Chapter 117 Act III / Shadows in the Capital
The message weighed heavily in Alexander's mind as he sat alone in his chamber, the flickering candlelight casting long, wavering shadows across the stone walls. The parchment lay on the table before him, its terse words etched into his thoughts like a brand: Leave Varenhelm while you still can. The game is bigger than you know. Simple, yet brimming with an urgency that gnawed at him. A warning? A threat? Or something caught in the murky space between, a riddle from an unseen player in this deadly game? The coiled serpent seal stared back at him, its fangs bared in silent menace, offering no answers.
Silas stood beside him, exhaling sharply through his nose as he leaned over the table, his shadow merging with Alexander's in the dim light. "Someone wants us gone—badly enough to risk this." His voice was low, edged with the dry pragmatism that kept him steady in chaos.
Elias, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, scowled, his broad frame a hulking silhouette against the flickering glow. "Or they want us to panic, trip over ourselves, and make a mistake they can exploit. Classic bait."
Tyrell, standing near the window with the note in hand, studied it with an unreadable expression, his sharp eyes tracing the serpent crest. "This seal—have any of you seen it before?" His tone was calm, but the question carried the weight of a man who knew symbols could mean death as easily as allegiance.
Silas shook his head, rubbing his chin as he straightened. "Not in any official noble house I've tracked—and I've memorized most of them. Whoever sent this isn't acting openly. They're hiding in the cracks of this city."
Alexander turned the parchment over in his hands, the rough texture grounding him as his mind churned. "Which means they don't want to be seen helping us—or hunting us." His voice was steady, but his gaze darkened with resolve. Whoever this shadow was, they had miscalculated if they thought a cryptic note would send him running.
A pause settled over the room, thick with unspoken questions. Then Elias pushed off the wall, his boots thudding against the floor as he stepped closer. "So? What do we do? Sit here and wait for them to show their hand?"
Alexander's eyes met his, cold and unyielding. "We find out who sent it. We don't wait—we hunt."
The Investigation Begins
The next day dawned gray and heavy, the sky over Varenhelm cloaked in clouds that mirrored the tension simmering beneath the city's surface. Alexander's delegation split into the capital's labyrinthine depths, each taking a different path to unearth the truth behind the serpent's warning. Time was their enemy now, and they moved with the precision of a war machine gearing for battle.
Silas ventured into the merchant districts, where the clink of coin and the murmur of trade drowned out the city's grandeur. Dressed in plain garb to blend with the crowd, he wove through bustling stalls and shadowed counting houses, listening for whispers among traders and coinmasters—men who often knew more than nobles dared to admit. A few well-placed bribes loosened tongues, and by midday, he had scraps of information: certain nobles had been meeting behind closed doors, names absent from Aldric's public court, their gatherings cloaked in secrecy.
Tyrell deployed his scouts into the city's underbelly, where the veneer of Varenian opulence gave way to grit and grime. They melted into the taverns, alleyways, and servant quarters, their ears attuned to the rumors that flowed like ale among the common folk. By late afternoon, they reported a shifting undercurrent—some nobles bristled at The Maxwell Dominion's presence, their unease palpable, while others held back, watching with a predator's patience, as if awaiting a signal.
Elias took a bolder approach, striding through the barracks and mercenary haunts with the swagger of a man who'd rather fight than talk. Unarmed by palace decree but no less imposing, he tested the city's guards and sellswords, gauging their reactions to the Dominion's name. Most met his questions with gruff indifference, but a few grew tight-lipped at the mention of the serpent crest, their eyes flickering with unease—a tell that spoke louder than words.
By nightfall, they reconvened in the war room, the pieces of their investigation forming a jagged, incomplete picture. Silas returned first, dropping a coin pouch onto the table with a dull clink. "Bribed a few merchants," he said, wiping sweat from his brow. "They say certain nobles have been meeting in secret—ones who weren't at the King's court when you faced Aldric. Names like Brantley and Verren came up, but nothing solid."
Tyrell followed, arms crossed as he leaned against the wall. "The city's undercurrent is shifting. Some nobles are unsettled by us—angry, even—but others? They're waiting, watching. Like they're expecting something to happen, and soon."
Elias sat heavily, rubbing his jaw with a grimace. "And the guards? Not all of them are loyal to Aldric—I'd stake my life on it. A few clammed up when I asked about the serpent crest, but their faces said plenty. They know something, and they're scared to spill it."
Alexander steepled his fingers, his gaze fixed on the table as the reports coalesced in his mind. "Someone powerful is moving in the background," he said, his voice low and deliberate. "But are they against us—or against the King? That's what we need to pin down."
Silas smirked, a spark of grim humor in his eyes. "Now that's the right question. We're not just playing defense anymore."
