Everything felt rushed the next day. Tristan had slept later than he’d hoped. It was Tuln day. The tax collector, Sir Crowley Begg, would be here by noon. Tristan had grown accustomed to seeing Sir Crowley before he left with his heavily guarded carriage of silver and gold tax. Tristan rarely saw the carriage itself. More commonly, he saw the three men of the Kingsguard resting on their backs with their hands behind their head at the top of Twin Hills, gazing up at the light blue sky with its fluffy clouds.

  Tristan figured he had around two hours before Crowley Begg would be at his front door demanding the high tax. Of course, the tax was no issue now. Dalko saw to it that Tristan was compensated well for his jobs. He had completed a few risky jobs recently, including stealing a piece of parchment from a forgery that detailed a weapons order that was being placed by a nearby outpost that was garrisoned by Knights of Windem. He had nearly been caught but Tristan was gone like the wind by the time that blacksmith who was hammering his sword had lifted his welding mask and turned to try and catch a glimpse of the blur that was swept past. He shrugged, returning to his work.

  Tristan hurried on his way, tugging his boots on as he stumbled out the door. He nearly fell face first into the door as he went.

  “What’s wrong sweet boy?” asked Mildred.

  “Nothing’s wrong, Ma. I’m late!” replied Tristan over his shoulder.

  “Late for what?”

  “Work,” said Tristan. Tristan slid his sword in its scabbard, leaving the spear Bodry had given him in the yard up against a tree trunk. Only in Sesten could you leave your valuables outside without fear of losing them. The only thing Tristan feared in Sesten was Dalko and his men, but they were on his side.

  He figured he ought to name his spear, since he had already named his sword Drakiler, the Drakonstone killer. After a long time of thinking, Tristan breathed a sigh of frustration. The name will come, he thought. The next thing he wished to acquire with his newfound wealth was a horse. A warrior without a horse was no warrior. Traveling two miles to downtown Sesten was already a chore. A horse would make that trip much easier. He knew obtaining a horse and learning to ride it was no simple feat, but he was prepared to do whatever it took to find someone who sold horses, and then to buy one that suited his needs.

  Tristan settled down inside Arithea’s Meads, the same place he had seen the spy follow him last. He’d been sitting inside for nearly an hour before he started to become anxious about running out of time. He had to make sure the spy was there, ensure he was being followed, and then also lead the spy all the way to the compound without the spy becoming suspicious. Dalko had no intention of letting the spy survive. He would question him, Tristan knew. Dalko wanted to know what the King was thinking. That’s what Tristan was for.

  The reason that Tristan had been designated as the informant for the Denderrikans eventually became apparent to him. Dalko and his inner circle were part of a creed, and they were not to wear anything other than their gray cloaks. It was how they identified each other from afar. It made Tristan wonder whether Dalko was under some sort of spell. Perhaps it was a contract he was bound to. Tristan was not sure.

  Tristan arose from his chair, preparing to head back to Twin Hills until Crowley’s visit had blown by. He was halfway to the door when a familiar figure entered the tavern. It was the spy. He was wearing the same dark cloak and high-knee boots as the day prior. He had dark, searching eyes and his nose seemed to wag up and down as if he were always sniffing something. His eyes were darting around the tavern, seeming to graze over details but not fully focus on any one particular thing. Tristan sat abruptly, trying to appear casual and comfortable as if he’d been in that seat for hours. A couple of patrons eyed him oddly, then turned their attention to the newcomer–the spy.

  Tristan waited thirty minutes, at which point he could no longer sit still. He didn’t see why the spy would not follow him if he left. After all, the spy had no way of knowing how long he’d been at Arithea’s Meads. He chanced a quick glance in the spy’s direction. The spy sat cross legged with his back to the wall. Most of his body was cast in shadow. His hood was large and it swallowed most of his face in shadow. It looked like he was staring directly at Tristan, but he could not tell.

