The air in the alley was thick, damp, and unnervingly silent. Jeremiah pulled his cloak tighter around his shoulders, keeping his eyes peeled for any movement. The stifling quiet felt unnatural, especially in a city bustling with soldiers and charged with the tension of a siege. Every path within the citadel’s walls was heavily patrolled, yet this alley, a narrow passage between towering stone buildings, seemed entirely abandoned. That alone made him wary.

  Jeremiah leaned against the wall, feigning a casual demeanor as he scanned the shadows, looking for any trace of the man he was supposed to meet.

  He had spent days tracking this contact again, using all his cunning and guile to find someone who could serve as a lifeline to the capital. Now, standing here with no sign of movement, he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching him.

  A soft rustle, no louder than a breeze, broke the stillness. Jeremiah tensed, his hand instinctively brushing against the hilt of the dagger concealed beneath his cloak. Before he could react further, a figure emerged from the shadows, as if the darkness itself had taken shape as a man. It was different from the shades wielded by the Mistress. This darkness was oily, as though it tainted everything around it.

  The stranger wore a simple black robe, lacking insignias or decorations—something that only made him more nervous, as the capital’s nobles weren’t known for their modesty—yet his presence radiated an aura of power. A hood partially hid his face, but what little Jeremiah could discern—a strong jaw and a faint smirk—was marked by confidence. More revealing than his appearance was how the air seemed to ripple around him, a subtle distortion hinting at magic beyond the ordinary.

  “Adjutant D’antan,” the man greeted smoothly. “You’ve been busy. The only man to ever win against the rebels is a good title.”

  Jeremiah forced a smile, but his mind was racing. The contact was more than he had anticipated—far more. The last time he had met the man, he had assessed him as an Expert, but the way the alley seemed to bow to the man’s presence suggested a Master or higher. Someone like that shouldn’t be here, amidst the chaos of the siege.

  “I prefer to think of it as being resourceful and willing to do what’s necessary,” Jeremiah replied, keeping his tone light. “After all, desperate times call for desperate measures.”

  The man’s smirk widened slightly, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “And desperate you are if you’ve sought me again after ignoring my last offer.”

  The statement was both a challenge and a trap. Jeremiah treaded carefully. “Desperation is relative. I’d say I’m motivated—especially now that the Count has raised the Blood Wards.”

  The mention of the wards brought a flicker of something to the man’s expression. Interest? Irritation? Jeremiah couldn’t tell, but he pressed on.

  “They’re impressive, to say the least,” Jeremiah continued, measuring his words. “A bold move that finally halted the rebel’s advance, though not without risk.”

  The man took a slow step closer, his presence looming. “What do you know of the Count’s reasons for deploying them?”

  Jeremiah hesitated, not out of uncertainty, but to gauge the man’s intentions. The question wasn’t innocent. The way it was asked, with a deliberate sharpness, made it clear the man wasn’t looking for idle conversation. He was fishing for something specific. And that’s when it clicked.

  This mage wasn’t here to help. Oh, Jeremiah didn’t doubt he was part of some shadowy organization within the Kingdom’s ranks, but he wasn’t the one holding the cards anymore. Pollus’ desperate move had surprised more than the rebel leadership. He’d been trapped within the citadel as soon as the Blood Wards went up, and now, like a cornered animal, he was searching for a way out.

  Jeremiah suppressed a grimace. If the man had let himself be found in this situation, it was because he wanted to exploit Jeremiah’s connection to Pollus, likely to break free. The realization annoyed him, as it meant this whole chase was a waste of time, but he kept his expression neutral. He was too adept at politics to let his annoyance show.

  “Reasons?” Jeremiah repeated, tilting his head as if mulling over the question. “The Count has always been a man of ambition. He was hesitant to hide within the city, but now that he’s been cornered, he will want to go down fighting if the Royal Army cannot get here in time.”

  The man didn’t respond immediately, studying Jeremiah with an intensity that made him feel as if his very thoughts were being scrutinized. He still held his ground. He couldn’t show weakness or disinterest—not here, not now.

