The merchant, a middle-aged man from the Empire dressed in finely tailored robes of red and gold, clutched the pearl necklace like a scepter, its iridescent sheen catching the sunlight like drops of frozen moonlight. His other hand hovered over the display case, where an array of ornate jewelry sparkled under the afternoon sun.
"Ten gold pieces," the merchant declared, his voice sharp with conviction. "Not a coin less. You'll not find craftsmanship like this in the Kingdom."
He seemed unimpressed, his expression neutral, though every word and gesture was deliberate, each one part of a larger game. The necklace wasn't the goal. The true prize lay in dissecting the merchant's posture, tone, and fervor—unraveling the threads of the city's economy.
"Ten?" he echoed, tilting his head slightly as if weighing the words themselves. "A bold price for something that's been sitting on this stall for who knows how long."
The merchant's nostrils flared, his grip on the pearls tightening. But he said nothing.
Feigning contemplation, he let the silence stretch. "Still, the craftsmanship is… adequate. Seven gold."
"Seven?" the merchant spluttered, his voice rising. "You insult the Empire's artisans! Do you think this is some village bauble?"
"Perhaps not," he allowed, a faint smile playing at his lips. "But seven gold is all I'm willing to offer for something that's clearly more decoration than necessity."
Before the merchant could reply, a subtle pull at the edges of his mind shifted, signaling the spell's imminent dissolution. Simulacrum's tether faded, but its final moments bled into his mind: the twins slipping through E-Rantel's alleys, their movements precise and synchronized, until they vanished into an unassuming inn tucked between a general store and a tailor.
The inn had the understated charm of a place that valued competence over luxury. He could tell little else before the construct finally unraveled, leaving him fragments of information—enough to start piecing together a plan.
Returning his attention to the merchant, he allowed himself a small smile. "Eight gold, then. A fair price, wouldn't you agree?"
The merchant hesitated. Something in his calm, unwavering gaze made him relent. "Eight it is," the merchant muttered, handing over the necklace.
Slipping the necklace into his satchel, he nodded politely before blending into the marketplace. The city around him—its timber-framed buildings and cobblestone streets—was a tapestry of medieval charm, its edges frayed by magic and monsters. But it wasn't the architecture that held his attention.
Years spent navigating unfamiliar cultures had taught him to see the unseen: the rhythms of local economies, the hidden power dynamics. The lessons learned in Africa served him well now, in a world ruled by sorcery and steel.
Stepping into the shadow of an alley, he pulled out a map—its markings a mix of his own notes and those borrowed from less attentive sources.
First, establish a foothold.
His fingers hovered over the inn's location.
Second, gather leverage.
The web was spinning, its threads tightening. All he needed now was patience.
The cave, carved into the mountainside by nature's hand and human effort, was more than a hideout—it was a fortress of necessity. The air was cool and carried the faint, earthy scent of stone and damp moss, a far cry from the filth one might expect of bandits. Water from nearby springs flowed into the cave through a narrow channel, ensuring a steady supply for drinking, washing, and maintaining hygiene. These men were mercenaries turned raiders, but they were no strangers to discipline. They understood the value of preparation, even in the grim business they now pursued.
In the central chamber, lit by the soft glow of lanterns and torches, a crude map of the eastern provinces of Re-Estize was spread across a table. Around it gathered the Death Brigade, their faces worn but focused. Among them was a mercenary who had spent the last two years in their ranks. The banners they once carried into battle had long since been stowed, unfurled only in times of war when their services were bought by those with gold to spare. Now, in the uneasy peace, they turned to banditry—a grim necessity for survival.
"Here," growled their leader, a broad-shouldered man with a voice like grinding stone, stabbing a finger at the map. "This village. Isolated. Small. No more than twenty families. We hit it before first light, when they're still sleeping or just waking. We'll take what we need and leave before the sun's up."
The men murmured their assent, though a voice from the back cut through the low din. "Aye, but what if the lord's men show up? Lances and maces flashing, galloping down on us before we've cleared out?"
The leader's scowl deepened, his scarred face hardening. "That's why we're fast. No banners, no noise. Shock is our weapon. Get in, get out. No mistakes."
The mercenary leaned against the wall, his arms crossed, listening. He had no illusions about their work—there was no honor in it, no pretense of glory. Yet even in this life, there were moments that turned his stomach. The raids weren't just about gold or supplies; they were about breaking people, instilling fear. He had seen it before—the hollow eyes of survivors, the silent ruins left in their wake. Such thoughts crept into his mind unbidden, but he forced them down, as he always did. Survival was survival.
The leader continued, detailing the vector of their assault. Their movements would be calculated, striking isolated villages in succession over the span of several hours. Each raid would last no more than an hour, every man assigned a role. Precision and discipline were paramount. Any delay would give the local lord time to muster his riders, and while the Death Brigade had faced worse odds before, a fight with mounted men in open terrain was never a gamble worth taking.
When the meeting adjourned, the mercenary joined the others in preparing for the raid. He wasn't a lieutenant, just one among the rank and file. His role was simple: follow orders, carry out the plan, and make it out alive.
The camp buzzed with quiet activity. Weapons were checked and sharpened, armor adjusted, provisions counted. Crude jokes passed between some of the men, though the atmosphere remained tense. The talk of spoils was as much a way to stave off anxiety as it was genuine anticipation.
The mercenary adjusted his gear, his expression distant. He had long since stopped justifying his actions. This was the path he had chosen—or, perhaps, the one that had chosen him. And yet, in rare moments of quiet, he wondered if there was anything left of the man he had been before he joined the brigade.
