"You still haven’t told me your full plan, Kasmeri," the man said, his voice low and edged with suspicion. He deliberately used the name the other kept hidden, like a blade drawn halfway from its sheath. "You speak of justice—but what I see in your eyes is something else. Vengeance, perhaps?"
Kasmer didn’t reply at once. He turned away, moving toward a battered workbench beside the narrow, groaning bed. His fingers drifted across the scorched surface, as though reading the ghost-script of a life long buried in fire and ash.
"When the time comes," he said at last, his voice almost a murmur, "there will be justice. And if vengeance walks beside it... then so be it. But you know me. I am not consumed by revenge."
Nasser studied him in the dim light, his gaze softening, but his words still wary. "And Reuben?"
Kasmer didn’t look back. "His greed and impatience will be his undoing. He is moving too fast, his preparation lacking."
"But he has the backing of his mother’s kin and the ministers," Nasser said cautiously. "And now he’s courting General Odin Norse’s support—through the daughter."
"He has the backing of the formidable support of his mother’s relatives and a cadre of influential ministers," Nasser remarked, his voice laced with caution. "And now, he’s skillfully seeking the allegiance of General Odin Norse—through his daughter."
That pierced the air like a blade of ice. The room, already frigid, seemed to grow colder. Nasser felt that the hair on his arm stood on end.
"What?" Nasser inquired, his brow furrowing as he felt the sudden tension in the air. "Did I say something amiss?" He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering as if to share a well-guarded secret. "It’s common knowledge in the capital—Reuben is boldly courting Lady Lara, and his intentions are as clear as the midday sun."
Kasmer’s eyes flared—dark, sharp, dangerous. "Go to sleep, Nasser. Tomorrow, we visit Norse Manor. We’ll meet with the General’s heirs to discuss a business alliance."
"Is it really business, Kasmer? Or something personal?" Nasser’s voice sounded teasing.
Kashmer turned and glared at him. Nasser flinched and turned his back on him. "Didn’t we come here to do business? What do you think we should be doing if not for business?"
With deliberate movements, Kasmer peeled off his outer garments, the fabric sliding from his shoulders and pooling at his feet, revealing his lean frame clad only in his undergarments. A moment of stillness enveloped the room as he settled back onto the bed, the cool sheets contrasting against his warm skin, inviting him into a realm of comfort and solitude.
Grumbling, Nasser crossed the room to the shadowed corner where a narrow bed leaned against the stone wall. "I still don’t understand why we’re staying here," he muttered, pulling his coat tighter. "There are better inns in the capital. Comfortable ones. I have money, you know."
He was mid-sentence when a sharp whistle cut the air—followed by a dull thud.
A stone lay on the floor, wrapped in parchment.
Kasmer stooped, unraveled the message, and scanned its contents. A faint smirk ghosted his lips, his eyes glittering like onyx. He stepped toward the torch, and without a word, fed the parchment to the flame. The fire consumed it greedily, leaving only curling embers and black dust.
"What was in the letter?" Nasser mumbled from the bed, too tired to rise. "Why burn it?"
Kasmer turned his head slightly, his voice dry and amused. "As I said... Reuben has made his move. Impatient little fool."
"What is he planning? Can you at least expound more?" Nasser asked impatiently. "You are keeping me in suspense."
"Just wait. Within the span of tomorrow or perhaps two days, clouds of trouble will loom over the capital, bringing with them a storm of unrest."
Beyond the capital’s walls, beneath a shroud of stars, a silver-masked figure stood watch over the ruins of an ancient tower. Cracked stones and twisted vines offered little warmth but perfect concealment. His company had made a silent camp within its shadow, their fire low, their movements hushed. Respect for the masked man rippled through them—not just for his command, but for the unspoken weight he carried.
"Captain," a scout approached, offering a small scroll, the seal broken by flight. "A pigeon brought this just before moonrise."
The masked man sat near the fire, slowly tracing the worn pommel of his sword with a gloved thumb. He accepted the message wordlessly and unfolded it. Shadows danced across his mask.
His deputy sat beside him, breaking the silence. "What did the message say, Captain?"
The masked man’s gaze lifted, distant and grim. "This journey was never meant to end with me in some forgotten mountain. That ’man’ asked us to do something... " Hesitation crossed his face as he handed the parchment to his deputy.
After reading the few words, the deputy hesitated, then said, "If we ride before dawn, we can enter the city with the merchants and traders. No one will think twice of a small band seeking fortune."
The masked man shook his head slowly. "No. Let us rest tonight and tomorrow. The Westalis caravan enters from the eastern gate the day after. We’ll blend with them, unseen." The masked man said in a measured voice.
"And after that?" the deputy asked.
"Once we’re inside the walls," the captain said, voice cold and resolute, "we split. I must go where they least expect me."
A cold wind stirred the ashes of the fire, and for a moment the masked man’s face seemed carved from stone.
A gust of wind stirred the fire’s dying embers, and sparks drifted upward like the last prayers of the dead. The masked man’s gaze turned toward the distant lights of the capital, and for a moment, he seemed not of flesh but carved from granite and shadow.
The deputy lingered behind him, wanting to speak—to say something, anything, to change the course already set in motion. He had a bad feeling about entering the capital. But he knew his captain too well. The man’s spine was straight as iron, his silence louder than any warning. No plea would sway him now.
He had followed the captain for a long time. They went to war together, and he knew how stubborn he was. Words could not sway him, especially for a subordinate like him.
With a quiet sigh, the deputy turned and stepped into his makeshift tent, pulling the flap shut behind him. He needed rest—clarity—if he was to protect the man he’d sworn to follow into the jaws of death.
Not of wood. Not of wind.
It was the sharp, deliberate sound of someone stepping where no one should be.
The masked man did not turn his head. But his hand drifted toward the hilt of his sword.