It was mid-afternoon in Brisden, and an uneasy hush had settled over the town like a shroud. Whispers of a Drake-Titan sighting—its colossal shadow gliding high above the clouds—had spread like wildfire through the markets and taverns.

  People carried on with their routines, merchants barking prices, blacksmiths hammering sparks from anvils, children darting through alleys with laughter.

  But the pretence was fragile. Every so often, a head would tilt skyward, eyes scanning the heavens with a flicker of dread.

  The Mayor’s castle loomed at the heart of the Council District, a towering edifice of polished stone and gilded spires. Its high walls encircled it, severing the elite from the rabble below. Guards patrolled the ramparts with mechanical precision, their armour glinting under the slanting sun.

  Inside, Captain Tayron marched down the echoing corridor with the rhythmic clank of steel-shod boots, his face set in a mask of stoic duty. He was a man of merit, battle-scarred and reliable, yet he knew he fell short of Lysara’s shadow. With her absent on some vital errand, the weight of her responsibilities pressed on him like an ill-fitting helm. In his left hand, he clutched a green shard, its surface cool and faintly humming against his palm.

  He halted before two ornate doors, flanked by stoic guards.

  Tayron nodded, holding the shard aloft toward the guard.

  “Tayron has come with a report, my Mayor!”

  Within the chamber, Mayor Crowle lounged in his throne-like seat at the council's table, the polished wood creaking faintly under his bulk. A soft breath stirred from the shadowed corner to his right—a presence felt more than seen.

  “Tayron,” the shadow murmured, its voice slithered through the air. “The mere substitute for Lysara. His Weapon Shard Gear is sealed. He holds a green shard in his left hand—a Tool Shard, likely a report. He is alone. Nothing suspicious.”

  Crowle’s gaze darted briefly to the darkness, then back to the doors. His fingers drummed an impatient rhythm on the armrest.

  “Good,” Crowle said, his voice tight. “Let him in.”

  The doors swung open with a groan of heavy hinges, admitting Tayron into the opulent chamber. Vaulted ceilings soared above, adorned with master-crafted tapestries.

  He advanced with measured steps, fist rising to his chest in a sharp salute as he bowed low.

  “My Mayor, I have the report.”

  “Good. Bring it here.”

  Tayron crossed the room, the carpet muffling his footfalls, and extended his hand. Crowle mirrored the gesture, accepting the green shard into his palm. It pulsed once, a subtle vibration like a heartbeat, before falling still.

  “Attune to: Crowle Laroon,” Tayron intoned.

  The shard flared briefly, then dimmed. Tayron withdrew his hand and stepped back a respectful distance. Crowle activated it with a surge of his will; the shard unravelled into a scroll, its surface shimmering with encrypted characters sealed by attunement.

  As Crowle’s eyes scanned the glowing text, Tayron summarised aloud, his voice steady but laced with the gravity of ill tidings.

  “When we reached the campsite, it was in ruins. A fierce fire had raged there for hours, consuming nearly everything by the time we arrived. We salvaged nothing of value—no leads, no remnants. Bandit bodies littered the ground, but not enough to account for a camp of that size. Some must have fled into the wilderness. Among the dead, we identified one matching your description: their leader, Karlon.”

  Crowle’s hands tightened on the scroll, knuckles whitening as the parchment crinkled under the pressure.

  “We scoured the surrounding area,” Tayron continued, “but found no trace of the rest—or the slaves.”

  A heavy silence fell, broken only by the faint crackle of the chamber’s hearth.

  “That is all to report, my Mayor.”

  Crowle sighed, a sound like escaping steam, and fixed Tayron with a piercing stare. “You may leave.”

  Tayron saluted crisply and retreated, the doors sealing behind him with a resonant thud. The moment they closed, an almost invisible barrier shimmered into existence over the wood—a muffled hum vibrating through the floorboards, sealing the room from prying ears.

  Crowle’s fists clenched, crumpling the scroll. The shard slotted at its back cracked with a sharp snap, its light guttering out.

  From the shadows came a murmur, low and edged with dark amusement. “So he’s dead.”

