Calm Before the Thunder

The rain had turned to a misty drizzle by the time Burizan hit the ground, he gasped as though he had just been pulled out of water, and the fall had taken the wind from his lungs and the dignity from his posture. He felt dirt smeared across his cheeks, he could barely control the trembling of his hands, and as he blinked up at the masked figure above him, he realized he was not dead. It came to him slow, like fog rising from a ravine.

The man had cut the rope and not his throat.

Now, there was a cool steel blade nudging against his neck and not slicing, just reminding. Burizan could see the man's eyes smoldering from behind the jagged wolf mask—there was no madness, no hatred—only a wilfully cruel lucidity.

"You will talk," the man said with a voice reminiscent of thunder in the distance. "Everything you know about Alfrenzo. Or I promise, you will find death a merciful inclusion."

Burizan coughed and writhed—his body instinctively attempting to crawl back, even as he felt the sword's tip pinning him down. His lips quivered with indignation, and his fear choked off his voice.

"I—I'm just a clerk. Cargo manifests, orders, and shipping... If it wasn't nonsense I can't know anything!" he stuttered.

The sword remained motionless. The masked man eyed him like a statue of pure malice and patience.

"You were given an assignment to investigate the shipment," he said flatly. "So tell me. Who really runs Alfrenzo's logistics? Who keeps his secrets? Who hides the truth under clean reports?"

Burizan held his tongue. His mind raced. He could lie—but this was not a man you lied to. He could give names—but names also come with consequences. Say the wrong one, and he could blink out of existence. Say the right one, and they'd kill him when he got home. Telmar. Thalanar. Even Alfrenzo himself. These were not names you casually tossed out.

"I-it's mostly routine. There is nothing sinister to it. There are a few special shipments that come through our channels—Thalanar takes over on the deeper security protocols. I swear, I don't know anything beyond that!"

The masked man tilted his head as he considered him. Then he took a step back, and let the point of his sword fall down into wet dirt.

"I will give you one mana communication device, I probably spent a fortune on it. Let me know if you hear or see anything new."

_____

Back in Echlion, the clouds parted just enough to let in a flicker of weak sunlight. Luenor Sureva stood beside the window of his quarters, a folded letter in his hands, the seal unmistakable—the Mellonic crest, pressed into black wax. He unfolded it carefully, eyes scanning the contents.

An invitation. Ornate, perfumed. An auction hosted by a coalition of minor nobles. A private gathering, only two days away. But it wasn't the event that stirred him—it was the note penned beneath the printed script. Slanted, hastily written. From Marquess Maxim Mellon.

"The capital's sent another envoy. Supposedly for trade discussions, but I suspect something deeper. Their interest is no longer passive. The forge is no longer quiet. Be ready. —M."

Luenor folded the letter and slid it into the inside pocket of his coat. Across the chamber, Faren and Arwin stood waiting. The moment their eyes met his, they knew.

"We leave tomorrow," Luenor said. "You're both coming with me."

Faren inclined his head in silent agreement. Arwin grinned faintly, already thinking of the sharp tongues and sharper blades likely to appear at such a gathering.

Elsewhere, in Echlion's elven courtyard, Lyssari jetéd and pirouetted across the marble training ring, her twin daggers leaving faint trails of glowing mana. Her opponent - her mentor - stood like a statuesque sentinel: arms crossed, barefoot, her robes fluttering, but barely ruffling in the maelstrom around her. Nalia. The earth mage. Uplifted and untouchable. 

Lyssari pin-dropped her way into a lunge. Nalia sidestepped at the last moment.

"Too wide." Nalia said, almost lazily. "You're still throwing from your shoulders. It's precision, not flair," 

"I'm trying!" Lyssari huffed. Sweat mingled with her hair and created streaks down her temple. "You're the one cheating with the floor!"

Nalia raised an eyebrow. A subtle shift of her body weight forced a stone tile to tilt, forcing Lyssari to hyperextend her shoulders off balance.

"It's not cheating, it's awareness," Nalia replied. "A duel isn't a dance recital."

Lyssari muttered softly to herself, but pressed the attack again, quicker - tighter. For several minutes they moved like mirrored flames - she, the wild flame, and Nalia, the controlled flame. Until Lyssari finally collapsed into the field of grass, gasping, laughing breathlessly.

"I'm improving. Right?"

"You're not dead yet," Nalia said, her tone dry. Then, after a pause, "You're better. Still impulsive."

Later, over lunch, Lyssari picked at her food until her ears perked at the sound of Faren's voice. He was speaking with Arwin about the auction. About Carrowhelm. 

She shot up from her bench.

Five minutes later, she found her father in the war room, studying supply maps.

"I'm going," she declared.

"No," Thalanar replied without looking up.

"Please?"

"Still no."

"But it's an auction! Nobles, spies, rare enchanted goods! Someone will get stabbed—I can feel it. And you'll need someone fast."

"That's exactly why you can't go," he said, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"I'm fifty," she said, indignantly. "That's old age for normal humans."

"You're thirteen," he retorted. 

"In elf years."

Thalanar gave her a flat stare. "You should talk to Luenor." 

She was gone already. 

Luenor was halfway through unpacking his travel gear when the door blasted open. 

"I'm coming with you," Lyssari said.

"To the auction?" Luenor said, still not looking up. 

"Yes." 

"No." 

"Please?" 

"No." 

"Nalia said I'm ready." 

That got him to pause. Slowly, he turned around. "She did?" 

"She nodded," Lyssari said, vigorously nodding her head. "I'll behave." 

"That's what I'm worried about." 

She grinned.

Back in the outer offices, Burizan stumbled through the gates of the estate, drenched, shivering, and mud-covered. His clothes were ripped at the hem and his face was pale, haunted. He found Thalanar in the map room, marking supply routes with colored pins. 

"You're late," Thalanar said flatly, still not looking up.

"I-I apologize! The carriage, it was... destroyed. Burned wood, signs of fire- no survivors. It was catastrophic. Nothing could be salvaged."

Thalanar's hand came to a stop. "Anything else?"

Burizan shook his head, maybe a little too quickly for his own good. "N-no. That's all."

Thalanar slowly turned and looked at him, actually looked at him. A long, heavy stare. One (of many) that shook Burizan's knees.

"You're hiding something," Thalanar stated.

Burizan bit his tongue with his fists closed at his side.

An uncomfortable silence passed. Thalanar exhaled and waved him off. "Go. Get some rest."

Burizan ran away like a man who had just escaped death two times in one day.

Once the door was shut, Thalanar turned back to the map with an expression of discontent.