Professional work. The kind of tactical precision that speaks of inside knowledge about guard rotations and defensive weak points.
I press myself against the stone wall and edge forward, every instinct screaming that I’m walking into danger but unable to ignore the desperate certainty that vital information waits ahead.
The corridor opens into a wider passage lined with heavy doors reinforced with iron bands. Most are closed and barred, the fortress’s reserves of food and weapons secured against the possibility of extended siege. But one stands slightly ajar, orangelight spilling through the gap along with the low murmur of voices.
Voices that shouldn’t be here. Voices speaking in tones that suggest conspiracy rather than legitimate fortress business.
I creep closer, barely breathing, my heart hammering so loud, I’m sure it can be heard throughout the passage. The stone wall is cold against my back as I ease toward the partially open door, every muscle tensed for flight if discovery seems imminent.
The murmur of voices becomes clearer as I approach, and my blood chills as I recognize one of them. Captain Hadrun’s distinctive rasp, the voice that’s given countless orders and battlefield commands over the years.
But he’s not giving orders now. He’s sharing information.
I peer through the crack in the door, and the sight beyond steals the breath from my lungs.
Captain Hadrun stands with his back to me, his scarred features illuminated by lamplight as he leans over a makeshift table constructed from stacked supply crates. Fortress maps are spread across its surface—detailed plans showing guard rotations, defensive positions, the exact location of critical infrastructure.
These aren’t general military maps. These are the kind of precise intelligence that takes months to gather, the sort of inside knowledge that can only come from someone with unrestricted access to fortress planning.
But it’s not the maps that turn my blood to ice. It’s the three cloaked figures crouched around the table beside him, their faces hidden but their posture unmistakably non-orcish. Too slight for orcs, too careful in their movements, they shift with the liquid grace of trained infiltrators.
Enemy scouts. Inside the fortress. Being guided by one of Vlorn’s most trusted captains.
“The girl’s blood awakened the standard to full power,” Hadrun says, his voice carrying the tone of treason. “The magical resonance is stronger than we anticipated, but it can be disrupted if you strike during the new moon phase. The threads will be vulnerable for perhaps an hour—long enough to bring down the entire defensive network.”
One of the cloaked figures nods and marks an entry on the map with movements that speak of education and intelligence. Not mere muscle hired for violence, but someone with the knowledge to understand complex magical systems.
“And her location?” The voice is cultured, refined in a way that suggests noble birth or extensive education. This is no common spy.
“The warlord keeps her close now. Too close.” Hadrun’s voice carries distaste that goes beyond military concern, as if Vlorn’s protection of me is a personal affront to his sensibilities. “His obsession with the human has grown beyond tactical necessity. It’s become emotional vulnerability we can exploit.”
They’re talking about me. Planning how to use my own nature against me, how to turn my curiosity and desire to help into weapons for my destruction. But more than that—they’re talking about using my relationship with Vlorn as a lever to destroy him.
My stomach lurches with understanding. Every failed patrol, every sabotaged supply line, every weakness in our defenses that Oryx’s forces have exploited—all of it traces back to the man Vlorn trusts to guard his back.
The man who’s been planning his destruction from within.
“She has patterns,” Hadrun continues, tracing routes on the map with one scarred finger. “Curiosity drives her. The need to fix things that are broken, to understand how systems work. Those drives can be used against her. Against him.”
“Elaborate.” The cultured voice holds the patience of someone accustomed to detailed planning.
“Create a crisis that requires her specific skills. Draw her away from protected areas into places where she can be taken quietly. The warlord’s emotional attachment will make him careless when she’s threatened. His protective instincts will override tactical judgment.”
Ice crystallizes in my gut as I realize they’re not just planning to capture me—they’re planning to use my capture to destroy Vlorn’s ability to lead. To turn his feelings for me into the weapon that brings down everything he’s built.
“Timeline?” one of the other figures asks, voice muffled by the hood but carrying urgency.
“Soon. Oryx’s final assault begins at dawn, and we need the fortress defenses compromised before then. The standard must be disrupted, the girl captured, and the warlord’s emotional state destabilized. Three objectives that can be accomplished with proper coordination.”
The matter-of-fact way he discusses our destruction sends fresh waves of horror through me. This isn’t just military strategy—it’s personal. There’s satisfaction in his voice, the pleasure of someone who’s been planning revenge for a long time.
But revenge for what? What could Vlorn have done to earn this level of betrayal from someone he trusted as a brother?
I need to warn him. Need to get back to the main corridors and find someone loyal, someone who can carry word to Vlorn before this conspiracy unfolds further. But as I start to ease backward from the door, one of the cloaked figures speaks again.
“What about the other captains? How many remain loyal?”
“Fewer than he believes,” Hadrun answers with cold satisfaction. “Thraz has been turned—gold and promises of position under Oryx’s rule. Gorak remains undecided but can beswayed if properly motivated. The others...” He shrugs. “They’ll follow strength. When the warlord falls, they’ll accept new leadership rather than die with him.”
