The first thing Roland noticed was the silence.
Not the good kind, the kind where everyone's asleep and the world finally shuts up for five minutes. This was the bad kind. The kind where even the rats knew to stay in their holes.
He'd been dozing against the balcony railing when the feeling crept up his spine like ice water. Years of corporate politics had given him a sixth sense for when someone was about to stick a knife in his back, and right now that sense was screaming.
Roland cracked open one eye, scanning the square below.
There, a shadow that moved wrong, too fluid, too purposeful. Another one by the fountain, crouched low. A third slipping between the wagons like smoke.
"Figures," he muttered, pushing himself upright. "Can't even get through one night without drama, huh."
The cloaked figures were circling the caravan with practiced precision, each one finding cover, each one moving in perfect synchronization. This wasn't some desperate band of highway robbers. This was military.
Roland slipped back inside the room, padding quietly toward the door. Elena was curled up on the narrow bed, finally asleep after hours of nervous energy. Good. She didn't need to see what was about to happen.
He made it halfway down the hall before realizing he wasn't the only one awake.
Reinhardt stood at the top of the stairs, fully dressed, sword already at his hip. His face was carved from granite in the dim lamplight.
"How many?" Reinhardt asked quietly.
Roland held up both hands, fingers spread.
"At least ten. Maybe more hiding in the alleys."
Reinhardt's jaw tightened.
"Professional?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
They moved down the stairs together, Roland's boots silent on the wood while Reinhardt's spurs gave the faintest jingle with each step.
At the bottom, two of Reinhardt's knights waited, Sir Marcus, the grizzled veteran with the scarred hands, and Sir Garrett, younger but well… he's good.
"My lord," Marcus whispered, "the perimeter guards haven't checked in."
Reinhardt's expression didn't change, but his knuckles went white around his sword hilt.
Roland stepped to the window, peering through the gap in the shutters. The square looked normal at first glance, but his eyes caught the details: too many shadows in the wrong places, the nervous stamping of horses, the way the torchlight seemed to flicker and bend in spots where it shouldn't.
Then he saw it, faint lines of silver traced across the cobblestones, barely visible unless you knew what to look for.
"Shit," Roland breathed.
"What is it?" Reinhardt moved beside him.
Roland pointed at the glimmering traces.
"Runes. They're not here for loot. They want sabotage."
The words had barely left his mouth when the night exploded.
The runes detonated in sequence, each one bursting with smoke and fire that rolled across the square like a tide.
The air filled with acrid gray clouds that burned the eyes and throat, turning the world into a maze of shadows and choking haze.
Through the smoke came the raiders.
They moved like ghosts, cloaked figures with gleaming blades, striking at the confused caravan guards with ruthless efficiency.
Steel rang against steel, punctuated by shouts and the whinny of terrified horses.
Reinhardt burst through the inn's front door with his knights at his back.
"Shields up!" his voice cut through the chaos like a blade through silk. "Form on me!"
Roland had to admit it, the man knew how to command. There was nothing polished or pretty about the way Reinhardt moved now. This wasn't the diplomatic noble from dinner. This was a knight who'd earned his spurs in blood and mud.
The remaining caravan guards rallied to Reinhardt's call, their scattered panic crystallizing into a tight defensive formation. Shields locked, spears bristled outward, and suddenly the raiders' easy prey had become a wall of steel.
Roland lingered in the inn's doorway, watching the battle unfold with the detached interest of someone who'd seen too many corporate knife-fights to get excited about the literal kind.
One of the raiders broke through the guard line, curved sword sweeping toward a young knight's unprotected flank.
Roland sighed, stepped forward, and happened to stumble right into the attacker's path. The raider went down in a tangle of limbs and curses.
"Oops," Roland said blandly, then kicked the fallen man's sword into the fountain.
Another raider was chanting something nasty, hands weaving patterns that made the air shimmer with malevolent energy.
Roland wandered over, pretending to dodge a different fight, and happened to cough right when the spell reached its climax. The magical energy wavered, collapsed, and the frustrated raider got a crossbow bolt through the shoulder for his trouble.
"Hay fever," Roland explained to no one in particular.
Across the square, Reinhardt carved through the enemy ranks like he was born for it.
His sword work wasn't flashy -- no spinning or unnecessary flourishes -- just brutal, efficient strikes that found gaps in armor and ended fights quickly.
Roland nodded approvingly.
"Finally, someone who knows what they're doing."
The masked commander emerged from the smoke like something out of a nightmare.
He was tall and lean, dressed in black leather that seemed to drink in the torchlight. Twin curved swords gleamed in his hands, their blades etched with runes that pulsed with a sickly green light. A featureless mask covered his face, smooth and white as bone.
"Lord Reinhardt," the commander's voice was cultured, educated, with just a hint of mockery. "How noble of you to die for your principles."
Reinhardt turned to face him, sword steady in his grip. Blood ran down his left arm from a shallow cut, but his stance never wavered.
"Who sent you?" Reinhardt demanded.
The commander tilted his head.
"Does it matter? The kingdom rots from within, my lord. We're simply... hastening the process."
Then he attacked.
The first exchange was lightning-fast -- curved blades dancing around Reinhardt's guard, probing for weakness. The commander fought like water, flowing around obstacles, striking from unexpected angles with inhuman grace.
