The city of Grisel, always a nest of vipers, now writhed under an invisible pressure.
Kaelen's revenge against Vane's messenger had been a brutal blow, a war cry in the language of flesh and bone.
But Lord Silas Vane was not one to be intimidated.
Instead, his game rose, and his threads, invisible and poisonous, began to touch the very foundations of power in Grisel.
In the Nest of the Weaver, the effects were palpable.
The scarcity of contracts became a drought.
Food and basic supplies began to grow more expensive.
The mercenaries' faces were more tense, their tempers shorter.
The rumor that the "Phantom of the Alleys" had provoked the wrath of such a powerful noble spread, and with it, fear.
—He's suffocating us —Gorok growled, his voice full of frustration.
His pig-like eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep—. Every route we touch, every contact, is frozen. Vane has claws all over the city.
Seraphina, seated on a chair with feline grace, smiled, but it was a joyless smile.
—The web is large, Kaelen. And Vane is a patient weaver. He is cutting the threads that connect us to the world.
Her icy blue eyes watched Kaelen with an almost feverish expectation, as if waiting to see how his madness would respond to this new pressure.
Kaelen felt the tension.
The song of the shadows in his mind had become a constant howl, a cacophony of despair and impotent fury.
He could feel the pressure on the guild, the vibration of fear in the other mercenaries, Gorok's growing desperation.
They whispered to him:
—Useless strength! Manipulation! Find the puppeteer!
It was then that the hand of Lord Silas Vane moved with even more cruel precision.
He did not touch Kaelen directly, nor Darian or Seraphina.
He aimed at a fragile bond, but one that resonated with Kaelen's oldest loss.
One night, a panting messenger arrived at the Nest, his face pale with terror.
He spoke of an attack in the scholars' district, in the library where Master Elias had treasured his tomes.
A fire, provoked with surgical precision, had reduced to ashes the oldest and most valuable section of the library, the one that housed forbidden knowledge, old-world maps, scrolls of forgotten ruins, and tomes of ancient beings.
And it wasn't an accident.
Witnesses spoke of hooded silhouettes that moved with a strange grace, whispering incomprehensible words before unleashing the flames.
And worst of all, whispers became screams: they had found the old librarian's body, his throat slit and his eyes torn out.
Kaelen felt as if an icy fist gripped his heart.
The librarian.
A man who remembered Master Elias's affection, who had shared his passion for forbidden tomes.
A remnant of his past, now erased by an invisible hand.
The rage that flooded him wasn't the cold fury of survival, but pure, burning, nearly inextinguishable anger.
The voices in his mind became a war cry, deafening.
—Vane! Pay for it! Everything! Tear his flesh! Make him suffer what he causes!
It was the first time he felt such a personal and overwhelming thirst for vengeance since the Seren Valley massacre.
—Vane. That was Vane —Seraphina whispered, her icy blue eyes shining with uncontrollable excitement.
She had seen the expression on Kaelen's face, the hardening of his amethyst eyes, the tension in his jaw.
This was the spark she had been waiting for.
—He's aiming at your ghosts, Kaelen. It's delicious.
But Vane's strategy didn't end there.
At the same time as the library attack, a new force made itself felt in the streets of Grisel.
More frequent and better-equipped patrols.
Raids in the lower districts, not only against common criminals but against any figure that looked suspicious, any mercenary without a clear affiliation.
And the voice of authority behind these actions was unmistakable.
The Guild of the Golden Anvil.
The Golden Anvil wasn't just another mercenary guild like the Nest of the Weaver.
They were the "justice keepers" of Grisel, the ones tasked with maintaining a semblance of order, those who handled the crimes the City Guard could not or would not manage.
They were made up of seasoned warriors, fallen paladins, and war veterans who still believed in a code of honor, however twisted it might be in current times.
They were the antithesis of the Nest of the Weaver, and their leader, a man named Theron the Inflexible, was known for his relentless sense of justice, and his disdain for "predators of chaos" like the Nest.
Kaelen felt a wave of bitter memories hearing his name.
Kael, the warrior, was one of them.
Maybe not an official member of the Golden Anvil, but he surely sympathized with their cause and methods.
The line between them and the Nest had become an unbridgeable gap.
—They've declared war —Gorok growled, slamming the map again—. Vane is using them. The Golden Anvil will declare us 'parasites of the city' and will come for us. This time, it won't just be about contracts. It will be a purge.
The situation was critical.
Economically strangled by Vane, and now facing open war with the Golden Anvil Guild, the survival of the Nest of the Weaver was at stake.
And in the midst of all this, Kaelen realized the thread of the Malignant Blood Flow he had used on Vane's messenger had been a declaration of war—not just for the noble, but for all those who believed in a justice he had long since abandoned.
While the Nest's mercenaries prepared for the inevitable confrontation, sharpening weapons and getting ready to defend their walls, Kaelen felt a new wave of coldness.
His rage over the librarian was a fire inside him, but his mind, the part broken by madness, saw it as fuel, another tool.
—If Vane wants war, he will have it —Kaelen said, his voice a guttural whisper, like a snake's crawl—. And the Golden Anvil will be the battlefield.
Zoltan looked at him, his onyx eyes shining with dangerous cunning.
—We'll have to be smarter, Phantom. Vane isn't a barbarian. He plays with pieces. We'll have to take some away from him.
Seraphina smiled, her icy blue eyes fixed on Kaelen, a palpable admiration on her face.
—Oh, Kaelen. The game has become much more interesting. Blood will flow, and souls will break. Isn't this what we always wanted?
Kaelen nodded.
Yes.
Madness had prepared him for this.
Brutality wasn't just survival—it was the art of this new war.
Far from the grime of the lower quarters, at the peak of Grisel, in the highest tower of the Royal Palace, a shadowy figure watched the city through an arched window.
The flickering lights of Grisel, like a myriad of candles on a sea of darkness, stretched under his gaze.
The person was tall, their silhouette slender and powerful, wrapped in black silk garments that absorbed what little light there was.
They did not move, a living statue, arms crossed behind their back.
Moonlight, filtered through a stained-glass window of dark hues, barely revealed the contours of their face.
Their eyes, of a deep and almost supernatural purple, shone with ancient intelligence and millennial boredom.
It was Lord Valerius, the Royal Advisor, a figure rarely seen in public, whispers of his lineage stretching back to Grisel's first kings.
It was said he possessed immense wisdom and a power that far surpassed the Warden, the city's nominal ruler.
Vane was his pawn, an agent in a much larger game than the scheming noble thought he was playing.
—Interesting —Lord Valerius's voice was a whisper, so soft it barely rose over the wind whistling through the battlements.
There was no emotion in it, only a cold observation—. A pawn has bitten. And the worm writhes.
His purplish eyes fixed on the docks, where Vane's informant had been brutally "reeducated."
—And the Phantom... a chaotic piece. He could be... useful. Or a nuisance. We'll see how fast he breaks.
A barely perceptible smile drew across Lord Valerius's lips.
The game in Grisel had only just begun, and he, the true spider at the center of the web, was ready to pull his strings, watching as the pieces danced and bled on his board.
The arrival of the Phantom, the clash of guilds—it was all mere amusement.
For now.
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