The storm did not end when the rain stopped. It lingered in the bones of the city—in slick stone, in whispered rumors, in the restless way the night refused to settle. Duskmire breathed uneasily beneath thinning clouds, as if the land itself sensed that something had been set in motion and could not be undone.
Inside the Crooked Crown, the fire burned lower. Conversations softened. Travelers drifted toward sleep or solitude. Fate, however, was not finished. Kaelith did not sit with the others.
He stood near the tavern's back wall, half-shadowed, eyes fixed on the door. Rainwater still clung to his cloak, and his blade rested loose at his side, ready without being obvious. The storm-chant still echoed faintly in his blood—a distant hum, like thunder rolling far away.
Someone had been watching him earlier. He was certain of it. Not the way merchants watched for danger, or guards watched for trouble. This had been different. Focused. Patient. Silent. Kaelith's fingers flexed once. You felt it too, he told himself. Or you wouldn't be here.
The first scream shattered the night.
It came from the alley behind the tavern—short, sharp, and cut off too quickly to be natural. Steel rang.
The Crooked Crown erupted into chaos. Seraphine was on her feet before her mug hit the floor.
"Outside," she snapped, already moving. The scrape of steel followed as she drew her sword, her shield coming up instinctively. Whatever waited beyond that door, she would meet it head-on.
Eryndor rose at the same moment, bow in hand, arrow already nocked. He said nothing—only nodded once to Seraphine before slipping toward the side exit.
Nyssa vanished.
Lyra grabbed her pack and followed, fingers brushing the masks as she went. Her smile was gone now, replaced with sharp-eyed focus.
Silas stood last, lifting his cane and retrieving his hat with deliberate calm. Shadows stretched as he moved, pooling briefly beneath his feet before retreating again.
"Of course," he murmured. "An ambush."
Elowen whispered a quick prayer and followed, light gathering faintly around her hands.
Tharion was already at the door, staff in hand, listening to something none of the others could hear.
"The ground is afraid," he said quietly. Then he pushed the door open.
The alley behind the Crooked Crown was narrow and crooked, hemmed in by damp stone walls and overflowing crates. A lantern lay shattered near the mouth of the passage, its flame guttering weakly in spilled oil.
Two bodies lay on the ground—dockworkers by the look of them. One still twitched, blood spreading beneath him in dark rivulets. A third man backed away in terror, clutching a broken knife. And standing over them—
Figures in dark cloaks, faces obscured, movements unnervingly precise. They did not speak. They advanced.
Eryndor loosed first. The arrow struck true, piercing the shoulder of the nearest attacker and pinning him briefly to the wall. The figure made no sound—no cry, no curse—only wrenched himself free with brutal efficiency and kept coming.
Seraphine met the next with shield and steel, the impact ringing down the alley. Sparks flew as blades met. She drove forward, disciplined and relentless, forcing her opponent back step by step.
Nyssa appeared behind another cloaked figure, dagger flashing toward an exposed seam— And froze. Her blade slid through empty air. The figure had simply stepped aside without warning, movements so smooth they barely disturbed the shadows.
Nyssa hissed. "That's not fair."
Kaelith moved. He slipped into the fray like rain slipping into cracks, blade humming faintly as he whispered another storm-chant. This time the thunder was restrained, coiled tight around steel. He struck low, precise.
The impact knocked his target sprawling, energy rippling outward in a sharp concussive pulse that cracked stone and sent debris skittering across the alley. The cloaked figures paused.
For the first time, they turned toward him. Kaelith felt it then—clear as a knife at his throat. Recognition.
Silas raised his cane. The shadows answered. Darkness peeled itself from the corners of the alley, stretching into clawed shapes that lunged forward at his silent command. One attacker vanished beneath writhing black tendrils, slammed into the wall hard enough to leave a crater.
Another cut through the shadows with a blade that drank light, dispersing them unnaturally. Silas's eyes widened.
"That's new," he said softly.
Elowen reached the wounded dockworker and knelt, hands glowing with warm radiance. The man gasped as light flowed into torn flesh, the bleeding slowing, then stopping.
"Stay with me," she urged. "You're not done yet."
A blade arced toward her.
Tharion intercepted it with his staff, wood striking steel with a crack like breaking branches. Vines burst from the ground at his feet, coiling around the attacker's legs and dragging them down.
"The earth remembers," Tharion growled. "And it does not forgive lightly."
The fight turned quickly after that. Outnumbered and exposed, the cloaked figures retreated with unnatural coordination—melting back into shadow and side passages without a sound. One lingered just long enough to face Kaelith.
No face. No voice. Only a gesture—two fingers raised, then slowly closed into a fist. Then he was gone.
Silence fell heavy over the alley. Rain began again, light and steady.
Seraphine wiped her blade clean, jaw tight. "They weren't common killers."
"No," Eryndor agreed. "They moved like soldiers. Or worse."
Silas studied the shadows where they had vanished. "They were trained to fight without sound," he said. "Without fear."
Nyssa sheathed her dagger. "Great. Cultists or professionals?"
Kaelith stared at the empty space where the last figure had stood. "Neither," he said quietly. "They were hunting me."
Lyra exhaled slowly, masks rustling softly in her pack. "Then congratulations," she said. "It seems our story has found its villain."
Tharion looked toward the darkened sky. "This storm is only beginning."
Elowen rose, helping the wounded man to his feet. "Then we'll face it together."
For the first time, no one argued. Above Duskmire, clouds rolled back in.
Far away, in a place where even echoes dared not linger, a man listened to the storm and waited. The hunt had begun.