The Warning Comes True
They didn't have to wait long for an answer. That night, as Varenhelm slumbered beneath a canopy of lanterns and moonlight, assassins struck.
They came in silence, shadows among shadows, scaling the guest house's outer walls with the precision of men trained to kill unseen. Their dark cloaks blended with the night, their footsteps muffled by soft-soled boots as they slipped past the outer guards Tyrell had posted—men who never saw the blades until it was too late. If not for Tyrell's relentless paranoia, the Dominion might have been caught unawares.
A scout on the second-floor balcony, a wiry youth named Kael, stood watch with a dagger in hand, his nerves taut from hours of vigilance. He caught the faintest shift in the air—the unnatural quiet of predators stalking prey—and turned, eyes widening as a glint of steel flashed in the dark. Too late. A blade slid between his ribs, swift and silent, muffling his gasp as he slumped against the railing, blood pooling beneath him. But in his final act, Kael's boot struck the wooden railing with a weak, desperate thud—a sound that pierced the stillness.
The noise woke Elias first.
He bolted upright in his cot, hand already reaching for the sword propped beside him, instincts honed by years of war snapping into focus. The door creaked open, and a masked figure slipped inside, blade gleaming in the dim candlelight that spilled from a nearby sconce. Elias didn't wait for an introduction. With a roar that shattered the silence, he flipped the heavy oak table between them, sending it crashing into the assassin with a splintering crack. The man staggered, and Elias lunged, his steel meeting theirs in a shower of sparks that lit the room.
The battle had begun.
A Fight in the Dark
The Maxwell delegation was ready, their response a testament to the crucible of the frontier. Elias and his warriors met the attackers in the main hall, steel ringing against steel as they drove the assassins back with brutal efficiency. Tables overturned, chairs shattered, and the polished wood floor became a battlefield strewn with debris. Elias fought like a storm, his greatsword carving arcs through the air, each strike a thunderclap that felled his foes.
Tyrell's scouts, already on edge from the day's unease, rushed from their posts to intercept the infiltrators outside. They caught two more assassins scaling the walls, daggers flashing as they cut them down before they could breach the inner sanctum. The night air filled with the grunts of combat and the sharp cries of the dying, a grim symphony that echoed through the courtyard.
Silas emerged from his chamber, daggers in hand, his movements a blur of precision as he wove through the chaos. The candlelight caught the flicker of his blades as he parried a thrust and struck back, burying steel in an assassin's throat with a wet crunch. He danced through the fray like a shadow, silent and lethal, his mind as sharp as his weapons.
Alexander stepped from his chamber last, sword drawn, his presence a calm center amid the storm. An assassin lunged at him from the hallway, blade aimed for his heart, but Alexander met the attack with a single, calculated strike—parrying the thrust and driving his sword through the man's chest in one fluid motion. The body crumpled, and Alexander's gaze swept the room, assessing, commanding.
The assassins were skilled, their movements honed by years of training, but The Maxwell Dominion's warriors had been forged in the unforgiving fires of war. By the time the last attacker fell, their corpses littered the chamber floor, dark stains spreading across the wood like spilled ink, their masks askew in death.
Silas knelt beside one, yanking the black cloth free to reveal a face beneath—smooth, almost boyish, too young for such a killer's craft. But it was the mark on the man's neck that froze the room—a coiled serpent, tattooed in black ink, its fangs bared in a mirror of the letter's seal.
Who Sent Them?
Elias wiped his blade clean on a fallen assassin's cloak, breathing hard as he straightened. "So much for subtlety. They didn't even try to make it look like an accident."
Tyrell scowled, his eyes narrowing as he studied the tattoo. "They wanted us dead. Whoever sent that letter wasn't warning us about an outside threat—they were warning us about themselves. This was their move."
Silas nodded grimly, tapping the corpse with his boot as he rose. "And they just made their first mistake. They let us know they exist—gave us a face, or at least a mark, to hunt."
Alexander's expression was cold, his mind already racing as he turned to one of Tyrell's scouts—a wiry woman with blood streaking her sleeve. "Find out where they came from," he ordered, his voice a quiet blade. "Track their movements—every step, every shadow. Someone let them into this city, past the King's patrols, and I want to know who."
The scout nodded sharply and vanished into the night, her form swallowed by the darkness beyond the shattered doorway.
Silas crossed his arms, his gaze lingering on the serpent tattoo. "You realize what this means, don't you?"
Alexander's grip tightened around his sword, the steel still warm from combat as he sheathed it with a soft rasp. "The war in the shadows has begun," he said, his voice steady but resonant with the weight of what lay ahead. "And we're not just playing defense anymore."
The candlelight flickered, casting their shadows long and jagged across the bloodstained floor. Varenhelm's game had escalated, and The Maxwell Dominion stood at its heart—targeted, tested, but unbroken. The serpent had struck, and now the hunt was on.