The torchlight flickered against the damp stone walls as Uriah stalked through the fortress corridors, his boots striking the ground in a steady rhythm. Rasa’s warning clung to his thoughts like a burr: Rufus Faulkner is dangerous. He needed proof, and he needed it now.
Stopping at a guard station near the barracks, Uriah rapped sharply on the wooden desk where a young watchman sat half-asleep. The man startled upright, his hand darting instinctively toward his blade.
“Captain Lockridge! I—” the guard stammered, his face flushing.
“At ease,” Uriah said curtly, leaning on the desk. “I need the patrol logs for anyone coming or going from Port Sylen from the past three months. Everything your men recorded about arrivals, departures, and anyone out of place.”
The guard hesitated, glancing nervously at the stacked parchments behind him. “Port Sylen? Sir, that’s… those reports were marked low-priority.”
“Not anymore,” Uriah snapped. “Get them.”
The guard scrambled to comply, rifling through the papers until he unearthed a bundle of bound reports. Uriah snatched them up and began flipping through the pages, his sharp eyes scanning for anything unusual.
A name leapt out at him almost immediately: Edric Ralford. The entry was brief—just a note about a merchant ship docking and leaving two days later. No details about cargo or passengers. Too clean, too careful.
“Who handled this?” Uriah asked, tapping the entry with his finger.
The guard squinted at the report. “That’d be Sargeant Mylen’s squad. They were covering the western docks that week.”
Uriah nodded sharply. “Where’s Mylen now?”
He found Mylen near the outer courtyard, supervising a pair of recruits as they struggled with their morning drills. The sergeant, a grizzled man with salt-and-pepper hair, greeted Uriah with a quick salute.
“Captain,” Mylen said, his tone wary. “What brings you here?”
“Your patrol logs from Port Sylen three months ago,” Uriah said without preamble. “The name Edric Ralford—do you remember anything about him?”
Mylen frowned, rubbing his chin as he considered. “Ralford… Aye, I remember. Smooth talker, the type who keeps a smile on his face no matter what you ask him. Claimed to be trading textiles, but his ship didn’t offload much cargo.”
“Did you search him or his vessel?” Uriah asked, his tone pressing.
Mylen shook his head, grimacing. “Didn’t seem like much of a threat. Had all his papers in order. Besides, the captain of the ship vouched for him.”
Uriah’s jaw tightened. Of course he did. Rufus always had a way of slipping through cracks like these.
“Did he speak with anyone? Stay anywhere suspicious?” Uriah pressed further.
“Not that I saw,” Mylen said with a shrug. “But now that you mention it… he did spend a fair amount of time near the old smithy by the northern gate. Hardly a place for a textile merchant, unless he was looking for something—or someone.”
“Odd indeed,” Uriah muttered. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
The trail led next to the supply logs in the fortress archives, a cavernous chamber where shelves groaned under the weight of dusty tomes and scrolls. Uriah strode inside, the faint scent of ink and parchment prickling his nose.
“Edric Ralford,” he told the archivist, a thin man with spectacles perched precariously on his nose. “Show me any records tied to that name.”
The archivist disappeared into the rows of shelves, returning minutes later with a slim ledger. Uriah flipped through it quickly, finding only a handful of entries. Each one tied to shipments—wine, spices, and textiles. But what caught his attention was the last line: Transfer approved by Guildmaster Balen.
Uriah froze. The guildmaster of Vernan. Rufus wasn’t just passing through—he had influence here.
Slamming the ledger shut, Uriah turned to leave. He had enough. Dal’akar needed to hear this now.
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Dal’akar sat hunched over the massive war table, the lamplight flickering unevenly across the room. The shadows it cast deepened the sharp angles of his face, turning him into a figure of stone—carved, unyielding, and severe. Maps lay sprawled across the surface, corners curled from too much handling, with half-written reports crumpled under the weight of his gloved hand. Lines of tension marked his brow as he studied the chaos before him.
The door groaned open.
“Tell me you have news,” Dal’akar said without looking up, his tone clipped, as if any answer but the right one would shatter the room’s fragile calm.
