Chapter 7: The Shadow's Decision
The forest of the western border swallowed his sound, swallowed his presence. From behind a veil of darkness between the ancient pine trees, the hooded figure observed the scene below. The northern Echo Bridge was now a giant, dying bonfire, its charred pillars collapsing one by one into the dark chasm. Thick smoke billowed into the night sky, carrying the scent of burnt wood and death.
At the edge of the gorge, the remnants of the Vaelmont force moved with a stiff, slow gait. Their trembling torchlight illuminated dented armor, faces pale with shock, and the corpses of their enemies strewn about in grotesque poses. They gathered their wounded comrades, their movements a mixture of relief at their survival and utter confusion.
He analyzed the scene with the cold calm of a surgeon examining a dying patient.
Weak, he thought, his dark eyes narrowing. Pathetically weak.
He had seen Vaelmont's forces fight in other timelines. They were never great legions, but they had spirit. What he saw tonight was something else. Their equipment was poor, many of their swords made from low-quality steel, and their leather armor offered almost no protection. Their formation had shattered on first contact. If not for his intervention, not a single one of them would have returned to Nightholm this night.
And their commander, Captain Hanssen. Yes, he was brave and had potential. But he was too reckless. He led from the front, a foolishly heroic act that had nearly gotten him killed and left his troops without a commander.
However, the most important thing was not their weakness. The most important thing was the conclusion that would be drawn from this near-disaster.
The most likely chain of cause and effect began to form in his mind: Captain Hanssen's report would reach Commander Gregor. They would report an impossible victory. They would report a hooded phantom who appeared and vanished. And all of them, in the end, would connect this miracle to a single source: the command of Prince Eldrin Vaelmont.
The mad command that had, against all odds, worked.
He almost laughed, a humorless sound that caught in his throat. He had become an unwitting tool in building the legend of the very man he was supposed to be investigating. This victory did not belong to Vaelmont. It was his. But history would record it as the first proof of the Prince's "hidden genius."
He replayed the event in his mind, searching for a pattern, for logic. The order to burn the bridge. An order that, from any perspective, was madness. It was an act of throwing troops into an obvious trap. And indeed, they were trapped.
Then he appeared. And victory was achieved.
The question stabbed at his mind like a shard of ice.
Was my intervention... also part of his plan?
The thought was absurd. Impossible. How could the Prince, sequestered in his castle, know that he, a nameless wanderer, was in that forest on that night? That would require a level of precognition or an intelligence network surpassing even The Unseen Ring.
But if not... if his presence was pure coincidence... then the Prince's command was not strategy. It was a blind gamble. A mad wager that risked the lives of dozens of his soldiers on the slim hope that a miracle would occur. The act of a tyrant or a fool.
He weighed the two possibilities, both equally unsettling. An unfathomable strategist, or a mad gambler who staked the lives of others. Which was more dangerous?
He tried to find an answer in the past. He combed through his fragmented memories, searching for a precedent. In other timelines, this bridge was never important. The bandits... they were always dealt with in a different, bloodier, and more inefficient way after they had raided a few more villages. This incident, this ambush, had never happened.
This event was a new branch in the river of time. A branch created entirely by a single decision from this new Variable. It confirmed what he had witnessed at that end: this man had the ability to tear the script of fate.
Damn it. The more I think about it, the more interesting this becomes.
The experience at the bridge had brutally confirmed two things.
First, Vaelmont was even more fragile than he had estimated. The kingdom would not last a month against serious pressure from Kaelos or the intrigues of Duke Morcant.
Second, the "Fate Variable" residing in the castle was far more dangerous and influential than he had suspected. Not because of any power he was hiding, but because of the ripple effect his very existence created. He was like a stone thrown into a still pond; he didn't need to do anything else, the ripples he created would do the rest.
Observing from a distance was no longer enough. That was the strategy of a coward, an academic afraid to get his hands dirty. The risk of misinformation, the risk of missing a crucial moment like tonight, was too great. If he wanted to understand this variable, if he wanted to control it—or at least predict its movements—he needed to be near the source. He needed to be in the eye of the storm.
His plan from the tavern was no longer an option. It was now a necessity.
He had to get inside the castle.
He glanced one last time at the Vaelmont soldiers as they began their retreat, carrying their wounded. They needed heroes. They needed soldiers. And he, with what he had just demonstrated, had created the perfect job opening for himself.
He would give them what they needed. A new recruit of exceptional talent. A wanderer with no past, no loyalties to question. A young man named Cain.
He would display just enough "talent" to attract the attention of desperate commanders like Hanssen, but not so much as to arouse suspicion from sharper eyes. He would be the perfect soldier: efficient, quiet, and obedient.
And from that position, from the corridors of the western wing, he would watch. He would listen. He would analyze every word, every order, every silence from Prince Eldrin Vaelmont.
He would solve this puzzle.
With the decision having hardened into steel in his mind, the hooded figure turned away from the sight of the burning bridge. Without a sound, he melted back into the dense darkness of the forest, his cloak fluttering for a moment before being swallowed by the shadows.
He was not returning to the border. He was returning to Nightholm.
No longer as a curious observer.
But as an agent, about to begin the most important infiltration mission of his long, failure-ridden lives.