Narrator: Faurgar

  The laughter and the clink of mugs in The Radiant Dragon began to fade, and I immediately disliked it. Silence is a treacherous thing. In a world that has long forgotten how to laugh without reason, any sudden pause smells of either an ambush or a blade in the back. I saw the shadows on the walls freeze, like models caught off-guard.

  The tavern door swung open as if it were about to be torn from its hinges. It wasn't another drunken guest stumbling in, but a messenger, clearly pulled from his post. A young lad in the uniform of the City Intelligence: sweat on his brow, cloak askew, and in his eyes—that look people get when it’s been explained to them that the fairy tales are over, and the monsters under the bed are a grim reality.

  "M-lord Trudius!" he wheezed, nearly digging his nose into the floor. "The documents! About the artifact! Stolen!"

  The noise in the hall settled like dust after a collapse. A heavy, genuine silence followed—the kind where everyone starts thinking very intensely to themselves. Flint stopped smirking; I noticed how his cheerfulness, which had seemed so natural just a moment ago, withered away, exposing a pale, strained face. Priorin slowly raised his head, like a beast catching the scent of a stranger on the wind. The Leonin didn't waste time on reflection—he simply switched to hunting mode. In moments like these, I envied him: for a predator, the world is painted in only two colors—prey and danger.

  Alexander Trudius, sitting in the deep shadow against the wall, didn't even twitch. Over his years of service, he had grown accustomed to the world categorically refusing to follow his brilliant blueprints. For Trudius, a plan was an ideal schematic; reality was a tiresome mess. The only difference between a victor and a corpse was which one of them was prepared for that mess.

  "Report properly, soldier," Alexander said quietly. His voice was soft, but the boy instantly snapped to attention as if his spine had been turned into a steel spike.

  "Reporting. A riot at Lord Lair’s manor. Like a herd of wild boars tore through it. Furniture hacked to pieces, tapestries ripped down. The masters are away, the servants at the market. Golden candlesticks are gone, a chest of family jewels, and..." the boy faltered, checking his memory, "...and several tubes of maps and state acts from the private safe. No signs of struggle or blood, but the study was completely trashed. No witnesses."

  A ransack, I noted mentally, recording the details. Too much noise for those seeking only papers. This means the candlesticks are a smokescreen—brushstrokes meant to obscure the main contour. Someone was trying very hard to make the theft look like a banal raid by common looters who got carried away in their frenzy. Now, we had to find where the true serpent was hiding in this pile of broken porcelain.

  Alexander gave a slight, nearly imperceptible nod.

  "When?"—a short question, like the click of a cocked hammer.

  "About an hour ago, milord."

  Trudius held his gaze. The soldier paled but heard only a dry:

  "Dismissed. Tell the duty officer I am aware of the situation."

  The boy clicked his heels and vanished. I looked at Alexander.

  "It seems we have a first case for your new squad," he said, stepping out of the shadows toward our table. He looked at Priorin and Gellia now as new tools to be tested. "Orders. Lair’s manor. Find out what exactly was stolen 'for show,' and what they truly came for. Report by sunset."

  Priorin growled, catching the scent. He was clearly eager to trade the stuffy tavern for the smell of a fresh case. Alexander slowly turned to me. He drew two objects from the folds of his cloak: a rolled parchment and a heavy bronze badge with the seal of the Intelligence Service. He placed them not on the table, but directly into my hand. His fingers lingered on mine for a heartbeat—a cold, dry contact.

  "A gate pass and an official badge," he said, casting a quick glance at Priorin. "So the patrols don't get under your feet."

  In this gesture lay the entire essence of our hierarchy. For the squad, Priorin was the commander. But the keys to the doors—Trudius trusted only me with those. I palmed the badge, already feeling its edges chilling my skin.

  "Delay them for three hours," his silent command still echoed in my head.

  Alexander turned and left, leaving behind only the scent of bitter smoke. I looked at the parchment in my hand. Perfect. Now I had an excuse.

  "We’ll have to take the long way," I told Priorin, standing and adjusting my belt. "The pass lacks the commandant's stamp, and without it, we’ll be stalled at the first intersection. I need to get to the barracks and have the duty officer seal it, otherwise this bronze circle is just a piece of scrap metal. Vellaris bureaucracy, my friends, is more terrifying than any Wolf."

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  I forced my most convincing smile. Priorin merely gave a dissatisfied grunt, while Gellia stared into the void as usual. They believed me. My game had begun, and the first move was made on the field of polite lies. Three hours—a vast amount of time for those who know how to use it. And a very high price for someone who had just promised to be "the oil for the blade."

  The wind from the bay was icy, though the sun still stubbornly hung over the sharp roofs of Vellaris like a polished copper coin. The cobblestones pulled the cold up through the soles of our boots. I led the squad through the barracks and the lower courtyard, past the armory. The route was longer than necessary, but it provided the "bureaucratic" stops needed to let the time slip through our fingers.

  "Wrong way," Flint said quietly.

