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Chapter 3 - Unseen, Unspoken, Unleashed

Night draped its heavy cloak over the castle and the lands beyond. Inside the mountain, night mirrored day—dark, still, and suffocating. A silence too perfect. The kind you only recognize after you've bled in it.

I began my watch on the cliff's edge, eyes sweeping the shadows, ears tuned to every rustle.

The air pressed against my chest, heavy—like something was waiting to fall. Something always is. We just don't see it—until it's already falling.

A trickle of cold ran down my spine. The kind that hits a split-second before the world breaks.

A flicker of motion snagged my gaze—a cloaked figure darting across the castle rooftops, swift as a specter. My pulse kicked hard.

I shook Torglel, grip tightening on his shoulder. "Get up. It's showtime."

He bolted up instantly, sleep gone like it had never been. "Where?"

I pointed. No more words. Just understanding. The kind that doesn't need orders anymore. Just motion.We moved.

I sprinted to the cliff's edge and leapt. The rush of the fall tore the wind past my face. The world dropped. Torglel followed without hesitation. We slid down the jagged cliffside, boots sparking, speed blistering. When we hit the ground, pain flared in my knees—no time to feel it.

I vaulted onto the nearest rooftop, boots hammering tile. Below, Torglel thundered through the streets—his warhammer a one-dwarf blockade, clearing a path like a landslide with opinions.

The gap between me and the figure shrank.

He moved too well. This wasn't desperation—it was choreography. Precise. Efficient. Not the scramble of a cornered killer, but the dance of someone who'd done this before. Perhaps too many times.

Two knives flew from my hands—silver arcs under the moon. His sword flashed—batting them aside like leaves in a breeze. I lunged. Celerius and Mors sang through the air—black and white arcs aimed at his skull.

He met them with his blade. Steel on steel. Sparks flared, just long enough to catch his hood in the light.

We locked blades—strength for strength. Breath harsh. Muscles taut.

Then he moved. Fast. He seized my wrist. Twisted. Pain spiked up my arm—white-hot. I drove my knee into his chest. Something cracked. He tumbled backward off the rooftop. He hit the cobblestones with a grunt. Torglel was already there, bearing down like fate with a grudge.

"NOW!" I roared, my voice ripping the silence in half.

The assassin rolled just in time—Torglel's hammer smashed down, his curse peeling paint from the walls. He was up in a blink, and Torglel's next swing came even heavier, fueled by the kind of rage only a missed hit can buy.

Then he did the kind of insane thing only the gifted—or the suicidal—even attempt. He charged into the blow, planted both hands on the hammer's flat head, and vaulted—using Torglel's own momentum like a springboard. He flipped over him, twisting midair.

I was already moving. Timed it perfectly. As he crested the leap, weight suspended for a single breath—I struck.

Celerius sang first. A horizontal slash across his flight path. It caught his arm—blood misting the air. Mors followed—stabbed toward his gut. But he twisted easily.

He landed in a crouch, a thin red line trailing down his bicep. It was the first hit that registered. A mark he hadn't planned for. He tilted his head—just slightly.

His movements were liquid. Smooth. Controlled. Confident. He was toying with us, treating the whole fight like a warm-up. A knife flicked from his hand—aimed for my throat. I parried with Mors, sparks spitting as steel kissed steel.

He surged forward—a blur of black cloth and focused intent. No warning. Just motion. He ducked low, momentum coiling in his legs, and then launched upward—driving his forehead into mine with a crack that echoed through my teeth. Skull met skull.

Pain exploded behind my eyes. The world spun, just for a heartbeat, before I forced it still.

I stumbled a few steps, he flipped me over his shoulder. I hit the cobblestones hard. Air punched from my lungs.

His sword stabbed down. I rolled. No thought, just instinct. The blade whispered past my ear and kissed stone.

Torglel was back—roaring, charging. His hammer swung in a wide arc.

The assassin ran to meet him, and ducked low. Swept Torglel's legs. He hit the ground, the stone trembling under his weight.

His blade rose—a streak of silver and death.

Too far. I couldn't reach them. My heart slammed against my ribs.

Then—he froze. His hand shot to his neck, fingers brushing something small.

Time slowed. He staggered. Buckled and collapsed into a heap of black cloth on the stone.

Just like that—stopped mid-strike.

I rushed to Torglel, hauling him upright. "You alright?"

He groaned, rubbing his skull. "Physically." A wince. "Been a while since I got my arsati handed to me like that."

I exhaled. Tension leaked out slowly. "How'd we lose a two-on-one?"

Torglel's half-smile flickered. "Because we thought we had him."

The assassin lay unconscious. Barely bleeding. Only that nick on his arm.

