Chapter 3: The Mastermind

The dimly lit dungeon reeked of damp stone and blood. A shadowy figure, clad in a tattered black assassin's garb, sat bound to a wooden chair. His hands were tied behind his back, his head bowed low, obscuring his expression. Before him stood three figures—Damon Blackwood, Elara Stormrider, and their trusted knight, Marcus.

Elara set down the gleaming steel instrument she had been holding, her fingers tapping impatiently against the wooden table beside her. Marcus stepped forward, his tone deliberate and calculated.

"Let's consider this logically," he mused. "Which noble houses in the northwest would hire an assassin like you? Could it be the Mort estate? The Oden territory? Or perhaps the Chazski domain?"

Each of these territories was known to have ties to the Osoric clans—whether as allies, trade partners, or even secret benefactors.

Throughout Marcus's musings, the assassin remained silent, his head dipping lower as if to shrink into the shadows. Elara, never one for patience, seized a handful of his hair and yanked his head up, forcing him to meet her sharp gaze.

"Did you not hear Sir Marcus speaking to you?" she said, voice laced with disdain. "Know your place, wretch."

But even as she spoke, Damon watched the assassin's reaction carefully. None of the named territories elicited the slightest twitch of recognition. A dead end.

Elara scowled. "Fine. If you won't talk, I have ways to loosen your tongue." She reached for the tools on the table once more, but before she could proceed, Damon's voice cut through the tension like a blade.

"The Manwidor estate."

A barely perceptible shudder ran through the assassin's body. His pupils dilated slightly—just enough for Damon to see what he needed to.

"Ah," Damon exhaled with a quiet smirk. "So it is them."

At the edge of the dungeon, a figure stepped out of the shadows—Jace, Damon's ever-reliable steward. Damon barely turned as he gave his command.

"Jace, find out which figures from the Manwidor estate still maintain connections with our family."

Jace bowed his head. "At once, my lord."

As Jace departed, the assassin suddenly spoke, his voice rough from disuse. "Wait."

Damon turned, arms crossed, and raised a brow. "Oh? Are you ready to cooperate now?"

The assassin exhaled sharply. "End it quickly."

Damon's smile was devoid of warmth. "That depends entirely on the worth of the information you give me."

A heavy silence followed. Then, with a deep breath, the assassin spoke: "I, Jolsen Bex, swear on the honor of House Bex that the words I am about to speak are the absolute truth."

A ripple of tension passed through the room. A noble might lie under duress, but to swear upon their house's honor was another matter entirely. A noble's reputation was worth more than their life.

Jolsen looked up, his gaze locked onto Damon's. "But before I speak, I demand that you swear as well—that my family will not be harmed."

Damon tilted his head, considering the request. "Out of respect for your house's honor, I will swear. But understand this, Jolsen—if any member of your family seeks revenge against me, all deals are off."

Jolsen nodded. "That won't be an issue. My family is but a shell of its former self. The only young blood left is my sister, and she knows nothing of my affairs."

Damon met his gaze for a long moment before lifting his left hand. "I, Damon Blackwood, swear upon the honor of House Blackwood that no harm shall come to the Bex family by my hand."

Jolsen closed his eyes briefly, then exhaled. "The culprit behind the attack is none other than the knights of Brunehold Fortress."

Elara narrowed her eyes. "Brunehold?"

Brunehold Fortress was a vassal stronghold under the Manwidor estate. Its lords had long served as the Manwidor family's military commanders.

Damon's jaw tightened. "I should have known."

Jolsen chuckled weakly. "You probably did. You just didn't want to admit it."

Damon sighed and turned toward Elara. "Make it quick."

Elara retrieved a dagger from Marcus's belt. She stepped forward, meeting Jolsen's gaze. "Any last words?"

Jolsen straightened, squaring his shoulders as if greeting death as an old friend. He fixed Damon with an unwavering stare. "Keep your word, Lord Blackwood."

Damon nodded. "Always."

The blade sank into Jolsen's chest with practiced efficiency. He exhaled sharply, blood trickling from his lips. Then, as though slipping into sleep, his body slumped forward—lifeless.

Damon turned away, expression unreadable. "Jace, see that his body is disposed of properly."

"Yes, my lord."

He cast a glance toward Elara and Marcus. "You've both done well. Get some rest. We will speak more in the morning."

Elara wiped her blade clean and nodded. "As you wish."

With his orders given, Damon retreated to his chambers. Seated before the crackling hearth, he stared into the flames, deep in thought.

Morning arrived with the first rays of light spilling through the castle's high windows. Servants bustled through the halls, tending to their duties. The kitchen staff prepared breakfast, the castle maids swept the floors, and in the training grounds, soldiers had already begun their morning drills.

Damon, however, remained in his study, waiting. He had not touched his morning meal, his thoughts lingering on last night's revelation.

A knock at the door.

"Enter."

Elara and Marcus stepped in, their expressions grave.

Damon motioned for them to sit. As they did, he unfurled a map of the region across his desk.

"Brunehold Fortress," he said. "What are your thoughts?"

Marcus hesitated before speaking. "My lord, Brunehold is well-armed. Their forces rival our own. More importantly, its lord, Sir Horst, is your uncle."

Horst Blackwood—Damon's uncle, younger brother to the late baron. A seasoned knight, Horst had served under the Manwidor family for years. He was as skilled in politics as he was in warfare.

Damon scoffed. "So my dear uncle finally reveals his ambitions. He must think himself clever, biding his time, waiting for my demise so he can claim my title."

Marcus grimaced. "If you were to fall, my lord, the next rightful heir would indeed be him. If he orchestrated your death and covered his tracks, no one would question his ascension."

Damon tapped a finger against the table. "And if we were to challenge him outright?"

Marcus hesitated. "His forces are strong. He himself is a Second-Tier Knight."

Damon exhaled sharply. He and his closest warriors were all First-Tier. Against Horst, they were outmatched.

"So?" he asked, eyes on Elara.

Elara slammed her fist against the table. "I refuse to stand by and do nothing, Damon."