The lamps in Draumbean’s study burned low, their blue-white flames bending slightly as if straining beneath the weight of the magic layered through the tower’s upper floors. Shelves climbed the walls from floor to ceiling, heavy with tomes bound in leather, bone, and stranger materials still. Some whispered softly when the wind passed through the narrow windows. Others remained stubbornly silent, secrets content to rot undisturbed.

  Draumbean stood hunched over his central table, both hands braced against its edge.

  Maps lay spread before him—dozens of them—some pristine and imperial, others ancient, brittle, annotated in ink that had faded to brown with age. He had arranged them into overlapping layers, southern borderlands mapped over older trade routes, newer fortifications pinned atop ruins that had predated the Empire by centuries. Red wax markers dotted the parchment like blood droplets.

  The south was unraveling.

  Grain routes disrupted. River crossings burned. Towns emptied or swallowed outright. The green skin advance was no longer theoretical—it was measured in days now, not weeks. Bhraime would march soon, and when he did, the Empire would bleed whether it won or lost.

  Draumbean rubbed at his eyes.

  The knock came suddenly.

  Sharp. Heavy. Not the polite tapping of a court servant or the cautious hesitation of an apprentice. This was a soldier’s knock—meant to be heard through armor and battle din.

  Draumbean straightened, irritation flashing briefly across his features before discipline smothered it.

  “Enter,” he called.

  The door creaked open just wide enough for a broad, grizzled face to appear. The man wore the colors of the Imperial Guard, his beard streaked with grey, a scar pulling one side of his mouth into a permanent scowl.

  “Seargeant?” Draumbean said, recognizing him at once.

  “He is here, sire,” the soldier replied.

  Draumbean nodded once. “Show him in.”

  The sergeant stepped aside.

  Moments later, the room seemed to change.

  The air thickened—not with magic, but with presence.

  A figure strode through the doorway with an easy, unhurried confidence that spoke of a man who feared very little. His gait was slow, measured, each step placed deliberately, as though he were crossing ground he had already claimed. Firelight danced across polished steel, catching the engraved contours of a silver wolf helm—its eyes dark, its fangs bared in a perpetual snarl.

  The door closed behind him.

  The man did not wait to be offered a seat. He crossed the room and took one opposite the wizard, folding himself into the chair with practiced economy. He removed neither helm nor weapons.

  Draumbean studied him for a moment, then allowed himself a thin smile.

  “Good to see you, Warplayer.”

  The voice that answered him was calm, restrained, edged with iron.

  “Why have you summoned me, Draumbean?”

  Always straight to the point.

  Draumbean exhaled softly. “My, my. No pleasantries. No false courtesy.”

  “My time is precious,” Warplayer said flatly.

  “Yes,” Draumbean replied, nodding. “Yes, I know. And I would not have it wasted—I assure you.”

  Warplayer said nothing. He simply sat there, motionless, the wolf helm tilted ever so slightly in Draumbean’s direction. Waiting.

  The wizard moved around the table, carefully stepping over scattered scrolls and rolled maps. He poured himself a measure of dark amber liquid from a decanter, then hesitated before offering one to his guest.

  Warplayer did not acknowledge the gesture.

  Draumbean set the glass aside untouched.

  “There is a matter of great importance,” he said at last, “that requires your… particular talents.”

  Still nothing.

  The silence stretched.

  Draumbean had dealt with kings, demons, and gods. He knew when silence was a tactic rather than hesitation.

  “There is an item I need you to retrieve,” he continued. “One of significant consequence.”

  “That matters little to me,” Warplayer replied without pause. “What is the item. Where is it.”

  Draumbean smiled faintly.

  “A scroll,” he said. “It is currently held by the Brothers of the Last Temple.”

  Warplayer’s head shifted a fraction. Interest, perhaps.

  “And where,” he asked, “is this temple?”

  “Witchrum.”

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  “I see.”

  Warplayer rose immediately, chair legs scraping softly against stone as he stood. He turned toward the door without another word.

  “The usual fee?” Draumbean asked, watching him go.

  Warplayer paused only long enough to answer.

  “That will be sufficient.”

  Then he was gone.

  The door closed.

  The sound lingered longer than it should have.

  Draumbean remained standing where he was, staring at the space Warplayer had occupied. He did not move for some time. The maps lay forgotten. The southern war faded briefly from his thoughts.

  He crossed to the window and looked out across the capital, its towers and streets bathed in pale moonlight. Somewhere out there, forces already moved against him. Pieces shifted on boards he could not fully see.

  He had chosen secrecy.

  He had chosen a blade instead of an army.

  “Gods speed,” Draumbean murmured to the empty room.

  The words felt hollow even as he spoke them.

  Far below, the city slept.

  And somewhere on the roads leading east, a hunter had already begun his march toward Witchrum—unaware that others, darker and more patient, were moving as well.

  The street lay drowned in shadow, a narrow vein of cobblestone threading its way between leaning buildings whose upper stories all but kissed above his head. Only one lantern still burned along the stretch, its flame guttering weakly, casting more darkness than light. Rain from earlier in the evening still clung to the stones, slick and treacherous, reflecting the faint glow in broken shards.

  Warplayer walked alone.

  His steps were measured, unhurried, the rhythm of his boots steady and deliberate. The silver wolf helm caught what little light there was, its polished surface dulled beneath layers of road dust and old scars. Beneath the helm, his eyes never stopped moving. Corners. Doorways. Rooflines. He catalogued each one without conscious effort.

  The stables were only a few streets away.

  Too close.

  The thought settled cold and familiar in his chest. If the road had been truly clear, if Draumbean’s secrecy had held, he would have reached the horses without interruption. Instead, the night felt… crowded. Heavy. The kind of air that pressed against the skin before violence broke it open.

