The journey to Harrowdale was a pilgrimage into a past long forgotten. For two days, Rorix moved through the woods, propelled by a singular purpose. The map from the dead soldier was his guide, his link back to a world that disposed him despite being one of the greatest restorers of its order. Each rustle of leaves, each snap of a twig, set him on edge. A part of him wanted to avoid detection, but another part of him desired it, a part of him whose vengeance had been held back by time and solitude, a part of him coiled like a viper ready to strike with the shadowy horror now tethered to his being.
Mana, he was learning, was a fickle and demanding second lifeblood. Drawing on it was exhilarating, a surge of power that let him do the impossible. But when it was spent, a deep, gnawing exhaustion set in, a weariness that left his bones aching and his thoughts clouded. It was a flaw that could prove fatal in combat without willing himself to keep fighting in spite of it. He believed he had pushed the implant to its limit by the river, and its silent, crystalline core was only now beginning to feel charged again. He conserved his new strength, relying on skills he had long mastered—stealth, patience, and a soldier's eye for terrain.
Nightfall on the third day brought the familiar silhouette of the barony's walls, dark and monolithic against a sky of bruised purple. Torches flickered along the ramparts and a large bonfire burned near the main gate, its light casting long, dancing shadows. Under normal circumstances, that light meant safety. But with the kill order, it has become a perimeter he must breach.
From the tree line, he watched the gate guards—ten men, all bored and restless. The real threat was the watchtower that stood a hundred paces down the wall. Its lone sentry had a clear view of the ground below. A direct approach was suicide. He didn't have enough mana to sustain the shadow form for a sprint that long. There was only one way.
He unslung the longbow he had taken, its wood smooth and balanced in his hand. He pulled an arrow from the quiver, its steel tip glinting in the firelight. He measured the distance, the wind, the slight arc the arrow would need to travel. As a Null, his senses were all he had ever had, and he had kept them sharp at all times.
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he pulled the bowstring taut and released. The arrow pierced through the darkness, followed by a tense, drawn-out moment. Finally, the figure in the watchtower fell, vanishing out of sight with a barely audible thud.
He didn't wait. He activated his power, and his body dissolved. He was a shadow once more.
The world became a tapestry of cold stone and the warm, distant light of living beings. He surged forward, a black stain gliding over the ground. He scaled the stone wall like an insect, his weightless form ignoring gravity. Four heartbeats. That was all it took. He crested the wall and descended into the familiar streets of Harrowdale, materializing behind a stack of crates in a wave of nausea. He was home.
But this was no longer the home he knew it to be. The journey to his own house was a disorienting trek through a city he now had to treat as hostile territory. He kept to the shadows, a specter haunting the edges of what was once his life, every passing town patrol a threat. The winding path to his cottage by the creek, once a comforting walk after a mission, was now a step away from burglary.
A faint light flickered through the trees ahead, and Rorix's heart leapt. Lyra. She was home. He imagined her by the hearth, cooking a meal. The thought was so powerful it almost drove him into a reckless run.
But then came other sounds. Not the soft hum of a solitary woman at home, but the gruff laughter of men. He slowed his pace, eventually dropping to a crouch. Then he continued, creeping forward, his hand ready to grab his bow.
At least twenty soldiers were camped in his front yard. He stopped behind a bush.
The men lounged around his outdoor kitchen, their armor and weapons strewn carelessly across the ground. More moved in and out of his house as if it were their personal barracks. His stomach tightened into a cold knot of dread. Where's Lyra?
As he scanned the crowd, a figure emerged from his doorway. He was taller than most of the others, with an easy confidence in his stride. He wore Rorix's features like a mask, an imperfect but convincing imitation. His posture was almost right, his hair styled almost the same. He wore the insignia of a sergeant, just as Rorix had. But the gait, the arrogant way he held himself, and the cold malice in his eyes—it was unmistakably Juris.
A Mimic Cloak. One of the rarest and most expensive pieces of Guild gear. With it, a man could steal another's life.
Rorix's rage flooded within, a white-hot torrent that threatened to consume him. He wanted to erupt from the darkness, to slaughter every last one of them. But then Juris did something unexpected. He walked away from the others, heading down toward the creek alone.
An opportunity. A perfect, isolated target.
Rorix emerged, his movements silent. He activated the Mouse implant again, pouring mana into the transformation. He dove and slipped across the creek bed, the fast-flowing water feeling like thick, cool mud against his shadow form. He materialized behind the seated Juris, his full, terrifying height looming in the darkness.
Juris must have sensed something. He started to turn.
A sweeping kick took his legs out from under him. Juris went down hard, his cry of pain stifled as Rorix was on him in an instant, a hand clamped over his mouth and the cold steel of a dagger pressed against his eye. The Mimic Cloak flickered, Rorix's stolen face distorting into Juris's own panicked visage.
"There's not a soul who will believe I've come back from the dead," Rorix hissed, his voice a venomous whisper. "Right now, your only options are to cooperate or die. Make your choice."
Juris, eyes wide with terror, could only manage a series of pathetic, muffled pleas.
"Where is she?" Rorix demanded, pressing the dagger to Juris's forehead until a drop of blood welled. "Where is Lyra?"
"Gone!" Juris choked out after Rorix eased the pressure on his mouth. "She's not here! She left you!"
The words hit Rorix like a physical blow. He froze.
Juris, sensing his momentary hesitation, scrambled to explain. "Our superiors… they told me you two were divorced! Before the Maelstrom mission! Irreconcilable differences, they said!"
"Lies," Rorix spat, his disbelief warring with a cold spike of dread.
"No, it's not—" Juris's jaw suddenly clamped shut. A gurgling sound escaped his throat. His body began to convulse violently, sweat beading on his forehead. Thin wisps of smoke curled from his nostrils and ears.
A failsafe. A lethal, alchemical ward. Rorix recoiled, scrambling backward. He had heard of these—implants that ensured secrets died with their keepers.
From behind him, a twig snapped. Rorix spun just in time to see a soldier's silhouette turning to flee, a sword in his hand. He had been watched. The alarm was already being raised. There was no time to escape. Rorix hurled his dagger with savage force. It found its mark in the fleeing soldier's back, dropping him instantly.
A wet pop echoed from where Juris lay. His head had exploded, a gruesome spray of gore painting the creek-side stones.
An arrow hissed past Rorix's ear. He didn't think; he dove for the nearest tree, the cold terror of a prepared ambush settling over him. An entire force of soldiers was now descending upon him. The truth would have to wait. He must survive the night first.