The rain had been falling for hours, slicking Valenport's cobblestones into sheets of black glass. The Council Hall loomed ahead, its towers shrouded in mist, banners limp against the damp air. I'd walked these steps before—back when my name carried weight and my rank kept enemies at bay.
Tonight, I was here as a ghost.
Ryn walked at my side, her hood low, her movements quiet enough to disappear into the rain's steady drum. Mira followed a step behind, her satchel weighed down not with herbs, but with the kind of tools she used when healing wasn't an option. Loran wasn't with us—his part in this plan was elsewhere, setting the stage in the Eastern Wards.
We weren't here to storm the Hall. Not yet. Tonight was about information—and the game of politics was best played with a dagger under the table.
The Council had summoned an open audience, an event designed to appear transparent. Any citizen could enter, air grievances, request aid. But in truth, it was bait—an excuse for the Council to hear whispers of unrest and crush them before they grew.
We passed through the outer gates with a forged writ Ryn had acquired. The guards barely glanced at it, more interested in the distraction Loran had stirred in the market square hours earlier.
Inside, the Hall was all cold marble and hollow echoes. The Nine sat on their thrones, each one perched on a dais of their own, spaced just far enough apart to remind everyone they were equals in power, if not in ambition.
My eyes found him almost immediately.
Master Aric.
His hair was silvered now, his once-sharp jaw softened with age, but the eyes were the same—calculating, unblinking, the eyes of a man who had once taught me how to survive…and then ensured I didn't.
He didn't see me. Not yet. The hood helped, but more than that, so did the rankless insignia pinned to my shoulder. No SSS warrior would ever wear it—it was beneath them. That was the point.
The crowd shuffled forward in ones and twos, each petitioner kneeling, pleading, bargaining. The Nine listened, nodded, dismissed. It was all theater.
When our turn came, Ryn stepped forward first, spinning the story we'd rehearsed: a shipment lost to pirates, a plea for aid in recovering goods vital to "her employer's" livelihood. Her tone was respectful but firm—enough to draw polite interest without suspicion.
While she spoke, I scanned the dais. I wasn't looking for sympathy. I was looking for cracks.
Councilor Veylen's eyes flickered toward Aric twice during Ryn's account. Councilor Thane leaned forward at the mention of the Eastern Wards. And Aric? He remained still, but his fingers tapped twice against the arm of his chair—once when Ryn mentioned the docks, again when she said the name of the pier.
Codes. Habits. The old tells I'd learned from him.
Ryn finished her plea, and a clerk stepped forward to take her details. We turned to leave—until a voice stopped us.
"You," Aric said.
My blood iced over.
"Your employer," he continued, addressing Ryn. "What business does he have in the Eastern Wards?"
Ryn's pause was almost imperceptible. "Trade," she said simply. "The same as any who dare to move goods through the city these days."
Aric studied her, then let it go. But I saw it—the faintest spark of recognition in his eyes as they swept over me. He didn't know yet, but he suspected.
We left the Hall without incident, but the tension didn't fade until we were swallowed again by the rain-soaked streets.
"That was too close," Mira said, pulling her hood tighter.
"It was worth it," I replied, my mind still replaying every twitch of Aric's hands. "He's involved with the docks. The pier Ryn mentioned—it rattled him."
Ryn's lips curved faintly. "And you think that's where we strike first?"
I shook my head. "No. That's where we bait him. He'll expect someone to hit that pier now. We hit somewhere else—and make him show his hand."
Mira frowned. "And if he doesn't?"
"Then we keep tightening the circle until he has nowhere left to run."
We made for the safehouse, the rain masking our footsteps. Loran was waiting inside, boots kicked up on the table, a half-empty mug in his hand.
"Well?" he asked.
I sat, dripping water onto the scarred wood. "Aric's tied to a pier on the east docks. We spook him there, but the real hit happens in the North Ward. Tonight."
Loran's smirk returned. "Now that's the Kael I remember. Who's the target?"
"The warehouse holding the Council's eastern manifests. Destroy them, and they'll be blind in half the city."
Mira crossed her arms. "And Aric?"
I met her gaze. "Aric will feel the loss. He'll scramble to protect his assets. And when he moves…"
Ryn finished the thought for me. "…we'll be waiting."
The plan came together quickly. Loran would lead a small team to the north, slipping past the night watch to plant charges. Ryn and Mira would stage a diversion near the eastern pier, enough to make Aric believe the attack was aimed at him.
And me? I would be in the shadows, close enough to see how Aric reacted. Close enough to confirm what my gut already knew—he wasn't just a Council member pulling strings from a safe seat. He was in the streets, in the game, and still dangerous.
By midnight, the city was alive with whispers. A fire on the eastern pier. A masked strike force in the North Ward.
And from my perch on a rain-slicked rooftop, I saw him.
Aric, cloaked against the downpour, moving quickly through the streets with two guards in tow. Not toward the pier. Toward the North Ward.
He didn't trust the other Council members to handle it. He was coming himself.
Good.
The first move was his.
The next would be mine.