The quiet of the night was broken only by the faint crackle of the fire in Alaric's room. Flickering light danced over his sharp features as he leaned over the heavy oak desk, surrounded by weathered parchments, ledgers, and maps. His brow furrowed in concentration. The reports seemed mundane—records of crop yields, trade routes, troop deployments—but discrepancies jumped out at him. Missing shipments, abrupt endings in documentation. Someone was covering their tracks.
A soft knock at the door broke his focus. His hand instinctively moved to the hilt of his sword. "Who is it?" he called, his voice low but commanding.
The door creaked open just enough for a familiar figure to slip inside. Lysandra, the royal bastard of Eldren and a Shadow Blade mercenary, moved with her usual effortless grace. She closed the door behind her, leaning casually against it. Her sharp eyes swept the room before landing on him.
"Still at it?" she asked, her voice quiet but teasing. "Don't tell me the mighty Crown Prince of Voltaria is losing sleep over ledgers."
Alaric leaned back in his chair, arching an eyebrow. "And don't tell me the most dangerous woman I know came here to tuck me in."
She smirked and stepped closer, the firelight casting a warm glow over her angular features. "Thought you could use a sharper pair of eyes—or someone to stop you from drowning in paperwork."
He gestured to the chair across from him, unable to suppress a small smile. "Be my guest. Something isn't adding up, and I can't shake the feeling it ties back to what we found in the temple."
Lysandra sank into the chair, flipping through one of the ledgers with practiced ease. Her expression grew serious. "Let me guess—missing supplies, vague entries, enough red flags to outfit a rebellion?"
Alaric nodded, tapping a line in another ledger. "This one. Supplies for a road repair crew. Marked as delivered, but the crew doesn't exist. And the road they were supposed to fix? Untouched."
She frowned, leaning closer. "And the supplies?"
"Unaccounted for," he said, frustration bleeding into his tone.
"That's not incompetence—that's deliberate," she muttered, leaning back thoughtfully. "Someone's funneling resources. The question is where, and why."
"The necromancer's forces," Alaric replied grimly. "Food, materials—things like this could sustain them for months. But how does this tie back to Halvard? If he knows, he's a traitor. If he doesn't, he's a fool."
"Not exactly a win-win for him, is it?" she said, her smirk softer now.
Their brief humor faded as her gaze shifted to the fireplace. She rose, her sharp eyes catching something hidden in the flickering shadows. "What's that?" she asked, her voice low.
Alaric followed her gaze. "What are you—?"
She ran her fingers over the wall, tracing faint etched lines. A chill ran through her as energy pulsed beneath her touch. "It's a rune. Someone marked this room."
Alaric stiffened. "Marked it for what?"
"Tracking, maybe. Or eavesdropping," she said grimly. "Either way, it's recent. Whoever placed it knew you'd be here."
His eyes darkened. "Get rid of it."
Lysandra's smirk returned, though her tone was serious. "Step back. I'd hate for this to take your pretty face with it."
He chuckled softly, easing the tension for a brief moment. "I'll take my chances."
Drawing her dagger, Lysandra turned back to the rune. With a precise strike, she shattered it. Green light flared briefly before the remnants crumbled to the floor. A faint hum reverberated through the room before fading.
"That'll alert whoever placed it," she said. "They'll know it's gone."
"Good," Alaric replied, his voice like steel. "Let them make their move."
She stepped closer, her expression calculating. "Halvard oversees these routes. If someone's paying him—or threatening him—he's the key."
"Do you think he's involved?"
She hesitated. "It's too convenient for him not to be. But confronting him now would spook him—or worse, tip off whoever's pulling the strings. We watch him. Carefully."
Alaric exhaled, nodding. "You're right. For now, this stays between us."
"Always," she said softly, her voice carrying an unfamiliar warmth. Their eyes met, and for a moment, the room seemed smaller, the air heavier.
Lysandra broke the moment first, stepping back. "Try to get some sleep. You'll need your wits sharp when this unravels."
Alaric smirked faintly. "You're starting to sound like you care."
She paused by the door, glancing back with a faint smile. "Don't let it go to your head."
The morning sun cast a pale glow over Lord Halvard's manor, its sprawling grounds too quiet, too perfect. Lysandra sat on the edge of the balcony, her legs dangling over the side as she stared into the courtyard below. Her fingers brushed the hilt of her dagger. She tried not to think about the night before: the rune, the implications, and especially the way Alaric had looked at her.
The creak of the balcony door pulled her from her thoughts. She didn't need to turn to know it was him. Alaric's footsteps were deliberate, steady. "You're up early," he said, his voice low but carrying the weight of exhaustion.
She glanced over her shoulder at him. He looked as worn as she felt, but his gaze was clear, focused. "Didn't feel like sleeping," she replied. "Too much to think about. Like what else Halvard's hiding in this manor."
He stepped closer, his voice quiet. "The rune. The missing supplies. It's too calculated."
"Arrogance makes people sloppy," she replied, smirking faintly. "Or maybe he thinks no one would dare question him."
"Then he doesn't know me very well," Alaric said sharply.
Her smirk faded as she studied his face. "What's the plan?"
"We find proof. You mentioned crates delivered at dawn. We need to know what's in them."
"You mean I need to find out," she said, amusement tugging at her lips.
He didn't deny it. "You're better at it than I am."
Her smile softened for a moment. "Fine. But if I get caught, don't expect me to save your princely reputation."
"Lysandra," he said, his tone unexpectedly soft. She paused. "Be careful. If Halvard's involved, we don't know how far he'll go."
