The afternoon light filtered through the shattered windows of the warehouse, illuminating the aftermath of the previous night’s battle.

  Broken crates, overturned barrels, and the lingering scent of blood filled the air. A few bodies remained where they had fallen, sprawled across the floor, their expressions frozen in shock and pain. They would be removed and buried properly in due time, but they had another purpose to fulfill for now.

  A day or two aren’t enough for miasma to build up. I did hear there was some trouble with a necromancer in Volten, but it’s already rare enough for one that strong to appear. We just need to make sure a priest comes to bless the grounds once we are done.

  Sigurd paced through the wreckage, committing every detail of the fallen spies’ faces to memory. The cuts and bruises didn’t help, and the paleness of death changed some features, but he had the benefit of having spied on them for more than an hour, so it was just a matter of matching the faces he remembered with what he saw now.

  Eleanor knelt beside one of the corpses, that of a young man, brushing her fingers against the hilt of a fallen dagger. Sigurd knew she had been the one to deliver the final blow. It’s always difficult for children to confront how harsh reality can be. Eleanor is more mature than most, but she’s still young, and her contributions to the revolution have been limited to the less brutal side of the business.

  He hadn’t tried to shield her from the ugliness. She had chosen this path, and he didn’t have the right to contest her decision.

  “I hoped we got them all last time so this wouldn’t need to happen again,” she murmured.

  Sigurd shook his head, testing the strings of his fiddle. “There will always be someone ready to make trouble. That’s the thing with revolutions. Your enemies aren’t likely to play fair when everything they know is on the line.”

  Images of last night’s battle flashed in his mind. Their stealthy approach to the warehouse and the startled cries of the spies as they realized they had been ambushed when the wards went off. The SF closing every exit and boxing the enemy in. Eleanor weaving through the chaos, wielding her daggers with much greater ability than she had been capable of even a month ago. Dortmund cutting down a desperate foe without blinking, looking more relaxed than he had in months. And Sigurd himself, standing in the midst of the turmoil, twisting reality with his song, causing enemies to see phantoms and stumble into deadly blows.

  With the memories still fresh, he turned his gaze back to the task at hand. Their disguises had to be perfect.

  “We’re ready, Bard,” one of the SF officers muttered, adjusting his grip on his belt, which concealed a short sword. “Do your magic.”

  Sigurd set his fiddle to his chin and drew his bow across the strings. Soon, the first few notes reverberated in the cavernous space. The melody was slow at first, creeping through the air like mist. Then he began to sing:

  “Shadows shifting, faces fade,

  Masks of men in twilight made.

  Echoed whispers, borrowed breath,

  Wear their skin and steal their step.”

  The air around them shimmered like the heat rising from summer-baked cobblestones. Eleanor exhaled sharply as her skin prickled, the sensation of change slithering through her veins. The others stiffened, mutely checking out each other as their features twisted and realigned. Their bones adjusted, their muscles reshaped, and their mannerisms warped under Sigurd’s song.

  When the final note faded, the transformation was complete.

  Pleased with his work, he watched as Eleanor reached up and touched her face, feeling a nose that wasn’t hers, lips that were slightly too thin, and the curve of a jaw she had never owned. One of the soldiers turned his hands over, examining unfamiliar scars on his palms. Another swore under his breath, his voice cracking before he cleared his throat and tried again. “Well,” he muttered, rubbing his newly acquired chin. “That was unpleasant.”

  Another man grimaced. “I feel like I’ve been stretched out like old taffy.”

  Eleanor smirked, eerily matching the expression of the woman Sigurd had killed the night before. “I’m sure you’ve never used this ability for nefarious deeds, right?”

  Sigurd chuckled as his own voice shifting seamlessly to match the spy he had taken the guise of. “I’m a law abiding citizen. Now let’s not waste time. We have a meeting to attend.”

  With their disguises in place, they stepped out of the warehouse and, after a walk through the fishing quarter, onto the pier, moving with the confidence of men who belonged. The sky had deepened into shades of orange and purple, casting a dim glow over the quiet docks. The air was thick with the scent of river water and damp wood, and the lapping of waves masked their footsteps as they made their way toward the boats the spies had prepared.

  Stolen story; please report.

  The three men they had spared the night before were waiting for them near the vessels. They leaned against the wooden railing, sharing a flask of something strong-smelling but not drinking beyond minuscule sips. They laughed raucously, and the racket ensured no one would think them different from regular fishermen.

  As they approached, Sigurd inclined his head in greeting. “No trouble, I take it?” His modulated voice was a near-perfect imitation of the spy he had replaced. It always felt a bit eerie to change who he was, but he’d done it enough times by now that he didn’t have any tells, which was why he’d be the only one to speak unless absolutely necessary.

  The tallest of the three, a man with a jagged scar across his cheek, snorted. “Trouble? From these rebel rats? They still think they got all of us with that purge last month.”

  The second spy chuckled darkly. “Pathetic, really. You’d think they’d leave someone smarter in charge. A kid, an old woman, and a soldier are all that they left in Treon.”

  Sigurd smiled, but it wasn’t a pleasant expression. Eleanor mirrored it, the cold amusement in her gaze sending a shiver down the spine of one of the soldiers behind them. The spies misinterpreted the expressions as shared cruelty and smirked in response.

  “Come on,” the third man grunted, pushing off from the railing. “We should get moving before the current turns against us.”

