Chapter 18. The Shadow's First Step
The silence in the Council Chamber after my departure did not last long. She was torn apart by the low, commanding voice of my grandfather, Michael.
"The discussion is over," he said, and his words sounded like a verdict that brooked no argument. — The heiress's offer is accepted. Operation Ghost Call has been approved.
The murmurs of the dissatisfied elders immediately subsided under the weight of his gaze. Solomon, who was sitting at the head of the table, nodded slowly, his face remained unreadable, but I read silent support in his eyes.
—Quinn will lead the surveillance team," Michael continued, "consisting of her, Ragnar, and two of the best trackers from the Silent Shadow Legion. The goal is to detect, monitor, and evaluate the threat. Direct contact is prohibited until my personal permission. Quinn makes all the decisions on the spot. Any questions?
There were no questions. Either they were afraid to contradict the Patriarch, or, like me, they understood that we had no other choice. The strength of this stranger was a challenge that could not be ignored.
"The operation starts at dawn,— Michael concluded, and waved everyone away.
I left the gym with a cold lump of determination in my chest. Not doubt, not fear, but determination. I was given a chance, and I wasn't going to miss it.
---
Dawn found us at the gates of the estate. The air was cold and pungent, and it smelled of snow and pine needles. I checked the equipment one last time: a light but warm camouflage cape, a compact walkie—talkie, two blades - main and hidden, and, most importantly, a map with the coordinates of the last known location of the "Ghost".
Ragnar hovered next to me, radiating silent rage. He was unhappy that he was put under my command, but an order is an order. His katanas were slung criss-cross over his back.
A little way off, blending into the shadows of dawn itself, stood two trackers from the Silent Shadow. A man and a woman, their faces hidden by hoods, their movements absolutely silent. The best of the best. Their names were Rain and Silas, but for me in this mission they were just Shadow-1 and Shadow-2.
—Group, get out," I commanded, and my words hung in the frosty air like steam.
We moved on. Not waddling like an ordinary patrol, but quickly and silently, using every fold of the terrain, every shadow as a shelter. I walked ahead, plotting a route, checking the map and my own instincts. We didn't just walk to the point — we skirted it, choosing a path through the most remote and difficult areas. If he was really nearby, then his "Killer Skill" could surely sense a direct approach.
A few hours later, we came out on a high, snow—covered hill, from which we had a view of the valley and a lonely hut - the one where Victor once hid. Now, according to our data, our target could be hiding in it.
—Wait,— I raised my hand. We lay down in the snow, and the white camouflage capes instantly made us almost invisible.
—Shadow 1, Shadow 2," I commanded softly. — Flanking bypass. The distance is three hundred meters. No footprints in the snow. No noise. Ragnar, come with me. We're watching.
The Trackers nodded and disappeared into the forest without a single sound. Ragnar crawled up to me, his breathing steady and noiseless.
"Do you think he's there?" — he whispered, without taking his eyes off the hut.
"I don't know,— I replied just as quietly. "But if there is one... we need to see it first."
We lay there for several hours. The snow covered us, the wind howled in our ears, but we didn't move. I didn't feel cold, just burning impatience and concentration. I studied every detail: the sooty chimney of the hut (no smoke), footprints in the snow (old, almost buried), the general appearance of desolation.
And then my heart skipped a beat.
The door of the hut creaked and opened. He came out of it.
He looked... ordinary. A tall, thin guy in a worn army uniform, with long black hair pulled back in a messy ponytail. He stretched, looked up at the sky, and his face seemed tired and focused, not a demonic killer. He said something over his shoulder, into the depths of the hut.
And then something happened that froze my blood in my veins.
A girl came out from behind him, timidly stepping through the snow in ridiculously large boots. About thirteen years old. She is very thin, with pale skin and long, blue-black hair. She was wrapped in a jacket that was too big for her, and her movements were uncertain, strangely constrained.
He said something to her, and she nodded, looking up at him with her huge, bottomless blue eyes. There was absolute trust and... dependence in them.
"What the hell?".. Ragnar gasped, and there was genuine surprise in his voice. "Does he have... a child?"
I couldn't look away. My whole theory, my whole understanding of this threat collapsed in an instant. A cold-blooded killer who wipes hordes of monsters from the face of the earth... and a fragile teenage girl. What was that? A prisoner? A hostage? But no, her look, her posture screamed not of fear, but of devotion. She looked at him like he was... protective.
He pointed to a pile of firewood against the wall of the hut, then made a chopping motion. The girl nodded, went to the log, picked up the axe with difficulty and ... began clumsily chopping wood. It was pathetic and ridiculous. She could barely handle the heavy instrument, and her movements were angular and inaccurate.
And he stepped aside and started... training. His scarlet-patterned sword executed intricate, deadly pirouettes in the air. He moved with the same incredible, frightening grace as he did on the battlefield. But now it wasn't for killing. It was for myself. A polished, beautiful and absolutely soulless dance with steel.
I watched this surreal picture: on the one hand, a deadly machine honing its skills, on the other, a fragile girl struggling to cope with everyday tasks. And there is a strange, inexplicable connection between them.
Ragnar was silent. His initial rage was replaced by the deepest bewilderment.
Suddenly, he—the "Ghost"— stopped abruptly in the middle of another movement. His head turned in our direction. Not directly at us, but in our direction. His gaze seemed to pierce through the snow and the distance, resting on the place where we were lying.
He didn't look worried. Rather... wary. It was as if he had caught a light, unfamiliar scent on the wind.
He said something briefly to the girl. She instantly dropped the axe and scurried back into the hut like a frightened animal. He slowly took a stance, his sword swung down, but his whole body was ready to explode with movement at any second.
He stood and watched. Waited.
We froze, not daring to breathe. My heart was pounding so loudly that I thought he could hear it through the meters of snow and rocks.
A minute passed. Two. He shook his head slowly, as if dismissing an obsessive thought, turned around and disappeared into the hut, closing the door tightly behind him.
Only then did I allow myself to exhale. My fingers were shaking.
"Not a word to anyone," I whispered to Ragnar. My eyes were glued to the locked door. "What we saw... it changes everything.
He nodded, and there was the same stunned confusion in his gaze.
The most dangerous predator in the deadlands turned out to have a weak spot. Or... the most valuable asset.
The game has just become a thousand times more difficult. And a thousand times more interesting.