  Crowle surged to his feet, fist slamming down onto the table with explosive force.

  CRACK!

  The fine wood splintered down the middle, a once-elegant masterpiece reduced to worthless rubble in an instant.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  “FUCK!”

  He stormed across the chamber, boots thudding against the stone floor.

  “Always so dramatic, Crowle." A whisper manifested, barely audible paired with a chuckle.

  A figure of ink stepped out. It crouched down, picking it up with finger and thumb.

  The scroll crinkled faintly in his grasp, but the writing was now damaged beyond comprehension.

  “All that work and effort! And he goes and gets himself killed! How do I explain this to Lord Alric?”

  His mind flashed to the previous Mayor’s fate—a grim tableau of screams and shadows that still haunted his nightmares. Crowle refused to end up like that. Not after clawing his way to this seat.

  The darkness that gave shape to a man lay silent in the background, except for an eerie grin.

  It eventually crept back into the shadows and glided after him.

  “The goods?” the shadow inquired, its tone deceptively mild.

  “They… were all returned safely to the orphanage.” Crowle’s voice seethed with barely contained rage.

  “Hm… Freeblades?”

  “No. No contracts passed through the Guild yet. An unknown individual entered and managed to leave the town unnoticed. Nothing is known about him.”

  “Do you think it’s connected to our little… troublemaker?”

  “…Possibly. We need to send a report to Lysara.”

  He paused, pacing like a caged beast, his mind whirling through contingencies.

  “This unknown troublemaker…” He said, teeth grinding, veins forming across his forehead. “They’ve ruined everything!”

  He exhaled heavily through gritted teeth, then spun to the voice within the darkness.

  “The deal with the Black Chain Consortium… I could offer the women in the dungeon. The younger ones should suffice—that should cover it, right?”

  “They wanted children, Crowle.”

  The words landed like a blade. Crowle spun, his fist crashing through a nearby bookshelf. Wood shattered, volumes tumbling to the floor in a cascade of dust.

  Sunlight pierced the chamber’s suffocating tension through high windows, catching the motes like tiny stars.

  “Damnit! Karlon was our middleman! Now with him dead and the goods out of our hands… they’ll see us as a joke.”

  The shadow’s voice slithered closer, almost soothing. “Well, there is still one way to procure the coin and the item you desire.”

  A hand extended from the gloom, palm upturned. Atop it rested an orb, swirling with compressed Vitalis—impossible, unnatural, a Soul Core extracted and stabilised.

  It neither cracked nor shattered, defying the law of Essence.

  Crowle’s gaze locked on the orb, his breath catching as it pulsed faintly in the palm. A familiar itch bloomed deep in his veins—not pain, but a hollow craving.

  His fingers twitched involuntarily, reaching before his mind could catch up. The core’s swirl seemed to pull at him, a siren call that made his pulse quicken, his skin prickle with phantom heat.

  He took it, the surface cool yet alive under his touch. Vitalis surged unbidden through his palm, drawn toward the compressed Essence like iron to a magnet. A rush hit him—brief euphoria, colours sharpening for a heartbeat before fading into dull ache.

  His vision blurred, eyes diluting. A faint tremor ran through his hand as he forced it steady.

  More… I need more.

  He clenched his jaw, shoving the sensation down. “…How did you—”

  “I have my ways. Now that the deal with the Black Chain Consortium has fallen through, we can move on to the next organisation.”

  A pause, heavy with implication.

  “The goods you have in the dungeon won’t suffice. We must procure more. Strong male fighters and women, of course—the best you can offer.”

  Crowle’s gaze narrowed, suspicion flickering. “You have connections with them as well?”

  “Mm. I have… friends in many places, you could say. With this, our setback won’t be as bad as you think. Bannerlord Alric wouldn’t even have to know…”

  Crowle sighed, the tension in his shoulders easing fractionally. “T-that is good to hear. Thank you, Morden.”

  The shadow’s grin was audible, a soft, predatory curve in the dark. “’Tis my duty, Crowle.”

