The scent of salt, decaying fish, and damp wood filled the air as Sigurd and Eleanor stepped onto the uneven planks of Treon’s lower docks.

  This place was a far cry from the pristine infrastructure of the Revolutionary Navy’s holdings. Here in the upper docks, progress had only managed to clear away the most obvious dirt, leaving behind a haphazard network of patched stones and worn wooden piers that still needed restoration but were functional enough that the new government had deemed them a secondary issue—at least until the current emergency passed.

  The riverwalk buzzed with the sounds of maritime life—waves slapping against hulls, the creak of wooden beams shifting with the tide, and the occasional squawk of a gull scavenging for scraps. All in all, it seemed a perfectly normal day.

  Sigurd adjusted the frayed collar of his tunic, leaning heavily on the walking stick that completed his disguise as the father of a weary family seeking affordable fish. Eleanor, dressed in a rough woolen shawl, portrayed the role of his beleaguered wife with natural ease. Their supposed child—a bundle of rags clutched in Eleanor’s arms—enhanced the illusion, though they had to be mindful not to attract too much attention.

  I doubt any of these people have the skills necessary to see through my song, but any real spy might be able to, and it’s them we need to hide from. No matter how much better we’ve both gotten, a cover takes just a little mistake to be blown.

  Despite the looming siege, though, the atmosphere wasn’t too different from the usual. Fishermen shouted over each other to sell their catches, and dockworkers complained about late shipments.

  Sigurd was relieved to find that the snippets of conversations he gathered from around them showed an underlying confidence in the Revolution’s ability to hold the city. Even those who feared for their jobs felt reassured by the government’s promise to support them during the siege. Still, there was tension beneath the surface—a wariness that told him these people weren’t ignorant of what could happen.

  Sigurd, however, was not here for fish. His keen gaze flickered across the crowd, seeking the telltale signs of hidden dealings—furtive glances, tense shoulders, the subtle weight of concealed weapons. If it truly existed, a royalist cell would not be so brazen as to gather openly, but desperation made even the most careful people slip, and the time to act was about to end, as the wards would be raised in two days. Smugglers, spies, informants—they all had a language, a pattern of behavior that was impossible to erase completely, and Sigurd knew how to read it very well.

  After their second sweep without any find, they stopped for lunch in a nearby tavern. They chose a booth that was hidden in a corner but still gave them a good view of the room. Predictably, it was as soon as they had sent their orders for hearty soup off with the waitress that they found their quarry.

  “Do you see it?” Eleanor murmured under her breath.

  Sigurd gave the subtlest of nods. Ahead, an aging fisherman was being questioned by a clerk whose presence felt out of place among the dockworkers. Oh, he had made sure to dress down, but even then the weave of his clothes was too fine, and he hadn’t been able to abandon the vanity of a hat, though at least he’d forgone a feather. That they were walking directly towards the stairs also meant they had some coin to pay for a private room. Not something fishermen splurge for.

  The exchange was too stiff, too measured—business, certainly, but not the sort that involved fish. The old man’s hands twitched with nervous energy, while the clerk’s fingers curled around a small leather pouch, tapping against it in a rhythmic pattern.

  They passed close enough to hear the fisherman’s grumbling. “It’ll be ready when it’s ready. Hard to get good product with the number of boats in the water.”

  The clerk, a thin man with ink-stained fingers, adjusted his glasses, another telltale that he belonged to a wealthier social class. “The order is expected, and no delays will be tolerated. Our associates are already preparing the house. The dinner must be served with the freshest catch.”

  A harmless conversation—if one did not know how to listen.

  Sigurd did. He grasped the subtext immediately. In normal times, he’d have simply chalked it up to regular smuggling and left them alone, but these were not normal times, and the War Council had given him a precise mission. They knew someone was snooping around the patrol officers’ quarters, which meant they wanted to know when the navy did its sweeps of the Great Slitherer.

  Normally, Lady Amelia's shadows would have done this kind of work, but apparently, they are all needed up north. I didn’t even know she had a limit with how omniscient she seems, but it’s good to know she’s still a mortal.

  The likely goal was to smuggle soldiers into Treon before the wards were raised. The reinforcements for the royalists would be hidden among the crates and barrels that came in under the guise of legitimate trade, given that the fishermen had another two days before the wards came down, it would have to happen now.

  A casual tug on Eleanor’s shawl signaled his intent. They needed to hear more. He stood up and feigned a stagger, lurching toward a nearby storage closet.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  “Just a moment, dear,” he wheezed, pulling Eleanor close as if seeking privacy. She played along, pressing against the wooden bathroom door as he fiddled with the handle, positioning them close enough to listen.

  Above them, on the second floor of the tavern overlooking the pier, hushed voices carried through the gaps in the warped floorboards.

  “Three shipments confirmed, with more waiting for the signal. You won’t have to think about anything else after they touch the shores.”

  A heavier voice scoffed. “It won’t be enough. Not unless they can breach the inner gate, and I’ve seen how much they’ve been reinforced.”

  A moment of silence stretched. Then, the clerk’s voice again, colder this time. “That’s already being handled.”

  Sigurd exchanged a glance with Eleanor. They had hit the jackpot.

  He exhaled slowly, trying to piece together their next steps. They couldn’t act yet—not without more information. If the royalists had a plan to breach the inner gate, it meant they had contacts within Treon’s defenses. It signified treachery. They needed to identify who was compromised before they could make a move. Better if we can get information about the coming “shipment” too.

