In the early morning light, the detachment led by Emeric marched through the dew-covered fields towards their next target, a small village rumored to harbor information about Alric.

  Emeric’s pace was uneven today, a rare deviation from his usual steadiness that didn't escape Rylan's notice. His commander’s eyes, usually fixed and commanding, darted restlessly—a sharp contrast to his typical demeanor. The edge in Emeric’s voice as he issued orders was more pronounced, his patience visibly fraying.

  “Remember, we’re not here to befriend these people. Information about Alric is what we seek. Use any means necessary,” Emeric snapped, his tone harsher than necessary, unsettling his men.

  As they entered the village, the interrogation methods adopted by the soldiers mirrored the erratic energy Emeric exuded. His commands came in short, clipped bursts, fostering a sense of urgency that bordered on panic.

  Rylan, tasked with securing the perimeter, observed all this with a keen eye. The changes in Emeric—subtle to an untrained observer—were glaring to him. Each misstep by Emeric, each twitch and wince, was cataloged meticulously in Rylan’s mind. He noted the slight tremor in Emeric’s hands, the way his commander’s jaw clenched in silent frustration, possibly from a pounding headache.

  “Rylan, ensure the perimeter is secure,” Emeric ordered sharply, breaking through Rylan's observations.

  “Yes, sir,” Rylan replied, his voice calm but his mind racing. He couldn't help but view Emeric’s unusual display of weakness as an opportunity, a potential crack in the armor of the man he despised. As he moved to execute the order, Rylan’s strategic mind pondered the implications of Emeric’s condition. Could this vulnerability be exploited? Was this the chink in the armor he had been waiting for?

  Rylan’s patrol of the village's edge was methodical, each step measured, his mind not only on his duties but also deeply engaged in plotting. His reflection in a puddle—a paladin draped in the regalia of The Anointed—rippled with the disturbance of his passing, a stark reminder of his dual existence. He was far from the boy who played in the fields with Alric, yet here he was, considering every angle, including how Emeric’s newfound frailty could be leveraged.

  Passing through the stone gates of Lorinthia, the Anointed detachment, led by Commander Emeric, strode purposefully into the city, their presence casting a shadow over the bustling streets. Flanked by Rylan and Riya, Emeric exuded authority, his demeanor commanding obedience from those around him.

  "Before their arrival, the market was a cacophony of haggling voices and the vibrant colors of fresh produce and rich fabrics. Children darted between stalls, their laughter mingling with the music of street performers. This lively chaos paused, as if holding its breath, at the sight of the Anointed.”

  The city's lively atmosphere seemed to falter in the wake of their arrival, whispers of unease spreading through the crowd as they passed. The sound of heavy boots echoed off the cobblestone streets, punctuated by the occasional clash of metal as the soldiers enforced their presence with brutal efficiency.Their first stop was a bustling market square, where the scents of spices and the clamor of trade filled the air. But as the soldiers' boots thudded in unison, a hush fell over the crowd. Eyes widened, and bodies tensed; the usual hum of activity dimmed into a tense silence, punctuated only by the soldiers' commanding presence.

  The merchants and vendors eyed the approaching detachment warily, their expressions a mixture of fear and resignation. Without hesitation, Emeric grabbed the collar of a young fruit vendor who stumbled over his words, lifting him off his feet. 'Speak clearly, or speak your last,' Emeric hissed, his voice a deadly whisper that sent shivers down the spines of all within earshot. His soldiers began their interrogation, questioning vendors and passersby with aggressive zeal. Any hesitation or reluctance was met with intimidation tactics, as the soldiers employed threats and displays of force to extract information.

  As the Anointed detachment imposed their stern order on the market, Emeric's gaze fixed on a modest apothecary's shop nestled between a baker's and a butcher’s stall. Without a word, he veered from the planned route and headed straight for it, his steps deliberate. Rylan and Riya, catching the sudden change in direction, exchanged a quick glance before following.

  The small bell above the door chimed as Emeric entered, the heavy door thudding shut behind him, muffling the sounds of the market. The shop was a stark contrast to the chaos outside, lined with neatly labeled bottles and jars filled with herbs and potions. The apothecary, a middle-aged woman with spectacles perched on her nose, looked up from her ledger, her initial expression of curiosity quickly turning to apprehension.

  "Commander Emeric," she greeted, her voice steady but her hands betraying her nervousness as they fiddled with a vial on the counter. "What brings you to my humble shop today?"

  Emeric’s eyes, sharp and assessing, scanned the shelves before returning to the apothecary. "Vigilroot," he stated flatly, his tone leaving no room for discussion. "I need your stock."

  The apothecary’s eyes widened slightly, but she quickly composed herself. "Of course, Commander," she said, turning to retrieve a jar from a high shelf. "How much do you require?"

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  "All of it," Emeric replied without hesitation, watching as the woman paused, her hand on a jar of the dull gray roots.

