35 - The Chessboard Moves

Veynal's Report

The dim glow of the lantern cast long shadows across the study as five figures stood before Veynal. Their presence was soundless, their postures unwavering. These were not mere agents; they were Duke Alaric Ravensbourne's first shadows, handpicked for their skills, each one a whisper in the dark.

Veynal sat behind his desk, fingers tapping idly against the polished wood. His sharp gaze drifted across them before settling on Mara.

"Report."

Mara, known as Fox, stepped forward first. "The operation proceeded without issue. False trails have been laid, and all inquiries have been redirected toward House Vauldin. Any loose ends have been tied up."

Veynal nodded, his expression betraying nothing. "And the retrieval?"

"Secured," she confirmed. "Aldric handled it himself."

Veynal raised an eyebrow. "Himself?"

Edgar "Red" Fallon, the scout, stepped in. "His approach was measured. He offered them a contract—not as captives, but as allies."

Veynal smirked, taking a slow sip of wine. "He always did have a taste for playing noble."

Tobias Gray, the former scribe, adjusted his posture. "The contract itself is fair. Favors them, even. They are free to leave should they wish."

Veynal's smirk faded slightly, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face. "Too soft."

Gerrod Holt, the dockhand, shrugged. "Even so, they accepted."

Royce Tannor, the courier, crossed his arms. "For now."

Veynal exhaled, leaning back. "We shall see." His gaze sharpened. "And the fugitives?"

Mara exchanged a glance with the others before answering, "Not just fugitives. Seraphina and Caelum Vaelcrest."

For a brief moment, the room stilled.

Veynal's fingers paused over his goblet. His dark eyes flicked up, sharp as a blade.

"Vaelcrest," he repeated, as if testing the weight of the name.

Mara nodded. "They live."

Silence stretched between them before Veynal let out a quiet chuckle.

"That is interesting." He swirled the wine in his goblet, watching the deep crimson liquid. "Aldric has acquired something valuable. A fallen noble house, full of knowledge, resentment, and ambition." He took a sip, the smirk returning. "Useful."

Then, just as quickly, his amusement dimmed.

"But…" he exhaled, "…he is too trusting. His terms are too generous. He plays the benevolent lord, but he forgets—trust is a currency rarely repaid."

He glanced at the five operatives. "Will I need to clean up his mistake?"

Mara shook her head. "He accounted for everything. If something failed, there was a contingency. If that contingency failed, there was another. He left nothing to chance."

Veynal chuckled, shaking his head. "That boy. He always did enjoy stacking the deck." He exhaled, pleased. "No one will suspect House Ravensbourne's involvement."

His gaze lifted, the shadows in the room deepening.

"I will tell the Duke myself."

Duke Alaric Ravensbourne

Duke Alaric Ravensbourne sat in his private study, a fire crackling low in the hearth. A man of great presence, his mere silence held more weight than most men's words. His features were sharp, weathered by both war and politics, yet his gaze held an undeniable shrewdness.

Veynal stood before him, the report in hand. He read aloud, voice smooth and measured.

With each passage detailing Aldric's plan, the Duke's lips curled ever so slightly. Every contingency, every shadow maneuver, every diversion—all of it executed flawlessly.

The glass of wine in his hand never wavered.

Then came the report on the fugitives.

Alaric's smirk deepened—until the name was spoken.

Vaelcrest.

His fingers paused over the goblet.

"Unexpected," he murmured.

Veynal set the parchment down. "A valuable asset."

Alaric nodded slowly. "Aldric has acquired something dangerous."

"Or useful," Veynal countered.

The Duke exhaled, considering. "Perhaps both." Then his expression shifted slightly, his gaze turning critical. "The contract?"

Veynal hesitated. "Too lenient."

A shadow passed over Alaric's features. He took a slow sip of his wine before setting it down.

"He will learn."

Veynal smirked. "You won't intervene?"

"No." The Duke's voice was calm, deliberate. "He must experience both victory and consequence. If he wishes to trust, let him see the cost of misplaced faith."

He leaned back, fingers steepling. "For now, I am pleased. A perfect plan, too perfect." His gaze sharpened. "No one will suspect us. That is what matters."

Veynal inclined his head.

"As always, my Lord."

