Graykeep – Inner Keep, Late Afternoon
The gates groaned open on rusted hinges, and the Serpent Wing rode through.
Inside, the courtyard was worse than expected. Moss clawed between cracked flagstones, and a rancid stench hung in the air—mold, blood, and something fouler still.
Half the barracks had collapsed. A few garrison soldiers watched from the shadows of ruined archways, their expressions wary, bitter, silent.
No cheers. No salutes. Just tension so thick it scraped the skin.
Reth rode with a hand on his sword. His eyes scanned everything—arrow slits, rooftops, the hunched shapes near the stables. The [System] pinged again:
[Threat Perception Lv. 1.2 – Hostile Intent: Diffuse]
[Environment Analysis: Structural Decay | Airborne Contaminants – Minor Risk]
He grimaced. Lovely place.
Asthia didn't show an ounce of hesitation. She dismounted, handed the reins to a nearby soldier without a glance, and strode toward the keep's central tower.
The command quarters.
Reth followed close behind, boots crunching over debris.
Inside, the air was stale and damp. The hall reeked of old rot, and the torches sputtered like they were choking on their own smoke.
She paused at a heavy wooden door near the upper landing and pushed it open.
A second later, she stopped cold.
Reth stepped up behind her and saw why.
The room was disgusting.
Dust blanketed every surface. A shattered chair slumped in one corner. The bed frame was cracked, the mattress sunken and stained. Cobwebs dangled like torn banners from the rafters. The hearth hadn't been cleaned in years. A rat darted behind a curtain.
Asthia stood in the doorway, unmoving.
Disappointment.
Reth watched her, then slowly stepped closer—careful not to touch her. He stopped just behind her, his voice low.
"Turn around for a moment."
She blinked, surprised, but didn't resist as he gently—without pressure—guided her shoulder just enough to angle her away from the room.
"Just wait here," he said.
He stepped inside, boots crunching through the filth. He rolled up his sleeves. Grabbed a splintered broom from the corner.
Moved quietly, efficiently. Tossed the mattress to the side. Kicked the broken chair apart. Threw open the windows, letting in a shaft of dying sunlight and cold air.
She said nothing. Just waited.
Eventually, he paused, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. Dust streaked his forearm. He glanced back at her, still standing in the hall, one eyebrow slightly raised.
"You're not cleaning the whole tower, are you?" she asked.
He snorted. "Just figured you deserved a room that doesn't smell like piss."
There was a long pause.
Then a soft, almost imperceptible sound—a breath that could've been a laugh.
She stepped inside, sidestepping a loose floorboard. Her boots barely made a sound on the stone.
"Not bad," she said, voice dry.
"You're welcome," he muttered, turning to leave.
He paused again at the doorway, glancing over the room one last time.
"Needs something more," he murmured, mostly to himself.
Asthia raised an eyebrow. "What now? You planning to hang curtains?"
"Tempting," he said, smirking. "But no. Going to see if I can scrounge up something that doesn't reek of mildew and old rats. Maybe dried herbs, if this place isn't entirely cursed."
She didn't answer.
He tilted his head toward her. "See? Silence. That's the embarrassed yes."
Her gaze flicked toward the window, pointedly ignoring him.
He just chuckled. "I'll take that as permission."
Reth turned and started down the hall, boots echoing faintly against the stone. After a few steps, he glanced back.
Asthia stood there, arms folded, still saying nothing.
But just before he turned the corner, she gave him a short nod.
Graykeep – Treeline, Dusk
Wind whispered through the dying grass.
From beneath the boughs of a crooked ash tree, four cloaked figures watched the Fortress. Their presence was impossible to hear. No fire. No light. Not even breath.
One of them lowered a rusted spyglass, expression hard beneath his bone-colored cowl.
"She's here," he said.
"The Ninth Flame?"
He nodded once. "Confirmed. Commander Asthia Thorne. No decoys. It's her."
Another, lean and hooded in slate-gray, clicked her tongue softly. "They actually sent her here. To Graykeep of all places."
"She brought her entire force," he muttered. "Four thousand soldiers. Knights. Mages."
A brief silence.
Then: "The thrall?"
"Yes. The one who killed Varen Virex."
"Tch. Pity. Would've liked to see how long he screamed."
Graykeep – Outer Courtyard, Dusk
Reth walked toward the gate with his shoulders tight, jaw set.
He didn't look at anyone, but he could feel the eyes. Men leaning in shadows, armor half-buckled, stinking of cheap ale and boredom. Graykeep's old garrison—left behind, forgotten, and bitter about it.
Three of them stood near the gate. The biggest one was chewing something, spitting black juice onto the gravel. The other two looked younger, not by much.
"Oi," the tall one called out. "Where you headed, leash-boy?"
Reth kept walking.
He wasn't in the mood.
"You deaf?" another one said. "Too good to talk to your betters now?"
Someone laughed. Short, dry, mean.
Still, he didn't stop.
The footsteps behind him shifted. One of them pushed off the gatepost, took a step forward. "The Princess already started ordering you?, huh? What's next, carrying her bathwater?"
Reth stopped.
He turned his head just enough to meet the man's eyes.
Not a word. Not even a blink. Just a look that said: You are not worth the effort it would take to put you down.
The garrison man faltered.
And Reth kept walking, pushing through the gate without another glance.
The laughter died fast.
No one followed.
Graykeep – Outer Trail, Just Beyond the Walls
The woods smelled of damp rot and old bark. Faint wind through half-dead trees.
Reth moved slowly now, scanning the ground. Just something green. Something clean.
He crouched beside a patch of wild growth and gently ran his fingers over a plant's leaves. Crushed one. Sniffed it.
Too sour.
He kept moving.
Deeper in the trees, just out of sight—
Five figures lay low, hidden under gray mesh and leaves. Eyes sharp. Silent. Watching.
"Shit," someone whispered. "He's coming straight toward us."
"No way he saw us," another muttered. "He's not looking. He's barely even watching where he steps."
"Then why's he heading this way?"
"He's not a scout. He's not on patrol," the woman said. "He's... bending over. Smelling weeds."
A long silence.
"He's foraging?" someone asked, voice flat.
"Apparently."
They watched as Reth knelt again, picked something, crushed it, shook his head, and moved on.
"That's the guy who killed Varen?" the youngest whispered. "Just like that? One strike?"
"Yeah. That's the one."
He didn't look like much now. Just a man walking with a bad temper and a cloth wrap in his hand. Muttering quietly under his breath. Occasionally stopping to sniff the dirt.
But he was getting closer.
Too close.
Within twenty paces.
They held still. Breath shallow. Not daring to shift a foot.
Reth crouched again. Pulled up a stem of something faintly green and sweet-smelling. Mint, maybe. Or something close enough.
Good enough.
He wrapped it, stood up, gave the area a last glance—not at them, but at the sky—and turned back toward the fortress.
Never saw them.
Never sensed them.
Still scowling.
The spy leader finally exhaled.
"He didn't see us."
"Then why the hell was he walking straight toward us?"
"He got lucky. Or unlucky. Or maybe we did."
The youngest leaned back slowly. "Should we put that in the report?"
The leader hesitated.
Then: "No. We keep it clean. Commander confirmed. Forces intact. Garrison cold. That's it."
A pause.
"…And the thrall?"
"He's not our concern."
But the leader watched Reth disappear through the trees for a long time.
His brow creased.
He didn't believe his own words.