  Then the shadows moved.

  Figures stepped free of the darkness ahead—four of them, spreading out just enough to block the street without looking disciplined enough to be soldiers. Cloaks. Leather armor. The glint of steel beneath poorly concealed blades. Warplayer felt it immediately, the subtle shift in the air behind him, the soft scrape of boots finding purchase where moments before there had been nothing.

  Four in front.

  Four, maybe five behind.

  “So much for no one knowing,” Warplayer murmured to himself.

  His right hand drifted down casually, fingers brushing the twin compact crossbows secured at his hips. The mechanisms were already cocked. They always were.

  “That’s far enough,” one of the men in front said.

  The voice settled it.

  Warplayer stopped.

  He turned his head just enough to look at the speaker. Even without seeing the man’s face clearly, he knew him.

  “Siph,” Warplayer said evenly. “You should know better than to stand in my way.”

  The thug laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. He stepped forward into the lantern’s weak glow, revealing a scarred face and a grin full of broken teeth. He spread his arms slightly, gesturing to the men flanking him, then jerked his chin behind Warplayer.

  “Couldn’t turn the coin down,” Siph said. “Too much of it. Enough to make a man forget good sense.”

  “Pity,” Warplayer replied.

  His hands moved.

  Both crossbows came up in the same instant—no flourish, no hesitation. Two sharp thunks cracked through the night, loud as hammers striking wet wood. The men beside Siph jerked violently as bolts punched through leather and bone. One was thrown backward off his feet, the other simply folded, collapsing in a twitching heap.

  Before the echoes faded, Warplayer was already moving.

  Steel whispered free of its sheath as he surged forward, the sword coming up in a low guard as he closed the distance. Panic flashed across Siph’s face—just for a heartbeat—before the remaining men reacted.

  Two from the front rushed him, blades raised. Behind him, boots pounded as the others surged forward, shouting now, the ambush collapsing into chaos.

  Warplayer dropped low and slid.

  Rain-slick stone carried him beneath the first pair of attackers, their blades slashing through empty air where his head had been a breath earlier. He rose smoothly on the other side, momentum carrying him forward, and drove his sword straight through Siph’s chest.

  The thug gasped, eyes wide, disbelief frozen across his features as the blade burst out his back. Warplayer kicked him off, letting the corpse crash to the ground, and spun just in time to catch two incoming strikes on his blade.

  Steel rang. Sparks jumped.

  Now there was no one behind him.

  Seven remained.

  They spread out instinctively, circling, blades up, eyes darting. None of them rushed now. They had seen what happened to those who did.

  Warplayer shifted his stance, sword held loose but ready, weight balanced on the balls of his feet. He scanned the street quickly. No alleys wide enough to slip through. No doors close enough to force a bottleneck.

  No escape.

  “So be it,” he said quietly.

  His left hand crossed his chest, fingers closing around the hilt of his dagger. In one fluid motion he flung it.

  The blade struck the man directly in front of him square in the face, burying itself to the hilt with a wet crunch. The thug dropped without a sound.

  Warplayer followed the throw immediately, lunging forward as the others reeled in shock. His sword drove into another man’s chest, punching through ribs and lung. He wrenched it free and darted back again, boots splashing through shallow puddles.

  For a moment, the remaining thugs simply stared.

  Warplayer smiled beneath the helm.

  Fear was a weapon. A good one. And fear made men hesitate, made them overthink, made them slow.

  They advanced again, more cautiously now, blades held high, eyes flicking constantly between him and the bodies littering the street.

  That was when the whistles blew.

  Sharp, piercing blasts cut through the night from multiple directions. The thugs froze, heads snapping around as armored figures poured into the street, city watch cloaks flaring as they charged.

  Warplayer did not hesitate.

  He lunged forward and ended another man’s life with a single clean thrust before the watch closed the distance. The remaining thugs broke, shoving past one another in their desperation to flee. One went down under a watchman’s blade. The rest vanished into the alleys, swallowed by darkness.

  The street fell silent save for ragged breathing and the drip of rainwater from eaves above.

  Warplayer wiped his sword on one of the dead men’s cloaks, methodical, unhurried.

  “Well,” came a familiar voice, “if it ain’t the Silver Wolf.”

  The sergeant approached, helm tucked under one arm, eyes flicking nervously between Warplayer and the bodies.

  “And what are you doing out here at this hour?” he continued. “Little murder, I see.”

  Warplayer sheathed his blade with a soft click.

  “You’re going to have to come with us,” the sergeant said, forcing firmness into his tone. “I’ve got questions need answering.”

  “I don’t think so,” Warplayer replied, already turning away.

  “You will stop right there!” the sergeant shouted.

  The watchmen moved forward, reluctantly, hands tight on their weapons. Every one of them knew the stories. Knew who stood before them.

  Warplayer stopped.

  Slowly, he turned back, unbuckled his helm, and met the sergeant’s gaze directly.

  “I’m on a time-sensitive task,” he said calmly. “For the wizard Draumbean.”

  The name landed like a dropped blade.

  The sergeant’s mouth opened, then closed. “Dra… Draumbean?”

  “Yes.”

  A beat passed.

  “Men!” the sergeant barked suddenly. “Stand down. Let him pass. He’s on official business of the Crown.”

  Relief rippled through the watch like a held breath finally released.

  Warplayer inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment and turned away, leaving them to their dead and their questions.

  An hour later, hooves thundered softly against the road beyond the city walls as Warplayer rode east, the capital’s lights fading behind him.

  Ahead lay Witchrum.

  And the hunt had already begun.