The silence in the sterile stone chamber hummed with a low, latent energy. The Aetheric dampening field wasn't perfect; it seemed designed more to prevent eavesdropping than to nullify power. The broker, the human face of the Silent Hand, watched me across the bare wooden table, his expression impassive, his eyes holding the flat, assessing gaze of a merchant inspecting valuable, but potentially dangerous, goods. He held the key I needed, the location of the Unseen Blade, and he intended to extract the highest possible price for it.
"Gold is a crude instrument for a transaction of this delicacy," he stated, his voice a dry rustle, utterly devoid of the reedy quaver he affected upstairs. "We have ample gold. The Silent Hand deals in a more valuable, and far more interesting, currency: information. A secret for a secret. You seek the location of a shadow. You must offer a shadow of comparable weight in return."
My mind raced, the steady rhythm of the Two-Heart Cadence my only anchor against the sudden surge of calculation. This was the dangerous part. What secret could I possibly offer that would satisfy a guild trading in the whispers of empires, without betraying my family, my mission, or the terrifying truth I carried from another world? Revealing House Vane's political maneuvers was pointless; the Guild undoubtedly already knew. Mentioning the Void Cult by name was unthinkable – it would put a target on my back so large it would dwarf the Ashworth estate itself.
"What information does the Silent Hand lack?" I asked carefully, my voice steady, betraying none of the internal turmoil. I needed to know the shape of the hole before I tried to fill it.
"We have… an interest in recent anomalies," the broker replied, leaning forward almost imperceptibly, his cold eyes glinting. "A minor capital house, Vane, declares a suicidal shadow war against a major border power, Ashworth. An unusually aggressive, almost irrational, move, even for their grasping ambition. And it all seems to have begun," his gaze sharpened, "with you, Lord Lancelot. Your unexpected survival, your even more unexpected victory, your unprecedented intervention in the Thorne duel." He used my name again, a casual display of his guild's reach, reminding me I was the subject of whispers too.
He continued, his voice dropping slightly. "Then, mere weeks later, a veteran patrol of Ashworth guards is slaughtered on the border near Sterling lands. Not by bandits, our sources confirm. By something… other. Something that fights with unnatural coordination, uses unknown poisons, and leaves ritualistic marks behind. Something that has made even the old wolves of the North," he added pointedly, referencing House Ardane perhaps, "sit up and take notice. There is a new player on the board, Lord Ashworth. A shadow moving in the West, disrupting the old order. We wish to know its name. Its nature. Its purpose."
My blood ran cold. He wanted confirmation. He wanted the name. The Void Cult.
To give him that name would be catastrophic. The Silent Hand was ruthlessly neutral, loyal only to profit. They would sell that information to the highest bidder – the Crown, seeking to understand the threat; a rival kingdom, hoping to exploit it; or worse, back to the Void Cult itself, revealing my knowledge and marking me for immediate, absolute elimination. It would blow my entire secret war wide open.
But refusal meant failure. Walking away empty-handed, leaving Leo unfound, my men unavenged, my house blind to the true enemy.
I took a slow, deliberate breath, letting the unified beat of my hearts clear my mind. I couldn't give him the whole truth. But perhaps… a piece of it. A piece valuable enough to satisfy him, yet incomplete enough to protect myself. A piece that pointed him in the right direction, but down a slightly misleading path.
"The name you seek is not a single name," I said, leaning forward, matching his conspiratorial tone. "Because they are not a unified entity, not in the way you mean. They are… a resurgence. An old sickness returning." I reached into my tunic, pulling out the charcoal stick and a scrap of parchment I had prepared. With a few quick, deliberate strokes, I sketched the jagged, three-lined, star-like symbol I had found carved into the rock at the ambush site.
I pushed the parchment across the table and said, "This is their mark." "They call themselves the 'Children of the Black Sun,' among other things." They are a group of different, fanatical death cults that are said to be the last remnants of heresies that were wiped out hundreds of years ago during the time of the crazy kings. They seem to be working together now, united by some dark goal. I looked him in the eye. "They are ruthless, know how to kill people and use poisons, and they use corrupted Aether, which is probably what you've heard whispers about. It looks like they're using the fight between my house and Vane as a cover for their own business, maybe to make the area less stable for their own purposes."
It was the truth, but carefully curated. I gave them a symbol, a fragmented history, a plausible (if underestimated) motive, and a name – 'Children of the Black Sun', a minor faction mentioned briefly in the novel, not the true, overarching name of the Void Cult. It was enough to be valuable, enough to explain the anomalies, but not enough to reveal the true scope, the true leadership, or my specific knowledge. It painted them as dangerous fanatics, not a world-ending conspiracy.
