"Your Grace." Severin bowed as he entered the private study. The room was quiet, but there was no chill in the air; fire crystals embedded deep beneath the foundations ensured the heated walls kept the temperature perfectly regulated. A gemlamp hung on the wall, casting a steady, colorless light for reading.
"News?"
"Yes."
"Continue." Enranth motioned with a hand. He sat back in his heavy oak chair, taking a slow sip of his mint tea. The sharp, medicinal scent of the herbs was meant to settle his stomach.
"As you know, we intercepted a messenger bearing a proclamation. A second batch of the printing devices is to be leased to the vassals under a new writ." Severin stepped forward and placed a thick leather folder on the edge of the desk.
Enranth nodded. "Yes, the half-torn parchment. I remember."
"The retrieval was indeed a mess. We didn't want to kill the rider," Severin agreed. "We staged a standard road ambush—just enough to look unsuspicious, targeting only the satchel. But our informants on the ground report he still managed to deliver half of the documents from Bren."
"What was the news?"
"Two things. We missed an infrastructure project in Bren pertaining to water, and we have identified a possible caravan bearing one of the contraptions House Blackfyre is leasing."
"Is this information verified?"
"Yes, Your Grace. There had been a couple of merchants complaining about the quality of water in the outer ring markets. But this has been more pronounced in recent days. One of the markets in the outer ward has clean water, and now most of the people are flocking to it."
Enranth listened, his eyes tracking the flames in the hearth.
"There are even reports of people selling the water through other channels," Severin continued. "Some claim this is water from magic crystals, because it is so clear. We have identified two different installations. The first is in the Dockside Tenements, and the other is in the northeast outer district market."
Enranth furrowed his brows. "So Reitz installed a magic crystal water station in those places?" He paused, calculating the sheer expense of the magic core upkeep. "Why? That would cost a fortune to maintain. Why do such charity?"
"It is still unclear if this water comes from crystals, but our agents don't believe it does." Severin opened the folder and read a section of the report. "According to the ground observers, there are no signs of any magic cores, and no involvement from the Artificers' Guild. From what we know, it involves only charcoal and sand."
Enranth set his teacup down. The porcelain clinked sharply against the wood. "Yes, that makes sense. I don't know how highly Reitz's subjects think of him, but I am sure there would have been an attempt at theft if the Guild was involved. Crystals are worth stealing. Sand is not."
"What of the caravan?" Enranth asked.
"Heading toward one of our targets—a fiefdom within House Bedross's domain."
"How did you confirm the cargo?"
"We identified two clerks related to the Press Office boarding the wagons. Furthermore, the caravan was loaded directly inside the inner ring of Castle Blackfyre."
Enranth's eyes narrowed. "And we still can't get inside the inner ring?"
"No, Your Grace. It is locked tight." Severin reached into the folder and slid a small, aggressively standardized slip of paper across the desk. "Currently, anyone entering the inner ring must be a resident, or a vetted outer-ring worker carrying one of these. A 'job permit.'"
Enranth picked up the paper. The text was perfectly uniform, the ink stamped rather than written. "Job permit?" The term tasted foreign on his tongue.
"That is what they call it. It was Implemented just a few weeks back. Since they have the press, they can generate these forms by the hundreds. We don't know the exact mechanism of how they validate this, but our factors observed other men trying to get into the inner ring with copies. They were caught and barred from entry, even though they were outer ring residents. They have a method of verification we can't understand yet. Furthermore, all factors identified as Lorian, or even related to Loria, are scrutinized intensively. One of our men reported that all his conversations were being monitored."
"We still don't have factors within the guard? Bribe them to the brim if you must."
"We can only spend so much coin, Your Grace, but these factors will be mostly nullborn. Also, inner ring guards are much harder to... motivate. We still haven't gained significant ground on people living inside the inner ring."
"How about the contraption? Are we sure the Artificers aren't involved with the press?"
"Yes, milord. It seems to be operated entirely by manual labor."
Enranth nodded slowly, dropping the permit back onto the desk. "If they were, there would have been inquiries from the Artificer Guild's Archmaster in Rexasticus. Can we leverage either of these targets?"
"We can plan for an operation on both."
"Good."
"This will not compromise our positions for our primary target?"
"No, Your Grace. We can allocate a single troop for the retrieval. However, if we want to leverage the effects of the new water project... that would require more finesse."
Enranth snorted. "A good thing about those Arcanists is that even deep in enemy territory, they can manage their logistics on their own."
"Have we discovered how they procure their rations yet?"
"We have not, Your Grace. We only get to talk with their leaders. All of them are Shadow Walkers."
Enranth nodded, setting his tea aside. He pictured the unnerving meetings in the dark, the way the Ibin seemed to bleed out of the room when the talking was done.
"Wait, that reminds me."
"Your Grace?"
"The new kiln from the reports, how goes it?"
"I believe they have just started using the kiln... Is there anything in particular that you want?"
"I had you monitor the tallies for the ore shipments and demand, right?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
Enranth frowned, tapping a finger against his heavy oak chair. "It's just... I feel that there is something strange about it. Just closely monitor it."
