Mist crept through Reichsherz’s northern district like ghostly fingers, turning warehouses into looming shadows. Irmin signalled to her squad, watching as Sergeant Wulfram led them into side streets, leaving her with four of her most experienced guards.

  “Stay in pairs,” she said. “Check every doorway, every alley. If you find anything, signal with bird calls. No torches.”

  The industrial quarter stank of coal smoke and rotting fish, perfect cover for activities best kept hidden.

  Her boots made no sound on the damp cobblestones as she pressed against weathered brick, tracking her teams’ positions by the subtle shift of shadows.

  Through their bond, she felt Berthold’s presence on the rooftop above, his own senses extending her reach. No movement caught his eye, but something felt wrong. The air hummed with tension, like the moment before a storm breaks.

  Guard pairs checked doorways methodically, hands on sword hilts. The effectiveness of their search pattern came from years of night patrols, though usually in better parts of the city.

  Here, among the abandoned warehouses and crumbling factories, every shadow could hide a smuggler’s cache or an assassin’s blade.

  She traced fresh claw marks on the wall beside her. Too small for cargo wyverns, too precise for wild ones.

  Rogue riders, then.

  Her lip curled. Traitors to everything the Kingdom stood for, everything her father had built.

  Her father. The thought sent fresh pain through her chest, but she pushed it down.

  Focus on the mission. Follow the leads. Find the truth.

  The tip had come from one of her more reliable informants—unusual activity in this area, movement at odd hours. Crates being moved under cover of darkness, marked with noble house sigils that didn’t match their handlers.

  “Movement.” Berthold’s thought touched her mind. “Northwest roof. Fast and low.”

  She pressed deeper into shadow, her hand finding her sword hilt.

  Wing beats whispered overhead, barely audible above the distant sounds of the city.

  A dark shape dropped from above and landed with unnatural grace.

  The rider’s boots made no sound on the cobblestones, his wyvern’s scales reflecting a shadowy green in the dim light.

  “Commander Irmin.” The rider’s voice held amusement, maybe mockery. “I wondered when you’d find your way here.”

  “Who are you? What are you doing here?”

  “My lady. Surely you have heard the name Riven being bandied about among your soldiers.”

  She knew him by reputation—Riven, the ghost rider. Tales painted him as everything from common smuggler to revolutionary hero. The truth, she suspected, lay somewhere darker.

  “Quite bold, showing your face to the commander of the Imperial Guard.”

  “Bold?” He stepped forward, moonlight catching the scars that marked his face. “Or confident? Sometimes it’s hard to tell the difference.”

  His wyvern—Kornel, if the stories were right—mantled its wings. Above, Berthold’s growl vibrated through the bond.

  “You’re closer to the truth than you realise,” Riven said. “Though perhaps not the truth you’re seeking.”

  Her patience, already thin, snapped. “Enough games. You know something about the assassination. About the ravenglass smuggling.”

  “I know many things.” His hand dropped to his sword, casual but ready. “The question is, are you prepared to hear them?”

  Ravenglass whispered against leather as both drew. The mist seemed to thicken, turning the world into shadow and suggestion.

  “Your father’s death was just the beginning,” Riven said. “The noble houses aren’t the only ones playing this game.”

  She struck first, her blade arcing through the fog.

  He parried with irritating ease, stepping back into darkness.

  “The Kingdom suffocates us all.” His voice remained calm as they traded blows. “Controls the wyverns, controls their riders. Did you never question why?”

  “I question why traitors always talk so much.” She pressed her attack, driving him back.

  Above, their wyverns circled, mirror images of the dance below.

  Riven moved like smoke, deflecting rather than blocking.

  But Irmin had trained against faster opponents, learned to read the subtle tells that betrayed intention.

  She feinted left, then drove her pommel into his sword arm as he moved to parry.

  The blade clattered to the stones.

  Before he could recover, she swept his legs and pinned him, sword at his throat. “Talk. And make it worth hearing.”

  He laughed, the sound oddly genuine. “Well fought, Commander. I had to be sure you were worth telling.”

  “Worth telling what?”

  “That the smuggling operation you’re chasing—it’s a shadow play.” His eyes held something like pity. “The Kingdom’s foundations are cracking, and not just from outside forces.”

