The weight of my father's command was a heavy cloak, different from the constant, low thrum of the dragon's presence inside me. 'Find the source of this rot. Discreetly.'
It wasn't a mission for overwhelming force, nor the precise, shattering blows of the arena. This demanded patience. Observation. Subtlety.
These were qualities I wrestled daily from the dragon's impatient arrogance, qualities drilled into me under Leo's cynical gaze back in Port Varrick.
This assignment felt less like a military operation and more like the intricate, high-stakes analysis of my former life, but with consequences far deadlier than a missed quarterly projection. It was a test, I knew, not just of intelligence gathering, but of control, of my capacity to wear the mask of mundane normalcy while the beast simmered beneath, always listening, always waiting.
Two days after the council, Elias departed for Brennus, the bustling river town downstream where The Argent Accord held sway. He rode out at the head of his diplomatic envoy with a stiff-backed formality, Ashworth banners snapping beside the Accord's borrowed green-and-silver standard. A calculated display of partnership, meant to project confidence and mask the suspicion brewing.
He hadn't sought me out before leaving; our interactions remained cautious, tinged with awkwardness. The brief nod after the council felt like a fragile truce.
I watched him go from the high battlements, the wind whipping my plain wool cloak around me, unease tightening my gut. He was playing by old rules in a game whose board felt treacherous. I hoped his silver tongue was sharp enough.
My own departure, the following dawn, was the antithesis. Rolan and I slipped out through a seldom-used hunter's gate before first light, two indistinct figures melting into the valley mist. Rough-spun wool, worn leather smelling of horse and trail dust, deep hoods pulled low. No banners. Sturdy mountain ponies, endurance over speed, lineage untraceable.
My ancestral sword remained locked away. Only gauntlets beneath wrapped hands and a concealed dagger hinted at my station, hidden. We were phantoms on our own lands, auditors cloaked in anonymity.
The journey south followed the winding path of the Argent River, the artery of Ashworth trade, now potentially poisoned at its source or bleeding out through hidden wounds. We traveled slowly, deliberately, matching the unhurried rhythm of the common folk – teamsters, merchants, farmers.
Roadside inns smelling of stale ale and woodsmoke became our refuge. Shared benches in noisy common rooms, nursing watered-down drinks, listening more than speaking. Gossip here was a raw, unfiltered river of information about the region's mood – worries about winter, frustration over rising prices, whispers of patrols seeming more tense than usual.
My cover: 'Layn', apprentice scribe for Lord Elias, conducting a logistical review. Rolan: 'Bor', my taciturn guard. Roles rehearsed until almost natural.
It echoed my first life – analysis, details. But the tools were profoundly different.
At each stop – dusty logging camps clinging to mountainsides, riverside granaries standing squat against the wind – while meticulously reviewing flimsy manifests and speaking with wary foremen or talkative drivers, my Rhythmic Sense hummed quietly. A focused probe, feeling Aetheric signatures, listening for discordant notes of deception or fear.
Leo's harsh lessons were a constant refrain. 'Look for ripples, not waves. Watch hands – fear makes fingers twitch. Listen to silences – truth hides there. Fear smells different from greed.'
In the High Pine logging camp, perched high above the valley, the foreman, a burly man named Jorn, spoke readily of minor delays. Rockslides, broken wagon wheels. Plausible. His Aura felt steady, honest as the ancient pines. No deception there.
But later, sharing cheap ale with younger loggers as 'Layn', I felt a different current. They grumbled about reduced quotas, pressure from The Argent Accord, specifically Foreman Borin downstream. When I asked about night shifts or strange figures seen near the lower trails bordering Sterling lands, they shifted nervously. Aether spiked with anxiety, quickly suppressed. Glances exchanged. Hiding something, but it felt like simple fear – poaching, perhaps, or local toughs. Not the cold, specific wrongness I instinctively searched for. The timber discrepancies likely started further downstream.
Days later, by slow barge, enduring the smells and rough company, we reached the sprawling stone complex known simply as the Brennus Granary. It sat on a bluff over the Argent River, humming with activity. Barges loaded below under armed guards. The heart of The Argent Accord's operation in this region.
Foreman Borin met us in the main office near the gates. Eyes too close, ink-stained fingers, a smile that didn't reach. His Aura felt slick. Controlled. Too controlled. It set my teeth on edge immediately.
He was effusively cooperative, bowing perhaps too low. Ledgers produced instantly, perfectly balanced. Lengthy, rehearsed explanations for weight variations – spoilage, drying, milling density. Logical. Precise. Too perfect.
While Borin droned about evaporation rates, his gaze occasionally flicking towards the guards outside, I let my Sense drift, probing deeper. Steady signatures of patrols, the low hum of machinery. Then, a flicker. A deliberate anomaly.
A pocket of unnatural stillness in a back storeroom, ground floor. Heavily shielded from Aetheric perception. Guarded. Hidden. Not the active wrongness I associated with the Cult, but deliberately obscured. Why shield a simple storeroom?
"Impressive operation, Master Borin," I said, forcing Layn's polite, naive smile, making a note. "Such efficiency. Commendable." I pretended to scan my notes. "Ah, yes. A minor notation… regarding rodent control protocols? Has that been an issue, perhaps, near the older foundations?" A probe aimed at the shielded room's location.
Borin's smile tightened fractionally. His slick Aura flickered – annoyance, quickly suppressed – replaced by practiced condescension. "Rodents? A constant battle, young scribe," he said smoothly. "Entirely under control. That particular back room," his gaze flicked involuntarily towards the lower levels, confirming it, "requires special, prolonged fumigation. Toxic. Best avoided."
He was lying. The lie was plain. The shielded room wasn't for fumigation. It was for something he desperately didn't want found. Something related to the missing resources, implicating him, or the political masters pulling his strings – likely Vane.
That evening, Rolan and I camped upstream, hidden in willows. The granary sounds carried faintly. "Borin," I said quietly, staring into our smokeless fire. "He's lying. Hiding something in a back storeroom. Shielded it."
Rolan frowned, polishing his sword hilt. "Shielded? Why shield a storeroom unless…"
"Exactly," I murmured. "Valuable, illegal, or both." I looked towards Brennus, downstream, where Elias began his diplomacy tomorrow. "While all eyes are on the Guildmaster…"
"You intend to look in that room," Rolan finished, eyes gleaming with apprehension and grim excitement.
"I intend to get answers," I corrected. My father's command: No incidents unless necessary. But proof required risks. I felt the low hum of my power, the contained dragon within. Restless. Eager. The leash held. But the beast listened, waiting for a scent, a reason to stir. Tomorrow night, under cover of Elias's talks, I might have to give it one. The audit was becoming an infiltration.