Argus rose from the low chair where he had been seated, his body stiff from both grief and lingering tension. The room felt heavier than usual, the air thick with incense that did nothing to mask the faint tang of burned mana lingering from the recent assassination attempt.

  He straightened his posture, adjusted the folds of his tunic, and made his way toward the commander who had just arrived—Kaelion of the Royal Knights. Every step across the polished floor echoed slightly, a subtle reminder of the mansion’s hollow quiet, the absence of those who had once filled it with life.

  He made a mental note to check up on Aunt Lyssa after this meeting. She had been heavily injured during the fight. Guilt pressed against him for failing to protect the woman who had cared for him since birth.

  The guards escorted him to the courtyard where the commander awaited him. It stretched before him, quiet save for the faint rustle of wind through the trimmed hedges and the occasional call of a distant bird.

  Argus’ boots clicked against the cobblestones, the sound sharp in the open space where the recent fight had scarred the stones. Here, where Vilangos had been cornered, the air still carried a subtle tang of burned mana, faint and bitter. Dust swirled in the thin sunlight that filtered between the tall pillars of the estate, catching on the faint sheen of sweat along Argus’ brow.

  Kaelion waited near the central fountain, his posture precise, measured, almost unnervingly calm. The sunlight reflected off his shoulder pauldrons, tracing every sharp line of his armor. There was no hurry in his movements, no rush, only a patience that weighed on Argus with the subtle pressure of inevitability.

  “Argus,” Kaelion said, voice low and controlled, “thank you for meeting me here. I have questions regarding the events involving Commander Vilangos. His containment, the assassins—your role, your methods. I trust you understand the importance of your answers.”

  Argus nodded slightly, moving closer, careful to maintain his composure. His hands itched to flex, to release tension he had carried since the attack. Dravien’s voice whispered in the back of his mind, barely audible. Measure your words. Every pause, every hesitation—he notices.

  Kaelion’s first question came sharp and deliberate. “How long did it take for Vilangos to be contained once he attacked you?”

  Argus exhaled quietly through his nose, choosing his words with care. “Several minutes,” he said. “Enough for us to respond, seal his movements, and contain him.”

  Kaelion inclined his head slightly, chewing something between his teeth. Argus noticed the repetitive motion and felt a slight irritation flare in his chest. The chew was quiet, precise, and yet it grated against the tension in the courtyard.

  “And the assassins,” Kaelion continued, “the others present—how did they coordinate? How many were there exactly?”

  Argus hesitated, weighing his phrasing. "Six,” he said finally. “They attacked us individually.”

  Kaelion’s gaze sharpened. “And how did you respond? Did you use relics, or was your attack purely mana-based?”

  Argus felt the weight of the question, a thin bead of sweat trickled down his temple.“I only used spells. I had no relics on me at the time.”

  Dravien’s low voice curled inside him, a whisper of irritation. Do not stumble. Do not reveal weakness. Even the absence of mana speaks louder than words.

  Kaelion stepped closer, boots crunching softly against the cobblestones. “Your mana,” he said. “I understand you were exhausted at the time. Can you demonstrate your ability now?”

  Argus flexed his hands, opening his channels. Nothing. Every spark of mana Dravien had burned in the confrontation was gone, leaving only the faint, residual hum in his bones. He shook his head slightly. “There is none left,” he admitted. He felt exposed without it.

  Kaelion’s eyes narrowed slightly, then flickered with mild amusement. “Interesting.” He chewed again. Argus’ eyes tracked the motion, irritation rising.

  “I must admit,” Argus said, cutting through the tension, “the chewing is rather distracting.”

  Kaelion’s head tilted, and a faint, unexpected laugh escaped him. “Ah,” he said. “My apologies. The gum calms the mind. Addictive, in a sense. Even sharpens the senses when chewed deliberately.” He tapped the corner of his mouth lightly. “My subordinate used to get scolded by me for chewing constantly. She insisted I try this, and the next moment I was addicted to it.”

  Argus inclined his head, curious despite himself. “Is that so?” he murmured, almost distracted by the precision of Kaelion’s movements.

  Kaelion’s expression softened slightly. “The factory will open to the public soon. Sale will begin within a month or two. You may wish to try it yourself,” he added with a slight nod, faint humor brushing his tone.

  Argus gave the faintest acknowledgment, letting his posture relax ever so slightly, then refocused on the courtyard and the questions.

  “How did the assassin enter your room? Did he teleport? Did you feel the wards breaking?” Kaelion asked.

  Argus shifted slightly, scanning the courtyard in his mind. “I did not sense the assassin’s presence until he chose to reveal it. I noticed no breach in the wards.”

