The setting sun cast long, distorted shadows across the rocky ground as Kaelen, his sword drawn, cautiously approached the area where the bandits had reportedly made their camp. The air hung heavy and still, carrying only the faint, metallic tang that raised the hairs on the back of his neck. This wasn't the stale scent of an abandoned camp; it was the undeniable odour of recent violence.
He moved with a practiced tread, his eyes scanning the clearing. The crude shelters were overturned, supplies scattered. Signs of a struggle were everywhere – gouges in the earth, splintered wood, and… blood. Patches of dark, drying blood stained the rocks and dirt, far more than a minor skirmish would produce. But there were no bodies.
"Glidos!" Kaelen yelled, his voice tight with apprehension. "Ryker! Borin!"
Only the wind answered, rustling through the sparse brush at the edge of the clearing. He knelt, examining the bloodstains. These weren't isolated drips; these were splashes, pools, clear indicators of fatal wounds. Yet, the bodies were gone.
A knot of dread tightened in his gut. He had grown up on the harsh streets of a forgotten city with Glidos. They had learned to steal, to fight, and eventually, to kill side-by-side. Glidos wasn't just a comrade; he was the closest thing Kaelen had ever known to family. To find him gone, like this, without a trace…
(Internal Monologue - Kaelen: Who did this? Clean. Too clean. No bodies to identify the weapon, the method. Just… gone. My men. Glidos… He was rough, aye, but loyal to the coin, and loyal to me. They didn't deserve this. A quick death in a fight, maybe. But this… this is different.)
He rose, grip tightening on his sword. His usual calculating demeanor, focused on survival and profit, was momentarily overwhelmed by a surge of raw fury. These weren't just disposable assets; they were faces, voices, shared histories. He traced a boot print in the dirt – unfamiliar, not one of his men's. The print was sharp, the stride long and deliberate. A professional.
He scoured the surrounding area, searching for drag marks, signs of burial, anything. But the ground offered no further clues. It was as if the earth itself had swallowed them whole. The anger solidified into a cold, hard resolve. He didn't know who was responsible, but they would pay. He would find them. He would make them regret ever crossing paths with Glidos and his crew.
"I'll find you," he muttered, his voice low and fierce. "And when I do… you'll wish you'd left a body for the crows."
After a moment of quiet, grim contemplation, acknowledging the loss in his own way, Kaelen sheathed his sword. Grieving would have to wait. He had a meeting. A meeting with the young lord he served, the one he privately viewed with a mixture of disdain and cautious respect – disdain for his youth and oddities, respect for the undeniable, if unsettling, power he occasionally glimpsed.
He turned his back on the silent, bloody clearing and began the journey back towards Descate, his steps heavier than when he had arrived. The image of Glidos's laughing face, remembered from a rare moment of shared levity, flashed in his mind, fueling the cold fire in his belly.
By the time Kaelen reached Descate, the pre-dusk light was softening the edges of the town. The Gilded Mug, a squat, inviting building, stood at the edge of the market square. He pushed open the heavy wooden door and stepped inside, the scent of stale ale and cooking meat filling his nostrils. His eyes immediately found Malrik.
His lord sat alone at a small table in the corner, his masked face impassive, watching the tavern's patrons with that unsettling stillness Kaelen had come to expect.
Kaelen approached, forcing his features into a semblance of his usual mercenary detachment, though the recent shock and grief still simmered beneath the surface. He bowed, a little stiffly.
"My Lord Malrik. Forgive my tardiness," he said, his voice rougher than intended. "My… personal matter took longer than anticipated." The lie felt hollow, even to him.
Malrik's masked gaze shifted to him. Kaelen couldn't read his expression, but he felt the weight of his attention. He saw Malrik's head tilt slightly, a subtle acknowledgement of Kaelen's state.
(Internal Monologue - Malrik: Kaelen. Late. And visibly affected. The 'personal matter' was clearly his rendezvous with his bandit contacts. He found the scene. My 'gift' from last night. His grief is… unexpected. He shows more genuine emotion for these thugs than he ever has towards me or his station. Glidos, he called one of them. Must have been more than just coin between them. Interesting. A weakness? Or a potential leverage point?)
