We waited. The cold, damp air of the crossroads town, Taryn's Crossing, settled deep into our bones, a stark contrast to the noisy, false warmth spilling from the tavern doors of The Crossed Pikes.
From the deep shadows of the smithy's alley opposite, we watched the inn's entrance. It was a tedious, agonizingly slow vigil. My muscles, honed for explosive action and rapid response, ached with the unnatural stillness.
Garrick was a statue of granite beside me, his breathing slow, deep, and even, his massive form blended perfectly with the darkest part of the alcove. His presence was a mountain of contained power, a silent promise of overwhelming force held in perfect reserve. He could stand like this for days, a perfect soldier, a Master of his own discipline.
Leo, a few feet away, had melted into the darkness so completely he seemed to be part of the wall, just another patch of deeper shadow where the brick was stained with soot. He was utterly, unnervingly still, his senses, I had no doubt, extended far beyond my own, listening to the city's whispers.
I was the one struggling. I was a Low Expert, my power humming just beneath my skin, my enhanced senses a double-edged sword in this chaotic environment. The dragon's will, that ancient, arrogant consciousness now permanently bound to my own, detested this. It despised inaction.
'Waiting is for prey,' it whispered, a cold, impatient hiss in the back of my mind, a familiar irritation. 'A true predator acts. We are stronger. They are three; we are three. Walk in. End them. Take what we need.'
I shut my eyes for a brief moment, forcing the Two-Heart Cadence to the forefront, the steady, human rhythm a fragile shield against the primal urge. 'No,' I countered silently. 'Control. We are not brutes. We are hunters. And hunters wait for the perfect moment to strike.' This was a new kind of battle, a fight of patience over power, and it was just as grueling as any spar with my father.
We waited for what felt like an eternity, but by the town's clock tower, was likely two more hours. The noisy, drunken revelry of Taryn's Crossing began to quiet down, the flow of patrons slowing to a trickle. Fewer merchants stumbled from taverns, fewer wagons rumbled through the muddy main street, their axle-grease a pungent smell in the cooling air.
Then, the inn door opened.
A man emerged, not with the boisterous laughter of a traveler, but with a quiet, professional purpose. He was one of the three "surveyors." He wore a dark, practical cloak, hood pulled up, and he didn't just exit; he scanned the street. His gaze swept the rooftops, the alleys opposite, a habitual, predatory gesture.
He saw nothing, just a sleeping town. He gave a subtle, almost invisible hand signal, and a second man emerged, following the same procedure. Then the third. They were disciplined, professional, not just common mercenaries.
They moved as one, turning as a unit and heading east, their boots making almost no sound on the packed earth of the road, towards the path that led into the high, rocky pass.
Leo gave a single, almost imperceptible signal, a faint click of his tongue against his teeth. He waited, letting them get a solid hundred-yard lead, letting them be swallowed by the darkness beyond the town's last, flickering lantern. Then, he moved.
He didn't step out of the alley; he flowed from it, a wisp of shadow detaching from the wall, silent as the fog.
Garrick and I followed, falling instantly into the formation we had drilled in the Ashworth forests, a formation designed for exactly this. Leo, the ghost, thirty yards ahead. Me in the middle, the "sensor," my Rhythmic Sense pushed out in a thin, probing wave, tracking not just the targets, but Leo himself, feeling the faint, deliberate disturbances in the Aether. Garrick, silent despite his size, followed ten yards behind me, our rear guard, a mountain of quiet fury ready to be unleashed at a single command.
The pursuit was a silent, grueling test of stamina and nerve. We left the muddy town road and followed them onto the rocky, winding goat-paths of the eastern pass. The moon, a thin, useless sliver, offered no real light, forcing us to rely on our other senses. The Iron Masks were good. They moved fast, stuck to the shadows along the cliff walls, used patches of loose gravel to mask their footsteps with the natural sounds of the wind, and backtracked twice in the first mile, simple but effective tests to see if they were being followed.