  Kaelion’s lips twitched slightly, as if noting something unsaid. “And the assassin’s equipment?”

  “His weapons were also concealed, revealing none of their properties. I only saw it when he attacked me,” Argus answered.

  Kaelion’s brow creased slightly. “Then explain how you managed to kill a Mithril-rank assassin alone.”

  Argus hesitated, then lied. “The assassin did not seem to be in healthy condition. His movements were slow and each movement seemed to cost him. It is my opinion that he was damaged by the wards while entering”

  “That could make sense, but then why did alarms not set off?” Kaelion asked gazing straight into his eyes.

  ““I do not know the reason for their failure. I told you what I knew” Argus replied meeting his gaze head on.

  The wind rustled, brushing against the hedges and sending a faint chill over Argus’ skin. Dravien stirred lightly, almost imperceptibly, sensing the pressure of scrutiny. Every second counts. Your hesitation is louder than your words.

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  Kaelion’s gaze flicked toward him, sharp and assessing. “And the assassin who fought Vaeron and your sister how exactly did you kill him?”

  Argus took a breath, trying to ignore the lump in his throat. “My brother and I fought together, complementing each other's abilities.”

  Kaelion’s eyes scanned him, chewing slowly. “Would you say the encounter was possible because of your abilities, or was it luck?”

  Argus exhaled softly, and for a moment the silence stretched. “A combination,” he said finally. ““The only reason my family and I survived was luck.” The words were entirely true in their own right.

  Kaelion’s mouth curled faintly, a smile ghosting over his lips. He chewed the gum again. “I see.”

  Argus felt the unease press deeper, his own heartbeat quickened. The chewing, the calm demeanor, the unflinching eyes—they all weighed on him like a current beneath the surface of a still pond. And yet, there was nothing he could challenge. Kaelion’s intelligence, his composure, his subtle probing—it all lingered, leaving threads of suspicion that had no anchor, only weight.

  Finally, Kaelion straightened. “Your answers are coherent. Still… some things don’t quite add up." He inclined his head. “I will leave a small contingent here for observation. Not for protection. Observation.”

  Argus gave a quiet acknowledgment, sensing the lingering unease. When Kaelion departed, the sunlight caught the edges of his silvered armor. Suspicion hovered, unresolved, waiting.

  The bar was dim, lit by oil lamps that cast trembling shadows across polished wood and the faces of those who lingered too long over their drinks. Somewhere behind her, a gambler shouted, calling for another match. The scent of spiced ale and faint smoke clung to the air, tangling with the underlying musk of rich perfumes.

  Liandra sat at a corner table, her dark-blue eyes scanning the room, her midnight-blue hair falling across her shoulders in a controlled cascade, catching the low light in a faint shimmer. Her figure, graceful yet dangerous, made her presence undeniable.

  Across from her, the merchant leaned forward, dressed in rich brocade that smelled faintly of imported silk and lavender. Gold embroidery glinted along the seams of his coat, a deliberate display of wealth, his long hair brushed back but loose at the temples.

  It had taken her three days to track down the merchant, the one who possessed the relic she desired.

  Liandra’s stomach twisted at the feel of his long, thin fingers brushing her hair as he leaned closer under the guise of examining the ring she had worn. Her skin crawled at his touch. She had to restrain herself to not flinch.

  “The ring is admirable, though it is no match for your beauty,” the merchant murmured, a sly smile on his face, Liandra pretended to flush. “I did not expect someone like you to seek me out. Tell me, are you always so… bold?”

  Liandra’s lips curved, a faint, measured smile. “Boldness is sometimes necessary,” she replied evenly, voice calm, almost casual. She hated the smoothness in it, the way she had to entertain this fool. Disgusting, she thought. Every second of this is disgusting. Curse the cult and this man. It’s only a matter of time before I take my revenge.

  He chuckled softly, brushing a hand over the table, then rising. “Then perhaps I should escort you somewhere more…private? I have a collection of artifacts—some… rare.” His eyes glimmered with excitement. “You must see them. Come with me.”

  Liandra’s heart quickened, not from fear, but from awareness mixed with excitement. Finally, she would claim the relic. She followed, careful to keep her expression neutral. The carriage outside smelled faintly of leather and cedar polish, the horses restless, stamping against the ground. The city streets blurred past—lanterns flickering in the darkened alleys, the occasional shadow moving along rooftops. She noted the smells, the sounds, the texture of the silk gloves on her hands. Her pulse was steady, her nerves taut.

  The merchant escorted her inside, holding on to her right hand. Once again, she suppressed the revulsion crawling beneath her skin.