Uriah Lockridge stepped forward, his boots echoing against the stone floor. He stopped just short of the table and inclined his head. “I’ve been looking into what Rasa told me, Your Highness. About Rufus Faulkner.” He hesitated, then added firmly, “She wasn’t lying.”
Dal’akar’s head snapped up, his ice-blue gaze sharp as a blade. “Explain.”
Uriah set a folded ledger on the table and cleared his throat. “Rufus isn’t just a merchant. He’s using aliases—‘Edric Ralford’ among them. The patrol logs confirm he arrived in Port Sylen a few months ago on a merchant vessel. All his papers were perfect. Too perfect. There’s no record of cargo being offloaded, no transactions tied to him—nothing that explains why he was there.”
Dal’akar leaned forward slightly, his fingers drumming against the edge of the table. “And you think this proves he’s guilty?”
“Not just that,” Uriah replied, his voice growing steadier. “I questioned Mylen’s men. They saw him near the old smithy by the northern gate. Strange place for a man who claimed to be trading silks and spices. Then there’s the ledgers.” He tapped the worn book he’d brought. “Transfers approved under Guildmaster Balen’s name. He’s been moving coin, not goods—buying influence or covering something up.”
Dal’akar’s face darkened, the shadows under his eyes seeming to deepen as he absorbed the information. His hand curled into a fist, knuckles pale. “And the girl? How does she fit into this?”
Uriah hesitated for the briefest moment before answering. “She’s holding back,” he admitted, his jaw tight. “But she’s given us enough to chase the trail. I just need more time. I’m close, Your Highness.”
The words were measured, carefully chosen, but they didn’t smooth the sharp edge of Dal’akar’s growing frustration. He pushed himself up from the table with a forceful shove, the wooden surface groaning under the pressure of his palms. For a heartbeat, the room was silent but for the crackle of the lamp flame.
“You were supposed to have a confession from her before midnight,” Dal’akar said, his voice low but brimming with restrained anger.
Uriah didn’t flinch. He stood straighter, squaring his shoulders. “It’s not midnight yet,” he countered, calm and unyielding. “Rushing her won’t get us the truth. She knows something, and I’m closing in. But if we move too fast, we’ll lose it.”
Dal’akar’s face twisted briefly, the mask of cold authority slipping to reveal the frustration churning underneath. He turned sharply, pacing the length of the chamber. Each step echoed like a hammer strike, deliberate and relentless.
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“We don’t have the luxury of time,” he said, his voice rising with each word. “The longer I linger here in Vernan, the weaker I look to the council in Valmira. There are already whispers—whispers of failure. They see hesitation as weakness. Do you understand what that means?”
Uriah’s gaze followed the prince’s movements, reading the tension in every sharp turn. Dal’akar wasn’t simply frustrated. He was afraid—afraid of the council’s judgment, afraid of losing control.
“I understand, Your Highness,” Uriah said steadily, his voice cutting through the storm. “But we’ll have the answers soon. You have my word.”
Dal’akar stopped abruptly, his gaze snapping back to Uriah. For a moment, the silence was deafening, broken only by the muted crackling of the flames. Finally, Dal’akar exhaled, his expression hardening like ice refreezing over water.
“Then see to it,” he said. “If she does not speak, you will find another way to make her useful.”
The words landed like a weight, but Uriah didn’t let it show. He bowed his head, though the line of his jaw remained tight. “Yes, Your Highness.”
Dal’akar turned away, staring at the far wall as if he could see Valmira’s council chambers through the stone. “I will not let them see me as weak,” he murmured, more to himself than to Uriah. Then his voice sharpened. “Failure is not an option.”
Uriah took that as his cue. He turned sharply on his heel and strode toward the door. Dal’akar’s voice followed him, cold and biting.
“Do not waste the night, Captain.”
The door shut behind him with a dull thud. Uriah exhaled slowly, his mind already sifting through the threads of information he’d uncovered. Rufus Faulkner. The name carried more weight with every clue, every whispered lead. And if Rasa was right—if this man was truly behind the chaos—then Uriah wasn’t just chasing answers.