  “But then again,” Jeremiah added, his voice softening conspiratorially, “there are layers to everything, aren’t there? Motives beyond the obvious.”

  The mage’s smirk returned, this time laced with something darker. He took another step forward, close enough that Jeremiah could feel the hum of magic radiating off him like heat from a fire. “You speak as though you know something you shouldn’t.”

  Jeremiah laughed lightly, though his heart pounded in his chest. “Knowing things I shouldn’t is what keeps me alive.”

  The two stood in silence for a moment, the tension between them palpable. Jeremiah’s gambit was almost insultingly simple: make himself appear valuable. If the mage believed he knew more than he let on, he might be spared or at least bought time to plan his next move.

  Unauthorized content usage: if you discover this narrative on Amazon, report the violation.

  But then, the mage’s expression shifted. The smirk widened, but it wasn’t amusement that filled his gaze—it was grim satisfaction.

  Jeremiah’s breath caught. I’ve gone too far.

  “I suppose we’ll see,” the man said, almost gentle.

  Before Jeremiah could react, a flash of light erupted from the man’s outstretched hand. Pain blossomed, brief but searing, and then everything went dark.

  ———

  Jeremiah woke with a start, gasping for air. His heart hammered in his chest as he sat up, clutching at his ribs where the mage’s attack had struck. To his confusion, there was no wound, no sign of injury—just the faintest tingle of residual magic, like a phantom echo of what had happened.

  He looked around, his surroundings slowly coming into focus. He was in his bed, the familiar furnishings of his quarters untouched. The light filtering through the curtains suggested he’d been unconscious for hours, though the exact duration was unclear.

  Jeremiah swung his legs over the side of the bed, his thoughts racing. What has he done to me? And why has he left me alive?

  He rose unsteadily and crossed to the small table where a pitcher of water sat. After pouring himself a glass, he drank deeply, trying to calm his nerves. As he set the glass down, his gaze caught something—a faint glimmer on the inside of his wrist.

  Lifting his arm, he saw it: a sigil, intricately etched into his skin with shimmering lines of magic. He didn’t recognize the symbol, but its presence sent a jolt of unease through him.

  What have I gotten myself into?

  The Count’s war room was a grand chamber of dark oak and polished marble, its walls adorned with maps, banners, and the mounted heads of beasts taken from long ago's hunts. Around the long table sat a collection of nobles, their silk-clad forms stiff with worry and frustration. At the head of the table, Count Pollus himself loomed, scanning the faces of his council like a hunting hound sniffing for weakness.

  Jeremiah entered quietly, the sigil on his wrist concealed beneath the sleeve of his doublet. His mind buzzed with questions about what had occurred in the alley, but he pushed them aside with surprising ease. This was no place for distractions.

  The Count gestured for him to take a seat, his expression inscrutable. Jeremiah complied and sank into a chair near the end of the table as the nobles' murmurs grew louder.

  “They have resources we didn’t anticipate,” one of the lords said, his voice tight with disbelief. “Their artillery runs have gone on far longer than any reasonable estimate. Where are they pulling this many crystals from?”

  “Perhaps they’re throwing everything they have,” another suggested, his tone less certain. “A final gamble. Once their supplies are spent, the main army from the capital will sweep them away.”

  “Foolishness,” snapped Lady Varnet, a tall woman with icy blue eyes. Jeremiah hadn’t seen much of her during the campaign, but now that Hassel was about to fall, she couldn’t content herself with her “farms” anymore. “You think Weiss doesn’t know the risks of overextending himself? He’s proven himself far more cunning than that. No, this isn’t desperation. It’s the endpoint of a calculated strategy.”

  The room descended into a tense silence, broken only by the distant rumble of battles beyond the citadel walls. Jeremiah’s gaze darted to the Count, who sat motionless, fingers steepled beneath his chin. His eyes, however, burned with intensity.