  He shifted, letting his hand brush against Eleanor’s fingers in a subtle sign of readiness. Once the clerk’s business at the docks was concluded, they would need to track him down and discover where he went. If the Revolution wanted to survive the coming siege, they had to dismantle this operation before it could begin.

  A bell tolled in the distance, signaling a shift change among the dockworkers. The crowd thickened as men moved to and from their stations, providing Sigurd and Eleanor with the perfect cover. With one last glance at the shadows above them, they melted into the flow of bodies.

  I hate it when we miss lunch.

  Sigurd and Eleanor navigated the shifting maze of alleys as dusk fell over Treon, following the spies. Thanks to months of relentless training, their steps were silent, and their presence concealed.

  The discovery of the relic beneath the castle had changed everything. It allowed them to refine their abilities with accuracy beyond what Sigurd had thought possible. Their growth was no longer driven by intuition alone but by the precise guidance of the mirror—a privilege bestowed upon them by the Grand Marshal himself. No one could deny them access now, not even the War Council.

  Though Eleanor was still an Expert, he could feel the threshold of the Master tier approaching. Her training had pushed her to the limits, and Sigurd knew it was only a matter of time before she stepped beyond them.

  On the other hand, he was already a Master, but now his bardic magic enhanced his stealth in ways few could comprehend. He was a whisper in the wind, a fleeting thought in a paranoid mind, a melody that dissolved into the darkness.

  The spies moved cautiously, taking winding paths and occasionally doubling back, but it wasn’t enough. Sigurd and Eleanor followed effortlessly, remaining unseen and unheard under the shroud of his [Silent Night].

  However, when they reached the outskirts of the city, the landscape changed. Buildings became sparse, providing little cover. The spies quickened their pace, confident they had lost any pursuers. Eleanor tensed, understanding that moving in the open would be reckless, but Sigurd hummed softly before she could signal for retreat.

  It was a simple tune, a melody of alley cats prowling through the night, drunkards staggering about, and orphans wandering around. But as the words left his lips, the shadows responded. Darkness curled around them like a living entity, cloaking them even as the moon cast its silver light. Under this veil, they pressed on, slipping through the open field unseen.

  The trail led them to a warehouse—an old, crumbling structure that should have long been abandoned. Broken windows gaped like empty eye sockets, and the walls sagged under the moisture-heavy logs that passed for a ceiling. Despite its dilapidated condition, something about the place felt maintained, as though the rot itself was a disguise.

  Eleanor attempted to move forward, but Sigurd caught her wrist. His senses, sharpened by both magic and experience, detected the subtle presence of hidden wards surrounding the structure.

  “We’d be noticed the moment we step inside,” he murmured. “It’s warded. Go get a squadron from the Security Forces.”

  Eleanor frowned but did not argue, as he was the expert when it came to magic. Instead, she turned and vanished back into the night. She would gather enough soldiers to turn this into a full-scale raid.

  Sigurd settled in the shadows outside the warehouse, honing his senses. His bardic magic allowed him to attune to the vibrations in the air, and the murmurs of voices from within drifted toward him like an unseen current.

  At least a dozen men gathered inside. Sigurd listened to their hushed discussion, unraveling their plan piece by piece.

  Apparently, under cover of darkness the next evening, they would take to the river, disguising themselves as simple fishermen. However, their cargo wouldn’t be retrieved from the isthmus’s end, where most patrols would be watching. No, the soldiers waited beneath the water's surface in the middle of the river, using artifacts that allowed them to breathe underwater. They couldn’t cross the entire river, as that would anger the water spirits, but they could get close enough to be picked up without raising suspicion.

  Sigurd’s brows furrowed. The complexity of the plan meant someone within Treon’s defenses had ensured that no patrols would notice the deception. His decision to involve only the Security Forces was the right one, then.

  Just as the planning wound down, movement behind him made him turn. Eleanor had returned, and she wasn’t alone. A larger force than he had expected moved with her. And at their helm was Governor General Dortmund himself.

  Sigurd raised a brow. “I didn’t realize this required your personal touch, General.”

  Dortmund grinned, and for a moment the heavy lines of his face lifted, leaving him to look surprisingly boyish. “Even I need to relax now and then. Leading a proper raid seemed like a fine way to spend the evening.”

  Sigurd chuckled, stepping aside as the men took their positions. He observed the soldiers spreading out from the shadows, efficiently surrounding the warehouse. Eleanor stood beside him, with her hand resting lightly on the hilt of her dagger.

  “These aren’t just smugglers of convenience,” she murmured. “They have resources, artifacts—someone powerful is behind this.”

  Sigurd nodded. “We need to take at least one alive.”

  Dortmund turned back toward them. “We’ll strike on your signal, Sigurd. What do you need?”

  Sigurd considered. A direct assault would flush their quarry out too quickly, forcing them to fight to the death or flee. A more surgical approach was required. He closed his eyes and listened again, feeling the flow of music through him. Words carried through the wood and stone, giving him one last crucial piece of information.

  “Three of them will be leaving in the next five minutes,” he whispered. “If we get them alive, we might be able to take over their roles and deal with an entire squad of infiltrators tomorrow. We must prioritize them, and then we can strike.”

  Dortmund’s grin widened. “A hunt it is, then.”

  Eleanor tensed beside him, but she didn’t question the plan. The trap was laid, and as the enemy spies unwittingly stepped into it, Sigurd allowed himself the smallest, satisfied smile.