Back at the inn, the six of them gathered around the small round table in their rented room, a single oil lamp flickering light across their tired faces.
Liora was the first to speak, brushing her hair back with a sigh. "I followed the dam flow. It's exactly as we thought—it leads straight to the Forsaken Forest." She leaned forward, lowering her voice slightly. "But here's the part no one mentions: the dam was drained four months ago. They said it was because of the trees, that the roots were clogging and weakening the structure. But…" She let her words trail, letting the weight of implication settle.
Ashborne nodded and slid a folded piece of parchment across the table. "The town was useless for me. So instead, I scouted. This—" he tapped the map with his finger, "—is the cleanest route into the Forsaken without drawing attention. Guards won't notice if we move here by night."
Wads accepted the map without a word, but his eyes narrowed in approval.
Keiya shifted uneasily, exchanging a glance with Klyden before speaking. "As for the church… the nuns talk about only one name—Lord Kreivel Delrotiaz. Every single prayer, every single blessing, they're all for him. They say his family died, but none of them even know how. They only sing of his good deeds—how he repaired the dam, how he supported the orphanage."
"It's too perfect," Keiya added, frowning.
"Yeah," Klyden muttered, stretching his arms behind his head. "The way they talked about him, it sounded like he could walk on water and bake bread at the same time. Nobody's that flawless. Don't rich noble brats usually have… I don't know… gambling debts, secret mistresses, or at least bad handwriting?"
Reiyell smirked faintly before placing a parchment onto the table. "The mayor agrees. He admitted his doubts, though he couldn't prove anything. When I revealed myself, he allowed me to investigate and handed me this—Kreivel's personal records."
Everyone leaned in as she flattened the parchment. The inked words were neat and plain:
Kreivel Delrotiaz
Age: 18
A noble of quiet life. Studied under private tutors. Managed family estates. Public works include repairing the dam and donating to the church. No immediate relatives remain.
"That's it?" Klyden squinted. "Where's the part about him sneaking into taverns or being terrible at math? Don't tell me the guy's biggest crime is looking handsome and donating too much money. Suspicious. Very, very suspicious." He jabbed the parchment with dramatic flair, nearly tipping over the ink bottle.
"You're right, it does sound too clean," Liora agreed, resting her chin on her hand.
"What do we do, Wads?" Ashborne asked.
Wads leaned back in his chair, his gaze cool. "His magic attribute is water. I'm sure of it. Which means, Keiya—avoid direct combat at all costs if it comes to that. You'd be at a disadvantage."
Keiya nodded, lips pressed tightly together.
"His deity power…" Wads continued, "is somewhere between Q and X. But I'd wager on X. The pressure I felt earlier wasn't anything less." His eyes flicked toward Ashborne. "Which narrows down who can investigate. It must be someone with a deity rank strong enough to withstand it. That leaves me, Reiyell, Keiya… and you."
Ashborne froze for a heartbeat, then straightened. He hesitated, thoughtful, then gave a slow nod.
Wads didn't smile, but his approval was clear. "Tonight, you'll observe. If Kreivel acts suspiciously—if he meets smugglers, or anyone tied to them—that will be the proof we need."
"Understood." Ashborne stood, already preparing himself.
"Good luck!" Klyden called after him, waving like a child seeing his father off to war. "Don't get drowned by Mr. Perfect!"
The room quieted after Ashborne left, though Wads' brows furrowed as if his mind refused to rest. There was something nagging at him, something that didn't align. His instincts sharpened.
"Liora." His voice cut through the silence. She looked up from where she was casually pinning Klyden down with her foot, ignoring his exaggerated cries of defeat.
"I need you to investigate something else." Wads handed her a small folded slip of paper.
"What's this?" she asked, taking it.
Klyden craned his neck from the floor, squinting over her shoulder. "Oii, let me see! Who's this person? A secret lover? Wads, don't tell me you—"
"Something that should make sense later," Wads interrupted coldly, shutting Klyden up instantly.
Klyden dramatically clutched his chest. "Cold as ever. You wound me."
Ignoring him, Wads sat back, lips pursed. The unease gnawed deeper. It was as if they were being nudged along, pushed into place on a board they couldn't see. Playing along them? The thought burned in his chest. No. He would not allow himself—or his pride—to become someone else's piece.
———
Ashborne crouched low on the rooftop, his black hood and mask concealing his presence under the pale spill of moonlight. The garments Kaizer had given them weren't just for disguise—they were light, durable, and perfect for silent movement. From his perch, he fixed his eyes on Lord Kreivel's estate.