  Tristan's heart began to race. Was this a spy or an assassin? He felt sheepish for fearing the cloaked spy. He had evaded him a couple times already, but the spy hadn't come too close yet. That had played into Tristan's hands, who had been able to get away with relative ease thus far. Could this be the time that the spy decided Tristan would not get away? He wondered what was beneath the spy's cloak.

  The sun's warmth lingered, defiant against the bite of the winter chill. It was deep into high winter—those frigid weeks when the air seemed sharper, and the frost clung longer, as if nature itself held its breath before the slow thaw of low spring. Tristan stepped onto the cracked yellow road, his pace brisk but measured. He moved with purpose, though not so quickly that the spy trailing him might lose the trail. That was the point, after all. He needed his pursuer to feel confident, to believe he held the advantage. Tristan was leading him, not the other way around—guiding the man straight into Dalko's trap, like a careless fly to a spider's web.

  He glanced over his shoulder. There--a flicker of motion at the edge of his vision. Tristan slowed, his eyes narrowing as he turned his head. Fifty yards back, he caught it: the faintest movement behind a building's corner. A head leaned out, just enough to confirm his suspicion. There you are, he thought.

  The spy darted into the gap between two buildings, their walls so close they formed an alleyway barely wider than a man’s shoulders. Tristan smirked. Terrible spy, he thought, amused. Too careless. Or maybe you want me to know you're there? The idea prickled. Assassin? Mercenary? Hired blade?

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  He shook them away. It didn’t matter. If he stayed the course and followed his usual route to Dalko’s compound, the man would keep his distance, careful not to reveal too much. He wasn’t here to confront Tristan, not directly. His game was observation, shadowing. But for now, Tristan was willing to play along. After all, he had the bigger trap waiting.

  As Tristan left the bustle of downtown Sesten and slipped into the shadowed embrace of the forest, his heart began to race. Each breath came in sharp, ragged bursts, the cold air cutting his lungs like tiny daggers. This wasn’t just any man trailing him—it was a spy. The king’s spy. The thought coiled in his stomach like a serpent. What if this man reported back to Bodry? The mere possibility sent a sour taste rising in his throat.

  His thoughts spiraled, flitting to Crowley and the taxes he might already be collecting from his Ma’s house. Had Crowley arrived yet? He’d probably chalk up Tristan’s absence to youthful carelessness. He’ll assume I just forgot the day and time, Tristan reasoned. After all, men his age were always busy—hunting, trading, scavenging. He’ll be annoyed, sure, but he’ll understand. Tristan had left a pouch of coins by the door, just in case.

  He pictured Crowley now: his heavy-knuckled hand rapping on the old wood, his eyes narrowing as he noticed no one waiting to greet him. Then, he'd spot the pouch, open it, and let out one of those long, world-weary sighs. He’d tuck the coins away, mount his horse, and ride up the hill to rejoin his comrades. The thought eased the knot in Tristan’s chest, just a little.

  But the forest was a harsher place for comfort. He vaulted over two fallen trunks, his boots scraping against the bark, then twisted his body to avoid a low-hanging branch. Thorns and brambles lashed out at him, coming close enough to sting his face. Behind him, he heard the crunch of leaves and the snap of twigs. The spy was still there, closer now, following him deeper into the woods than ever before.

  Tristan smirked to himself, imagining the smug satisfaction the spy must be feeling at that very moment. You think you’ve got me, don’t you? he thought. But this isn’t what you think it is. The idea amused him.

  Part of him itched to end this little dance. To turn around, draw Drakiler, and show the man exactly who he was dealing with. He hated this game of pursuit, the way it gnawed at his pride and forced him into restraint. It went against every instinct screaming in his head. Face him. End it now. That was the youth in him talking. But cooler thoughts tempered the flame. This wasn’t just any man; this was a spy of the king. And maiming or killing such a figure would bring consequences far worse than bruised pride. If word ever got out, the noose around Tristan’s neck would tighten faster than he could blink. Worse still, what if the spy got the upper hand? The thought sent a chill through him. If he was bested, dragged back to Sesten, and handed over to Bodry or some other stone-faced royal official, it would be the end of him. The weight of it all settled on Tristan’s shoulders, but he pressed on, his movements careful and deliberate. This wasn’t the time for rash decisions. Not yet.

