The Voidstone Chamber had become a grim, familiar constant. My training continued relentlessly, each session a brutal reminder of the thin leash I held on the beast within.
"Again."
My father's voice was a low rumble, devoid of emotion. I raised my arms, breathing through the deep, burning ache in my shoulders. The black, draconic scales were manifested, covering my arms and torso. They felt almost comfortable now, a second skin, but I could feel the low, arrogant hum of the dragon's will vibrating just beneath the surface, inpatient, aggressive.
Count Theron moved, a blur of controlled force, his heavy practice sword slamming into my scaled guard. The impact was jarring, designed to simulate real pain, to test my focus.
I held my ground, sinking into the Two-Heart Cadence, anchoring my human mind against the surge of draconic irritation. 'Insignificant,' the beast whispered. 'Crush this gnat.'
'Control,' I countered silently, parrying his next blow, the sound of steel on scale a sharp clang.
"Focus, Lancelot!" my father commanded, his voice sharp. "You're letting it distract you. Your footwork is sloppy. You are reacting to its anger, not the attack."
He was right. I had been so focused on suppressing the feeling of rage that I had failed to properly anticipate his strike. He swept my leg, and I stumbled, catching myself before I fell.
"Pathetic," Leo's voice drawled from the shadows by the wall. "A real opponent would have taken your head."
I ignored him, centering myself. "Again," I said, my voice tight.
The session continued for another hour, a grueling dance of pressure and resistance. I was getting better. I could hold the scales for nearly ten minutes straight now, and even channel the Dragon's Lance at targets with growing accuracy, all while my father applied pressure. My mental fortress was stronger, the walls thicker. But the fear remained. This was a controlled environment. My father was the warden, his Grandmaster's Aura a tangible cage.
What would happen on a real battlefield? What would happen if I took a real wound, a blow that screamed mortal danger? Would these fragile walls turn to dust?
When the heavy stone slab finally slid open, flooding the chamber with the mundane light of the fortress corridor, I was trembling with exhaustion. Seraphina stood waiting, her expression anxious, a tray with water and a damp cloth in her hands. Her fear of me had subsided, replaced by a deep, constant worry, like watching a man juggle lit torches.
"You held longer today, my lord," she offered, her voice quiet.
"The beast is just getting patient," Leo grunted, stretching as he emerged from the dark. "Don't mistake a sleeping lion for a tame one."
Before I could reply, a guardsman in the livery of my father's elite retinue approached, his face grim. "My Lord Count. An urgent message from the Argent River Bridge garrison. Damian-Commander requests your presence in the war council room immediately."
My father nodded curtly, his gaze shifting from me to the guard, the trainer's mien vanishing, replaced instantly by the cold authority of the Count. "Understood." He looked at me, then at Leo. "You two as well. This concerns your previous operations."
My heart went cold. The Argent River Bridge. The main artery to the south, secured by Elias's treaty.
The war council room was thick with tension. Damian stood before the massive strategy map, his expression thunderous. Elias was present as well, looking pale and furious, the implications of an attack on his hard-won alliance clear.
"Report," my father commanded as we entered.
"It started three nights ago," Damian said, his voice clipped, angry. "Sabotage. Minor at first. Greased supply winches, contaminated feed for the draft animals." He tapped a point on the map. "Then, last night, a direct attempt on the bridge itself. Our patrols found evidence of black powder charges set at the base of the southern load-bearing pylon. Crude, but in the right place. If they hadn't been discovered..."
"A few more hours, and our main trade route to the south would be at the bottom of the Argent," Elias finished, his voice tight with rage. "It's Vane. It has to be. Retaliation for Borin and the handler."
"It's Vane's gold, no doubt," Leo's raspy voice cut in. We all looked at him. He was leaning against the wall, arms crossed, his gaze fixed on the map. "But the work… this isn't Borin's clumsy sabotage. This isn't some thug Vane hired in a capital tavern."
He pushed himself off the wall, walking towards the table. "The patrol reports. The charges were placed precisely, shielded from the current, designed for maximum structural damage. The winch sabotage wasn't just vandalism; it was done to perfectly disrupt the resupply schedule for the bridge garrison, creating a window of opportunity. The spotters our men captured? They fought like trained soldiers and took poison teeth before they could be questioned."
Leo looked at me, a grim understanding passing between us. "This is professional work, Count. This is the 'Iron Mask' organization. The handler we caught wasn't just a lone agent. He was a member of a guild. Vane didn't just lose a pawn; they lost a high-value asset. And now, they've hired his friends to retaliate. Or perhaps, the Masks are cleaning up their own mess, silencing any link back to them, and Vane is just paying the bill."
A heavy silence fell. This was a significant escalation. House Vane was no longer just using political maneuvering or compromised merchants. They were employing a guild of elite, Expert-level mercenaries—specialists in assassination and demolition—to wage a shadow war against us.
"We cannot let this stand," Damian declared, his fist hitting the table. "I'll lead a full company. We fortify the bridge, sweep the forests on both sides. We'll hunt them down."
"And what then?" Leo countered, his voice dripping with cynicism. "You'll park five hundred men on a single bridge? They'll laugh, vanish, and strike the Whispering Peaks pass. Or the granary at Brennus again. Or poison your wells. You can't guard everywhere against an enemy like this. You don't guard against Iron Masks. You hunt them."
He was right. A conventional military response was a fool's game, a massive shield trying to swat a handful of deadly mosquitoes. This required a scalpel, not an axe.
"Leo is right, Father," I said, stepping forward. The eyes of the room turned to me. "A garrison is a shield. We need a blade." I looked at Leo, then at my father. "This is a shadow war. It must be fought by shadows. The mission in Brennus was a success because we operated with subtlety. This is the same, only the stakes are higher."
"You are suggesting you hunt a team of professional, Expert-level mercenaries?" Damian's voice was incredulous. "You, a Low Expert, and a retired assassin?"
"And you," I said, nodding to Garrick, who had been standing silently by the door. "Our most trusted Master." I looked back at my father. "Garrick provides the overwhelming power if we get cornered. Leo provides the experience and the tactics to find them. And I," I paused, feeling the weight of my own words, "I have the Senses to track them, and the controlled, surgical power to dismantle their work without starting an open war. We are the scalpel."
My father was silent for a long moment, his grey eyes assessing me, weighing the risks. He saw the logic, the necessity. But he also saw the danger. He knew, better than anyone, what would happen if I was pushed too far, if these "Iron Masks" managed to inflict a near-fatal wound. He was asking me to walk the tightrope again, this time without his direct presence as a safety net.
"This is not training, Lancelot," he said, his voice low.
"I know," I replied steadily. "But the training was for this. We cannot hide behind our walls, waiting for them to strike. We must take the hunt to them."
He looked at Leo. "You can find them?"
Leo gave a thin, cruel smile. "Professionals are predictable. They have patterns. They need supplies. They leave subtle trails. They think no one is smart enough to read them. They're wrong."
The Count gave a single, decisive nod. "Very well. A covert operation. Lancelot will lead. Leo, you will advise. Garrick," he looked at his loyal captain, "you are his shield and his hammer. Keep him alive. At all costs."
Garrick bowed. "My lord."
"Go," my father commanded. "Find them. Dismantle them. End this threat to our lifeline."
We left the war council room, the mood grim but energized. The mission was clear. This wasn't just a test or an audit. This was a counter-espionage operation against known, Expert-level threats. The training was over. The true test of my control, my ability to wield the dragon's power without being consumed by it, was about to begin. I felt the familiar thrill of the hunt, a cold surge of adrenaline, mixed with the chilling, ever-present dread of what would happen if I failed.