  Berthold rumbled a warning to her mind. “He’s playing for time. But there’s truth mixed with his deception.”

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  Irmin pressed the blade harder. “Names. Now.”

  “Kill me if you must.” Blood welled around her sword tip. “But you’ll be destroying your best chance at understanding what’s really happening.”

  “Dead men tell no lies.”

  “Killing him would be easier,” Berthold said straight through her rage. “But answers don’t come from corpses.”

  She fought down the urge to end it, to eliminate one more threat to the Kingdom. But she remembered what her father had once said: “A commander’s first duty is to truth, then justice.”

  “Bind him,” Irmin ordered the guards, who had maintained their distance during the fight. “Thoroughly.”

  As the guards complied, Riven’s eyes never left her face. “Your court is rotting from within, Commander. And when it falls, the wyverns will fall with it.”

  A scent caught her attention—acrid, chemical. She turned towards a nearby warehouse, noticing strange scorch marks around its entrance.

  Inside, fragments of wooden crates lay scattered. One bore the unmistakable sigil of House Darius, its edges charred as if by intense heat.

  Riven’s wyvern growled low from the street.

  “Interesting timing,” Riven said from his bound position. “Finding those crates just when you need evidence against House Darius.”

  She spun to face him. “What do you know about House Darius?”

  “I know they’re an obvious target. Almost too obvious.” He shifted, chains clinking. “Tell me, Commander, have you considered why a house known for its precision would leave such clear traces?”

  The question echoed her own doubts. “If you have something to say, say it plainly.”

  “Where’s the fun in that?” His grin held no warmth. “Besides, some truths have to be earned. You’re not ready for what I know.”

  Berthold landed beside her, his bulk blocking the warehouse entrance. She felt his assessment of Riven—calculating, dangerous, but not lying. Not entirely.

  “The ravenglass smuggling,” she said. “Who’s behind it?”

  “Who isn’t?” Riven leaned back against the wall, oddly relaxed despite his chains. “Noble houses, foreign powers, rogue Guardians…everyone wants a piece. But they’re all missing the bigger picture.”

  “Which is?”

  “The corruption spreads both ways.” His voice dropped lower. “You’ve seen it in the ravenglass, haven’t you? The way it fights against itself? That’s just the beginning.”

  Cold slid down her spine. How did he know about the corrupted specimens? That detail hadn’t left the palace.

  “Your sister’s research—the quiet one—she’s closer than any of you to understanding. But even she doesn’t see the whole pattern.”

  “Leave my sisters out of this.” The words emerged as a growl.

  “Family.” He spat the word. “Another chain the Kingdom uses to bind us. Tell me, Commander, what happens to your precious duty when it conflicts with blood?”

  Berthold’s tail lashed. “He’s baiting you.” The wyvern spoke through their bond. “Looking for reactions, testing limits.”

  Irmin forced her breathing to steady. “You’re going to tell me everything you know about the smuggling operation. Names, locations, contacts.”

  “Or what? You’ll kill me?” Riven shrugged against his bonds. “Death doesn’t frighten those who’ve seen behind the Kingdom’s mask. Ask yourself, why do so many wyvern riders turn rogue? What drives them to abandon everything they’ve sworn to protect?”

  “Greed. Weakness. Betrayal.”

  “Is that what they taught you in the academy?” His voice held genuine curiosity now. “That simple story about good and evil, loyalty and treachery? No room for the truth about how the Kingdom really maintains its power?”

  She started to respond, but movement caught her eye. Kornel had been slowly shifting position, muscles bunching beneath dark scales.

  “Don’t!”

  The rogue wyvern spat a stream of acid at the guards nearest Riven. They leaped back, crying out as droplets ate through armour. In the chaos, Riven rolled, bringing his bound hands beneath his feet to the front.

  Berthold launched himself at Kornel, but the smaller wyvern was already airborne, wings cutting through mist. The warehouse exploded into motion—guards shouting, steel ringing—as Riven somehow produced a hidden blade.

  She met his attack with a snarl. Even bound, he moved with lethal grace.

  Their blades clashed in the darkness, each seeking an opening.

  “Your father died because he couldn’t see the truth!” Riven shouted over the clash of blades. “Don’t make his mistake!”

  She struck harder, faster, driving him back towards the warehouse wall. But even as her blade found its mark, scoring his arm, she realised his true goal.

