Voices.
I froze mid-step, every muscle going rigid.
They were distant, muffled by stone and distance, but unmistakably there. Three of them, I thought. Maybe four. The words themselves were indistinct, just the rhythm of conversation—casual, relaxed, like they didn’t expect company.
Like they thought they were safe.
Ahead of me, Lincatheron’s hand came up in a silent signal. We stopped as one, our small group melting into the shadows.
The Master of Arms tilted his head, listening with an intensity that suggested he was hearing far more than just voices. After a long moment, he glanced back at Fenric and Cindrissian.
No words. Just a series of hand signals so fluid that I almost missed them in the dim light. But I’d learned to read that particular language a lifetime ago, in another life where silence meant survival.
Three guards. Twenty paces ahead. Split approach. Cindrissian circles left, Fenric takes right, I go centre.
A pause. Then Lincatheron’s eyes found mine in the shadows.
Another signal. This one meant for me.Stay. Here.
Fuck that.
But I nodded anyway, keeping my expression neutral, appropriately cowed. Let him think I’d obey. Let him think I was the liability he needed to protect.
The three of them moved forward with the silent coordination that came from centuries of fighting together. Lincatheron stayed low, using the uneven cave floor for cover. Fenric melted into the shadows on the right like he was made of darkness itself. And Cindrissian?—
Cindrissian simply disappeared.
One moment he was there, the next he was gone, as if the shadows had reached out and claimed him as their own.
I counted to ten in my head. Gave them enough time to get into position.
Then I followed.
My boots made no sound against the stone. Years of practice had taught me how to move like water, how to make my body understand that survival sometimes meant becoming a ghost. I kept to the walls, using the darkness and the irregular surface for cover, tracking Lincatheron’s progress by the almost imperceptible displacement of air.
The voices grew clearer as I moved closer.
“The collar’s holding. He can’t use his magic, can’t do anything but bleed.”
“Good. Maybe he’ll finally tell us what we need to know.”
A bitter laugh. “He’s going to bleed out before he tells us anything. Stubborn bastard.”
The black fire stirred beneath my skin, cold and hungry and absolutely furious.
“The High Lord won’t last much longer anyway,” the first continued. “Two days without food, whatever they’ve been doing to him?—”
“I know what we were told. Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
The third cut in, bored. “Shut up and roll the dice.”
Two days. Varyth had been here for two days, collared and bleeding and?—
I stopped thinking. Started moving on pure instinct.
Ahead, I could just make out the passage opening into a larger chamber. The faint glow of a lantern spilled across stone, casting long shadows that danced with each flicker of flame.
Lincatheron was a darker shadow among shadows, positioned at the edge of the opening. Fenric had vanished completely into whatever crevice or alcove he’d found. And Cindrissian?—