In the Shadows of Esmoran

The flickering torches in Castle Casitas cast jagged shadows across the war chamber's stone walls. The air was thick with the scent of old parchment, burning wax, and the faint, lingering traces of steel polish.

Lord Garrick Estanial sat at the long oak table, his gloved fingers drumming a slow, measured rhythm against the wood. His piercing green eyes, cold as winter glass, flicked over the assembled officers before him. Their faces were taut with tension, their postures stiff as if waiting for an axe to fall.

Before Garrick, a collection of reports lay neatly stacked, each detailing a failure. Not one, not two—but all of them.

His spies had vanished.

Not captured. Not executed. Vanished.

That was what troubled him the most.

He let the silence stretch, pressing down on the room like a weight. The officers shifted under his gaze, but none dared speak.

Finally, he leaned back in his chair and broke the silence.

"Where are my spies?"

A cold whisper in the dimly lit chamber.

No one answered immediately.

His second-in-command, a grizzled war captain named Edran Holt, exchanged a glance with Silas, the head of intelligence. Silas, a thin man with ink-stained fingers and the sharp, nervous look of a man who spent his life deciphering secrets, swallowed hard.

"We… have lost contact, my Lord," Silas admitted at last. "Every operative we placed within Ravensbourne has disappeared."

The drumming of Garrick's fingers stopped.

His gaze turned razor-sharp. "Disappeared?"

Silas hesitated before continuing. "No bodies. No traces. No last reports. Not even an emergency signal."

A slow, simmering rage settled in Garrick's chest.

"Impossible," he muttered.

His spies were not amateurs. They were trained for survival, schooled in evasion, deception, and escape. Even if compromised, at least one of them should have escaped, sent out a distress signal, left a message.

But there was nothing.

The war room was silent, save for the crackling of the torches.

Garrick's fingers curled into a fist.

"What was the last report?"

Silas licked his lips. "The final piece of intelligence we received was regarding… a confrontation involving Cedric Vauldin."

The chamber darkened with the weight of those words.

Garrick's eyes flickered dangerously.

"Osric's cousin?"

Silas gave a tight nod. "Yes, my Lord. He was caught in an altercation, seemingly drawn into a trap. Our agents were observing the event. And after that…" He exhaled sharply. "Silence."

Garrick sat motionless.

His mind turned over the details, piecing together the implications.

Something was wrong.

If Cedric had been captured or killed, there would have been rumors, whispers, something leaking through the usual channels. But there was nothing—only an unnatural, suffocating silence.

His spies had not merely been caught.

They had been erased.

His fingers drummed against the table once more, slower this time. Calculating.

"Describe the trap."

Silas hesitated before pulling out a parchment, unfolding it with slightly unsteady hands. "The details were incomplete. What we know is that Cedric was lured to a meeting under false pretenses. He was led to believe he was negotiating an alliance—but the location was compromised."

Garrick's lips thinned. "By whom?"

Silas inhaled deeply. "Unknown, my Lord. The intelligence was fragmented. Our men suspected an outside force had manipulated the situation, but we do not know who. It was precise. Too precise."

Garrick's fists clenched.

He hated this.

Hated being blind.

No enemies to name. No faces to punish. No leads to pursue.

Only silence.

Edran exhaled sharply. "This does not happen, my Lord. Not to us. If we lost one or two men, I would assume carelessness or bad luck. But an entire unit? Gone? And without a trace?"

Silas nodded grimly. "Whoever did this… they did not just kill our spies. They erased them. It was deliberate."

A cold realization crept into Garrick's thoughts.

This was not random.

This was not luck.

Someone had moved against them. Someone with knowledge, skill, and precision.

And worst of all—they had done it without leaving a single clue behind.

His fingers dug into the table.

Edran's voice broke the silence. "If we do not know who did this, how do we retaliate?"

Garrick exhaled slowly. His usual smirk was gone, replaced by something colder. Sharper.

"We don't retaliate," he said. "Not yet."

Silas looked up, startled. "My Lord?"

Garrick's green eyes gleamed with something dark.

"We wait. We watch. We let them believe they've won."

He pushed himself up from his chair, the wood scraping against stone.

"And when they finally show themselves…"

A slow, predatory smile crept onto his lips.

"We bury them."