The halls of Duskveil were quiet, but Aelric could feel the pulse of the keep like a living heartbeat, each corridor a vein carrying secrets, whispers, and lies. The storm from the previous night had left puddles of water reflecting the torchlight in fractured patterns, making the stone floors look like rivers of molten silver. Every shadow seemed deeper now, heavier, as though it carried the weight of betrayal.
Aelric moved silently, flanked by Grath and Maelor, the two scouts he trusted most. Each step was measured, each breath held, because the traitor could be anywhere—and anywhere could be a trap. The knowledge that Serath had walked through their halls unchallenged haunted him like a specter. Her warning echoed in his mind: Find the hand that signs in our name…
---
Their first stop was the servants' quarters. The small, cramped rooms smelled of damp straw and the faint tang of blood from the wounded soldiers. Aelric's eyes scanned every face: the frightened, the loyal, the indifferent. His gaze lingered longer on those who avoided his eyes, who flinched too quickly, or whose movements were overly precise.
Grath leaned in, whispering, "You can feel it too, can't you? The traitor leaves a trail, even if it's just a shimmer of hesitation."
Aelric nodded, teeth clenched. "Yes. And whoever it is… they're clever. Too clever to make a mistake I can see. But they're not invisible."
They split into pairs, searching methodically, moving from room to room, checking letters, secret caches, and personal effects. Every scrap of parchment, every folded piece of cloth, every key or lock picked for curiosity was a clue. And every clue they found seemed to lead to more questions than answers.
---
Hours passed. The keep's corridors seemed endless, twisted in ways meant to confuse intruders. Somewhere above, a raven croaked its warning, its red eyes catching the torchlight, unnervingly human in their intelligence. Aelric's instincts screamed—someone was near.
And then the trap snapped.
A shadow detached itself from the wall, moving fast and precise, catching Grath off guard. The scout went down before Aelric could react, a dagger buried in his side. Maelor lunged, but another shadow struck him from behind, sending him sprawling across the floor.
Aelric's blood boiled. The whispers of Serath's kiss surged through him, igniting the hunger, the strength, the lethal focus that made him more predator than man. He surged forward, silver blade slashing in arcs, catching one shadow, then another.
The attacker finally stepped into the torchlight. A figure clad in black, with a mask obscuring most of the face, but a glint of recognition in the eyes.
"You…" Aelric breathed. Rage and shock battling within him. "It's you."
The figure smiled beneath the mask, a cruel twist of amusement. "Clever boy," the voice said. "But cleverness only carries you so far."
They moved like liquid, striking with precision and intent. Aelric countered, but for every strike he landed, a new threat emerged. Shadows seemed to multiply, the corridors twisting as if alive, hiding and revealing in perfect rhythm.
---
Finally, Aelric pinned the traitor against the wall. With one hand on the sword at the figure's throat and the other gripping the wrist holding the dagger, he demanded the truth.
"Who sent you?" he growled. "Why betray your own?"
A laugh, sharp and cold, cut through the hall. "You'll learn soon enough. The hand that guides me is older than your Houses, stronger than your armies, and smarter than your king. And when the time comes, you'll thank me… or you'll die knowing nothing."
Before Aelric could respond, the shadow dissolved into smoke, slipping through his grasp as if it had never existed. Only the echo of laughter remained, bouncing off the stone walls, mocking and cold.
---
Aelric slammed his fist against the wall, the hunger burning in his veins like wildfire. He had faced demons and survived. He had watched friends die. He had killed monsters and yet—this elusive hand, this traitor, had danced through his fingers, untouchable, whispering threats and promises in the same breath.
Kaelen found him hours later, still shaking from rage and frustration, eyes burning crimson. "You found them?" the lord asked quietly, voice like ice over stone.
"No," Aelric said through clenched teeth. "They're… gone. But I can feel them. Somewhere in Duskveil, whispering, moving. They're watching us. Waiting for the right moment."
Kaelen studied him silently, then said, "Good. Let them wait. Patience is our weapon as much as steel. And Aelric… patience will be harder than any demon you've fought."
Aelric clenched his jaw, the fire inside him surging. He would not rest. He would not falter. The traitor would be found. Every corridor, every shadow, every whisper—he would follow them. And when he did, there would be no mercy, no escape.
The veins of deception ran deep thro
ugh Duskveil, and Aelric was determined to drain them all.