat like a statue, his jaw tight, eyes narrowed into slits. Before him knelt the lone survivor of the ill-fated squad—his cloak shredded, breath ragged, one hand pressed to a wound in his side. The man's skin still smelled faintly of smoke and iron; he had been running for his life.
"My lord," he kept saying, voice trembling, "we failed. The boy—Adrian Adeyemi—he killed the rest. He… he used something… like light. One strike and their leader was gone."
A low murmur rolled around the hall. One of the elders, a thin woman with lines of worry carved deep into her face, leaned forward. "You are sure?" she asked. "Not a trick? Not a parlor show?"
The survivor swallowed. "I swear on my life. He called it a scroll. Runes hit the air like sparks. It wasn't natural cultivation—no one in the hills moved like that. It answered him."
Lord Rael's hand tightened until the knuckles whitened. For a heartbeat the hall held its breath. Then a cold laugh cut through the silence—Damian Adeyemi's laugh. He rose from the shadows where he had lingered, his posture loose, but his smile was everything a smile should never be: calculated, hungry.
"So our little exile has turned out to be quite the showman," Damian drawled, stepping into the torchlight. "Who would have guessed the Adeyemi clan produced a prodigy after all? Or perhaps fate simply enjoys irony."
Eyes narrowed toward the visitor. Damian's presence in the Rael hall was a sting; alliances had been fluid between houses, and his arrival tonight was meant to tilt the balance toward one thing—his own advantage.
Lord Rael did not move immediately. He watched Damian as one watches a snake, slow and unblinking. "Explain yourself, Adeyemi," he said at last. "Why are you here?"
Damian's smile never faded. "I come with news and an offer. The scroll answers your worst fears—it has awakened. But I offer you more than fear. Let me lead the campaign to take it back. No one knows the Adeyemi estate better than I do. Let me cut the roots from which this power grows, and I will make sure the Rael family benefits."
A ripple of startled looks passed around the hall. Lord Rael's eldest counselor hissed through his teeth. "You offer to help us kill the heir that your own family cast out? And in return—what? Power? Land? A marriage?"
Damian's eyes glinted. "All of the above, if you wish. Or perhaps the headship of one of the Adeyemi branches when this is over. I am tired of second place, Lord Rael. My brother has fattened himself on my failures for too long. Help me bury him—help us both climb."
Silence again. The survivor coughed, blood in his throat, and no one looked at him. Of all the plans in that hall, loyalty was not one of them. Deals were forged in that silence; teeth were bared, then hidden again.
Lord Rael's voice was quiet, but it carried the steel of command. "Recklessness has cost us before. You wish to lead? We will not hand you the sword of command without proof. There will be a controlled strike first—scouts to confirm, spies to observe. If this boy truly wields the scroll, and if you can deliver him into our hands without giving him the chance to become more dangerous, then we will consider your terms."
Damian bowed, but his eyes were already at the edge of hunger. "You will not regret it."
The elder with the worry lines spoke then, voice a rasp of age and caution. "This scroll's story cannot be rubbed out—its bloodshed is recorded. Our clan remembers the first heir who claimed its power. The elders still speak of the screams. If Lord Rael says the scroll is cursed, then we must proceed like men who tread on graves."
Lord Rael closed his eyes as if to shut out a memory. "Prepare the watchers. Send the Black Crane—our oldest hand—he will move like a shadow and strike with precision. No rash assaults. No public displays. We cannot risk the scroll falling into someone's untrained blood and awakening something the world cannot weather."
A murmur of assent. "The Black Crane will need riders, maps, and the names of those who helped the assassins," the counselor added.
Damian's fingers curled into the leather of his glove. "I will hand them everything I know," he said. "Maps. Staff names. Supplies. I will take the lead on recon."
Lord Rael's eyes flicked to him—there was calculation there, and a promise that men like Damian always mistake for favor. "Good. And tell the spies this: let the story spread that the Adeyemi's outcast was left to die because of his own faults. Let fear and rumor do our work. We will not only hunt the scroll; we will isolate its bearer."
As plans were drawn and orders whispered into the night, the lone survivor slumped onto a stool and closed his eyes. He had seen the boy's face up close—the way the power had passed through him with stranger's hands. He had not the luxury of fancy titles or nobles' schemes. He had only his life to carry the tale.
Outside the hall, under a sky gold-flecked with torchlight, messengers hurried to the stables. Horses were saddled. Cloaks were flung over shoulders. The Black Crane, a name older than some of the houses in the valley, prepared to move.
Meanwhile, miles away in the mountain, the hearth in Adrian's courtyard burned low. He had not slept in hours, and neither had Selena. They spoke in quiet fragments about what the scroll had said and what it might mean. They did not know the halls below where metal and money were being turned into plans for their ruin.
Night folded into a deeper darkness. One of the Rael scouts, eyes like chips of coal, rode faster than the others. He carried no weapons he wished to display—just whispering intent: "Find him. Bring back the scroll. And if he resists, do not make a show. Be silent. Be swift."
At the lip of the mountain, where pines crowded to the sky, a shadow detached itself from the trees and moved like liquid. It crested the ridge and paused, unseen by the firelight in the courtyard below. The figure watched the little hut and the thin plume of smoke rising from its chimney. A small feather was tucked into the rider's cloak—the Black Crane's mark, white against leather.
He smiled without warmth. The hunt had truly begun.