Damien stood by the council chamber’s window, watching as the city sprang to life. The bells had rung just moments ago, and Treon would now prepare to welcome the would-be invaders.

  Soldiers rushed down the stone streets, shouting orders loudly enough to be heard over the noise. The creak of heavy artillery being maneuvered echoed through the keep's corridors. The river beyond the harbor lay still, and if Damien hadn’t known that the Divination Division was watching every movement of the enemy’s flotilla, he would have considered it a perfect moment to launch an attack, as most of the fleet was on patrol.

  Across the room, Gerard had already risen from his seat, and a grim sense of determination seemed to have taken hold of him. “I’ll oversee the defenses,” he said briskly. “I expect immediate reports if you learn anything from the prisoners.” Damien inclined his head, watching as the man left.

  Jean stretched her arms over her head with a lazy grin. “I’ll take to the skies. The DD might be good, but I’m sure Duke Garva will have some kind of interference running soon.”

  Without another word, she strode out onto the balcony and took off, sending papers fluttering across the table. And there goes our secret weapon. Who would have thought our hopes and dreams would rest on the shoulders of a teenage girl?

  That left him with Sigurd, Eleanor, Lia, and Margaret.

  He glanced toward the door, then flicked his chin toward it in a silent command. Sigurd caught his meaning, nudging Eleanor. “We should go check on the troops,” he said smoothly. “Make sure morale is high.”

  Eleanor raised an eyebrow but went along with it. “Yes. And the, uh, supply situation.”

  Damien barely waited for them to step out before he turned toward Lia. The old hobgoblin sat as still as stone, her piercing eyes locked onto him. He then tilted his head toward Margaret, wordlessly asking if she should stay.

  Lia didn’t hesitate. “She can stay.”

  Damien smiled thinly, not arguing the point. If the old bat wanted to make the little girl think she was trusted, who was he to disrupt her plans? “Then let’s talk about the real issues.”

  Lia exhaled, leaning back in her chair. “The alchemists that escaped from the Capital have put in the work. Thanks to them, we have enough munitions for the cannons to turn the entire Garvan fleet into splinters.”

  Damien raised an eyebrow. “You’re that confident?”

  “I don’t believe it will actually happen, of course,” Lia commented offhandedly. “Only some of the brew is strong enough to punch through their ships’ protections. Most of it will still do considerable damage, but only if the shields are weakened beforehand.”

  Damien’s smirk widened. “That shouldn’t be a problem, at least for the first wave.”

  Lia narrowed her eyes. “Your saboteurs?”

  “Of course.” Damien leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “We’ve ensured that almost all the first ships to reach us will have significantly weaker shields. Structural sabotage and runic interference require skill, so it was a bit of a hazard to send such valuable assets over to Garva, but it was effective. We’ll be sure to have the gunners use the weaker munitions on those.”

  Lia nodded, then turned to Margaret. “Go to the alchemical department. Begin sorting through the different strengths. We need to set aside the best ones for when the bulk of the navy catches up with the vanguard.”

  Margaret stood immediately. “Yes, master.” Without another word, she slipped out of the room, leaving Damien alone with Lia.

  For a moment, there was only silence.

  Then Lia folded her hands. “You received Amelia’s message?”

  Damien’s easy demeanor faded slightly. He reached into his coat, pulling out a single folded letter. “She sent word. It seems we have a bigger problem than we thought.”

  Lia frowned. “A Champion mage is enough to level Treon, and we don’t even know where he might be.”

  Damien nodded. “Amelia is confident he’ll intervene. Probably when the siege peaks. So, we’ll have to lure him out before then.”

  Lia grunted in annoyance. “That complicates things.”

  “That’s an understatement.” Damien tapped a finger against the table. “We have just one person in our ranks who can take on such a dangerous individual. I dislike having single-point failures like that.”

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  Lia’s expression darkened. “How do you propose we counter him?”

  Damien grinned, sharp and amused. “I already have some ideas. Have some Faith.”

  As soon as Damien left the council chamber, the friendly demeanor faded from his face. The expression he had tried so hard to maintain became inscrutable as he made his way through the castle's winding corridors. The torches flickered in their sconces, as natural light did not reach this deep. He walked quickly, his footsteps soundless. Sigurd and Eleanor weren’t the only ones who had benefited from using the mirror.

  I won’t ever be a frontline fighter, but that’s not my role. The Revolution needs someone who’ll do what needs to be done. That’s who I am. That’s the role He entrusted to me.

  He descended through the depths of the castle, passing checkpoint after checkpoint, where heavily armed guards greeted him with military salutes. These men were not the regular city watch or even Lady Neer’s Security Forces—these were the revolution’s elite, seasoned veterans who had repeatedly proven their loyalty. Many of them did not smile upon seeing him, nor did they engage in casual conversation. Their eyes were wary, and their grips on their weapons were ready to strike him down should he prove to be an imposter.

  Just like he’d molded them, these men would never be the face of the Revolution, but they were more than fine with it. They all understood that they were the foundation upon which everything stood.

  Finally, he reached the lower dungeons. The stench hit him immediately—stale sweat, unwashed bodies, and the coppery tang of dried blood. A warning to any unlucky enough to be brought here against their will; not a particularly subtle one, but it was effective. The message was clear: this was where the enemies of the Revolution found their end.

