We departed the fortress an hour before dawn, three shadows slipping out of a minor postern gate. No banners. No fanfare. We wore the same rough-spun, anonymous traveling cloaks we'd used on the journey to Brennus, our weapons concealed, our faces obscured by deep hoods.
Garrick, now fully recovered and radiating a quiet, dangerous energy, moved with the silent confidence of a Master. Leo, wiry and alert, looked almost comfortable, his cynical gaze sweeping the pre-dawn shadows as if greeting old friends. I rode between them, the steady thump-THUMP of my two hearts a familiar, grounding rhythm against the cold knot of anxiety in my gut.
This was different from the training chamber. There was no Voidstone wall to catch a stray blast. There was no Grandmaster father to act as a failsafe. My control, forged in those pressurized sessions, felt fragile out here, untested in a true, high-stakes hunt where the enemy was just as skilled, just as deadly, and carried no practice swords. The fear of the trigger, the fear of that near-death moment that would unleash the dragon, was a constant, cold presence at the back of my mind.
We rode south, following the Argent River. Our first destination was the bridge garrison, the site of the failed sabotage. The damage had been repaired by Damian's men, the heavy stone pylon secured with fresh mortar and reinforcing iron bands, but the scars of the attack remained.
Leo knelt by the base of the pylon where the black powder charges had been found, sifting through the dirt and gravel with practiced, delicate fingers. "Professionals," he murmured, his voice a low rasp. "No excess residue. No discarded tools. They packed out what they brought in." He pointed to a faint, almost invisible scuff mark on the stone. "Rope work. Came in from the water, not the road. Fast, clean, efficient."
"I can feel them," I said quietly, closing my eyes.
Leo and Garrick both looked at me. I extended my Rhythmic Sense, probing the Aetheric echoes clinging to the stone. It wasn't the chaotic, nauseating wrongness of the Void. This was different. "Three signatures," I whispered, interpreting the faint traces. "Disciplined. Cold. Their energy is sharp, like honed steel. There's no rage here, no fanaticism. Just… calm. Professional."
Leo's eyes narrowed, a flicker of genuine respect in their depths. "You can feel that?" He grunted. "Good. Your dragon-sense has its uses, then. Matches the 'Iron Mask' profile. They're not zealots; they're craftsmen, and murder is their craft."
"Where do craftsmen go after the job?" I asked, looking to him. This was his world.
Leo stood, dusting off his hands. "Not into a cave. These aren't bandits. They're mercenaries. Mercenaries need logistics. They need a warm bed, hot food, and a place to wait for their next payment." He pointed south, down the trade road. "They won't be hiding in the woods. They'll be hiding in plain sight. In the nearest town, posing as merchants, surveyors, anything."
"Taryn's Crossing," Garrick stated, his voice a low rumble. "It's the next major crossroads. Sits on the junction between the river road and the eastern pass. Perfect place to strike the bridge and then vanish, blending into the trade traffic."
"A crossroads town," Leo agreed, a thin, cruel smile touching his lips. "Full of strangers, travelers, and people who know how to mind their own business. Perfect. Let's go hunting."
Taryn's Crossing was a bustling, muddy, practical town, smelling of wagon grease, livestock, and ale. It had none of Brennus's guild prestige or Port Varrick's overt menace. It was a purely logistical hub, a place of constant motion, filled with inns, smithies, and warehouses. It was, as Leo had predicted, the perfect place for three professional killers to disappear.
We split up, agreeing on a rendezvous point at dusk. Garrick took the high ground, finding a vantage point where he could observe the comings and goings of the main inns without drawing attention. Leo, in his element, melted into the taprooms, a nondescript traveler nursing a drink, his ears open to the endless river of gossip, rumors, and boasts.
My task was different. I walked the town, my Rhythmic Sense fully active but carefully shielded, a subtle, probing sonar. It was exhausting, filtering the chaotic Aetheric noise of a thousand lives – the arguing merchants, the weary teamsters, the hopeful farmers, the bored town guard. I was searching for three specific needles in a haystack of ambient energy: three cold, sharp, disciplined signatures.
Hours passed. I walked the market, skirted the warehouses, felt the ebb and flow of the town. Nothing. Just the mundane hum of everyday life. The dragon within me grew impatient, restless, whispering that this subtle searching was a waste of time, that we should be shaking down the town guard, forcing answers. I pushed the feeling down, focusing on the cadence, on the discipline.
