Birmingham was a village built on routine. The same markets opened each morning, the same bells rang at dusk, and the same faces gathered around the fire each night to trade stories.
But to Darrel, everything felt different now.
The village hadn't changed — he had.
Once, he had walked these cobblestone streets as a boy searching for adventure. Now, he walked them like a hunter, eyes sharp, heart cold. Every laugh, every whisper, every shadow could hold a secret.
And somewhere among these ordinary faces, Marcus' conspiracy was growing.
Darrel kept to the edges of the streets, avoiding lantern light. He had spent the last two days watching, listening, mapping movements.
He noticed who lingered near Marcus after the bell. He saw which elders were quietly meeting in the chapel late at night. He tracked how Alex began carrying a strange bundle under his cloak.
He wasn't acting blindly anymore. He was collecting threads.
And slowly, a pattern began to emerge.
That evening, as the sun dipped below the treeline, Darrel slipped into the shadows near the blacksmith's workshop. The rhythmic pounding of iron masked his footsteps.
Inside, Marcus leaned against a barrel, talking in a low voice to Alex and two others—boys from the village militia.
Darrel strained to hear.
"…the northern gate is unguarded after the second bell," Marcus was saying. "The sentries grow lazy. If we time it right, we'll be in before dawn."
Alex grinned, adjusting the bandage on his jaw. "And the elders still think it's just smugglers."
"Exactly," Marcus said. "Let them think that. The real strike will make them choke on their own complacency."
The group chuckled darkly.
Darrel's fists clenched. They're planning something soon.
He ducked lower as a loose stone shifted under his foot. The noise was faint, but Marcus' head snapped up immediately. His eyes swept the shadows like a hawk's.
Darrel froze, barely breathing.
A tense moment passed, then Marcus shrugged. "Probably a rat. Let's move. We can't risk anyone overhearing us."
They dispersed quickly, melting into the gathering dusk.
Darrel waited until their footsteps faded, then stepped from his hiding place. His heart pounded, but his mind was sharper than ever.
They were planning an attack at the northern gate. The timeline was tightening.
He spent the night moving through the village like a ghost.
He overheard two elders near the well speaking in hushed tones about "unrest beyond the river."
He found strange footprints near the abandoned mill—larger than any villager's.
He caught Alex handing off a rolled parchment to a stranger who was covered with cloaks at the crossroads.
Every piece was small, but together, they painted a picture: Marcus was helping outsiders infiltrate Birmingham , and no one suspected him because everyone still saw him as the charming golden boy.
Darrel wanted to scream the truth into the night. But he knew better. If he rushed this, they'd laugh him off again.
He needed proof. Hard evidence. Something undeniable.
By midnight, he returned to the old stone bridge outside the village—the place he used to meet Marcus as a child when they wanted to escape chores.
He sat on the cold stone and stared at the river below. His reflection shimmered faintly on the surface, fractured by the current.
How did we get here, Marcus?
He remembered those nights vividly— Marcus swearing they'd protect each other, calling themselves "brothers of the night."
Now Marcus was planning to sell out their home.
Rustling broke his thoughts.
"Who's there?" Darrel whispered, spinning around.
A small figure emerged from behind the trees. It was Leah, a girl from the baker's family—quiet, observant, often overlooked.
She froze when she saw him. "Darrel?"
He frowned. "What are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same," she replied softly, stepping closer. "I've seen you skulking around for days. You're watching Marcus, aren't you?"
Darrel stiffened. "Why would you say that?"
Leah glanced back nervously, then whispered, "Because… I've been watching too."
Her words hit him like a spark in dry grass.
She leaned closer, eyes wide. "I saw him near the chapel with strangers last week. Hooded men. I told my brother, but he laughed. Said I was imagining things. But I know what I saw."
Darrel's heart raced. Someone else believed him.
"You saw the hooded men?" he asked urgently.
She nodded. "And I heard something about the northern gate. They're planning something, Darrel. Something bad."
For the first time in weeks, Darrel didn't feel completely alone.
"Why are you telling me this?" he asked.
Leah hesitated. "Because… you're the only one who looks like you see it. Everyone else just jokes or ignores it. But I see the way Marcus looks when he thinks no one's watching. He's dangerous."
Darrel studied her carefully. She wasn't lying. There was a tremor in her voice, but her gaze was steady.
Maybe… maybe he didn't have to fight this war entirely by himself.
He nodded slowly. "If we're going to stop this, we need proof. Something no one can deny. Will you help me?"
Leah swallowed hard, then nodded. "Yes."
The wind picked up, carrying the scent of rain. The river flowed faster beneath the bridge.
Darrel stood, determination hardening his voice. "Then we watch. We listen. And when the time comes, we strike first."
Leah looked uncertain, but there was a flicker of courage in her eyes. "What if they catch us?"
"They won't," Darrel said firmly. "Because this time, I'm not the puppet."
For the rest of the night, they laid out their first plan:
Leah would monitor Marcus' movements during the day.
Darrel would track the hooded outsiders' paths near the northern forest.
They'd meet each night at the bridge to share what they found.
It wasn't much—but it was a start.
Somewhere in the dark, the whispers of treachery were growing louder.
And now, Darrel wasn't just listening.
He was preparing to answer them.
They'd meet each night at the bridge to share what they found.
It wasn't much—but it was a start.
Somewhere in the dark, the whispers of treachery were growing louder.
And now, Darrel wasn't just listening.
He was preparing to answer them.