  She placed the jar on the counter, then hesitated before speaking, "Commander, vigilroot is in demand, and—"

  Emeric cut her off, his impatience flaring. "Then you understand the urgency of my needs. I’m not here to negotiate." His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, a silent but explicit threat.

  Sighing resignedly, the apothecary gathered the jar of vigilroot, placing it on the counter with a clink. "This is all I have," she said, her voice subdued.

  Emeric nodded, tossing a pouch of coins onto the counter, its contents likely more than the herbs were worth. "Keep it stocked. I’ll be returning," he warned before turning to leave, the jar of vigilroot now under his arm.

  Rylan watched the exchange, noting the desperation thinly veiled behind Emeric’s authoritative facade. As they stepped back into the sunlight, the market’s noise engulfed them once more, but the tension from the apothecary’s shop lingered, a silent acknowledgment of the commander’s increasingly precarious reliance on the stimulant.

  As they resumed their patrol through the bustling market, Emeric discreetly unscrewed the lid of the jar he had just acquired. Without drawing attention, he pinched a small amount of the dull gray vigilroot and slipped it under his tongue. Almost instantly, his tense posture eased, and a semblance of calm smoothed over his sharp features.

  Rylan, keeping a watchful eye on Emeric, noted the subtle change. It was brief, but telling. Emeric’s reliance on the herb was clear—a detail Rylan filed away for future consideration. This dependency, a small crack in the commander's armor, might be insignificant now, but in the complex game they played, even the smallest advantage could shift the balance.

  "Keep focused. We’re not done here," Emeric commanded, his voice now steady and authoritative, the earlier hints of strain washed away as if by the herb’s immediate effect.

  The market’s life pulsated around them, the episode at the apothecary's shop just another fleeting shadow in the day. Yet for Rylan, the moment lingered, a crucial insight into the facade that Emeric projected.

  Rylan and Riya watched with growing unease as Emeric's methods grew increasingly brutal, their discomfort evident in their clenched jaws and furrowed brows. Riya's hand twitched towards her weapon, a silent protest against the cruelty she was forced to witness, Rylan's discomfort was palpable, his fists clenched at his sides as he struggled to reconcile his duty with his conscience. Riya’s face, usually composed, was tight with conflict, her eyes darting anxiously as she absorbed the fear radiating from the market crowd.

  As the interrogation continued, Emeric's attention zeroed in on a nervous merchant who seemed to know more than he dared admit. Emeric's hand rested on the hilt of his sword, a silent threat that spoke volumes. The merchant swallowed hard, his eyes darting between Emeric and the Anointed soldiers who flanked him.

  Emeric leaned close, his voice a venomous whisper that made the merchant flinch. 'You will speak now,' he demanded, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword. 'The man known as Alric—where has he gone?'"

  The merchant hesitated, his gaze flickering to Riya, who offered a subtle, reassuring nod. Taking a deep breath, he divulged what little he knew—they were here a few days ago asking about a mage. They went to meet with Dravin, the sorcerer.

  Dravin, who had been watching the Anointed’s display of power from the shadowed alleyway, felt a stirring of interest as the mention of Alric reached his ears.

  Emeric’s methodical intimidation of the merchant drew a smirk from Dravin. This was the kind of authority and fear he respected—attributes he himself wielded with finesse.

  When Emeric's gaze landed on Dravin, there was an immediate recognition of the kindred spirit of dominance. Emeric approached, his soldiers parting to allow their commander through.

  “You’re Dravin, the mage,” Emeric stated, not as a question, but as an acknowledgment of a reputation well-known.

  Dravin stepped forward, the corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile. “I am,” he affirmed. “And you are Emeric, Commander of the Anointed. To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “We seek information on Alric,” Emeric said bluntly. “And I am aware of your… transaction with him.”

  A spark of irritation flickered in Dravin’s eyes at the memory of the failed deal, quickly replaced by calculation. “Alric is a thorn in both our sides, it seems,” Dravin mused. “Perhaps we can help each other.”

  Emeric nodded slowly, considering Dravin’s proposal. “What are your terms?”

  “Simple,” Dravin replied. “I want compensation for the inconvenience Alric caused me. And I want the freedom to exercise my talents without your interference.”

  Emeric regarded him for a long moment, weighing the value of Dravin’s cooperation against his own agenda. “Agreed,” Emeric finally said. “But double-cross me, and you'll find the Anointed’s reach is long.''

  Dravin's smile widened. “I look forward to working together. Last I heard they were headed into the southern swamps.”

  Riya exchanged a worried glance with Rylan as they followed Emeric out of the square. She could feel the noose tightening; their actions would soon determine not only their fates but potentially the outcome of their struggle against the Anointed's rule.

  Emeric straightened up, a cold smile touching his lips. "The swamps, you say?" "

  As they followed Emeric out of the square, Riya's heart pounded with the gravity of their next steps. The swamps loomed not just as a hideout for Alric but as a battleground where their destinies would be forged or broken.

  Emeric’s final words echoed ominously, 'Prepare to move out. We have a phantom to chase,' sealing their course toward the uncertain mire.