  A massive door of enchanted wood barred his way, its surface covered in intricate etchings meant to deter tampering. Two more guards stood watch. Unlike the others, these men wielded enchanted instruments, waving them over him in slow, methodical movements. The glow of runes flickered as they scanned him, ensuring that he was who he appeared to be.

  This was also necessary. The number of infiltrators had decreased with the Revolutionary Army's advance up North, but that didn’t mean there were none still lurking around.

  Jean’s efforts in understanding the mirror beneath the castle had led to fascinating developments, and while Damien had no interest in the arcane specifics, he did appreciate the results. Treon was well-defended on all fronts now, and the longer they had to understand the wondrous relic, the more its benefits would trickle down.

  Once satisfied he was who he appeared to be, the guards stepped back. “Clear,” one of them grunted before unlocking the door and allowing Damien to pass through.

  Inside, two more men were rough-handling a Garvan soldier, pressing him against a rickety wooden chair. The prisoner’s face was a mess of bruises, his lips split and his right eye swollen shut. He struggled weakly, but exhaustion and pain had drained much of his strength. The guards turned when they noticed Damien’s entrance, their expressions twisting into something close to irritation.

  “Great,” one of them muttered, stepping back. “The priest is here.”

  Damien affected a passive mien, making himself shrink away as if he were an acolyte shrinking in front of the display of brutality. “I’m sorry, sirs. I was sent here to tend to the prisoners, and the Councilman was clear I had to see to all of them.”

  This was one of his best ideas. The Garvan soldiers knew little about who governed within the Revolution, but they knew that Leonard Weiss was the Hero of the Light. For him to have ordered free access to the local priests wasn’t much of a stretch.

  The other guard scoffed but backed off nonetheless, oozing reluctant compliance. Damien had arranged for this reaction long ago. It wouldn’t do for the enemy to see him as anything other than a reluctant participant in the Revolution’s dealings.

  He kept his head down, waiting until the two had left the room before allowing himself to straighten, though not enough to suggest confidence.

  He reached into his coat and pulled out a small vial filled with red liquid. Without a word, he placed it on the nearby table before crouching beside the prisoner, who blinked at him in sluggish confusion.

  “Easy now,” Damien murmured, reaching up to gently grasp the man’s arm, helping him up into the chair. “You look terrible.”

  The soldier groaned but said nothing. This was their third such interaction, and the man had only spoken in syllables so far. This will be it. I can see his willpower is about to break.

  Damien tilted the vial to his lips, watching as the red liquid trickled into his mouth. It was a slow-acting healing draught—sufficient to close his wounds and ease his pain but not enough to restore him completely. It also had the side effect of creating dependence on Thistlefrond, a plant found only in Hetnia. Damien thought of it as insurance.

  Immediate relief washed over the soldier’s face, his breath evening out as the sharpest edges of his suffering dulled.

  “Better?” Damien asked softly.

  The soldier swallowed thickly, then gave a slow nod. “Yes,” he rasped.

  “Good.” Damien settled himself on the edge of the table, his expression shifting into something gentler. “I wish I could do more for you. But… well.” He sighed, looking away as if ashamed. “My hands are tied.”

  The soldier studied him, his gaze wary but also tired. “You’re a good priest,” he finally said. Oh, look. He’s trying to console me.

  Damien offered a small, pained smile. “I was, once. Before all of this.” He gestured vaguely to the room around them. “They force us to help them. To comfort the condemned is the least I can do.”

  The soldier exhaled, his shoulders slumping. “So I don’t have hope, then.”

  Damien said nothing, only offering him a quiet, solemn look.

  For the next twenty minutes, he played his part perfectly. He spoke of faith, redemption, and the mercy of the Light. His voice lulled the man into a false sense of security, acting as a steady balm against the prisoner’s fear. Slowly but surely, the walls around the soldier’s mind began to crumble.

  He spoke of forgiveness, of regrets washed away, and as the soldier relaxed into the illusion of safety, Damien was careful never to hint he was even remotely interested in martial matters. Though he was sure he already had him, he wasn’t a fool. He wouldn’t burn through the goodwill he’d built up for such a paltry prize. And I just need to wait. He’s about to break.

  Indeed, finally, the moment came.

  The soldier licked his lips, glancing up at Damien. “Will you… take my last confession?”

  Damien did not smile. But inside, he felt victorious.

  He reached for the man’s hands, clasping them between his own in a show of solemnity. “Of course,” he murmured. “Tell me everything. I swear on the Light itself, I will take it to the grave.” And I mean to. I will forever remember your foolishness.

  “I was assigned to Captain Mortensen against my will. He is a known liability but was the only Master to volunteer for the infiltration mission. He just needed men to follow his orders, and my Captain was quick to offer some of us.” He paused here, looking at Damien. When he found only a warm smile, he continued, shoulders easing. “We were told the revolutionaries would be defeated long before we arrived here. But the months kept passing, and we heard nothing of victory. Some of my friends considered deserting, but they were caught before they could act. They always told us that Duke Garva has ears everywhere, but I never thought it was true.”

  As the man spoke, Damien listened intently, committing every piece of information to memory. It took a good half an hour to extract everything, but when the soldier finally fell silent, Damien squeezed his hands gently.

  “Thank you, my son.”

  The man exhaled, his eyes slipping closed in resignation.

  “May your blood water the roots of freedom.” The soldier opened his eyes in shock, staring in horror as a golden blade pierced his heart.