I was about to give up, to meet Leo and admit failure, when I passed a small, cramped shop tucked between a tannery and a weaver. An apothecary. The sign was faded, the window filled with dried herbs and strange, bottled specimens.
A thought struck me, a connection to Leo's briefing. The poison teeth. The agents at the bridge garrison had been equipped with them, a professional's escape route. A poison so potent would require specialized, often controlled, alchemical ingredients. Seraphina, in her own research back at the Keep, had been analyzing the components of the poison taken from the Vane handler we'd captured in Brennus. She had identified a key, rare ingredient: Black-Vein Hemlock, a toxic plant that grew only in high, cold marshes, difficult to procure.
I entered the shop. The air was thick with the scent of a hundred dried herbs, minerals, and chemicals. An old woman with sharp, intelligent eyes looked up from a mortar and pestle.
"Looking for something, traveler?"
I played the part of Layn, the scribe. "Just curious, grandmother," I said, offering a polite smile. "My master is a scholar of botany. He mentioned a rare plant said to grow in these regions… Black-Vein Hemlock? I was wondering if you'd ever seen it."
Her eyes narrowed slightly. "A dangerous plant. Highly restricted. Not for simple scholarly pursuits. Why do you ask?"
"My master is eccentric," I lied smoothly. "He pays well for curiosities."
She held my gaze for a long moment, then seemed to make a decision. "I stock it, on occasion. For… registered alchemists." She paused. "Sold my last supply just yesterday. To a group of men. Surveyors, they claimed. Heading into the eastern mountains."
My heart hammered. "Surveyors? Did you see them?"
"Three of them," she said, her gaze sharp. "Well-dressed, but rough hands. Paid in capital-minted gold, not local coin. Asked for enough Hemlock to 'put down a sick bear', they said. Strange thing for surveyors to need." She pointed towards the main street. "They're staying at The Crossed Pikes, I believe. The big inn by the east gate."
I thanked her, tossing a few coins on the counter for a simple bundle of dried lavender to maintain my cover, and left the shop, my pulse racing.
I found Leo in the smoky taproom of a lesser inn. I slid into the booth opposite him, my hands clasfped to hide their slight tremor. "The Crossed Pikes," I murmured. "Three men, posing as surveyors."
Leo raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Good work, kid. My own whispers just confirmed the same. A new group, arrived four days ago, just before the bridge attack. Keep to themselves. Pay in gold. Fit the bill."
"I need to be certain," I said.
We left the taproom, meeting Garrick at a discreet distance. We moved through the twilight, three shadows detaching from the others, and took up a position in a dark alley across from The Crossed Pikes. It was the largest inn in town, bustling with travelers.
"How do you plan to confirm?" Garrick rumbled, his voice low. "We can't just walk in."
"I don't need to," I replied. I closed my eyes, leaning against the cold brick wall, filtering out the noise of the street, the ambient energy of the dozens of people inside the inn. I focused, pushing my Rhythmic Sense, a delicate, almost invisible tendril of perception, across the street, through the wood and stone of the inn's walls.
I felt the common room, a chaotic swirl of Auras. I felt the innkeeper, the servants, the tired merchants. And then, in a private room on the second floor, near the back, I felt them.
Three cold, sharp, disciplined signatures. Chillingly calm, perfectly contained. Identical to the Aetheric echoes I had felt at the base of the Argent River Bridge.
My eyes snapped open. "It's them."
I felt the dragon stir, the familiar, cold whisper. Threats. Eliminate. I pushed it down, my mental walls holding firm. No. Control. Capture, if possible. Not here. The inn was full of innocent civilians. A fight here would be a massacre. My fear of the trigger, of losing control in a chaotic brawl, was a sudden, icy presence. It made me more cautious, not less.
Leo looked at me, his sharp eyes seeing the tension in my posture. "They're Experts. At least one is, to be this calm, this disciplined. Sloppy work getting made by an apothecary, but they're dangerous. How do you want to play this, lordling?" He had deferred to me. The test was over. This was my call.
I stared at the inn, at the light spilling from its windows, at the laughter of a merchant passing by, oblivious to the vipers nesting just feet away. My father's words echoed. No unnecessary displays.
"Not here," I said, my voice low, steady. "Not with civilians. We wait. We follow them when they leave. We find them alone, on the road, in the wilderness. And then," I met Leo's gaze, "we take them apart. Quietly."