  Riven’s wyvern dived from above, talons extended. Not for her—for his rider.

  Kornel pulled up, taking Riven with him.

  “Commander, let him go.” Sergeant Wulfram’s voice carried across the courtyard. “In this weather, at night—the risk isn’t worth it.”

  But Irmin was already moving. Her boots found purchase on stacked crates, muscle memory from countless drills taking over. She launched herself upward as Berthold swept past.

  Her hands found the familiar grip points on his harness, and she swung into position as they climbed.

  “Track their heat trail.”

  Berthold’s powerful wings drove them skyward, cold air stinging Irmin’s face.

  The full moon painted the city in silver and shadow. Reichsherz spread below them, a maze of twisted streets and towering spires.

  Kornel’s smaller form darted between towers, his green scales almost black in the darkness.

  Despite everything, Riven rode skilfully, pressed low against his mount’s neck to minimise wind resistance.

  “Not getting away that easily.” Irmin leaned into Berthold’s neck as they gave chase, the wind tearing at her cloak.

  This was what they trained for—the pursuit, the hunt, the victory.

  The rogue pair led them on a wild course through the city’s heights. Kornel was faster, more agile, but Berthold had raw power and hard-earned experience.

  Each time Riven tried to lose them in a sharp turn or sudden dive, Berthold anticipated, cutting the angle or dropping to match them.

  They wove between spires, scattering sleeping birds in their wake, and skimmed so close to rooftops that Irmin could have reached out to touch the tiles.

  Riven’s knowledge of the city’s architecture became clear as he guided them through increasingly narrow gaps and treacherous turns.

  “You can’t outfly us forever!” Irmin shouted as they closed the gap.

  Each beat of Berthold’s wings carried them closer to their quarry.

  Riven glanced back, moonlight catching his grin. Then he guided Kornel into an impossible vertical climb, straight up the sheer face of the Great Temple. The green wyvern’s claws scraped stone as they rose, using the wall itself for extra purchase.

  Berthold followed, his wings straining.

  Just as they neared the top, Kornel tucked his wings and flipped backwards, diving past them in a move that should have been suicidal.

  But Irmin had read the tension in Kornel’s shoulders, anticipated the desperate move. As the wyverns passed in the air, Irmin pushed off from Berthold’s back, catching Riven around the waist. They tumbled through empty air, grappling for control as the city spun beneath them.

  “You’re insane!” Riven shouted as they plummeted. Even with his hands restricted, he fought with skill, trying to break her grip.

  “You’re under arrest,” she growled back, managing to lock his arm behind him despite their freefall. The ground rushed up to meet them, and the wind roared in her ears.

  Through their bond, she felt Berthold’s exasperation as he dived after them.

  Kornel wheeled back, trying to get beneath his rider, but Berthold slammed into him from above. The impact sent both wyverns tumbling through the air. Kornel’s cry of pain cut through the night as one of his wings bent at an awkward angle.

  Just when impact seemed certain, massive claws closed around Irmin and Riven.

  Berthold pulled up hard, his wings straining as he arrested their fall.

  They hit the cobblestones hard but controlled, rolling to disperse the momentum.

  Kornel crashed nearby, his injured wing dragging. The green wyvern struggled to rise as guards rushed in from all directions, weapons drawn.

  “Stand down.” Irmin kept Riven pinned with a knee in his back. “It’s over.”

  Kornel spat another stream of acid, forcing the guards back. Then he launched himself skyward, in spite of his injury. His take-off was unsteady, his wing clearly causing him pain, but he managed to vanish into the night before Berthold could pursue.

  “Let him go,” Irmin said as her wyvern tensed to give chase. She could feel his predatory instincts urging him to hunt down the injured prey. “We have what we need.” She hauled Riven to his feet, noting with satisfaction that his mocking smile had finally faded. Blood ran from a cut above his eye, and his breathing was ragged. “Get him to the cells. I’ll speak with him later.”

  “That was reckless,” Berthold said. “Even for you.”

  “It worked, didn’t it?” She checked him over for injuries from the mid-air collision, but found only minor scrapes. “Besides, I knew you’d catch us.”

  The wyvern huffed, but she felt his agreement.

  Sometimes the direct approach was best.

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