He was chasing a storm.
Adjusting his cloak, Uriah set his course for the lower levels. Midnight was closing in, and there was still work to be done.
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Alara sat on the edge of a weathered stone bench, her fingers interlaced tightly in her lap. The cold air bit against her skin, carrying the sharp tang of rain. She tried to focus on the stillness of the courtyard, hoping to quiet her mind, but her heart remained restless.
“Lari.”
The voice jolted her upright. Alara turned to see Du’lan striding toward her, his gray eyes sharp and unreadable. His focus was fixed entirely on her.
“Advisor Du’lan,” she said softly, rising quickly. She smoothed her hands against her cloak, willing herself to remain composed.
He stopped a few paces away and inclined his head. “I’ve been looking for you. We need to interview the guards in the west wing.”
Alara’s pulse quickened, but she forced a polite nod. “Of course.”
She fell into step beside him, matching his deliberate pace as they wove through the garden paths. The silence hung thick between them, broken only by the crunch of gravel beneath their boots. Her thoughts spiraled, wondering how long his sharp gaze would rest on her before he found reason to doubt.
“You’ve been quiet,” Du’lan said at last, his voice calm but probing. “Too quiet. I’ve found that silence often hides more than it reveals.”
Her heart thudded against her ribs, but her expression betrayed none of it. “I don’t know what you mean, sir.”
Du’lan stopped abruptly and turned to face her, his gray eyes narrowing. “Where did you say you were from?”
Alara’s breath caught, but she recovered quickly. “I lived in the mountains with my father. He was a teacher—a kind man, educated. He taught me to read, to write… but we didn’t have much.”
“And your mother?” he pressed, his voice like the edge of a blade.
Alara hesitated, lowering her gaze as her voice softened. “She died when I was young. It was just the two of us.”
The words fell easily, woven from half-truths and the sharp edges of memories long buried. Her voice trembled slightly, not enough to seem overly rehearsed, but enough to be believable. “When my father passed, I couldn’t care for myself anymore. I came here because I had nowhere else to go.”
Du’lan studied her with unnerving precision. His silence stretched so long that Alara feared she’d misstepped. Inside, his thoughts churned. Her story was plausible, certainly tragic, but something about her tone gnawed at him. Was it a practiced sadness or genuine pain? His instincts screamed at him to push further, but another part of him hesitated. Then his expression softened, just enough to reveal a flicker of understanding, or perhaps projection.
“A hard life,” he murmured. “It explains much.”
Alara lifted her gaze, her blue eyes shimmering with vulnerability she carefully placed there. “I’m not hiding anything, sir. I only want to help.”
Something in Du’lan seemed to ease, though his sharp edges remained. He nodded once. “You remind me of my own daughter, in some ways.”
The admission caught her off guard. She blinked, unsure how to respond, but he didn’t seem to expect anything. He gestured toward the main hall. “Come. The guards are waiting.”
Alara followed, relief mingling with unease. She had navigated his questions, for now, but his doubts still lingered like shadows. They reached the hall entrance, where a young servant hurried past them, nearly knocking her off balance.
“Oh—I’m so sorry!” the girl stammered, her head bowed low. Alara recognized her instantly: Marta.
Before she could respond, Marta’s hand brushed hers, slipping something small and folded into her palm. The movement was swift and deliberate, and Marta scurried away before anyone else noticed.
Alara’s breath hitched as she tucked the folded scrap of parchment into her cloak. Her fingers tingled with the urge to open it immediately, but Du’lan’s sharp voice cut through her thoughts.
“There’s the first guard, Edran,” he said, gesturing toward the far corridor. “Keep up.”
They moved ahead, but Alara’s focus was elsewhere. She reached into her pocket and felt the smooth curve of her ring, an idea forming. As they approached the guard, she deliberately slowed her pace and let the ring slip from her hand.
When Du’lan stopped to speak to the sentry, Alara gasped. “My ring! I must have dropped it on the path.”
