Chapter 226: The Falcon’s Shadow

The fortress held its breath.

Days passed since Eryndor's pyre turned to ash, and yet the ripples of his betrayal continued to spread through the citadel like ink through water. Trust, that most precious of commodities, was now hoarded, questioned, dissected. Whispers bloomed in every hallway. Smiles were rare. Silence—oppressive.

Lysara walked through the training yard, her boots thudding softly against the stone. She no longer wore her Falcon crest; it felt like a target. She was flanked by two trusted guards, both handpicked by Kael and sworn into secrecy under blood oath.

Eyes followed her. Some admiring. Some doubting. Some afraid.

She was the Falcon now—not just by name, but by burden.

She stopped near the archery range, where a young soldier, barely twenty, struggled to tighten his bowstring. He fumbled, and the string snapped against his face.

"Again," Lysara said sharply.

The boy looked up, startled. "L-Lady Lysara?"

"You're weak in the fingers," she continued, approaching. "You're relying on your arms. Strength without control is useless."

He blinked. "Yes, my lady."

She stepped behind him, adjusting his stance. "Pull with your back. Anchor with your core. Let the bow feel like an extension of your breath."

He tried again. The arrow flew—not perfectly, but it landed on the outer edge of the target.

"Better," she said. "You'll survive the first volley. If you're lucky."

He smiled nervously. "Thank you, Lady Falcon."

Lysara's expression twitched. That name again.

She turned away, but the moment burned in her mind. If the traitors knew her codename, and if they had marked her in their riddles—was she being watched? Or... was she being tested?

In the command tower, Kael and Riven pored over the contents of the hidden study once again. They had not told anyone of its discovery. Not even the council. Especially not the council.

"The Ember will rise when the Hawk falls," Riven recited, tapping the coded message with his gloved finger. "They killed Veylan. That much is certain."

Kael paced. "And tried to set me up as the fall guy. A puppet with a heroic reputation."

"But they failed," Riven said.

Kael stopped, his face grim. "Did they?"

He opened a scroll—an inventory list from two weeks ago. There was a discrepancy. Three healing tonics had gone missing. At first, it had seemed like a clerical error. Now it felt like a breadcrumb.

"They're still stealing supplies," Kael muttered. "Using our own system against us."

"Then we trap them with it."

Riven leaned over the map table, drawing a red circle around the southern catacombs.

"These tunnels haven't been guarded in months. If you were moving something—letters, weapons, poison—it'd be the perfect route."

Kael nodded. "Set the bait. We'll be waiting."

That evening, Lysara was summoned to a small chamber lit only by candlelight. Kael stood by the window, watching the horizon.

"You summoned me?" she asked.

He turned. "I need your help to lure the traitors."

"I thought you and Riven had that under control."

"We do. But they're not after us anymore. They're after you."

Lysara raised a brow. "Wonderful."

"We'll leak false intel," Kael explained. "A shipment of rare alchemical crystals, moving through the southern catacombs. Word will spread, and they'll bite."

"And I'm the one who carries the news?"

"No," he said. "You're the one they try to kill to silence it."

She blinked. "That's a hell of a plan."

"Which is why I'm only asking," Kael said quietly. "Not ordering."

Lysara's eyes narrowed. "If it draws them out, I'll do it."

Kael hesitated, then added, "You'll be followed. Riven and I will be in the shadows, but once you go down those tunnels... you'll be alone until they reveal themselves."

She exhaled. "I've always preferred honesty over comfort."

At midnight, the trap was set.

Lysara moved through the fortress, deliberately whispering to key contacts—people she suspected might be compromised. The story was simple: a fragile shipment of magical crystal, too volatile to move through the main gate, rerouted through the catacombs. Worth a fortune. Untraceable. Vulnerable.

She saw it in their eyes—the shift. Some flinched. Others went quiet too quickly. One man tried too hard to appear disinterested.

By the time she slipped into the tunnel beneath the old chapel, the bait was already being sniffed.

The southern catacombs were damp and cold, reeking of old dust and forgotten bones. The tunnel narrowed, forcing her to duck. She walked slowly, hand on her hidden blade, every sense stretched thin.

Then—footsteps.

She didn't turn. She simply kept walking.

Then a whisper, barely audible: "You should not have come alone."

Lysara stopped.

Two figures emerged from the shadows. Hoods. Daggers. No insignia.

"Who sent you?" she asked calmly.

One of them chuckled. "Does it matter? You're not leaving."

"You don't want to do this," she warned.

"Oh, but we do," said the second, lunging forward.

Lysara dodged, pivoting low. Her blade came up in a flash of steel, slashing across his thigh. He screamed and staggered, but the first assassin came next—faster.

They fought in silence, steel whispering against stone. She was faster, but they were trained to kill. Her heart pounded—not from fear, but calculation. Time. She had to buy time.

She ducked under a blow, stabbed upward—and missed. The assassin punched her in the ribs. She felt bone creak.

A second blade came for her throat—

And stopped short.

A throwing dagger pierced the attacker's neck from the shadows.

Kael stepped into the tunnel.

"Sorry we're late," he said grimly.

Riven appeared behind him, finishing the wounded assassin with a flick of his knife.

Lysara wiped blood from her mouth. "I had it handled."

Kael gave her a look. "You're welcome."

They dragged the bodies to a sealed chamber—one used for plague victims during the Siege of Blackridge. No one went there anymore.

Kael leaned over the corpses, inspecting.

"Both fresh recruits," Riven said. "Not high up."

"But they knew about the shipment," Kael muttered. "Which means the leak is real."

He pulled a scroll from the belt of the second assassin. It contained another coded message, with only one line decipherable without a key:

"The Ember watches from the Glass Tower."

Riven frowned. "That's not a place."

"No," Kael agreed. "It's a metaphor."

Lysara caught on. "The Council Tower. Glass windows. High security. Only the trusted enter."

Kael stood slowly.

"The Ember is one of us."

As dawn broke over the fortress once again, Kael returned to his quarters—but he did not sleep. He stared out at the training yard, where new recruits stumbled through formations, and veterans corrected them with tired voices.

The war was no longer just outside their gates.

It was here.

Within these walls.

And the next battle wouldn't be fought with swords—but with secrets.