"We will get as much information as possible from the new kiln."
"Still no one inside that we can utilize?"
"No one of note, Your Grace, but we will continue to monitor developments in Bren. We may have an angle we can leverage soon."
Severin bowed and left the study, the heavy oak door clicking shut behind him.
Enranth knew he was in a precarious position right now. A sealed ledger sat locked in his bottom drawer—a reminder that the Imperial Censurae audit had found ten thousand cores missing. He had wanted to remove Reitz and destabilize Bren with a clean assassination, but he had already exhausted his cards for that move.
The tedious planning for logistics and infiltrators had been erased when the first attempt failed. All his avenues were closely monitored. With the doubled threat of his plans being made known, it was much harder to execute a strike, especially against a wary target who had the whole county at his beck and call.
Instead of hiring Arcanists to cut off the head, he needed them for other things—information gathering and covert operations. He still needed Bren crippled in order to force the Imperium's hand, but he would have to bleed it in more indirect ways.
The plans were just unfolding from where he sat.
***
Rycharde's convoy reached the outskirts of Thralkeld much later than he would have liked. After all, quintil steeds could sustain a gallop from dusk till dawn and would only need to rest for the night before they could ride again. If trained correctly, they could even maintain a considerable strut until the next daybreak.
However, the caravan wasn't only composed of the elite mounts the knights rode. For the wagons, the beasts that drove them were regular workhorses. The pace of a caravan was only as fast as its slowest horse. The heavy oak frames and iron mechanics also pressed down on the reinforced wagons, dragging the pace even slower. The roads leading toward Damerel were good; Abrosite, with their immense wealth, spared no coin on the roads going to their capital.
Rycharde couldn't complain too much; it was a quiet and comfortable ride. He circled around the caravan once just to check the perimeter, then rode to the front again. For this mission, they didn't wear their standard Blackfyre Guard armor. Instead, they wore heavy gambesons bearing no marks. From the outside, the caravan looked more like a standard grain shipment than something of strategic importance.
Evered's mount moved up beside Rycharde's.
"Looks like this is a dull assignment," Evered yawned.
"We aren't there yet. Don't jinx it," Oswyn said, pushing his mount into a strut to pull up beside them.
"Let's just ready our papers and get on with it," Rycharde sighed. As they approached the city gates, Rycharde noticed a fox sitting in the tall grass near the tree line. It didn't do anything—just tilted its head, watched them for a heartbeat, and scampered away.
Rycharde strutted forward. Their caravan was the third in line entering the gates. Thralkeld was a prosperous town, usually a stop for caravans delivering goods to Damerel by river, where they would then be transported by road. There was a more direct route from Bren to Damerel, but it lacked significant stops where people could resupply. Posing as a grain supply caravan made more sense if they routed via Thralkeld.
When it was their turn, Rycharde, acting as the leader of the caravan, handed out the papers. The guard captain at the post, a grizzled veteran, recognized him immediately and let him through without inspection, barely even glancing at the documents.
He did, however, step toward Rycharde to greet him.
"How goes Baron Cindemere, Sir Rycharde?" the captain smiled.
"I'm off to visit him, actually, Sir Krander," Rycharde smiled back.
The captain eyed the heavy wagons. "Looks like it's more than a visit."
"Well, a little grain from Bren would give me a much grander welcome, wouldn't it?"
Sir Krander laughed. "Aye, any caravan bearing grain would make the Baron grin. Harder to grow in your parts of Fulmen, aye?"
"I actually had my own land to till back in Mirstone. It wasn't that hard in my opinion, though I did sow a different seed stock than the regular wheat growing in the Rex Imperium."
"Oh? That's quite an achievement then," Krander replied, falling in step as he accompanied Rycharde toward the administrative district.
"You plan to meet our Baron here in Thralkeld?" Krander asked. "Don't you plan on going to an inn first?"
"I will," Rycharde said. He motioned for Oswyn and Evered to break off. They had already been briefed on what to do: find groomsmen and secure a place for the wagons. They needed somewhere defensible where they could keep an eye on the cargo and rest at the same time.
"But there is just something bothering me," Rycharde continued, keeping his voice casual. "Remember the time when an official messenger got attacked by wolves?"
"Aye, I was there when we met him at the gate. Half-bloodied, scratches and claw marks all over. We had him go to a healer. It happened quite some time ago, but the attack wasn't fatal."
"Yes, that is what is odd," Rycharde said. "There were contradicting reports. The horse was attacked, wasn't it?"
"The steed had scratch marks and bite marks, aye."
"But that steed was a quintil, was it not? Bren's messengers ride on them."
"It was," Krander nodded.
"Normally, a pack would not attack such fast prey. Don't you find it odd?"
"There have been occasional bear, wolf, and mountain lion attacks in these parts. It's not that odd," Krander said.
"But on a quintil? How many have happened in the past?"
"Not that many," Krander conceded. "The last report I knew of someone being attacked riding a quintil was a rider who had been at a gallop for two days straight. When the steed neared the area, his mount was half-broken from exhaustion. The mount did not make it. The rider did."
