Greyspire was louder at night than most towns were by day—street vendors hawking sizzling skewers, ferrymen calling last rides along the canal, the constant echo of boots on stone. Eliakim and Gideon threaded through the crowd, their guild insignias drawing the occasional glance from mercenaries and hawkers alike.
They'd barely passed the central fountain when a voice called out.
"Darkmoor!"
A tall, broad-shouldered sergeant in Greyspire colors strode toward them, helmet tucked under one arm. His face was weathered, but his grin was sharp as a cleaver.
"Didn't think I'd run into you this soon. Name's Sergeant Orran Veyne—south watch patrol."
Eliakim slowed, one eyebrow lifting. "Do I owe you coin?"
The sergeant chuckled. "Not unless you're paying for the damages your beast left behind." His grin widened at Eliakim's narrowing gaze. "Relax, boy. I'm talking about Skyling."
Gideon tilted his head. "What about her?"
"What about her?" Orran laughed. "She damn near saved the south market during the pest hunt. While you two were gut-deep in the sewers, she was out here pulling civilians from under carts, tearing those dark bugs to ribbons. Half my men saw her at work. The rest? They've been hearing about her all week."
Eliakim blinked once, processing, then glanced over his shoulder where Skyling was currently perched on a high beam, feigning disinterest. Her eyes flicked toward him, then away, wings twitching as though she wanted to disappear into the sky again.
"You're telling me," Eliakim said slowly, "that she was inside the city… without me."
Orran smirked. "If it were anyone else's beast, the gate would've been closed in her face. But when the civilians started pointing and saying her name? Well… we don't ignore heroes here."
Gideon grinned. "Guess she's famous now."
Eliakim didn't answer, but Skyling gave the faintest ruffle of her feathers—silent, proud, and just a little smug.
The moment didn't last.
A figure in Guild Enclave black stepped out from a shadowed alley. "Darkmoor. Ravenscar. The Council requests you. Now."
They were led through Greyspire's central spire—past halls of polished blackstone, where the banners of each recognized guild hung in perfect order. The air inside was cooler, quieter… heavier.
The chamber they entered was round, high-ceilinged, lit only by a ring of silver braziers. Three figures waited behind a crescent table: the Guild Enclave's senior officers, each draped in the sigil of their office.
"Sit," the central officer said.
Questions came immediately, each sharper than the last.—"The smoke you encountered in Emberroot… describe it."—"Was it magical, demonic, or both?"—"Did you bring anything back from within it?"
Eliakim kept his answers brief, careful. Gideon followed his lead. They spoke of the frost, the fire, the fight with the guardian—but never the truth about Kaelvryn, nor the polyglyphs. The Pyrafryst fragment was enough to satisfy them on paper.
But the officers weren't smiling.
"That black smoke," the one on the left said, voice low, "has been sighted inside Greyspire's outer wards. Two nights ago. We are not convinced it is a coincidence you arrived today."
Eliakim leaned forward, meeting their gaze without flinching. "If it's already here, wasting time questioning us won't help you stop it."
The words hung in the air. The officers exchanged a glance.
Behind them, Nathaniel stood near the door, hood shadowing his face. His eyes flicked to Eliakim—just for a moment—before he slipped silently into the corridor, vanishing as though he'd never been there.
They didn't realize the smoke was already in the building.
It began as a faint, oily thread curling under the council chamber's double doors. No one noticed at first—not until it slid along the floor like spilled ink, pooling in the shadow beneath one of the braziers.
Skyling's feathers flared. A low, sharp trill escaped her throat.
Eliakim's gaze snapped to the movement just in time to see the shadows twitch. The black haze rippled upward, stretching into the faint outline of something with too many joints in its arms. Its head was nothing but a hollow void—until it leaned toward him, and whispered his name without sound.
One of the braziers sputtered out.
"Seal the doors!" the central officer barked.
Too late. The haze collapsed into a smear and seeped between the stones, gone as quickly as it came—leaving only a lingering cold in the air.
Eliakim's jaw tightened. The message was clear.The smoke wasn't just here.It was watching.