Chapter 13: The Weight of War

Aedric had always known that war wasn't just fought with swords and shadows.

It was fought in the silence that followed.

The vault raid had been a victory, but as he sat in the dim glow of the safe house's lantern, he couldn't shake the heavy stillness that had settled over the slums. Velmire was waiting. The people, the gangs, the merchants, even the beggars—they all held their breath, watching.

Would Gorran fall apart, or would he strike back harder than ever?

Aedric didn't have an answer.

Not yet.

Morning came slowly.

The first hints of dawn spilled into the streets, casting a dull golden glow over Velmire's rooftops. The slums—usually noisy with merchants shouting and thieves slipping through the crowds—were unusually quiet.

Lirian noticed it too. She leaned against the wooden frame of the safe house's entrance, one leg bent, a dagger twirling lazily between her fingers. Her sharp eyes swept the street below.

"Feels off," she murmured.

Aedric, sitting nearby, adjusted the gloves on his hands. "They're waiting."

"For what?"

Aedric exhaled. "For Gorran to show weakness."

Lirian flicked the dagger into the air, caught it effortlessly. "And if he doesn't?"

Aedric clenched his jaw. If Gorran didn't crumble under pressure, if he regained control, then all of this—the rebellion, the Phantom's growing legend—would mean nothing. It wasn't enough to strike him.

He had to be broken.

Aedric stood. "I need to see the city myself."

Dressing in plain, tattered clothes, Aedric left the safe house with Lirian close behind. They moved through the winding alleys, sticking to the shadows, careful not to draw attention.

The slums were different.

Windows were shut. Doors were locked. People whispered, their eyes darting toward the Rusted Fang, Gorran's main stronghold, where his most trusted enforcers gathered.

At the marketplace, merchants sold their wares in hushed tones, their usual loud bargaining reduced to murmurs. No one wanted to draw attention.

No one wanted to be next.

Aedric paused by a small group of beggars huddled near the remains of a broken fountain. He crouched beside them, lowering his hood just enough for one of them—a frail old man with milky eyes—to recognize him.

The old man stiffened. "You shouldn't be here, Phantom."

Aedric kept his voice low. "What's changed?"

The beggar swallowed, glancing around before whispering, "Gorran's looking for you."

Aedric had expected that much. "And?"

The old man hesitated. "He's… calling in outside help."

Lirian, standing nearby, stiffened slightly. "What kind of help?"

The beggar shook his head. "Mercenaries. But not just blades-for-hire. He's looking for something worse." His voice dropped lower. "Something that can match your power."

Aedric felt a chill creep down his spine.

They left the marketplace quickly, slipping into an empty alley.

Lirian crossed her arms. "You heard him. Gorran knows you're different."

Aedric nodded. "He's afraid."

"And desperate." Lirian's eyes darkened. "That makes him dangerous."

Aedric exhaled, running a hand through his hair. He had hoped to keep his abilities hidden for longer, to let the legend of the Phantom grow without exposing just how much of it was real.

But Gorran had seen enough.

And now he was searching for something to counter him.

"We need to act before he finds whatever he's looking for," Aedric said.

Lirian smirked. "That sounds like a plan. What are you thinking?"

Aedric's mind raced. Crushing Gorran's finances had been a wound—but not a fatal one. If he wanted to bring him down, he needed to cut deeper.

"We take his enforcers," Aedric said finally. "His strongest men—the ones who keep his empire in place."

Lirian raised an eyebrow. "You're suggesting we go after Gorran's top lieutenants? That's bold."

Aedric nodded. "If we kill them, his organization collapses faster than he can recover."

She considered it for a moment before grinning. "I like it. But we'll need information first."

Aedric agreed. "Then we start with the weakest link."

The Weeping Rat was one of Velmire's filthiest taverns, hidden in a damp alleyway where only the most desperate criminals gathered. It was where Gorran's lower-ranked men met to drink away their fear.

And one of them?

Was about to betray him.

Aedric and Lirian sat at a corner table, their hoods drawn low. Across from them, a thin, rat-faced man named Jex fidgeted with a cup of stale ale. His fingers trembled, and his eyes darted nervously toward the tavern entrance.

"You sure about this?" Jex whispered. "Gorran finds out I'm talking to you—"

"He won't," Aedric interrupted. "Not if you do what you're told."

Jex swallowed hard. "What do you want?"

Aedric leaned forward slightly. "Names."

Jex hesitated, then exhaled sharply. "Alright… Gorran's got three top lieutenants still running things for him."

"Go on," Lirian urged.

"The first is Vask the Red. He runs Gorran's muscle—brutal, doesn't ask questions, kills for fun."

Aedric nodded. "And the second?"

Jex licked his lips. "That'd be Kerran Blacktooth. He's in charge of Gorran's weapons trade. Without him, Gorran's men will be fighting with clubs and kitchen knives."

"And the third?"

Jex hesitated. His hands clenched around his cup. "That's the dangerous one."

Aedric narrowed his eyes. "Who?"

Jex looked around nervously before leaning in. "Her name's Senna Hollow. Gorran's right hand. She's smart, real smart. People say she's got connections to the nobles. Even rumors that she's got…" He lowered his voice. "Magic."

Aedric exchanged a look with Lirian.

Gorran had three pillars holding his empire up. If they fell, so did he.

And now, Aedric had their names.

Jex finished his drink quickly, wiping his forehead. "That's all I got. You didn't hear it from me."

Aedric slid a small pouch of coin across the table. "You did well."

Jex grabbed the pouch greedily and disappeared into the night.

Lirian tapped her fingers against the table. "So? Which one do we go after first?"

Aedric's golden eyes glowed faintly under his hood.

"We start with Vask the Red."

As Aedric and Lirian left the tavern, the slums stirred with tension.

Velmire was still holding its breath, waiting for the next strike.

And soon?

It would come like a storm.