The leader's gruff voice broke the stillness, calling the men to order. "Two days. That's how long we have to prepare. Stay sharp, stay quiet. We'll move out before dawn on the third day."
The mercenary nodded silently, hefting his pack. Two days was enough time to ready themselves, though it would do little to ease the gnawing unease that came with every raid. They were skilled, disciplined, and ruthless, but even the best plans could unravel in the face of the unexpected.
As he stepped out of the cave, the view from the mountainside stretched before him. Below lay the vast expanse of forest and plains, a patchwork of life untouched by their shadow—yet. Somewhere out there, their first target waited, its thatched roofs and modest cottages hidden beneath the horizon. Smoke would rise soon enough, curling lazily into the dawn sky, a sign of lives disrupted and broken.
The mercenary tightened his grip on his weapon, his jaw set. The raid would be fast, brutal, and efficient. Just another step on the path he had chosen—or perhaps the path that had chosen him.
The chamber was silent, save for the faint crackle of a dying fire in the hearth. Shadows flickered across the stone walls, their dance cast by the dim glow of the flames. The golden threads of the tapestries shimmered faintly, depicting long-forgotten heroes and their deeds. The grand window overlooked the city of Re-Estize, bathed in moonlight, but Renner did not turn to admire the view.
The quiet wrapped around her like a familiar cloak, soft and undemanding. Here, she didn't need to smile, didn't need to perform. The stillness allowed her thoughts to stretch and unfurl, winding into shapes only she could see.
Her lips curved faintly, and her sapphire eyes glinted with a peculiar light. Then came a soft giggle, delicate and melodic, like a bell in the wind. To an unknowing ear, it would have sounded innocent, even angelic. But there was something sharper beneath it, something that gleamed as her thoughts turned inward.
Blumrush and his ilk. How transparent they were. Their schemes were clumsy things, hurried alliances forged in service of their patron. She almost pitied them. Almost. Their names were already etched in her mind—each one a fool who thought himself a player.
To cut their threads entirely would be effortless. A single whisper, a subtle tug, and their ambitions would collapse into ash. But why waste such delightful tools? Their fumbling might yet prove useful. Guided with care, pushed and pulled into the right positions, they could pave the way for something far more profound.
Her gaze lowered, her thoughts shifting like the turning of a page. Climb.
"Sweet, loyal Climb," she murmured, the words drifting through the stillness like a song.
His face rose unbidden in her mind, earnest and resolute. Her smile softened, though a faint tremor ran through her as she imagined his devotion, so pure, so complete. She giggled again, quieter this time, her hand brushing against the smooth surface of her desk.
"Ah, Climb," she whispered, her voice dipping with something unspoken, "if only you knew."
Her nails tapped softly against the wood, a measured rhythm that seemed to echo her thoughts. His confusion, his fear—his love. The possibilities swirled in her mind, their sweetness rivaled only by the sharp, intoxicating edge of the hunger he awakened in her.
Her mask slipped, just for a moment, revealing the gleam of something darker before her features smoothed into serenity once more.
Elsewhere, the threads of rot were winding through the kingdom. Even her father's allies were not immune. Loyalty was a word easily spoken, but the whispers of discontent grew louder among the King's supposed supporters. Their alliances shifted like sand beneath the tide, as fragile as the kingdom itself.
And then there was Raeven.
He worked tirelessly to hold the realm together, his sharp mind dulled by exhaustion. She imagined him now, flitting between factions like a man lost in the dark. Once, he had been decisive, pragmatic—his ambition aimed squarely at the throne. Now, he ran himself ragged, his priorities twisted by something softer.
Her smile returned, faint but knowing. His child. She didn't need to see Raeven's affection to understand it; the cracks in his facade told the story well enough. Love was a curious thing, the way it changed people. The man who once sought the crown now fought only to preserve what little remained—for a boy, and for a future that seemed ever out of reach.
How people change under the right pressure.
She had changed too, though not in the same way. Her transformation had been deliberate, her old self discarded like a snake's shed skin. The world had once been grey and shapeless to her, her days a monotonous haze. Until him. Until Climb.
His presence had drawn her out of that fog, sharpening her focus and giving her purpose. He had become the axis upon which her plans turned, the one exception in her carefully constructed web.
Her gaze shifted to the faint firelight flickering against the walls. Raeven's struggles amused her, but in a way, she understood him. That strange mix of love and devotion—how it could break a person, twist their ambitions, and yet give them something greater to hold onto.
People like Raeven were pawns, their struggles weaving into her tapestry whether they knew it or not. But Climb? Climb was different. He was hers. The one piece she would protect, the one thing she would never gamble.
Renner rose from her chair with a dancer's grace, crossing the chamber to the grand window. Her gaze fell on the city below, its scattered lights twinkling faintly against the darkened streets. Somewhere within that labyrinth, Climb stood vigilant, utterly unaware of the thoughts that consumed her.
The loyalty of such a man was a treasure—a rare, fragile thing she would cherish and protect at all costs. Yet even now, a thrill ran through her at the thought of testing him, tempering his devotion like steel in fire.
Her fingers brushed the cold glass of the window, her breath fogging the surface. The time was drawing near. Not tonight, not even this year, but soon. The kingdom was fracturing, its pieces falling away like shards of broken glass. Each fragment was another opportunity, another thread to weave into her plans.
"It's close now," she murmured, the words barely a whisper. "Agonizing years to wait, but close nonetheless."
Her reflection stared back at her, its lips curving into a faint smile. This wasn't just for the kingdom, or the throne, or even the survival of Re-Estize. No, this was for her. For them.
Every move, every thread, every pawn—it was all for Climb.
When the pieces fell, it would be her hand guiding their descent.