But Reinhardt had fought water before.
He gave ground slowly, methodically, his sword work tight and controlled.
Every parry was precise, every counter-attack deliberate. He wasn't trying to match the commander's speed -- he was trying to break his rhythm.
The masked figure pressed harder, his blades weaving patterns in the air that left trails of green fire. Runic magic crackled around him, making his strikes faster, his movements unpredictable.
Reinhardt took a cut across the ribs, then another on his sword arm. But with each wound, he adapted. His footwork shifted, his timing changed, and suddenly the commander's flowing attacks were meeting solid steel at every turn.
"Persistent," the commander hissed, backing away for a moment.
"Experienced," Reinhardt corrected, then lunged.
The next exchange was brutal. No more dancing, no more testing -- just steel against steel in a grinding contest of skill and will. The commander's runic magic flared, but Reinhardt powered through it, his heavier blade battering aside the curved swords through sheer determination.
Roland watched from the sidelines, absently disabling another raider's spell with a well-placed elbow to the kidney.
"Wasted on politics," he muttered, dodging a thrown dagger.
"This man was born for the field."
The duel reached its climax when the commander overextended, his left blade catching in Reinhardt's guard. For a split second, he was vulnerable.
Reinhardt didn't hesitate. His pommel strike crunched into the commander's ribs, doubling him over. His follow-up thrust would have ended the fight, but the commander rolled away at the last second, leaving only torn cloth on Reinhardt's blade.
"This won't end here," the commander spat, pulling something from his belt. Smoke began pouring from his hands, thick and choking. "The kingdom already rots, Lord Reinhardt. We're simply the cure."
By the time the smoke cleared, he was gone.
The surviving raiders melted away into the night with the same military precision they'd shown in attack. No panic, no hesitation -- just disciplined withdrawal in the face of superior resistance.
Roland counted the bodies scattered across the square. Seven dead, three more who'd probably wish they were dead come morning. Not bad for a surprise night raid, but not good either.
Reinhardt stood in the center of the carnage, methodically cleaning his sword with a torn piece of cloth. Blood soaked through his shirt in three places, but he moved like the wounds were nothing more than papercuts.
His knights gathered around him, battered but unbroken. Sir Marcus had a nasty gash across his forehead that he kept dabbing at with his sleeve. Sir Garrett was favoring his left leg but still standing straight.
"Casualties?" Reinhardt asked.
"Two guards down, my lord. Three more wounded but stable." Marcus's voice was steady despite the blood running down his face. "Could have been much worse."
Reinhardt nodded, sheathing his sword. "Double the watch. I want eyes on every approach to this square."
"What about the town guard?" Garrett asked.
"What about them?" Reinhardt's tone was flat. "They were remarkably absent tonight, weren't they?"
Roland wandered over to where one of the runes had been carved into the cobblestone. The sigil was shattered now, its power spent, but fragments remained. He crouched down, studying the pattern.
Reinhardt noticed his interest. "You saw it too."
"Hard to miss." Roland pried a piece of the runic fragment loose, holding it up to the torchlight. The carved lines were too precise, too professional. This wasn't local work. "Someone's pulling strings."
"Any idea who?"
Roland pocketed the fragment, standing with a grunt. "Give me time to think about it. Patterns don't lie, but they don't always tell the truth either."
Above them, a shutter creaked open. Elena's face appeared at the inn window, pale with worry. She'd obviously been watching the whole time.
Reinhardt followed Roland's gaze upward and sighed. "No word of this to Elena. Not yet."
"Little late for that," Roland observed.
"She doesn't need to know how close it was."
Roland studied the older man. Despite the blood and exhaustion, Reinhardt stood like a mountain -- unshakable, immovable. But there were cracks in that facade now, hairline fractures that spoke of too much weight carried for too long.
"You did good tonight," Roland said quietly.
Reinhardt glanced at him in surprise. "From you, that almost sounds like a compliment."
"Almost."
A ghost of a smile touched Reinhardt's lips before fading. He looked out at the square, at the bloodstains that would take days to scrub away, at the scorched cobblestones where the runes had burned.
"This was just the beginning, wasn't it?" he asked.
Roland thought about the commander's words, about the military precision of the attack, about the runes that spoke of resources and organization far beyond what any local bandit chief could muster.
"Yeah," he said finally. "I'm afraid it was."
The church bells tolled midnight across the town, their bronze voices cutting through the silence like a funeral dirge. In the distance, a dog howled once, then fell quiet.
Reinhardt cleaned the last of the blood from his blade, the steel gleaming silver-bright under the moon. Around him, his knights began the grim work of securing the scene, but their lord stood alone in the center of it all, a figure of iron determination carved against the night sky.
Roland watched him for a long moment, then looked down at the runic fragment in his palm. The pattern was familiar somehow, tugging at memories he couldn't quite place. But he would. Given time and quiet, he always figured out the puzzle.
The only question was whether they'd have that time before the next attack came.
Above them, Elena's window closed with a soft click, but Roland caught the glint of her eyes still watching from behind the glass. She'd seen everything, understood everything, and there was no putting that particular cat back in the bag.
The kingdom was rotting, the commander had said. And from what Roland had seen so far, the bastard might actually be right.
He just wasn't sure the cure was going to be any better than the disease.