The broker stared at the symbol for a long, silent moment, his fingers tracing its jagged lines. I could almost see the connections forming in his mind, linking this concrete piece of data with a thousand other rumors and whispers gathered by his network. He finally gave a single, almost imperceptible nod, a flicker of satisfaction in his cold eyes.
"A worthy trade," he conceded. He pocketed the parchment. In return, he pushed a small, tightly rolled, wax-sealed scroll across the table. "The man you seek. He is no longer called Leo. He shed that name, and the title 'Unseen Blade', years ago after a… disagreement with a former employer that ended badly for many. In Port Varrick, he is a ghost, a half-believed rumor whispered by those who fear him. He now goes by the simple alias of 'Silas'."
He paused, his gaze sharp, pinning me. "Be warned. He is paranoid, exceptionally dangerous, and possesses a deep and abiding hatred for the nobility and their political games. He will not be hired with gold or promises of glory. He must be… convinced. Persuaded that your cause aligns with his own twisted sense of justice, or perhaps, his own unfinished business." He leaned back, the transaction clearly concluded. "You will find him, most nights, nursing cheap ale at a particularly disreputable tavern in the dockside slums. A place called 'The Drowned Rat'. Go alone. He operates under layers of paranoia. He will smell a trap if you bring your guards, no matter how well hidden." He gave me a final, dismissive look, already turning his attention to some unseen ledger. "Our business is complete. Do not return to this shop. Ever."
I walked out of the hidden chamber and back into the dusty, sunlit clutter of the bookstore, the small scroll clutched tightly in my hand, feeling heavier than a bar of gold. The old man didn't even look up as I left, the tinkling of the bell the only acknowledgment. Outside, the familiar weight of Port Varrick's oppressive atmosphere settled back onto me, but now it was tinged with a sharp, focused anticipation. I had the name. I had the location.
That night, the fog rolled in thick from the sea, blanketing the city in a damp, grey shroud that muffled all sound and blurred the edges of reality. Perfect conditions for hunting a ghost.
I left Garrick and Rolan at The Grey Anchor with strict instructions, their faces tight with worry. I traded my traveler's clothes for the simple, rough-spun tunic and worn leather breeches of a common sailor, leaving the ancestral sword behind, armed only with my gauntlets beneath wrapped hands and a concealed dagger. I made my way on foot through the labyrinthine, fog-choked streets towards the dockside slums, a district that made the rest of the city look like the Imperial Palace by comparison.
The Drowned Rat wasn't really a tavern; it was more like a bunch of rotting driftwood and broken promises that were barely holding on to the edge of a crumbling pier. The dark water lapping against the pilings below made a constant, sad sound. The air inside smelled like cheap beer, old sweat, dirty bodies, and a deep sense of hopelessness that filled the room. There were grizzled sailors nursing grievances, scarred mercenaries with dead eyes, and quiet, watchful people nursing mugs in dark corners. My Rhythmic Sense was a mix of sharp, dangerous edges and dull, throbbing pain.
I scanned the room, my senses on high alert. And then I saw him.
He sat alone at a small, isolated table in the far corner, almost invisible in the deep shadows cast by a low-hanging beam. A hood, pulled low, obscured his face, leaving only the hint of a grim jawline visible. A half-empty mug of dark ale sat untouched before him. He was not large or imposing. He seemed… quiet. Contained. Utterly still. But the space around him was a perfect, silent void. The usual tavern noise seemed to bend around his table. No one sat near him. No one looked directly at him. It was as if he had subtly willed the rest of the room to simply forget he existed. My Rhythmic Sense, when I tried to probe that small pocket of stillness, met a strange, shifting wall of static – not the wrongness of the Void, but a deliberate, masterful cloaking of his own Aura, a technique far beyond anything I had encountered.
This was him. Silas. Leo. The Unseen Blade. The legend.
I took a slow, deep breath. The steady beat of my two hearts was like a drum against the sudden, tight feeling in my chest. My meta-knowledge had let me in. The Silent Hand had shown me the way with my bet. But this next step—getting a cynical, broken hero, a Master of Shadows who gave off "leave me alone" like a physical force, to join my seemingly hopeless war—was something that no book or memory could have prepared me for.
I walked through the dirty, unfriendly tavern, dodging angry stares and drunk bodies, and made my way to the table in the corner. I was carrying the weight of my family, my mission, and a future I was desperately trying to change.