1st Person POV — Kaito
The plaza is quieter at night, but not silent. The wind moves through half-rebuilt streets like a ghost through ruins, carrying faint hammer strikes from distant night workers. From my perch atop the charred remains of a watchtower, I can see the Chancellor's camp below—a pristine arrangement of tents and wagons surrounded by guards that move with suspicious rhythm.
I've watched them for three nights now. Their rotations are too clean, their breaks too uniform. They're not just here for "diplomatic support." They're securing something. Or someone.
I tighten the straps on my cloak and check my tools one last time: lockpicks in the wrist sheath, a grappling hook wrapped in dark cord, two smoke pellets, and a silencing stone the size of a coin that i obtained from a thief months ago. When activated, it swallows sound within a few feet. A thief's best friend.
I take a deep breath and drop from the tower, landing in the shadows like a leaf sliding down a wall.
---
Moving through the plaza is like navigating a clockwork machine—each guard a moving gear. One wrong step and I'm crushed. But I grew up dancing through alleys far deadlier than this.
A supply wagon creaks forward. I time my movements with its wheels, slipping across the open stretch as the guards' gazes naturally follow the wagon's lantern. A quick leap, a roll, and I'm in the shadow of Montara's main carriage.
The quarters are gaudy compared to the ruined city around them. Velvet curtains, polished brass handles, and an embroidered crest of Ostoria displayed like a badge of false mercy. I scale the side silently, using cracks in the wood for handholds, and wedge my knife into the upper frame to pry open a window hinge.
I slide inside without a sound.
---
The interior is unnervingly clean. A desk stands in the center, papers arranged in neat rows—reconstruction plans, aid lists, troop allocations. All obvious. All boring.
Too boring.
My eyes trace the room. The floorboards near the far corner have faint scratches. Repeated movement. A rug covers them, just slightly off-center. Someone made this look natural but didn't account for a watcher like me.
I kneel, lift the rug, and pry up the edge of the floorboard. It clicks faintly, like a puzzle piece. Underneath lies a small steel box, locked tight. The kind diplomats use to store things they don't want even their aides to see.
I pull out my picks. The silence stone hums softly, swallowing the metallic clicks as I work. A minute later, the box opens.
Inside are documents written in Valerian cipher. I recognize the script instantly. Bustleburg had seen its share of Valerian "trade envoys." I learned their codes the hard way—listening through walls while people I cared about screamed outside.
I skim the contents:
"Phase II – Infiltration complete. Phase III: Gate Opening. Schedule: Three days before Dargath arrival."
A detailed map of Korvath with the north and east gates circled in red.
Names of local officials, merchants, and guards—some marked with subtle check marks. Potential collaborators or targets.
And finally, a Valerian noble house signet. I know that crest. Everyone from Bustleburg knows it.
My throat tightens. This isn't posturing. This is a plan. Montara's visit is a smokescreen—they're waiting until the city trusts him, then they'll open the gates from the inside.
---
Bootsteps. Two guards. Right outside.
I kill the lightstone and wedge myself behind a heavy curtain near the window, holding my breath. The door opens.
"Patrol check," one of them mutters.
"Can you believe the locals?" the other replies. "They're hanging on his every word. The Chancellor will have them eating out of his hand in days."
A snicker. "He'll have their gates open too."
One of them steps further in. His boot grazes the edge of the rug. My muscles coil. He tilts his head, frowning at the slightly lifted corner.
"Something wrong?" his partner asks.
He hesitates, then shakes his head. "Nah. Probably the cleaners again. Come on."
The door closes. I let out a silent exhale, every vein in my body thrumming like a bowstring.
---
I grab a single coded letter and the timeline document. Just enough to prove the plot if I ever need to. If I take too much, they'll notice. The rest I slide back into the box, lock it, reset the rug, and smooth out the floorboards. By the time I slip back out the window, the room looks untouched.
The night air hits me like cold water. I make my way across the rooftops, keeping to the shadows, my heartbeat matching the rhythm of my footfalls.
This isn't just corruption. It's treachery.
Montara isn't aiding Korvath. He's softening it.
---
Back atop the watchtower, I unroll the stolen documents under the moonlight. The Valerian cipher, the timeline, the red circles on the gates—they're as clear as firelight.
For a moment, I imagine handing this to the Guild. Warning everyone. But then I picture panic spreading. Montara catching wind. Valeria accelerating their plans. The city collapsing from the inside before a sword is ever drawn.
No. Not yet.
I fold the documents carefully and slip them into the hidden lining of my cloak. This information is my blade in the dark, and blades are sharpest when kept hidden.
> "Now I see the game you're playing, Chancellor," I whisper to the wind. "But I've lived in shadows far longer than you've worn that mask."
The moonlight cuts across the ruined plaza like a knife. Somewhere below, Valerius Montara sleeps in his silk sheets, dreaming of betrayal.
And in the darkness above, I watch. And wait.