chapter 17.3

As soon as he returned to the small rented room in the common inn within Tanivar's fortress, Alcard made sure to secure the door behind him. His fingers pressed firmly against the handle, testing its strength, ensuring that no one could enter without his knowledge. The weight of the mission pressed heavily on his shoulders, but he forced himself to remain composed. With careful precision, he lit a small lantern on the aged wooden desk, casting flickering shadows against the walls. The dim glow illuminated the documents he had stolen from Tanivar's archives, now stacked neatly in front of him like pieces of a puzzle waiting to be assembled.

His eyes scanned the papers meticulously, flipping through page after page, absorbing every detail with a mind sharpened by years of experience. Most of what he found confirmed his suspicions—irregularities in financial records, large sums of money transferred to unknown accounts, and off-the-books transactions funneled toward unnamed mercenaries and clandestine activities. Tanivar was not merely a corrupt noble, but a man operating an intricate web of deceit, using his position of power to further his own wealth and influence.

"So this is the truth behind your grandeur, Tanivar," Alcard muttered, his voice tinged with disdain. "Not a ruler, not a leader—just another parasite feeding on the chaos of Middle Earth."

His fingers tightened around the edges of one document—a ledger detailing illicit arms deals. Tanivar had been purchasing large quantities of weapons, but the shipments were unaccounted for in any official military record. Where were they going? Who were they arming? The implications of this were vast, and Alcard knew he had stumbled onto something far bigger than simple greed.

As he flipped through the stack, a thin, folded slip of parchment slipped out from between the pages, fluttering silently to the floor. Alcard narrowed his eyes, reaching down to pick it up. The texture of the paper was different from the rest—lighter, more delicate, and deliberately hidden. His instincts immediately sharpened. This was not just another financial report.

Unfolding the note carefully, he found a single line scrawled in hurried, almost frantic handwriting:

"Meeting at the southern tower, midnight."

Alcard's brow furrowed. No signature, no seal—nothing to indicate who had written it or who it was intended for. A secret meeting? A rendezvous arranged by Tanivar? Or perhaps something else entirely? The more he stared at the message, the more questions it raised.

"Is this a summons? Or a warning?" he wondered. "And if this was meant for Tanivar, then who is he meeting in the dead of night?"

He clenched the note in his hand, a slow smirk forming on his lips. Whatever this was, it was important enough to be concealed within the archives. If Tanivar was truly orchestrating something from the shadows, then Alcard had just found the perfect opportunity to witness it firsthand.

He cast a glance toward the small, rusted clock perched on the desk. Midnight was still hours away—enough time to prepare, plan, and disappear into the night without drawing attention. The thought of confronting the unknown in enemy territory sent a familiar surge of adrenaline through him. This was what he thrived in—the thrill of the hunt, the pursuit of truth hidden in the darkness.

"If this meeting is connected to Tanivar's schemes, then I need to know," he murmured, slipping the note into the folds of his cloak.

With swift efficiency, he secured the remaining documents, hiding them within a false compartment under the floorboard, ensuring that even if someone searched his room, they would find nothing. Once everything was concealed, he pulled his dark cloak over his shoulders, adjusting it carefully to hide the weapons strapped beneath. If this was a trap, he would be ready.

Moving with practiced stealth, Alcard slipped out of the inn, merging seamlessly into the quiet shadows of the fortress. The night air was crisp and cool, carrying the distant scent of burning torches from the main courtyard. The fortress corridors were still alive with scattered activity—patrolling guards, passing servants, the occasional drunken noble stumbling out of a hall—but Alcard navigated through them like a ghost, always choosing the less-traveled paths.

His destination: the southern tower.

As he neared the structure, something immediately felt off. Unlike the rest of the fortress, which still held traces of life even in the dead of night, the southern tower stood in unnatural silence. The windows above were dark, no flickering candlelight, no signs of occupation. It looked… abandoned.

Yet, just as he was about to step closer, he caught movement in the shadows.

A figure, cloaked and hooded, slipped into the tower's entrance, moving swiftly and deliberately, as if they had done this many times before. The sight confirmed one thing—someone was indeed meeting here tonight. But who? And for what reason?

Alcard exhaled slowly, steadying his heartbeat. "Looks like I'm not the only one drawn to this mystery."

He waited, watching, ensuring that no one else followed before he advanced. His fingers brushed against the hilt of his hidden dagger, a familiar weight that reassured him. If this meeting turned hostile, he wouldn't hesitate to strike first.

Pressing his body against the stone wall, he listened carefully at the entrance, but no voices came from inside. That was unusual. Were they waiting for someone? Or were they already speaking in hushed tones, deep within the tower's depths?

Alcard weighed his options. Rushing in blindly was out of the question—if this was a trap, it was exactly what they wanted. Instead, he chose patience, allowing the moment to stretch, analyzing every detail.

The entrance door was slightly ajar. Not fully open, not closed—a subtle invitation, or perhaps a careless mistake?

Deciding that there was no turning back, Alcard took one final breath, steadied his senses, and pushed the door open just enough to slip inside.

Darkness swallowed him whole.

The air inside was stale and cool, heavy with the scent of aged stone and lingering dust. His boots barely made a sound against the worn wooden floors as he moved forward. Somewhere ahead, he sensed movement, the shifting of fabric, the quiet inhalation of breath.

Someone was here.

Alcard's pulse remained steady as he pressed forward, deeper into the unknown, his instincts sharpened like the edge of a blade. Whatever was happening in this tower, whatever secrets were being exchanged, he was determined to uncover them.

And if danger awaited him in the dark, then so be it.

He had walked in shadows for far too long to fear them now.

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