  He grabbed my elbow with that unexpected strength typical of Hadozi. His eyes glowed in the encroaching twilight. "This is a half-hour detour, Consultant. If we cut through the Salt Rows—two alleys and we’re at Lair’s manor."

  I froze. A shortcut would shred my carefully laid delay.

  "We need the duty officer's mark," I said, keeping my voice droning and official. "A mere formality, but in Vellaris, everything hangs on it."

  "We’ll get the mark at the lower office near the Salt Rows," Flint insisted. "Same seal, different hallway. Why take extra steps while thieves are running through the city with maps?"

  Priorin stopped and cast a quick glance back. "Decide on the move. Time isn't elastic, and my legs aren't government property."

  I weighed the risks. Flint’s common sense against Trudius’s direct order. I chose the only true path: a compromise.

  "Fine," I nodded, turning toward the Salt Rows. "Through the Salt Rows. We’ll get the mark from the lower archivists."

  We dove into the labyrinth of the Salt Rows. The air here was different—thick, smelling of salt, stale leather, and imminent rain. Above us, the banners of House Lazarius still fluttered, but down here, they looked like mere dirty rags. I felt Gellia’s silent gaze on my back. She was like an unsheathed blade, just waiting for a command.

  The stamp was applied suspiciously fast. My "three hours" were melting away.

  "Lair’s manor is just down the alley," I said as we emerged into the icy twilight. "Careful. The silence here is too perfect. This kind of silence is usually ordered in advance."

  I didn't finish.

  Something crunched beneath Gellia’s boot. The cobblestones didn't just give way; they snapped like overtempered glass. The granite slabs, undermined by magic, collapsed into a cellar maw, and a white cloud of deathly-cold mist surged into the void.

  "Pit!" Priorin roared.

  His reaction was inhuman. He lunged forward as Gellia was already waist-deep in the void, catching her by the strap of her breastplate. He hauled her out of the icy teeth of the abyss. From the pit came the scent of graveyard cold and ozone. Gellia’s armor instantly frosted over.

  "Ice is fresh," Flint knelt, his palm hovering over the edge. "This isn't a Weave surge. It’s an Ice Spike trap, embedded with precision."

  "Ambush," I said, cocking my crossbow. The mechanism clicked—a dry, businesslike sound in the viscous silence. "Get ready."

  The silence became dense. To the right, at the second-story level, the air wavered.

  "On three," Priorin muttered. "One... two..."

  The bolts came first. The first grazed Flint’s shoulder; the second struck Gellia’s breastplate with a dull clang.

  "Regards from the Black Wolf!" a voice cried from the roof with far too much theatrical flair.

  Priorin let out an infrasonic roar that rattled the windows of the nearby warehouse. Two shooters on the ledge stumbled.

  "Flint!" Priorin commanded.

  The Hadozi shouted a short formula. His "Catapult" spell seized a heavy cobblestone and hurled it upward, shattering the ledge and the shooter.

  Gellia stepped forward, taking the new volley on her shield. I raised my crossbow. A shadow by the chimney. Squeeze. The bolt entered the unprotected throat. The second I tethered with a "Loop"—a thin enchanted cord snapped around the runner's ankles, and he tumbled into the alley with a scream.

  "Stay!" Priorin broke into a sprint. He moved like an avalanche, pinning the first runner to the wall with the butt of his axe.

  "Keep one alive!" I shouted.

  Priorin made it. I was there a second later, pinning the prisoner's shoulder.

  "Who led you?" I asked quietly. "Name. Where are they waiting for you?"

  "N-no one... alone..." the man wheezed.

  I twisted the loop, crushing a nerve cluster. The prisoner shrieked. Fear is a great solvent for lies.

  "Who brought the contract to Vellaris? Speak, and you die quickly."

  "M-man in gray... mask... gold... this morning at the market..." words flew out with bloody spit. "Said the Black Wolf pays for the heads of upstarts..."

  I loosened my grip. On his wrist, beneath the grime, I noticed a tattoo. A tiny, barely visible notch—a stylized paw.

  The chill in my gut became absolute. It was our mark. The internal "signature" for dirty operations in the docks, used by Alexander Trudius's men.

  Beautiful. The attackers wore the signs of the very people who created this squad. A perfect setup designed to convince the Leonin and the Paladin that the Black Wolf was already here, in the city, thirsting for their blood. Alexander was playing his game, and we had just played our parts as extras.

  The prisoner coughed, looking at me with sudden recognition. In his eyes was a plea for mercy from "one of his own."

  "He knows nothing," I said evenly, standing up. "A redundant link."

  I slit his throat with a short, surgical movement of my dagger. My hand didn't tremble. Redundant witnesses to "Trudius’s Theater" were not needed in my squad.

  Gellia, walking closer, held me in a heavy, leaden gaze. She had seen the execution. In her silence was everything: disgust, judgment, and the cold realization that there would be no white gloves on this journey.

  Priorin snorted, wiping his blade. "Move," he muttered. "Lair’s manor is ahead. We’re clearly expected."

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