  Tristan crested the wooded hill, his boots crunching softly against the frost-bitten ground. From the top, he looked down at the steep drop where the compound sat nestled in the valley below. It was empty.

  His chest tightened as his eyes scanned the site. The yard where tents had once stood was barren. No fires smoldered, no movement stirred. Over a hundred and fifty Denderrikans had been stationed there, alongside a handful of Solarians and Brantish fighters. Now, there was nothing. Only silence—thick, oppressive silence. Tristan’s first thought struck like a blow: I’ve been betrayed.

  The faint sound of footsteps behind him drew his attention. He turned sharply, feigning surprise at the figure emerging from the shadows.

  "Stop there. That’ll be enough running from you," the spy said, his voice cold.

  Tristan’s eyes swept over the man, noticing how his uneasy gaze darted over Tristan like a predator sizing up its prey. The spy drew two daggers from his hips in one smooth motion, their blades catching the weak glint of winter light. Tristan felt a flicker of vindication—his hunch at the tavern had been right after all.

  For a moment, Tristan froze, his mind racing as doubt clawed at him. Where’s the trap? The absence of the Denderrikans gnawed at him. Have they used me? Drawn this man out of Sesten, only to leave me to die? The thought twisted in his gut, but there was no time to dwell on it.

  The spy’s stance was poised, his blades ready. Tristan’s options were shrinking. He glanced back at the hill. It was a near-vertical drop—treacherous but not impossible. Loren had done it before, sliding down with practiced ease. He could make it too, but the spy would simply follow.

  His eyes flicked back to the compound. If I can get to the lodge... the attic upstairs might work. There were plenty of places to hide down there—plenty of corners where he could turn the chase in his favor.

  The plan formed quickly, like a spark catching kindling. He had no time to hesitate.

  Before Tristan could make a decision, it was made for him.

  Two Denderrikans dropped from the trees with practiced precision, landing silently on either side of the spy. The man gave a startled yell, spinning on his heels as he leveled a dagger at each of them.

  The Denderrikans moved as one, their short swords flashing in the muted light. With effortless precision, they batted the daggers from the spy’s hands, the clatter of metal against the ground ringing out like a death knell. In an instant, the spy was disarmed, left looking small and helpless—like a novice caught in the presence of masters.

  "Well done, Sword Maker," a familiar voice said, smooth and sharp.

  One of the Denderrikans pulled back her hood, revealing Loren’s piercing blue eyes and blonde hair, shining like sunlight against the dark forest backdrop. Her smirk was as confident as ever, though her gaze remained sharp, scanning the situation with practiced ease before resting briefly on Tristan.

  The other Denderrikan stood broader and more imposing, his shoulders squared like a battering ram. His blond hair was coarse, streaked heavily with gray, and his jagged beard framed a face carved with years of experience. There was no doubt one of Dalko’s senior fighters. His expression was hard and unreadable, though the faint curl of his lip betrayed his disdain for the disarmed spy.

  Tristan took it all in, his mind racing to piece the situation together. Whatever doubts he’d had about betrayal were beginning to ease but the unease in the air was far from gone.

  “I’m not here to start any trouble," stammered the spy. "I only wish to discover who this mysterious man is,” the spy gestured at Tristan with his head.

  “Don’t worry about him," said the Denderrikan with the coarse blonde hair. "Let’s talk about you.” He prodded the spy’s back, leading him toward the compound below. Dalko emerged from the lodge, hands behind his back as he slowly sauntered out into the clearing. Two men followed behind, dark looks spread over their face. Dalko’s face was neutral.

  “Bring him down,” said Dalko firmly. His tone almost sounded…annoyed. His voice carried despite his calm manner. “I’ve got no patience for spies.”