  Then, from beyond the doors, the guards’ voices cut through the barrier.

  “Lady Seyun, my Mayor.”

  The voice from outside snapped him back, quickly pocketing the Soul Core away.

  Crowle glanced at the chaotic room—the splintered table, scattered books—and winced, composure fracturing for a split second.

  He cleared his throat, and with a hurried dismissal, he called, “Let her in.”

  The doors parted, admitting a vision of fragile elegance in a gorgeous white dress. Lady Seyun glided inside, her grey hair cascading like silver silk. She carried a decorative cup and a slender container of liquid, its contents wafting a sweet, intoxicating aroma that clashed with the chamber’s tension.

  “My Mayor, I thought I’d bring refreshment—”

  Her words faltered as her eyes swept the destruction: the ruined table, the collapsed shelf. Her smile wavered, a tremor in her fingers betraying her unease, but she steadied it with practised grace.

  “This is a bad time. Excuse me.”

  “No, no, my lady. It has been a rough hour. I just received reports—they… boiled my anger beyond its limits. I apologise for such a mess.”

  Seyun hesitated, her gaze lingering on the shadows that seemed to cling unnaturally to the corners. But she stepped forward, her trembling hands pouring the liquid into the cup with deliberate care. She offered it to him, her voice soft but laced with hidden strain.

  “Then, please, my Mayor, accept this refreshment to calm your nerves.”

  Crowle took it with one hand, then captured her free one in his other. He pressed a kiss to the back of her knuckles, his smile not quite reaching his eyes.

  “Ah, you spoil me so, Seyun.”

  Her fingers tensed beneath his touch, a fleeting rigidity she quickly masked with relaxation.

  He released her, stepping back. “I know you’ve felt nervous with your sisters leaving, but do not worry. Lysara is a formidable warrior—she will succeed in her duty, as always.”

  Seyun offered a slight nod, her expression unreadable, though her eyes betrayed a flicker of doubt.

  “Now, if you will, send a message to the kitchen for me—the usual. Have it delivered to my quarters.”

  She bowed elegantly, the motion graceful. “Yes, my Mayor.”

  As she turned and glided out, the doors sealing behind her, Crowle’s gaze lingered on the wood. His voice dropped low, addressing the emptiness.

  “Send a message to Lysara. And, Morden—keep an eye on our little Seyun, will you?”

  “As you say,” the shadow replied, its form dissolving into the gloom with a muffled whisper.

  The shardlight in the chamber flickered once, as if something unseen had brushed across the walls. Then silence reclaimed the room, thick and watchful.

  —— ? —— —— ? —— —— ? ——

  In a dank, shadowed alleyway far from the castle’s grandeur, the crackle of ice echoed like breaking bones. Water trickled down moss-slick walls, pooling in fetid puddles that reflected the dim torchlight from the street beyond.

  “I-I don’t know! Our gang doesn’t work for the Mayor!”

  A thug cowered against the stone, his breath coming in ragged gasps.

  Ice crept up his legs like a living predator, crystalline tendrils enveloping his flesh with inexorable hunger.

  “I swear! The rumours you heard are fake! They—they come from rival gangs! Yes! That has to be it!”

  His words tumbled out in desperation, each exhale turning to white frost in the chilling air.

  It climbed higher, claiming his arms, his chest, his neck.

  “Please! I’m begging you! I won’t kill again, I promise!”

  Then, it sealed his pleas, consuming his face in a final, glittering embrace.

  CRCK-CRACK-CRACKLE!

  “Ple…a…s…e—”

  The words froze mid-air.

  His face cracked, splintered from lips to eyes, as his muscles turned to crystals as his mouth hung wide.

  Now a frozen statue stood there, another life claimed by unrelenting cold. His wide eyes reflected a pair of icy blue orbs glaring back at him like merciless mirrors.

  “Tch.”

  The figure sheathed their weapon with a soft rasp, turning away. Armoured boots splashed through the chilled puddles, the water riming with frost in their wake.

  “Another dead lead.”

  The figure sighed, her breath a plume of mist in the shadowed alley. “On to the next one.”