The rhythm was the only constant. Thump-THUMP. Inhale. Thump-THUMP. Exhale. I stood in the center of the Voidstone Chamber's oppressive darkness, sweat cooling on my skin despite the deep chill. Across from me, my father was a mountain of silent disapproval, his Grandmaster's Aura a tangible weight pressing down, forcing me to maintain focus. Leo lounged near the wall, a cynical shadow offering sharp, unwelcome critiques. Just outside, Seraphina's steady, warm presence was a faint green ember against the void, our anchor.
'Focus,' I commanded myself, trying to ignore the deep ache in my muscles and the heavier exhaustion settling in my soul. Weeks had passed since our return, weeks spent in this relentless cycle. Meditation. Provocation. Control. I could summon the scales now, consciously, hold them for minutes at a time on my forearms, a shimmering vambrace of black, draconic power. But the effort was immense, a constant mental wrestling match against the cold, arrogant whisper at the back of my mind that urged me to let go, to unleash, to dominate. The leash was forged, yes, but it felt thin, brittle, ready to snap at the slightest provocation.
My father moved, a blur of motion too fast for my normal senses, his practice sword whistling towards my head. Instinct took over. Scales flowed, hardening over my left arm as I raised it to block. The impact jarred me, but the armor held. I flowed back, resetting my stance, my breath controlled, my cadence steady. The dragon's voice was louder now, a low growl of irritation at being forced onto the defensive. I pushed it down, focusing on my father's next move, on the subtle shifts in his Aura.
'Better,' Leo's voice rasped from the darkness. 'Less panic. Still too slow.'
Before my father could press the attack, the heavy stone door slid open with a grating groan, flooding the chamber with unwelcome light. Garrick stood there, his face grim. He bowed slightly to my father. "My lord Count. Forgive the interruption. An urgent council is required. Regarding the eastern farmlands."
My father lowered his sword, the intensity of his presence receding slightly. He gave me a single, sharp nod. "We are done here. For now." The unspoken message was clear: my training was important, but the survival of the House took precedence.
We emerged from the Chamber, blinking in the torchlight of the corridor. The shift from the absolute silence to the normal sounds of the fortress was always jarring. As we walked towards the study, Garrick filled us in. Reports of grain shipments arriving consistently underweight from the eastern territories. Timber deliveries from the southern logging camps delayed or incomplete. Minor issues individually, but forming a disturbing pattern.
We entered the study to find Damian already there, leaning over a map, his brow furrowed. Elias stood near the window, surprisingly, holding a sheaf of ledgers, his expression tight with a mixture of frustration and something else… grim satisfaction?
"Another blow," my father announced, taking his seat behind the desk, his voice hard. He gestured towards Elias. "Report."
Elias stepped forward, laying the ledgers on the desk. He spoke clearly, concisely, outlining his findings. "The discrepancies began three weeks ago, Father," he explained, tapping specific entries. "Small at first, easily missed. But the pattern is undeniable. Shortfalls in grain from the East, timber from the South. All resources transported along routes exclusively managed by the Riverstone Traders guild."
My blood ran cold. The Riverstone Traders. Elias's brilliant solution to Vane's blockade. His moment of triumph.
"It makes no sense," Elias argued, frustration evident in his voice. "Our agreement with them is ironclad. Guildmaster Thorne swore oaths. Their profits depend on our star-silver shipments, which continue unimpeded. Why would they risk everything by skimming common resources?"
"Perhaps they grew greedy," Damian suggested, his tone dismissive, skeptical of Elias's chosen partners from the start. "Or perhaps they were never as independent as you believed, Elias. Perhaps Vane's influence reaches further, bought their loyalty."
Elias flushed, stung by the implication. "Thorne gave me his word… He despises the capital guilds."
"A merchant's word is worth the coin it earns him," my father stated flatly, his pragmatism cutting through Elias's defensiveness. "This requires immediate investigation. Damian, take a detachment of fifty men—"
"No, Father," I interrupted, the words surprising even myself. All eyes turned to me. The suspicion that had been a cold knot in my gut since Elias first proposed the deal solidified. This felt too neat. Too targeted. "Damian is needed on the borders more than ever, especially with Sterling still spooked. And sending fifty armed men to Guildmaster Thorne's doorstep will be seen as an accusation, an act of aggression. It will shatter the alliance instantly, whether Thorne is guilty or merely incompetent. If this is Vane's doing, or something worse," the thought of the Cult's insidious methods surfaced, "that open hostility is precisely what they want. It isolates us further."
"Then what do you propose, Lancelot?" my father asked, his gaze sharp, analytical, testing my strategic thinking.
I thought back to Leo's lessons in Port Varrick. Subtlety. Misdirection. Information gathering. "A scalpel, not a hammer," I echoed my own words from a previous council, feeling their truth more keenly now. "Let Elias lead an official, diplomatic delegation to Oakhaven," I proposed, looking directly at my brother, offering an unexpected, potentially risky, olive branch. "Let him discuss these 'discrepancies' openly, guildmaster to lord, reinforcing our partnership while expressing our… concern."
Elias looked stunned, then deeply suspicious, clearly expecting me to undermine him, not support his role.
"While Elias engages Thorne in formal talks," I continued, turning back to my father, "allow me to travel separately. Unofficially. Undercover. Let me investigate the routes themselves, speak quietly to the teamsters, the warehouse foremen along the way. Let me find where the leak truly is, and who benefits. We need proof, not just accusations."
Elias stared at me, his mouth slightly open. He didn't understand. Why was I giving him the public stage, taking the dangerous, thankless background role myself? Was this a trick?
"You would… assist me?" he asked, the words hesitant, incredulous.
"I would assist the House," I corrected him gently, holding his gaze. "This threat, whatever its source, requires all our skills, brother. Yours in diplomacy and guild politics," I acknowledged his strength, perhaps for the first time, "and mine in… uncovering inconvenient truths."
My father considered it, his fingers drumming silently on the polished blackwood. He saw the strategic merit – a public face of diplomacy potentially masking a covert investigation. He saw the opportunity to test me further, to see if I could apply my unique abilities – my enhanced senses, my combat readiness – in a situation demanding intellect and discretion above all else. And perhaps, he saw a chance for his two sparring sons to finally learn to fight alongside each other, even if on separate fronts.
"Very well," he decreed finally. "Elias, you will lead the diplomatic mission to Oakhaven within three days. Choose your envoy carefully. Maintain the alliance if possible, but ascertain Thorne's true position." His gaze shifted to me, hard and uncompromising. "Lancelot. You will conduct your investigation. Take Rolan. Travel discreetly. Find the source of this rot. Bring me proof." He leaned forward slightly. "And Lancelot… no incidents. No unnecessary displays of power. You are an auditor, a concerned partner seeking logistical answers, not an executioner dispensing justice. Understood?"
"Understood, Father," I replied, feeling a surge of grim determination mixed with a cold unease.
The council concluded. As we filed out, Elias gave me a curt, almost confused, nod. The suspicion was still there, but it was overlaid with a grudging acknowledgment. He didn't understand my motives, but he couldn't deny the logic of the plan, nor the fact that I had just publicly validated his role. The fragile bridge between us held, for now.
My mind, however, was already racing down the southern trade routes. This 'blunder' of Elias's, the convenient shortfalls appearing just as House Vane's pressure intensified… it felt too neat. Was Guildmaster Thorne simply greedy? Was he being coerced by Vane? Or was this something darker? Was the Cult using this trade dispute, using Elias's ambition, as a way to probe our defenses, to test our reactions, perhaps even to establish their own network within our economic lifelines?