Malrik remained silent, his usual mode of communication. He observed Kaelen closely – the slight tremor in his hands, the unnatural tension in his shoulders, the veiled sadness in his eyes despite the attempted stoicism.
(Internal Monologue - Malrik: He found the blood. But not the bodies. He would be searching for clues, for the identity of the killer. My sword work is distinctive. The slashes, the angles… he would recognize the hand that wielded the blade. That was the risk I calculated last night. Leaving the bodies would have directly pointed to me. Dispose of the evidence. Eliminate the trail.)
Malrik recalled the brutal efficiency of his actions after securing Celine. The swift, silent work of gathering the corpses, dragging them away from the immediate vicinity of the attack. Finding a suitable, secluded spot. The controlled application of mana-infused fire, hot enough to consume flesh and bone quickly, leaving only ash. The painstaking process of burying the remains deep, scattering the ash, leaving no trace for even a skilled tracker like Kaelen to follow. It had been a necessary, calculated step. Ruthless, yes, but effective. Kaelen's inability to find anything confirmed the success of the operation.
(Internal Monologue - Malrik: He seeks revenge. A predictable, primitive response. Useful if directed appropriately. For now, his ignorance serves my purpose. He cannot identify me, so he cannot act against me directly. He is still valuable as a shield, a distraction, a source of limited information. His loyalty, always conditional, is now complicated by personal vendetta. Another factor to observe, to integrate into the overall data set.)
Malrik gave another curt nod, acknowledging Kaelen's apology without comment. There was no need for pleasantries, no need to feign ignorance or sympathy.
Kaelen hesitated for a moment, clearly wanting to say more, perhaps confide in his lord, but the silent, masked figure offered no opening. He simply stood there, waiting. The weight of his own grief and the silence of his master pressed down on him.
"Shall we… return, My Lord?" Kaelen finally asked, his voice flat.
Malrik turned and exited the tavern without a word, his movement silent and efficient. Kaelen followed, the conversation left hanging in the air, replaced by the unspoken understanding that Malrik had registered his state but offered neither solace nor inquiry.
The journey back to the Lodge was silent, save for the crunch of their boots on the dirt road. Kaelen rode behind Malrik, lost in his grim thoughts, while Malrik's mind was already shifting focus.
(Internal Monologue - Malrik: Elara Meadowlight. The Woodcutter's Wife. A hidden power. A necessary alliance. Three days. Three days until training begins. I need to be ready. Physically, my body must be able to withstand the rigors of her techniques. Mentally, my mana control must be absolute, allowing for the precise manipulations required for presence suppression.)
Upon returning to the Lodge, Malrik dismissed Kaelen with a wave of his hand, not bothering with the usual formalities. He retreated to his room, his mind already formulating a rigorous training regimen. For the next seventy-two hours, the world outside ceased to exist. There would be no patrols, no investigations, only the relentless pursuit of self-improvement. Hours dedicated to brutal physical conditioning, pushing his body to its limits. Hours spent in the Nexciva breathing technique, not just for replenishment, but for the intricate weaving and manipulation of mana pathways, refining his internal energy into a tool of absolute control and, critically, suppression.
He needed to understand the blind spots Elara had exploited, the subtle ways she had masked her presence. His failure was unacceptable, a glaring weakness that had been exposed. He would learn from her. He would absorb her knowledge, make it his own.
(Internal Monologue - Malrik: She is skilled. Dangerous. A challenge. But challenges are opportunities. I will train. I will prepare. And in three days, I will go to the cabin. And I will learn how to disappear.)
The silent vow echoed in his mind as he began his solitary, demanding preparation, the memory of Elara's cold eyes and the feel of steel at his throat serving as potent motivation. The price of oversight had been steep, but the potential reward – the mastery of invisibility itself – was worth the cost.