Du’lan frowned, clearly irritated. “Then retrieve it quickly.”
Alara ducked her head. “Of course, sir.”
She hurried back down the corridor, her steps quick but careful not to draw attention. Once out of sight, she pulled the note from her cloak with trembling hands and unfolded it. The hastily scrawled words sent a chill through her:
Meet me in the old storeroom. Sunset.
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It hadn’t been easy to slip away from Du’lan. Alara had returned to him after her supposed search for the ring, shaking her head with a feigned mix of disappointment and frustration. “I couldn’t find it,” she had said, her voice just plaintive enough to be convincing. He had grumbled about wasted time, but they continued with their task, finishing their interview with Edran in the hallway.
Then, with a carefully rehearsed gasp, she’d planted the next seed. “Maybe Marta took it by mistake,” she had suggested. “She was the last person to bump into me.”
Du’lan had frowned, his sharp gaze narrowing. “The servant girl?”
“Yes,” Alara said, her expression earnest. “She might still be in the kitchens. Could I check with her, sir? It would mean a lot to me.”
Du’lan hesitated, clearly weighing the request, but finally waved her off with a sigh. “Be quick about it.”
The kitchens were close enough to the storeroom to make her excuse plausible. She’d barely spared a glance at the bustling staff before slipping down the adjacent corridor, her footsteps light against the stone. Alara’s fingers brushed the note hidden beneath her cloak as her mind raced. The scrawled words seemed to pulse in her thoughts: Meet me in the old storeroom. Sunset.
She couldn’t shake the image of Marta’s fleeting glance, the hurried way the servant had slipped the parchment into her hand. Was it Marta who had written the note? Or was she merely a messenger? Had someone coerced her into delivering it? And if not Marta, then who?
Her steps faltered briefly as doubt clawed at her. What if this is a trap? The thought struck her like ice in her veins. After all, she’d taken risks before, and they hadn’t always ended well. Du’lan’s probing questions earlier had reminded her just how precarious her position was—if this meeting went awry, she might not have a way out.
Yet, another possibility flickered to life, fragile but persistent. What if it’s Rasa? The idea kindled a fragile warmth in her chest. Rasa, against all odds, reaching out to her, finding a way to break free of her captors. The hope was small, but it was enough to keep her feet moving.
She glanced back over her shoulder, ensuring the hallway remained clear. The shadows behind her seemed to stretch longer, deeper, as the faint light of the nearest torches flickered. If Marta’s part of this, why didn’t she say more? Why not confirm she’s the one I’m meeting?
Her pulse quickened as she neared the storeroom door. The iron handle glinted faintly in the dim torchlight, and the wood beneath her fingers felt cold, solid. Alara lingered a moment longer, every instinct urging her to be cautious. If this meeting wasn’t safe, she’d have to slip away quickly. But if it was… if it could help Rasa…
Steeling herself, Alara pushed the door open. The old storeroom was cloaked in darkness, the air thick with dust and the faint, sour tang of mildew. A faint draft stirred the stagnant air, making the hair on the back of her neck prickle. She stepped inside cautiously, the door creaking softly behind her as her eyes adjusted to the gloom. The faint light from the corridor cast long, distorted shadows across the walls.
“Hello?” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the sound of her own breathing.
For a moment, there was nothing—just the oppressive silence and the faint rustle of something unseen. Then, from the far corner, a figure emerged, their movements slow and deliberate. The faint torchlight spilled across their features as they stepped forward and pushed back their hood.
Alara froze, her breath catching in her throat. Her heart hammered wildly as recognition dawned.
“Rufus,” she whispered, her voice trembling with disbelief.
Rufus Faulkner stood before her, his faint smile calculated and cool. The expression didn’t quite touch his eyes, which gleamed with something unreadable in the dim light. “You came,” he said smoothly, his voice low. “Good.”
The door groaned shut behind her with a finality that sent a shiver down her spine. The shadows seemed to deepen, the small room feeling suddenly too small.
Alara didn’t move, the air between them thick with tension. Whatever she had expected, it wasn’t this.