Chapter 69

  We circled the small fortress several times—carefully, crouched, constantly watching the horizon. Our movements were slow, deliberate, almost ritualistic. The snow muffled our steps, but that was no reason to be careless.

  I didn’t count the guards just once, but three times—to be sure my perception wasn’t playing tricks on me.

  Without a measuring tool accurate at this distance, it was difficult to determine the exact perimeter of the palisade. But my enhanced senses—one of the abilities I had sharpened since the soul-bond with Gravor—were enough to make a reliable estimate.

  Roughly eight hundred feet. The diameter of the entire compound. A perfect circle, no gaps. No visible weak spots. No forgotten sections, no rotting beams.

  Everything was coordinated. Disciplined. Orderly.

  The palisade was made entirely of Frosthorn wood—the rare, bone-hard trees of the Ice Wastes, whose fruit fed the herbivores of this frozen hell.

  But this wasn’t the work of wild beasts. This was human-made. Strategic. Architectural.

  A feeling of respect and unease crept slowly up my spine. I hadn’t expected to feel that way about a rebel camp.

  About thirty guards patrolled the perimeter—not a ragtag band of misfits, but a real unit.

  They didn’t wear matching uniforms, but their movements were synchronized. Their eyes scanned with precision. They had signals. Systems. A command structure.

  At the main entrance—an open passage in the wall without a gate or grill—stood four more heavily armored warriors. These men—or women, it was hard to tell—weren’t just standing around. They were watching. Anyone who approached would be tracked by four pairs of eyes.

  I said nothing, but my thoughts were clear. This wasn’t a camp thrown together by angry farmers.

  This was a fortress. A bastion.

  A thorn in Thulegard’s side.

  They had to be stopped. Not just because they were holding Vin captive—though by now I had to keep repeating that phrase to myself.

  But because with this strength, this structure, they could genuinely threaten the established order.

  Then Maira spoke, softly but firmly—saying exactly what I didn’t want to voice.

  “We three are… special. And powerful. But with numbers like that, it’s going to be tough. There could be even more enemies inside. Maybe twice as many. Maybe more.”

  I gave a faint nod, wanted to object, but found no words.

  Then Arik spoke up—almost enthusiastically.

  “We can all go invisible, right?”

  His gaze flicked from me to Maira and back.

  “Maybe we just sneak in. Take out their leader, free Vin. No unnecessary bloodshed. Or… we pick them off one by one. Quietly. Guard by guard. No noise.”

  I turned my head slightly and looked at him seriously.

  “The second option’s dangerous. They’ve got a clear rotation. If one guard disappears, they’ll notice.”

  “And the first?” Arik asked, his voice low, eyes glittering with curiosity.

  I thought. The idea wasn’t bad. Go in invisible, strike with precision.

  But we didn’t know enough. Who was their leader? How strong were they? Would Vin even cooperate, if she really was on their side? I’d been asking myself that since the last talk with Maira—was Vin possibly an enemy now?

  “The first is a possibility,” I said quietly, “but we need more intel. We don’t know what it looks like inside. Who’s in charge. If Vin…”

  I stopped. I couldn’t say it. If Vin even saw us as allies anymore. Instead, I turned to Arik.

  “You’re the best at silent recon. Can you make it to the center? Just one look. Nothing more.”

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  He stared at me for a long moment, then nodded.

  “I’ll try. But don’t interfere until I get back.”

  Maira grinned.

  “I’ll be good. Scout’s honor.”

  I sighed inwardly. It had begun. And we had no idea what truly awaited us inside that fortress.

  -

  I dissolved. Not like smoke or mist, but like sand scattering in the wind. My body broke apart into fine, barely visible ash particles—each no larger than a grain of dust, yet full of life. There was no pain. It felt more like a breath. Light, familiar, instinctive. An ancient ability of my people, developed in the shadow of persecution.

  The air here was cold but calm. No gusts of wind, no sudden movement, only the evening stillness of a camp preparing for a quiet night. I slipped through the open gap in the palisade, right between two guards. Two men, broad-shouldered, holding their spears like they believed that alone was enough to secure the entrance. They had no idea. I flew right past their faces, could feel their warm breath, the twitch of their muscles, the scent of worn leather and cold iron.

  A hundred thousand senses registered their surroundings—tiny particles detecting warmth, vibrations, scents, and movement. One noticed the glow of the campfire at the center of the settlement, another the creak of a door, another still the body heat of a child curled close to its mother. All of it flowed into my consciousness. Not overwhelming—more like a chorus of voices from which I could choose which to listen to.