  At the merchant’s home, every detail was deliberate. Thick carpets muted her footsteps, tapestries absorbed the shadows, and the air carried the faint perfume of expensive candles. He led her to a room where the relic rested: a ring, simple in shape, but glimmering faintly. He really was a bit too gullible. She crouched slightly, examining it. Subtle glyphs etched along its band whispered of wards and anti-scrying enchantments.

  The merchant’s voice cut through the air, warm with false intimacy. “Do you see it? Only a select few know of this. I’ve kept it hidden for a reason. You are fortunate to witness it… firsthand.”

  Liandra’s lips pressed into a thin line. “It is… interesting,” she replied, keeping her tone even. Her stomach twisted again as his long-fingered hands brushed her hair—briefly, lightly—and she forced herself to breathe through the nausea. Disgusting, she repeated silently. I cannot let myself falter.

  He reached closer, almost reverent now. “I imagine such a rare item requires… careful handling. Perhaps only someone like you could appreciate it.” His eyes glimmered, anticipating. “Come, let me show you—”

  The moment the door shut and locked behind them, the merchant’s expression froze mid-sentence. His lips parted, a word dying before it could form. His eyes widened. Liandra’s movements were already fluid, precise, deadly. In a single, deliberate motion, the edge of her concealed weapon found its mark. His head left his body in one clean motion. Blood spilled across the carpets before the rest of him understood he was dead.

  Her breathing was calm, almost detached. She did not revel in the act. A sliver of disgust lingered: for having touched him, for deceiving him, for the violence itself. And yet, she felt none of the thrill or relief she might have expected. He had been vile, cruel, and she recalled the whispered rumors of what he had done to innocents. Justice, though a secondary goal, had been served.

  Now the cult wouldn’t be able to trace her movements. She recalled the overwhelming feeling of the aura that touched her that day. It hadn’t even been targeting her, merely overlooking her but still she had been frozen in place.

  She had been fortunate to be assigned only to retrieve the necklace. Had she been with the assassins she would be dead right now. She had caught a glimpse of the boy, Argus was his name. He had been fighting on par with Vilangos, and now news had reached her that Vilangos was captured.

  The boy managed to subdue an Adamantium rank, she also believed that it must have been him who killed the rest of the Mithril rank assassins. No one else in the household had that much power. He also must possess various resources, he was her best chance.

  Her hands, steady, closed around the relic. The ring slipped onto her finger, snug, warm. A subtle hum, almost imperceptible, pulsed against her skin: a system notification confirming the anti-scrying wards were active. For the first time in months, the relentless probing of her movements, the constant weight of observation, fell away. Silence pressed around her, heavy and alien, yet comforting.

  She was no fool. Wearing this relic for hours posed a threat in itself. So she would have to convince the boy to help her inside the time of a couple hours.

  Exiting the house quickly, she made for the mansion, carefully avoiding streets she knew might be watched. Her pulse steadied as she approached the city’s heart, the mansion looming ahead. The scent of trimmed hedges and the faint musk of stone and iron greeted her.

  The gates opened, guards pausing as her figure approached. Her solemn expression, the weight in her eyes, suggested grief. Few noticed the trembling beneath her controlled composure, or the sweat beading at her temples.

  She walked to the gates. The same overwhelming force hit her. She staggered trying hard to stay upright. Her pulse quickened. She felt it in her stomach, in the back of her knees. Every instinct screamed to flee. Yet she knew she couldn’t. What is happening?

  The boy—was he even a boy—must have detected her, though this time the power wasn’t as overwhelming. It seemed almost irritated and…weaker than that night. Though it was still enough to make her tremble.

  Step by step, she moved forward, each movement deliberate, precise. Guards flanked her, distracted by her striking appearance: dark blue eyes, midnight hair, figure of dangerous grace. They assumed solemnity, not trepidation. They could not know the quiet terror beneath her mask.

  “I heard about the death of Myra Thunderbloom. As a friend of Argus, I wanted to offer my condolences.”

  The guards asked for her name.

  “Liandra Avina.” The guards nodded to her.

  “If you wouldn’t mind, ma’am, ever since the attack on the manor, we’ve had to apply sigils to every guest.”

  Liandra nodded, she didn’t mind. Shortly after, they led her to the room. The terrifying feeling increased with every step. All her instincts screamed in terror, telling her to run.

  The door loomed before her. The guards knocked lightly. A boy’s mature voice replied, low and calm:

  “Yes?”

  “A friend has come to offer her condolences, young master”

  Argus told her to come in.

  Liandra’s hand lingered on the polished wood for a brief second before she pushed it open, stepping inside. The air shifted, carrying the scent of polished wood and perfume. Her pulse steadied, just enough, as she locked eyes with him.