I crouched beside him, searching for wounds—hands brushing over leather and cloth. No knife slashes. No bruises. I pressed two fingers to his neck, feeling for a pulse—steady, not slow enough for blood loss.Then I saw it. A dart. Thin as a needle, buried at the base of his neck. Fletching dull gray. Almost invisible.

Not mine. Not Torglel's. That should've been a relief. It wasn't. I stood slowly. Every instinct prickled.

Footsteps behind me—soft, deliberate. I spun, blades half-drawn.

It was her.

The silver-haired Falstarian from the market. Calm. Composed. Hands clasped behind her back like she'd been watching the whole damn show. If she had, then we were the performance.

"What's in the dart?" I asked, voice low, every syllable sharpened with suspicion.

"Sleeping agent. My own brew." Cool tone. Measured. "Should keep him out eight hours. Give or take." She tapped the vial on her belt. "Assuming he doesn't metabolize toxins like your Dwarven friend. Which, might be the case."

I narrowed my eyes. "Were you trailing me just to test it out?"

Her smirk was sharp. "If I were, you'd already be face-down and dreaming of better reflexes."

Couldn't argue with that. I pulled a teleportation rune from my pouch and tossed it. "Solari."

"Alythiel," she replied, catching it without flinching. "Best healer and alchemist in Volstruum Valley." Half jest. Half boast. I believed both.

I turned back to the assassin. Yanked off the mask. My breath caught.

Pointed ears. Dark skin. Red eyes that could've been mine—dull now with unconsciousness. It was like looking into a broken mirror: a reflection I never expected, but couldn't stop staring at.

Not just the skin or the eyes. The build. The stance. Even unconscious, he carried himself like me. The kind of echo that doesn't happen by chance.

I wasn't just chasing him. I was chasing something I hadn't put a name to yet—familiar in the way a scar is. Part of you. Just under the surface. Waiting.

Torglel whistled low. "By Tharnak's beard... he's one of yours, Solari."

A cold weight sank into my gut.

I looked back at Alythiel. "Don't lose that rune. We might need you again."

I hoisted the assassin over my shoulder. He was limp, and dead weight. "We're heading back."

The walk was silent. Inside the tunnels, the shadows felt heavier. They watched us with the patience of those who understood burden, quietly wondering if we'd ever lay ours down.

Telegarani waited near the entrance, arms crossed. His silver hair caught the torchlight like wire.

"Where's Arcainius?" I asked.

"Training recruits."

I didn't slow my pace as I walked past him. "Send him to interrogation."

The assassin was bound. Wrist. Ankle. Chest. Every knot checked twice. Torglel gave the rope one last tug. "Good luck slipping that, bastard."

Arcainius entered—tall, sharp-edged, unsettling. His eyes were fractured ice, cold and searching as he studied the body. He frowned. "He's alive?"

"Alive enough," I said.

Torglel huffed. "Looks like Solari's twin. Downright eerie."

I handed Arcainius the mask. He turned it over, tracing faint etched symbols. "These aren't familiar. I'll have Telegarani dig into it."

Arcainius circled the assassin, then placed his hands on either side of the captive's head. A chant rolled from his lips—low, ancient, the kind of sound that prickles down your spine.

The air thickened, buzzing with static. Arcainius's fingers tightened against the assassin's skull. His breathing slowed, jaw clenched. Then his eyes rolled back, pale and sightless—like he was reaching for something buried in the dark.

Then—a significant amount of violence.

Arcainius flew backward. Slammed into the stone wall.

It cracked beneath him.

The assassin's eyes snapped open. He screamed.

Flames erupted from his chest. Not normal fire. Green at the edges. Screaming as it burned. Like something inside him had been waiting to tear free—and couldn't survive the air. It devoured him. Flesh and bone gone in seconds. Ash drifted to the floor.

No questions answered. Just one more mystery turned to smoke. The silence returned—but it wasn't clean this time. It crouched beside the ash, waiting to speak again.

I helped Arcainius up, his legs unsteady.

"What the hell was that?"

"Magic deeper than we know," he muttered, dazed. "I couldn't hold it."

I stared at the ashes. A chill coiled up my spine. This wasn't over. It was the first spark.

Torglel looked at the ash, jaw tight. No smile. Just the weight. "So much for answers." He kicked the soot, voice low. "What now?"

"We find out who lit the match," I said. "Then we burn back."

My eyes stayed on the ash. On the empty space where something with my eyes had stared back. He'd taken his secrets with him. But not all of them. Not yet.

I used to think the worst thing was not knowing. Now I know better. It's finding out—and realizing it's only the beginning.

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