"Yes, that's my point," Rycharde said, turning to face Krander fully now. "Wolves go for easy prey. When they down one prey, they focus on that and let go of the other. They don't leave the rider alive just to take his satchel."
"Will you accompany me to the administrative building?" Rycharde asked as they neared the stables in the administrative district.
"Not this time, lad," Krander said, turning to leave, but Rycharde stopped him.
"Are you aware of Arcanists?" Rycharde asked, dismounting and handing his reins to a stable boy.
Krander hesitated. "Shadow Walkers are well known in these parts. But the stories the nullborns tell their children are too exaggerated." Krander shook his head. "If they were true, the Empire would have lost the battles here long ago."
"I am not talking about old wives' tales," Rycharde said flatly. "I am talking about actual Arcanists. I fought a few, a few years ago. Remember the Arcanist raid on Anticourt?"
"That commotion in Anticourt was real? I thought it was an overblown tavern brawl that caught a few fires," Krander chuckled.
"There are Arcanists called Whisperers. They can control beasts," Rycharde said, his eyes narrowing.
Krander stopped, his chuckle dying in his throat. He stared at Rycharde, then decided to dismount as well, handing his steed to the stable hand.
As he did, Rycharde kept talking. "The day before the attack on Anticourt, we had spent the night in Irriton. We came across a pack of felbeasts that surrounded the camp. They tore through the night and we fought on."
Krander faced Rycharde, wearing a deep frown, listening intently to the details.
"If it were not for Lord Ezra, we might have been felbeast fodder that night, even with the Demon Hunters. The source of the attack was just a single Whisperer."
"Lord Ezra? Lord Blackfyre's heir?" Krander raised an eyebrow.
"Yes."
"So the rumors are true?"
"Most of them," Rycharde nodded.
"With that much magic in his blood, he must be fluent at talking by now."
"He was more talkative when he was two," Rycharde snorted humorously. "Now he's more reserved, and seems to have more plans that don't match what should be possible for his age."
"How did the attack happen?"
"He was the first one to identify that it was a Whisperer attack," Rycharde answered. "He asked the Demon Hunters if there were any Arcanists who could attack using animals."
Rycharde paused, letting the weight of it settle.
"At the time, neither the Blackfyre Guard nor the Demon Hunters thought of the option, just because of the natural peculiarity of Irriton at night."
Krander nodded slowly.
"Besides, we saw later that the Whisperer was so far back, we wouldn't even have noticed him. If it were not for Lord Ezra."
Krander stopped and contemplated, furrowing his brows. "There have been no known attacks by Arcanists in these parts. There shouldn't be any targets, either. There have been no rituals of the Arcanists reported. We have different problems here, Sir Rycharde. Bandits from the Badlands and other raiders harassing grain shipments to the north."
"That is why I want to check your reports," Rycharde replied. "I just want to check for the truth."
Krander nodded, his demeanor entirely serious now, and accompanied Rycharde into the building. With the captain's help, they pulled the relevant documents from the archives.
"It says here he still managed to deliver half of the things he carried, but it doesn't explicitly state what was missing. Do we have that report?" Rycharde asked, tapping the ledger.
"No, it wasn't explicitly said," Krander shook his head. "But I do know that the next messenger brought what was missing."
"Do you know what it was?"
"Various things. But I recall something that had to do with the new contraptions. There was a new writ about a new type of 'press' and a list of nobles who had been given access."
This hadn't been in the report Rycharde was given.
"Okay. Thank you, Sir Krander," Rycharde bowed.
As he left the administrative building, he decided to go straight to the Avarium. He wrote a coded letter to Castle Blackfyre detailing the oddities, the missing report, and his grim observations regarding the wolves.
He rolled the paper, pressed a heavy wax seal into it, and handed it to the clerk to be bound to a messenger bird.
As he walked back toward the inn, he saw a fox digging a hole near a pub. He walked past it, but the animal just kept digging, paying absolutely no mind to him.
***
A keeper had prepared Rycharde's letter with the wax seal. This particular seal had an engraved crest of a simple dragon, but there were words engraved within the seal itself that differentiated it from other letters bound for the Castle. The wax used was dyed red, marking it as urgent.
The avarium had to process many letters each day and often had to sort the priority of dispatches due to a limited number of trained hawks. This particular letter, however, was the most important of the day, so the clerk pushed the others aside. The keeper tied the small leather cylinder to the bird's leg, fed it a sliver of meat, and released it into the open sky.
It climbed fast, catching the thermals above the city walls, banking south east toward Bren.
It had been in flight for less than five minutes when a shadow detached itself from the high clouds.
It was a massive raptor, twice the size of the castle hawk, but it didn't hunt like a wild bird. It didn't circle or scream to claim territory. It simply tucked its wings and dropped like a falling stone, accelerating in total silence.
The castle hawk barely had time to register the shift in air pressure before the impact hit.
The hawk screeched as the attack came. It tried to dodge, but the raptor was just too swift.
The larger bird slammed into it with bone-shattering force, its talons driving straight into the spine and neck, killing it instantly. As the red-sealed letter dropped to the ground, the larger raptor flew away into the night.