The morning arrived slow and gray, clouds pressed low over the city like a weight. I carried a crate of nails across the docks, the boards groaning underfoot. Routine is comforting. Predictable. Safe. The city hummed around me, gulls arguing over fish scraps, merchants shouting prices no one would pay, children running in puddles that reflected the dull sky. Ordinary.
Yet the ordinary has a way of cracking when you least expect it.
Rumors had spread: a minor rebellion in the outskirts, a shipment meant for the old Villain Lord's palace had been intercepted. Soldiers and heroes whispered in corners. Merchants and dockhands speculated about delays and danger. Civilians scurried past, fearful or excited—I couldn't tell which. People always confuse curiosity for concern.
I didn't care. Observation is cheaper than action, and most of the time, that's enough.
By midday, the city had begun preparing. Barricades were set up along minor streets. Soldiers practiced formations. Children were kept indoors. Merchants covered windows with cloths, hiding their goods from sight. The heroes remained visible, naturally, standing atop crates and steps to demonstrate authority and inspire confidence.
I watched from a shadowed alley, leaning against the wall. Detachment is the most underrated skill in any city under stress. You see more when you are not part of the performance.
The tall hero, the one with the scar across his cheek, noticed me again. Not my face—my posture. Calm, patient, detached. A presence most people ignore until it vanishes. He frowned slightly but continued observing his own surroundings, probably calculating, probably pretending to measure the threat.
I did not flinch. Observation is always cheaper than action.
Afternoon passed slowly. I moved crates, counted cracks in the wood, and ignored the occasional glare from soldiers who probably didn't understand me. Everything remained ordinary, except the persistent headache behind my eyes that had begun weeks ago. Not pain, exactly. Not weakness. A pressure, sharp and insistent, like someone knocking from inside my skull.
"…kill."
I froze mid-step. The cheap sword at my side, iron and chipped, vibrated faintly. I didn't draw it. The whisper was patient, persistent, not demanding. I ignored it. Observation has always been enough.
The heroes were preparing to leave, gathering their supplies for what they called a "routine intervention." Ordinary men and women would cheer when they passed, waving banners or whispering prayers to gods they didn't fully understand. I followed at a distance, unnoticed.
Observation is cheaper than involvement. Always.
Night fell as we moved along the roads leaving Merrow behind. The path to the outskirts stretched long, lined with hills and shallow rivers, ordinary countryside waiting to be disrupted. Soldiers marched with the measured pace of those who have been trained to follow orders rather than think. Heroes led confidently, exuding calm and authority. The others followed, polishing their movements to appear competent, heroic, inevitable.
I stayed behind the group, unseen. Patience is the most effective camouflage.
Somewhere along the way, I noticed a farmer tending a field near the path. He froze as we approached, eyes wide with unspoken fear or reverence—I didn't care which. Ordinary people always react predictably to extraordinary appearances. Heroes, especially, are loud in their silence. Observation is cheap, consequences expensive.
The head throb returned, sharper than before. "…kill."
I ignored it. I always ignore it. The whisper is patient. It waits. It has always waited.
By midnight, we had reached the outskirts of the city's jurisdiction. Trees and uneven ground slowed the procession, forcing soldiers and heroes alike to watch every step. The roads narrowed, and the night grew quiet except for the occasional animal startled by movement. Civilians were gone. Merchants gone. Only soldiers, heroes, and me—an invisible shadow in the distance.
The tension in the air was tangible. Ordinary people would have panicked. I only noted patterns: who hesitates, who steps too fast, who scans and who pretends to scan. Observation is preparation for survival.
One of the heroes, a young woman with hair like polished gold, glanced in my direction. I was sure of it. Not my face, not my presence, just my posture. Calm. Detached. Patient. She frowned, probably confused by the ease with which I moved among crates and shadows without attracting notice.
I did not acknowledge her. Observation is enough.
Hours passed. We set up camp near an abandoned farm, soldiers resting while heroes strategized. Fires burned, quiet and contained. Civilians would have panicked at the smell of smoke, but the landscape was empty. Everything was contained. Predictable. Safe.
The whisper returned, soft and patient. "…kill."
I pressed a hand to my temple. The sword at my side hummed faintly, a vibration I had learned to notice without reaction. Not demanding, not commanding—simply present. I ignored it. Observation has always been enough.
I sat near the edge of the firelight, eating bread and counting coins, the most ordinary actions I could think of. Around me, the heroes discussed strategy as if their words carried more weight than the world itself. Ordinary people believe that. I do not.
They argued about timing, troop placement, the risks of confrontation. Their faces were calm, their movements precise. They believed themselves inevitable. I observed.
The night deepened. Stars reflected faintly in the river that ran near the camp. The whisper persisted, patient. "…kill."
I ignored it. Observation has always been enough.
Somewhere ahead, danger awaited, the kind that would eventually lead to a palace, a blade, and what people like to call destiny. For now, it was just a road, trees, darkness, and heroes who believed the world obeyed them.
I remained ordinary. Detached. Patient. Watching.
And when the time comes, I will not hesitate.