  After that, they climbed into the boats, the wood creaking beneath their weight. Sigurd took up the oars along with the others, pushing away from the dock.

  The Great Slitherer lay in darkness, illuminated only by the faint glow of Treon’s distant lights. The city, receding against the horizon, cast a ghostly reflection on the water, trembling with the river’s currents. Sigurd and his companions sat in silence as their boat bobbed over the waves, with only the occasional splash of an oar disturbing the stillness. Even the real spies, men who had surely spent countless nights navigating these treacherous waters, remained tense with unease.

  No matter that the ancient pact with the spirits remained active, everyone knew better than to trust the Great Slitherer. Still, their sailing went undisturbed.

  This was weird because any fishing boat venturing these waters should be inspected by the decree of the governor general, yet no patrol ships came. No distant lanterns bobbed on the horizon, and no calls demanding identification echoed through the night. This side of the river was empty except for them.

  Sigurd turned his head slightly, just enough to glance at the spies. They seemed unsurprised, though their grips on the wooden edges of the boat were still tight. Testing the waters, he let out a quiet chuckle. “You are all too tense,” he murmured, barely louder than the water lapping against the hull. “We have good people in the patrol offices. They know how to do their jobs.”

  One of the men blinked, momentarily thrown by the comment. His fingers drummed idly against the edge of the boat. “I suppose that’s true,” he admitted after a pause. “The infiltrators from Duke Garva are very good. They’ve done this before.”

  Sigurd tilted his head. “Oh?”

  The spy nodded. “They were used in the Brander Republic a few years back. That was a harder job, but here, with the chaos of a new administration and the upheaval of war? It was almost too easy to slip them in.”

  Sigurd let the words hang in the air, resisting the urge to ask for clarification. They’d been assured that Vicar Damien was on the hunt for these infiltrators, and he was content to leave the matter to the creepy priest.

  Eleanor, however, seemed to think they could push more, and she leaned in slightly. “Sounds like overkill to me,” she commented dryly. “The rebels aren’t that good. You could’ve sent regular people, and they would have done the job.”

  The spies hesitated. There was a palpable shift in their demeanor. One of them exhaled through his nose, eyes darting between Sigurd and Eleanor. “It was the Duke’s order,” he finally said, sounding as if that should be enough. “We need Treon back before they can fully consolidate their hold over Hetnia. The best were needed.”

  That was all they were willing to say. Sigurd could feel them closing up, their gazes becoming more guarded. Any more questions would draw suspicion.

  Just as the tension threatened to tighten, the lead spy raised a hand. “We’re here.”

  The Great Slitherer’s delta was vast, stretching nearly two miles from shore to shore. The sky above was empty of stars, and its darkness reflected in the river’s churning waters. Occasionally, faint flickers of blue light shimmered beneath the surface—elemental spirits shifting in the current. Sigurd had no doubt they watched from below, aware of the boats skimming their domain.

  It’s more surprising that the soldiers can get this far without incurring their wrath. But I suppose they, too, might have ancient artifacts of some kind. Haylich has had control of the river for centuries. It’d be weirder if they didn’t.

  The boats drifted to a stop, and for a while, they remained there, waiting in silence. Then, without warning, a hand erupted from the black water, seizing the edge of the nearest boat.

  A soldier, clad in soaked armor, wrenched himself free from the river’s grasp and tumbled over the side. The wooden boat rocked under the sudden weight, and the men instinctively reached out to steady it. The soldier didn’t bother acknowledging them; instead, he turned and extended his arm downward, pulling the next man aboard.

  More and more soldiers surfaced, in a quiet, methodical process. There was no whispered relief, no sounds of exhaustion—only the steady movement of trained warriors filing onto the boats in a well-rehearsed maneuver.

  Sigurd exchanged a glance with the lead spy, who frowned. There were more men than expected. The plan had been to retrieve a few dozen, but by the time the last soldier hauled himself aboard, the boats were filled nearly to capacity. If this were really a covert mission, they’d have a hard time sneaking all these men into the city. It’s a good thing we went for overkill.

  The lead spy hesitantly voiced this concern. “We might be too noticeable like th—”

  The words barely left his lips before a sharp slap echoed in the air. One of the soldiers struck him across the face, sending him staggering back. The force of it wasn’t enough to knock him over, but it silenced him instantly.

  “You won’t question the Duke’s directives,” the soldier growled.

  The spy clutched his cheek but nodded quickly, bowing his head. A quiet understanding passed through the group—no one else would say anything.

  The tallest soldier among them, wearing a decorated chest plate that gleamed even in the faint moonlight, stood up. His gaze swept over the assembled men, cold and commanding. “We will make for the shore,” he announced. “I don’t want to hear a single whisper. Once we touch the ground, you are to send the boats back in the deep waters and let the currents destroy them.”

  Sigurd nodded, falling into place like the others. His outward demeanor was one of strict obedience, but his mind worked furiously inside.

  They’d been given the perfect opportunity.

  As they began to row, he subtly adjusted the boats’ trajectory. It was a small change, barely noticeable, shifting them just slightly northward. Instead of heading straight for the fishing pier, they veered toward a more secluded section of the shore, where the ambush awaited.

  If the spies noticed, they remained silent. Perhaps they were too focused on their orders or genuinely believed they were on the right track. Either way, their silence would be their last mistake.