But Leo was a Master. He was a phantom, anticipating their path, never getting too close, never falling too far behind. He read their movements like a scholar reading a book, pointing to a single scuffed stone where they'd passed, a displaced pebble.
My own senses, amplified by the dragon, proved their worth, not as a weapon, but as a tool. "They're stopping," I whispered, my voice carried forward to Leo on the wind, my enhanced hearing picking up the cessation of their faint footsteps far ahead.
Leo raised a hand, and we all froze, melting into the cover of a cluster of high boulders.
My Rhythmic Sense probed the darkness. I could feel them, three cold, sharp, disciplined signatures, clustered together. They were alert. "They're listening," I breathed.
We waited, motionless, for five long, agonizing minutes. The dragon in my chest was screaming, hating this passivity, this hiding. I forced it down, focusing on the cadence, on the cold night air, on the distant cry of a night-hawk.
Finally, I felt the signatures move again, satisfied. They had heard nothing but the wind.
We trailed them for nearly two more hours, climbing higher into the desolate, wind-swept hills, the landscape growing more barren, the air thinner. They finally settled in a perfect, defensible location: a small, ruined watchtower on a low, windswept hill, its crumbling stone walls offering a 360-degree view of the surrounding, barren landscape. It was a professional choice, a place to hole up, observe, and defend.
Our team stopped, melting into a deep, brush-filled gully a safe distance away, perhaps five hundred yards, well outside crossbow range and hidden from casual observation. The wind whistled over the ridge, a low, mournful sound, masking any faint noise we might make.
Leo, his movements slow and deliberate, unslung a long, leather-wrapped tube from his back. He carefully extracted a brass spyglass, a beautiful, precise instrument that looked out of place with his rough attire. He settled in, resting the spyglass on a stable rock, and began to watch, his breathing the only sound.
Garrick took up a rear-guard position, his gaze sweeping the back-trail, ensuring we weren't the ones being hunted. Rolan, crouched beside me, had his eyes fixed on the tower, his hand resting on his dagger, his body coiled.
I focused on my own task, extending my Rhythmic Sense in a wide, passive net. I could feel the three cold signatures moving inside the ruin. They weren't relaxed. They were setting up a perimeter.
"Two on watch, one inside," Leo murmured, confirming what I was sensing. "One sentry on the north wall, or what's left of it. One on the south, near the main entrance. The third is inside, likely at a fire, resting."
He watched for another thirty minutes, his stillness absolute. "They're settling in," he finally whispered. "But they're sharp. The sentries are staggered, covering each other's blind spots. They're not amateurs."
I felt the dragon stir again, impatient. 'They are few. We are strong. Garrick is a Master. We can crush them now.'
'No,' I countered, my mental walls holding firm. 'We don't know the full situation. Are there more inside? Are there traps? We don't have enough information. We wait. We watch. We learn.'
Leo collapsed the spyglass with a soft, oiled snick. He looked at me, his pale eyes unreadable in the dark. "Your call, lordling. We hit them fast and hard now, under cover of darkness, or we wait. See what they do at dawn."
I stared at the dark, menacing silhouette of the ruin. My father's command, my own fear of the trigger, the lessons from Leo... it all coalesced into a single, clear decision. This wasn't a brawl. It was an extermination. And you don't hunt vipers by jumping into the nest.
"We wait," I said, my voice low and steady. "We watch. We learn their routine, their numbers, their defenses. We find the perfect moment. We take them apart. Quietly. No mistakes."
Leo held my gaze for a long moment, then gave a single, almost imperceptible nod of approval. He settled back against the cold rock, pulling his cloak tighter. "Good. Patience is a weapon they won't be expecting from a hot-blooded young lord."
The vigil began. The cold, the wind, and the dragon's impatient whispers were my only companions as we watched the small, dark tower, waiting for the enemy to reveal the crack in their facade.