With the dregs of his strength and a focus honed by the proximity of death, Greywind ignored the blistering agony in his chest. His eyes locked onto a row of massive wine tuns newly delivered to the loading area near the estate's rear gate, a mere thirty feet away.
He invoked the silver mist of Misty Step. His broken form vanished from the dirt and coalesced inside one of the partially opened wooden tuns. It was filled three-quarters deep, leaving just enough air at the top. He landed with a muffled plop, submerged in the chill embrace of red wine. The vintage stung his acid-etched wounds, a sharp, white-hot pain that forced him to bite his lip until it bled. But he was hidden, breathing through a narrow crack in the timber.
Outside, Mira skidded to a halt where her target had evaporated. "Teleportation?!" she snarled, her emerald eyes scouring the shadows. Five estate guards, led by the veteran Borin, swarmed the area with torches held high.
"Someone fell from the oak! Scour the grounds!" Borin bellowed.
Mira spun a web of lies with practiced ease. "I saw him too! An armed infiltrator spying on the manor! I am a relic hunter; I happened upon him and tried to intervene!" She secreted her bow into the folds of her cloak. The guards, having no reason to doubt a fellow caster who had clearly wounded the intruder, took the bait. They began thrusting their blades into the brush and peering behind the tuns.
Inside his vat, Greywind held his breath as torchlight flickered through the slats. The wine washed over his chest, diluting the caustic ichor, though the ache remained a dull, throbbing roar.
Jannis's laughter erupted in his skull like psychic thunder.
"HAHAHA! The woman is cunning! She offers her services to your enemies to secure your head! You are a rat in a gilded trap, Greywind! I am tempted to let you drown just to witness the look on your face when they find you. But... I still have need of your shell. What is the move, little rat?"
Borin nodded toward the tuns. "Check the vintage. Quickly."
Two guards approached, their boots crunching on the gravel. They began rapping on the wood, peering into the open vats. They were steps away from his hiding place. Greywind focused his mind amidst the dark and the dregs, weaving a Minor Illusion. He projected the sound of a man's ragged, panicked scream from the opposite side of the estate wall, eighty feet distant.
"Aargh—! He's here! Hel—!" followed by the heavy sound of a body hitting the stone.
The effect was instantaneous. The guard nearly reaching for Greywind's vat froze. Borin pivoted toward the sound. "There! To the wall! Move!"
Mira, however, narrowed her eyes. Her gaze lingered on the vats, a sharp suspicion warring with the urgency of the hunt. "Check these tuns first, then follow!" she commanded, but the guards were already a sea of bobbing torches following Borin's lead. Only one sentry remained behind, and even he was looking over his shoulder.
This was the opening. Greywind remained motionless, listening to the fading rhythm of boots and Mira's frustrated sigh. This was a war of nerves. He breathed shallowly through the timber's seam, despite his lungs' demand for oxygen. At last, he saw Mira's shadow depart as she raced to catch the others, eager to maintain the guards' trust.
Greywind waited ten agonizing seconds before peering over the rim. The loading area was a ghost town. But then, he spotted a woman hurrying from the kitchen toward the rear gate—Mara, the maid he had bribed. She looked frantic, likely sent to glean the cause of the alarm.
He invoked his final Misty Step. He vanished from the wine and reappeared behind a stone buttress, mere feet from her. Before she could shriek, he clamped a wine-soaked hand over her mouth.
"Mara, peace. It is I, Gio," he rasped. "Hide me. Now." He held her gaze, a silent reminder of the gold he had promised.
Recognition dawned through her terror. She glanced at the distant commotion and nodded. "Follow me. To the cellar. Move—and be silent."
She led him through a service door and down a cramped staircase into a cold, vaulted cellar filled with foodstuffs and cobwebbed racks of vintage. It was a forgotten corner of the manor. Safe, for the moment.
"Mara," Greywind panted, sitting on a crate. "I need bandages, water, and dry clothes. Now. And tell me—is there a passage from here to the vault beneath the western tower?"
Mara nodded, her face tight. "I will bring what you need. As for the vault... there is an old tunnel behind the wine racks. But it is locked from the tower side, and they say it is guarded by... something."
While she was gone, Greywind tended his wounds. Jannis resurfaced, her voice a sultry taunt. "A wounded sommelier, hiding in the belly of the beast. Cunning. But do not forget: the vengeful witch is still outside, and she will not stop. And that vault... oh, I can scent the brimstone from here. It seems Lord Valerius has playmates from my home." She purred with dark interest. "Perhaps we negotiate. Or perhaps... we take over. But tell me: do you flee like a wet cur, or finish the job while the house is in chaos?"
Greywind stood, adjusting the dry servant's livery Mara had provided. A bitter smile touched his lips. "Why would I retreat? I owe that witch my thanks. Because of her, I am exactly where I need to be."
Mara watched him, a look of profound unease in her eyes. "Are... are you speaking to me, Master?"
"No, darling," Jannis's voice intervened, sounding so close it was as if she were standing between them. "He speaks to me. And he is right. That girl has pushed you into the heart of the matter. You are inside, disguised, and your enemies hunt ghosts in the dark. Perfect."
A phantom, cold finger brushed Greywind's cheek. "But do not be arrogant. Your magic is spent and your blood is thin. If you meet a fiend in those tunnels, you will need more than a bitter smile. You will need... me."
Mara shifted uncomfortably. "Master Gio... what must we do?"