The concern in his voice threw her off guard, and for a moment, she simply nodded. "I always am."
Their eyes locked, tension simmering before she turned away and slipped into the shadows, leaving him alone on the balcony.
The manor was a maze, but she knew how to move unseen. The crates were stored in the locked cellar beneath the east wing. Picking the lock was quick work. Inside, the air was damp, the scent of wood and straw heavy. She pried open the nearest crate, her pulse quickening. Beneath bags of grain lay weapons—swords, crossbows, even vials of something unfamiliar.
"Lysandra," a voice whispered behind her. She spun, dagger raised, only to find Alaric stepping through the doorway.
"You shouldn't be here," she hissed.
"No one saw me," he replied, his gaze falling on the weapons. "So, he's arming someone."
"Or preparing for something worse," she murmured. "This isn't just diversion. It's a war chest."
As they slipped back into the shadows, the sound of approaching footsteps froze them in place. Lysandra grabbed Alaric, pulling him deeper into the dark.
The servant's lantern passed dangerously close, but fate intervened. Another voice called the servant away. Only after his footsteps faded did Lysandra exhale. Turning, she found herself face-to-face with Alaric, his eyes locked on hers.
"Too close," she whispered. But neither of them moved. Adrenaline gave way to something deeper, and when his lips met hers, she didn't pull away—at least, not right away.
When she finally did, her voice was sharp. "Not the time, Alaric. Focus."
His regret was evident, but so was his resolve. "Let's move."
The air in the manor grew colder as they moved further into its depths, the faint smell of damp stone and aged wood hanging in the narrow halls. Lysandra led the way, her steps near silent as she navigated the labyrinthine corridors. Behind her, Alaric followed, his movements equally controlled. The tension from their earlier moment still lingered, but neither acknowledged it.
They reached a fork in the passage. Lysandra paused, her sharp eyes scanning the dimly lit paths. "The servants' quarters are that way," she whispered, nodding to the left. "But the archives are further down the right hall. If Halvard's hiding anything, records might help."
Alaric glanced between the two paths, his jaw tightening. "We can split up. I'll check the servants' quarters—you're faster if things go south."
"Fine. But don't do anything stupid. And if you're not back in twenty minutes, I'm coming after you."
"Noted."
He disappeared down the left passage without another word, leaving Lysandra alone. She exhaled sharply, pushing thoughts of him to the back of her mind as she turned toward the archives.
The archive room was larger than she expected, its shelves towering and lined with dusty tomes, scrolls, and ledgers. The faint light from a single lantern flickered in the far corner, and Lysandra's instincts prickled. Someone had been here recently.
She moved carefully, her fingers brushing along the edges of the shelves as she searched for anything that stood out. Most of the documents seemed innocuous—trade agreements, tax records, correspondence with neighboring lords. But as she delved deeper into the shelves, she found a smaller, locked cabinet tucked into a shadowy alcove.
A quick glance confirmed the lock was simple. She withdrew her picks and had it open within moments. Inside were several ledgers marked with Halvard's personal seal, along with a series of letters. She flipped through them, her brow furrowing. The ledgers detailed shipments to unnamed locations, the quantities of goods far exceeding what was typical. The letters were worse—coded messages interspersed with vague references to "the Master" and requests for additional supplies.
Her stomach tightened. This is it.
She stuffed the papers into her satchel and prepared to leave, but a faint sound at the door stopped her. Footsteps. Slow and deliberate. She slipped into the shadows, her hand on the hilt of her dagger, waiting as the door creaked open.
A guard entered, his eyes scanning the room. His posture was stiff, his hand on the pommel of his sword. He moved toward the shelves, his steps cautious but determined.
Lysandra's heart raced. She waited until he turned his back, then stepped silently behind him. With one swift motion, she had her dagger pressed to his throat, her other hand covering his mouth.
"Not a sound," she hissed. "I don't want to hurt you, but I will."
The man froze, his breathing heavy against her palm.
"Why are you here?" she demanded, her voice low but sharp.
He hesitated before mumbling something incoherent against her hand. She released his mouth slightly, keeping her blade steady.
"Lord Halvard sent me," he whispered hoarsely. "To ensure no one tampered with the records."
Lysandra's mind raced. Halvard knew the archives held something worth hiding. She tightened her grip on the man. "Does he know someone's been asking questions?"
The guard nodded yes faintly, sweat trickling down his temple.
Lysandra scowled, her options narrowing. She couldn't risk killing him—it would draw too much attention—but leaving him conscious was dangerous.
"I'm sorry about this," she whispered before striking him sharply at the base of his skull. He crumpled to the floor, unconscious but alive.
When she returned to the meeting point, Alaric was already waiting, his expression tight. He looked her over quickly, relief flickering in his eyes when he saw she was unharmed.
"What did you find?" he asked.
"Plenty," she replied, pulling the ledgers and letters from her satchel. "Shipments to unnamed locations, coded messages referring to 'the Master.' If Halvard isn't working with the necromancer directly, he's supplying someone who is."
Alaric's jaw tightened as he flipped through the documents. "This is enough to start unraveling his network."
"What about you?" she asked, her voice low.
His expression darkened. "The servants' quarters were quiet, but I overheard two of Halvard's men discussing an upcoming meeting in the wine cellar. Something about ensuring 'everything is in place' before the full moon."
She stepped closer, her voice firm. "Then we keep digging. Halvard thinks he's untouchable, but he's wrong. We'll expose him—and whoever he's working with."
Alaric met her gaze, and for a moment, the weight of their mission hung heavily between them. "Together," he said softly.
She nodded, her resolve hardening. "Always."