The house itself was elegant but fortified, its stone walls catching faint streaks of silver light, its side yard open but eerily still. Ashborne narrowed his eyes, every instinct telling him to wait, to observe. That instinct paid off when he saw Lord Kreivel emerge from a side door. The man paused, standing rigid, as though anticipating someone's arrival.
Ashborne's gaze sharpened when two cloaked figures slipped from the shadows and approached him. Kreivel greeted them with little more than a nod, and then, just as quickly, the three dispersed into the dark.
Now. Ashborne's muscles tightened. The opportunity.
He melted into the darkness, slipping from rooftop to rooftop before crossing into the estate's perimeter. Shadows bent to his will, carrying him forward as if each patch of darkness were a stepping stone. He appeared in one hallway, then another, eyes sweeping until—there. Kreivel's study.
The faint smell of ink and paper lingered as Ashborne pushed silently inside. He moved swiftly but methodically, rifling through drawers, checking beneath stacks of parchment, until something caught his eye: a small glass vial, filled with liquid of deep purple. His pulse quickened. The Tres.
But before he could retreat, the echo of footsteps reached his ears.
Ashborne froze, instincts screaming. With a breath, he dissolved into shadow, his body flattening and vanishing against the darkness of the corner. He erased every trace of his presence, his heartbeat the only thing he could hear.
The door creaked. Kreivel entered, expression indifferent, and moved straight toward the desk. He shuffled through papers, humming faintly to himself—unaware.
But then, another presence. Heavy. Overbearing. A towering man ducked through the doorway, his sheer size nearly blotting out the moonlight streaming in. His scarred arms flexed even in stillness, his sharp eyes scanning the room like a predator's. The spider tattoo at the back of his neck marked him as one of them.
Ashborne's blood ran cold.
And then—the chill. A whisper grazed his ear, though no one stood near him.
"We kinda have a similar power, don't we?"
Ashborne's eyes widened in horror. He darted forward, bursting free from his hiding place. The sound of laughter—low, mocking—followed him.
"A bit old-fashioned, aye? Draven?" the voice said.
"Yes, Caelith," rumbled the towering man.
From the shadows stepped a third figure. Leaner, cloaked, his silver-gray eyes catching every flicker of emotion in Ashborne's face. Scars crisscrossed faintly under the half-light, and the spider tattoo marked his throat. Caelith.
Ashborne's breath hitched. How? How could he have sensed me? My power is from the heirloom… no one else should—
"I bet a bunch of questions are running through your mind, aye?" Caelith sneered, smiling with a cruel patience.
Ashborne clenched his fists but said nothing.
"That's rude. I am talking to you," Caelith continued, his voice soft, deliberate. "You should at least respond before you die."
His hand flicked ever so slightly. A signal.
Draven moved with terrifying speed for someone his size, the ground trembling beneath his steps. His fist swung down like a falling hammer, aimed to crush Ashborne where he stood.
Ashborne's senses flared. The world slowed. Shadows coiled around his body, and in the instant before impact, he folded into the darkness, vanishing.
Draven's punch connected with the floor instead. The wooden planks splintered, cracking in a booming explosion of dust and debris. The shockwave rattled the shelves, sending papers scattering into the air.
From the corner of the ruined room, Ashborne reappeared briefly—only to vanish again into another pocket of shadow. He tunneled through the estate's darkness like a phantom, slipping from room to room in desperate silence, never lingering long enough to be caught.
He surfaced once, just long enough to draw breath, before vanishing again as Draven's heavy footsteps thundered behind him. The hulking man had followed his trail with uncanny precision.
Ashborne's chest burned, but he pressed on—until finally, with one last pull, he folded into the shadow beneath a narrow window. The night air burst against him as he escaped the study entirely, spilling out into another wing of the house.
Behind him, the crash of ruined furniture echoed.
Back in the study, Caelith clapped slowly, his grin vicious.
"Oh, fantastic. He is fast."
"He escaped," Kreivel said flatly, leaning against the desk with disinterest. His sharp eyes narrowed at the missing vial. "And he took the sample."
Caelith's gaze cut toward him, that sly smile never fading. Kreivel twitched at the expression, unnerved by how easily the man seemed to predict the tides of events.
"Do not worry," Caelith said smoothly, his tone calm but laced with venom. "They'll come running at us soon."