Lysander awoke to the insistent rap of knuckles on his chamber door. The fortress, though scarred by the recent siege, now hummed with a different kind of energy – the methodical repair of defenses, the wary calm after the storm. His body still ached from the previous day's brutal improvisation, a constant reminder of the fine line he walked between survival and oblivion. But his mind, sharp and restless, was already charting new courses. He was no longer just reacting; he was beginning to plan.
He rose, splashing cold water on his face from a basin, the chill a welcome jolt. The humble chamber, assigned to him after his "heroics" at the West Gate, was a far cry from the opulent noble quarters Lysander Thorne would have occupied. It was spartan, functional, but it offered a measure of privacy that the battlefield never had. He was still a pawn, perhaps, but a pawn now with a purpose, directly within the High Commander's orbit.
"Private Thorne? The High Commander's adjutant awaits." A voice called through the door.
Lysander opened it to find a young, earnest-looking messenger, his face pale and deferential. The shift in how he was addressed, even by junior personnel, was palpable. Yesterday, he was a "cur," a "worm." Today, he was "Private Thorne," delivered with a hint of awe. The ripples of his actions were already spreading, altering perceptions. This was precisely the kind of subtle influence an exiled noble would cultivate.
He followed the messenger through winding stone corridors, past guards who now offered crisp salutes instead of sneers. The air here was cooler, cleaner, tasting of old stone and polished metal. They arrived at a smaller, more private antechamber adjacent to Valerius's war room. The High Commander's adjutant, a lean, efficient woman with eyes that missed nothing, sat at a small desk, sifting through parchments.
"Private Thorne," she greeted, her voice crisp. "High Commander Valerius is otherwise engaged. He wishes for you to review these reports and provide your unique insights on the situation." She pushed a stack of rolled parchments across the table. "They pertain to the recent failures in our scouting missions along the eastern borders. Specifically, the disappearances of our most experienced rangers and the lack of reliable intelligence on the enemy's flanking movements."
Lysander picked up the first parchment. It was a standard patrol report, detailing routes, timestamps, and last known locations. He scanned it, his eyes quickly devouring the information. This wasn't a battle of brute strength, but of information and inference. This was his turf. This was the quiet, methodical work, the gathering of intelligence, the sharpening of the blade before the strike.
"Failures?" Lysander mused aloud, a faint frown creasing his brow. "Or something more deliberate?"
The adjutant raised an eyebrow, a flicker of surprise in her usually impassive gaze. "Explain, Private."
"These aren't random disappearances," Lysander stated, tapping a finger on a cluster of marked locations on a map he'd instinctively unrolled. "Look at the patterns. The routes are standard, predictable, yes. But the disappearances are clustered around specific geographical features: the Whispering Crags, the Shadowfen Marshes, and the Serpent's Coil Pass. All areas where the terrain itself favors concealment, ambush, and difficult pursuit."
He paused, recalling vague details from The Crimson Blade about the enemy's lesser-known commanders and their specialized units. "The enemy isn't just sending their main force against the walls. They have smaller, highly specialized units. Commanders like Vilefang, a Goblinoid Warlord known for his cunning and use of terrain traps, or the Shadowblades of K'tharr, a rogue cult of assassins who blend with the shadows." He frowned. "The main hero, Kaelen, only encounters Vilefang much later, and the Shadowblades are a far-off threat, barely mentioned."
The adjutant's eyes widened, a genuine shock now evident. "Shadowblades? Vilefang? Private Thorne, these are considered legends, or whispers at best among our own intelligence. How could you possibly know of such specifics?"
Lysander, ever the mastermind, had prepared for this. He couldn't reveal his true source, so he wove another convenient half-truth. "During my extensive 'studies' of ancient warfare and the histories of various monstrous races, I stumbled upon a collection of long-lost scrolls in the family library. They detailed tactical approaches and specific units used in forgotten wars against the very same creatures we now face. My family, being isolated, had little use for such knowledge, but I found it… compelling." He gave a slight, almost self-deprecating shrug, implying a dusty, academic fascination. It was a masterful lie, blending truth with plausible fiction.
The adjutant stared at him, then at the reports, then back at him. She was clearly struggling to reconcile the "sniveling cur" reputation with the sharp, insightful, and oddly knowledgeable man before her. "Lost scrolls… fascinating," she murmured, though her tone suggested deep skepticism. Yet, the information was too specific, too chillingly accurate to dismiss outright.
Lysander pressed his advantage. "These disappearances aren't simply 'lost.' They're being systematically eliminated to blind us. The enemy is probing, trying to find a weak point in our defenses beyond the walls – perhaps a supply route, or a secondary assault path. They want to draw our forces out."
He straightened, a new resolve hardening his features. "High Commander Valerius is right to seek unconventional thinking. My knowledge, however 'stumbled upon,' offers a unique perspective. I propose I lead a small, highly mobile scouting party. Not to simply patrol, but to hunt. To actively seek out these specialized units in their favored terrain, not just avoid them."
The adjutant looked horrified. "Private Thorne, you are not a trained scout! You are a noble—"
"I am a man who just survived the West Gate, Adjutant," Lysander interrupted, his voice dropping to a low, intense tone that brooked no argument. "And my knowledge of their tactics and terrain advantages will give us an edge no conventional scout possesses. I am willing to risk it, for the fortress." He knew this was audacious, perhaps reckless, but he needed to get out of the confines of the keep, into the field where he could actively seek the means to gain power.
This was his next step in the exiled noble's plot. He couldn't just sit and advise; he needed to be on the move, to find the catalysts for his own growth. He remembered vague mentions in the novel of powerful monster cores, ancient forgotten relics hidden in the wilderness, or even unique magical nodes that the hero, Kaelen, would stumble upon much later. Lysander intended to get there first.
The adjutant stared at him for a long moment, then slowly nodded. "I will relay your proposal to the High Commander, Private. He… values efficiency." There was still doubt in her eyes, but also a hint of something new – a grudging acknowledgment of his unique, dangerous utility.
As she dismissed him, Lysander felt a thrill that was part terror, part exhilaration. He had taken another step, a calculated risk that would put him directly in harm's way, but also closer to the hidden powers of this world. He was no longer just Lysander Thorne, the doomed extra. He was Lysander, the architect of shadows, the one who defied prophecy, and who would, against all odds, forge his own destiny. The hunt for power, both intellectual and tangible, had truly begun.