The next morning, Elias rode out looking like a very sure diplomat. Polished ceremonial armor for his guards and banners snapping smartly in the cool air were signs of Ashworth's strength and Sterling's friendship. He walked with a new sense of purpose, a man finally given a job that was worthy of his station, eager to show that the old ways still worked. A small part of me felt hopeful as he left. Maybe his knowledge of courtly politics and his long-standing relationship with House Sterling would be enough. Maybe this complicated web of whispers and shadows was just a result of my own paranoia about money.
That hope proved tragically naive.
He returned five days later, not in triumph, but in a cloud of dust and barely concealed disquiet. He slumped in his saddle, his fine silks mud-spattered, the confident air replaced by a deep, bewildered frustration. He strode into the Count's study without ceremony, bypassing the waiting attendants, his boots leaving muddy tracks on the polished stone.
"He refused," Elias stated baldly, the words dropping like stones into the heavy silence. "Lord Sterling refused the alliance."
My father, Damian, and I were already gathered, alerted by the sentries of his early return. The air thickened, hope curdling into grim certainty. "On what grounds?" the Count demanded, his voice dangerously low.
"That's the damnable part!" Elias burst out, slamming a gauntleted fist on the desk, rattling the inkwells – a shocking breach of decorum. "There were no grounds! He was polite, welcoming – obscenely so! Feasts, hunts, gifts… He spoke endlessly of our families' long friendship, his respect for you, Father." Elias began pacing, agitated, running a hand through his usually immaculate hair. "He praised the proposal! 'Strategically brilliant,' he called it. 'Mutually beneficial.' Agreed Vane's actions were an insult. Acknowledged the necessity, the advantage… agreed with everything!" He spun to face us, eyes wide with bewildered anger. "Then, when I presented the treaty, he simply… demurred."
He scoffed, incredulous. "Spoke of 'uncertain times.' Needing to 'consolidate resources.' Ensuring the 'security of his own borders' before entering new commitments." He gestured wildly towards the map. "He mentioned a recent, troubling increase in 'bandit activity' along his northern border – the very land bordering our Serpent's Pass!" Elias stressed, his voice rising again. "Claimed his patrols were stretched thin, that provoking Vane was a gamble he wasn't prepared to take 'at this time'."
"He is a coward," Father stated, voice laced with contempt.
"No," Elias said sharply, stopping his pacing. His face changed; the anger turned into a dawning, unsettling realization. He looked straight at our father and told him a scary truth without making excuses. "Father, he wasn't a coward. I've known Alistair Sterling since he was a boy. He's cautious and practical, but not afraid. This was different. He was terrified I saw it in his eyes when he talked about those 'bandits.' It wasn't political fear; it was deep, visceral fear, like a man haunted. Something is out there, Father, in those hills between our lands. Something new, something dangerous, and it has put the fear of the gods into House Sterling. It wasn't my diplomacy that failed," he admitted, clearly feeling ashamed, "it was his terror that won."
His words hung in the air like a heavy, threatening cloud. Elias, the master of traditional diplomacy, had run into a force that broke all the old rules. He had gone to play chess and found that an invisible hand had turned the board over because of a fear he couldn't understand. He felt small, confused, and shaken. His view of the world had broken.
Just then, the study door creaked open. Garrick stood there, his face grim, his eyes finding mine across the room. "My lord," he rumbled, urgency underlying his usual stoicism. "A word. Regarding Patrol Gamma-7. Serpent's Pass."
A cold premonition solidified in my gut. I excused myself, following Garrick into the corridor, the heavy door thudding shut behind us. "What is it, Captain?" I asked, bracing myself.
"Overdue," Garrick stated flatly. "Missed two check-ins. Last known position: high ridges overlooking the Sterling border." He paused. "I sent scouts. They found the site." His voice dropped. "A slaughter."
My breath caught. "Survivors?"
Garrick shook his head slowly. "No bodies, my lord. Just… signs of a brutal, one-sided fight. Broken Ashworth shields, snapped spears. As if they were overwhelmed instantly." He met my eyes, his own gaze hard as flint. "And something else. The lead scout, Finn – sharp eyes, that one – found this."
He held out a small, leather-wrapped object. The crushed signal horn. My heart sank. But Garrick carefully unwrapped it further. Tucked inside the crumpled brass, almost hidden, was a small, wickedly curved throwing knife. Black steel, unfamiliar maker's mark. It wasn't Ashworth. It wasn't Sterling. Not common bandit steel either.
And clinging to the horn, near the knife, was the smear Garrick had mentioned earlier – dark, viscous, emanating that faint, nauseating signature. The unmistakable psychic stench of the Void.
My blood turned to ice. Missing patrol. Terrified Sterling. Void signature. It all converged on those shadowed borderlands.
I closed my eyes, sinking into the cadence, pushing my Rhythmic Sense outwards, trying desperately to 'feel' something across the miles, to find some trace of my missing men. Useless. Static. My Sense was a close-combat weapon, blind beyond arm's reach. Frustration warred with cold dread. My power, my victory, felt meaningless. I could shatter steel, but I couldn't find my own soldiers.
"Rolan," I called, my voice tight. My loyal guard hurried over from the nearby guardroom, his face already pale – word traveled fast in the keep. He had friends on Gamma-7. "This mark," I said, showing him the knife. "Have you seen it?"
Rolan frowned, turning the blade over, examining the maker's mark etched near the hilt. "It's… rare, my lord. Not Western. Maybe… Free Ports? Varrick? They say the guilds there make blades for… specialized clients."
Port Varrick. Den of mercenaries, smugglers, spies. A place where blades like this might be bought by those who moved in shadows. The name resonated, a half-remembered fragment from the novel.
I looked at the knife, then towards the darkening southern mountains where Gamma-7 had vanished. My path illuminated itself in the cold light of inadequacy. This wasn't a fight for legions or diplomats. This was a hunt. And I needed a hunter. Someone who understood shadows, tracking, infiltration. Someone who could follow a trail colder than the Void itself. The mission had just become deeply personal. I needed the Unseen Blade.