  “It’s not just a last-ditch effort,” Pollus said finally, his voice low and measured. “It’s logistics. Weiss is not depleting his resources; he’s acquiring new ones. The question is not whether he’s desperate—it’s where he’s drawing his strength from and how can we damage it enough to slow him down.”

  The nobles exchanged anxious glances, shrinking under the Count’s words. Jeremiah shifted in his seat, tugging at his sleeves. It was very warm today.

  “You believe he’s found allies,” Jeremiah said uncharacteristically, breaking the silence. “That he’s receiving outside support.”

  Pollus nodded slowly, locking onto Jeremiah with a raised brow. “Precisely. And I suspect I know who.”

  “The Brander Republic,” Lady Varnet murmured, “it must be them.”

  Pollus’s lips curled into a thin smile. “Exactly. Brander has every reason to see Haylich descend into chaos. A fractured kingdom keeps us from interfering with their trade routes or their skirmishes with the barbarians. If Weiss succeeds here, they gain a fractured Haylich. If he fails, they lose nothing but some coin and a few trainers.”

  “But would they risk open involvement?” another lord asked, his brow furrowed. “Surely even Brander wouldn’t be so bold as to antagonize us so brazenly. There are forces within the kingdom that won’t care about civil war, but they won’t ignore an external attack.”

  “They don’t need open involvement,” Jeremiah interjected, surprising himself with his boldness. “Their industry is vast, and their networks are subtle. Supplies can move through intermediaries, arms can be stamped with false marks, and funds can vanish into the shadows. If Weiss has secured even a fraction of their logistics for himself, it could explain the strength of his campaign.”

  Pollus leaned back in his chair, regarding Jeremiah with an approving nod. “Precisely. This is no mere rebellion. It’s a calculated effort backed by forces that wish to see Haylich crippled.”

  The room fell into another heavy silence as the nobles absorbed the implications. For all their wealth and status, they were unprepared for a conflict of this scale. Their arrogance had blinded them to the possibility that Leonard’s rebellion was more than just a domestic insurrection borne of personal grievances.

  “What do you propose we do, my lord?” Lady Varnet asked, breaking the silence. “If Brander is truly involved, we simply don’t have the resources to deal with them.”

  Pollus’s eyes narrowed. “We must consolidate our forces within the citadel and keep the Blood Wards active, no matter the cost. They are our greatest advantage, and as long as they hold, Weiss cannot take the city.”

  “And if the wards fail?” Jeremiah asked.

  Pollus’s gaze snapped to him, sharp and unyielding. “Then we ensure that they gain nothing from their victory. If this citadel falls, it will fall in ruins.”

  “Then we must ensure they don’t fail,” Jeremiah said resolutely. “Whatever it takes.”

  Pollus’s gaze lingered on him for a moment, and Jeremiah felt the weight of the Count’s scrutiny. Finally, Pollus nodded.

  “Agreed,” the Count said. “Jeremiah, you will oversee the coordination of our internal defenses. Ensure that every soldier, every mage, and every resource is deployed efficiently. There’s no room for error.” It was a significant advancement in his official role—enough that it would have caused an uproar during regular operations. But under siege, no one dared to complain. After all, they would all die if the role was given to someone incompetent, and even these nobles had a sense of self-preservation left.

  Jeremiah inclined his head. “As you command, my lord.”

  The meeting continued, with the nobles debating strategies and contingencies while Pollus guided the discussion with calculated precision. Jeremiah remained silent, observing and absorbing the nuances of the conversation. His role here was not to lead but to listen, learn, and position himself as an indispensable asset.

  When the meeting finally adjourned, Jeremiah rose with the rest of the council, but Pollus caught his arm, stopping him in his tracks. “A word, Jeremiah.”

  Jeremiah nodded, allowing the Count to lead him to a quieter corner of the room.

  “I like your initiative,” Pollus said. “Most of the fools at this table are too scared to do anything. That’s why I trust you with this task. Do not fail me.”

  Jeremiah met the Count’s gaze, his own steady. “I won’t, my lord.”

  “We just need time, boy. Whether from the north or the south, our allies will punish these rebels.”