  I drifted slowly across the camp, taking in every detail. The palisades were made of the dark, crystalline wood of the Frosthorn trees, threaded with natural channels that probably carried light or nutrients. Unique. And resilient. The wood was nearly as hard as stone, coated in a sheen of ice that never melted.

  The camp itself was divided into four sectors. The northern section was almost entirely filled with tents—many makeshift, but orderly. Refugees, I thought. Their expressions were weary, some distrustful, but they spoke calmly, shared meals, mended clothing, or cooked over small fires. Children ran about, accompanied by rough but genuine laughter.

  To the east stood eight simple wooden huts—square, functional. The windows were covered with animal hides to keep out the cold. This was likely where the guards or more established fighters lived. I saw one man cleaning his weapon, a woman handling bandages, two others checking their armor for damage. No slackers. Organized. That made me uneasy.

  The southern sector held the storage buildings. Three of them, each larger than the housing huts, each guarded. The air smelled of meat, metal, and old wood. Supplies. Armor. Weapons. Far too much for a “rebel group.”

  Then came the center. A wide open square with a massive fire, fed by thick logs. Around it stood five large wooden benches, and even a roughly built podium. Clearly used for gatherings. And directly behind it—the house. Two meters taller than the others. Massive. Double doors. Reinforced shutters. And a banner. Not a symbol of the realms. Not the mark of the North. Something unique. Dark green, with golden lines forming a circle. I committed it to memory.

  I could feel it: this was the command center. This was where orders were given. This was where the one holding Vin was— or had welcomed her. However it may be.

  Invisible, I drifted through a window to the upper floor.Inside, it was quiet—but not empty. I heard footsteps. Voices. The rustle of papers. And one voice I didn’t recognize. Calm, gentle. No trace of arrogance. But also no weakness.

  I hovered in the air. Continued gathering impressions. And waited—until I knew exactly who we were dealing with.

  And I sensed him before I saw him.

  The steps on the creaking wooden staircase were quiet, yet rhythmic. No hesitation. No urgency. The stride of a man who hasn’t feared anything in years—or has learned to hide it well. I could have withdrawn. Drifted down past him, reformed outside, reported back.

  But I didn’t.

  Not because I couldn’t—but because I didn’t want to.

  A feeling, dull and rising from deep within, held me back. Not fear, but... something instinctive. As if my subconscious had already understood what my conscious mind had yet to grasp. A quiet voice whispering: Be careful, Arik. This is not just a man.

  Then he stepped onto the upper floor. And I saw him—or rather, my ash particles saw him.

  He was old. But not frail. His movements were calm, deliberate. No tremble, no stoop. Power lay in his stance. And experience. Far too much of it.

  His face was angular, almost monumental. Deep lines ran from his forehead down over his cheeks to a sharp, commanding jaw. A well-kept, snow-white beard framed his chin—not too long, but trimmed with the kind of precision that left nothing to chance. Above all else, two piercing blue eyes reigned. So blue, even my fragmented perception sought anchor in them. Restless. Watchful. Like two blades of frost.

  He wore a deep blue coat, heavy and made of a fabric that whispered authority. Golden runes were woven into the fabric—not boastful embellishment, but ancient, simple symbols. Practical. Potent. I couldn’t immediately identify them, but I knew they weren’t decorative. They had purpose. Likely many.

  No wand at his side, no book under his arm, no visible focus. But his hands—strong, yet not brutish—were still. Always ready. He didn’t need props. The magic was within him.

  He paused for a moment. Turned slightly, as if searching for something. Or someone.

  That’s when it hit me. A jolt—not physical. Much deeper.

  As if a foreign presence tugged at my soul. Not harsh. Not hostile. More like a blind man feeling his way through the dark—but this one wasn’t blind. He was aware. He felt me.

  I realized it immediately. He knew I was there.

  He continued walking. Straight to a bookshelf. Pulled out an old tome—thick, bound in gray leather, an almost-faded symbol embossed on the cover. He opened it, let the pages rustle.

  But his eyes didn’t follow the lines.

  I felt how he looked through me, without lifting his gaze. Every motion was a fa?ade. A flawless, well-rehearsed illusion of normalcy perfected over decades. But his focus... was entirely on me.

  We both knew it. He had sensed me. I could’ve fled. Still. Dissolve again, drift out through a crack in the window.

  But that wasn’t the way anymore. So I gathered myself.

  My ash particles converged, slowly forming my body. First the silhouette, then limbs, torso, face. Out of nothing, I stood there—suddenly—just a few steps from him.

  I had made my choice.

  And him?

  He closed the book—slowly—and smiled. Not kindly. Not threateningly. Just knowingly.