Song vibe: Interlude: Shadow: BTS

  __________

  THE WATCHER

  UNKNOWN, Firestone Castle

  The Watcher moved through Firestone unseen, as always.

  Inside the narrow dark space of a service passage, the air tasted of ancient stone and sulphur; the thermal springs running through pipes in the walls lending a constant warmth. The lifeblood of the castle, and plenty of cover for slipping from room to room without notice.

  Time to work.

  The Watcher had many names, many roles—but in this season, a gardener. The soil was ready, the seeds prepared—and the weeds ready for pulling.

  Above: The Watcher moves through the castle.

  At the turn of the north passage, the newest weed appeared: Lady Saphira, sweeping past with a letter clutched in her hands, the golden seal cracked open. Lavender hair was bound in a braid, half covered with cheap strips of cloth. She did not notice the eyes that followed her from the vent slit in the wall.

  Lavender hair—proof enough of a muddied bloodline. And the half-breed wears it like a crown.

  Hatred rose in The Watcher as they observed her. She walked as though her roots were deep, but she was only a delicate transplant—a weed, unsuited for this climate.

  From the vent slit in the stone, The Watcher tracked her steps. They had meant only to watch her pass, to take the measure of her mood. But then—unexpected—there was Maxine, the new hire from the Sunfire Clan, crouched on her hands and knees, tightening the iron hinges of a crooked door. She was far enough in the alcove to go unseen by Saphira, yet close enough for her sharp eyes to catch every detail of the letter clutched in the half-breed’s hands.

  A small, unplanned gift. The first seed planted. Never mind if it doesn’t grow—Maxine’s loyalties are untested. There are plenty more to sow.

  Above: The first seed is planted.

  The Watcher’s steps quietly carried them down the secret stairwell, though the tight squeeze caused few problems. They came to a crack in the wall overlooking the courtyard. Below, washerwomen wrung linen over buckets, flinging soapy water across the stones.

  “Strange, isn’t it?” The Watcher let the voice drift lazily from the crack in the wall, never revealing its source. “The Lady spent her first morning in the apothecary with young Aurelian. Why wasn’t Lord Nocturne there?”

  The splashing slowed.

  “I suppose,” The Watcher's voice mused, as if they were talking to companions, “she prefers the company of men her own age.”

  One of the washerwomen exchanged a knowing glance with the other, the corners of her mouth twitching. Then, a short, uncomfortable laugh rose among the women before the rhythm of their work returned.

  The second seed sown... a half-breed and a tattooed slave boy? This one is too strong not to take root.

  Moving on, the Watcher slipped unseen past a sentry stationed at the door to the inner keep. The opportunity was too good to pass up—a weak mind, untraceable. They tolerate that Hylander—to an extent. But that half-breed practising magic? Yes, that rumour could be useful.

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

  With the slightest of tugs on the threads of magic, The Watcher suggested, “You saw Lady Saphira with Sir Augustus… and there had been the shimmer of magic in the air, then his eyes went blank—you fear he was manipulated. Report it to your superior at once.”

  With blank eyes, the sentry nodded and marched towards the barracks.

  You think you’re so clever, Augustus. The Watcher almost laughed as they squeezed through a narrow section, sliding carefully, soundlessly. But here we are, stronger than you, right under your nose. We'd pull you up like a weed, too, if you were not useful to us.

  Moving silently to the guest wing, The Watcher waited for a moment, listening at the entrance. Hearing nothing in Valentino's chamber, they eased through the entry. The room smelled faintly of spiced wine and polished leather, the fire reduced to a low amber glow.

  Sir Valentino, Lorenzo’s discard. All charm, all surface. But that painted, princely veneer will peel away to show the rot beneath.

  From a pouch, The Watcher pulled out a few strands of long, orchil-dyed hair—a rare, vivid shade of purple—and left the hairs scattered on the pillow.

  Everyone already knows the rumours of noble Valentino’s purple-haired lover—why not let them wonder which sister had truly caught his eye? The Watcher stepped back, admiring the handiwork. If she’s warming the slave boy’s bed, why not the bastard’s too?

  The sound of approaching maids brought a quiet retreat back into the shadows. The Watcher stayed in the walls, tense but thrumming with anticipation, peering through the cracks as the women stripped the bed. One maid froze mid-movement, her gaze catching on the strands of purple hair.

  “That’s her colour,” she breathed.

  The second maid glanced at the pillow, lips curling knowingly. “Sir Valentino doesn’t lack for charm.”

  Good. Two weeds poisoned with one drop.

  Down the secret passage, the last and most delicate seed awaited planting—by far the most damning, and the sort of work best left to those who could slip in and out unseen.

  The Castellan’s study lay behind a door most never dared touch. The Watcher slipped in from the wall, emerging from a narrow, dust-choked crawlspace known only to a few. They paused, listening, before emerging into the stillness.

  Their heartbeat quickened; every creak of the floorboards felt loud enough to give them away. A folded report was placed near the leg of the desk, as though dropped by a careless messenger boy or carried there by a breeze from the open window.

  ____

  Report from caravan master: Lady Saphira, inquiring discreetly about the cost of safe passage to Renatus for one traveller. Requested that all replies be delivered through Aurelian.

  ____

  A false report... child’s play for us. The Watcher’s chuckle was low and brief as they slid through the crawl space in the walls, making no more sound than a scurrying rat. That Renatii half-breed won’t last a week without Nocturne—she'll wither and die—and we’ll have what’s been promised.

  The Watcher moved on, pausing at a narrow vent slit in the brickwork. Below, in the courtyard, the Lord of Firestone stood with two representatives from the Merchants Guild, oak barrels stacked high beside them. A tankard swung lazily in Nocturne’s hand—though the sun had barely cleared the mountains. With his free hand, Nocturne shook on a deal with the representatives.

  The Watcher’s anger for the Lord of Firestone was not white-hot, as it was for Saphira—it smouldered low, steady, and contemptuous. The brute has three weapons: a sword, a cup, and a bed—and not one will save him.

  Not fit to bear your title. The Watcher's gaze lingered on Nocturne. Be content with your three weapons—reach higher, and you’ll bleed for it.

  The Watcher slipped into the outer passage and out through the postern gate. A horse waited. The ride was long, the path unmarked, the winter too cold.

  The hollow tree stood strong, roots clutching frozen ground. Inside, gold coins glinted. The Watcher took the payment and replaced it with a far rarer prize: a black linen shirt, stiff with Lord Nocturne’s blood.

  Above: The exchange is made.

  The distraction at Hawthorne's Rest was worth the risk of acquiring so much blood. The Watcher thought, Who knew that so many nightspawn could be called to one place? All it took was the scent of such potent blood—wasted on a brute who only knows how to spill it.

  With utmost care, The Watcher placed another item: a vial of the half-breed's blood. Who knew weeds could bleed so much? The Watcher chuckled. ... or sob so persistently over a blossom that never bloomed.

  Lastly, came a small parchment from the pouch. A short message, folded and tucked into the hollow beside the shirt and vial, read:

  ___

  The blossom has rotted in the bud.

  The claw struck deep, just as you wished.

  Soon enough, the vines will choke the roots.

  We await your next shipment.

  __

  The Watcher allowed a faint smile. Duke Crassus would be pleased to hear the roots had already begun their work.