Zac took a slow breath and forced a quiver into his shoulders. He slouched, widened his eyes, and gave the air of a simple tavern-goer suddenly caught in a nightmare. His act had to be perfect. One wrong move, one wrong tone, and his face might be next on the mage's list.
Moments later, soldiers burst through the door, armor gleaming, blades at the ready. They were no ordinary town guards. These wore the dark silver crest of the northern watch—a faction loyal to the High Council, not the people.
They fanned out, snapping chains from their belts.
"Under his testimony," barked the lead soldier, gesturing at the mage, "all of you are detained."
The chains fell fast. No resistance. Just fear.
Zac didn't struggle. He played his role, offering his wrists with trembling hands. A soldier grunted and shackled him without a second glance. His ale mug fell to the floor and rolled beneath a chair, forgotten.
As they herded the townsfolk out, Zac memorized everything—the mage's robe design, his accent, the slight hitch in his spellcasting fingers that hinted at an old injury. Every face. Every exit.
The boy who'd lost his leg was being carried out by two guards, leaving a trail of blood. The mage didn't even spare him a glance.
They were marched out of the tavern and through the cold evening streets toward the soldiers' camp just beyond the town gates. Shackled hands, broken spirits, no answers.
And Zac, behind his false fear, was already calculating. Already planning.
Nightshade would have his answers.
And this mage—this butcher—would learn what it meant to curse a town under his watch.
The soldiers' camp stood like a cold fortress beyond the town's edge, surrounded by sharpened stakes and patrolled by grim-eyed men. Torches flickered against the dusk, casting shadows that stretched like gallows fingers across the dirt path.
Inside the main interrogation tent, the air was stifling.
The arrested townsfolk sat in chains on the packed earth, shoulders slumped. Fear clung to them thicker than sweat.
One by one, they were called up.
A scarred knight sat behind a makeshift desk, a steel-plated man with the cold eyes of a hawk. Two silver stars gleamed on his cloak—marking him as a Two-Star Knight, a level well above common soldiers. His grip on his blade, resting at his hip, was relaxed—but it would take only a heartbeat for him to cut down a man.
Zac watched from the back of the group, wrists bound, face lowered, playing the role of a frightened drunk.
But inside, he was calculating.
He knew their type—Knights. He'd seen that discipline firsthand, in a different life. His father had been one of them.
A knight. A commoner made noble through sheer strength, honored with armor and sword.
It was no small feat.
Zac could still remember the awe in the townsfolk's eyes whenever his father passed—how they'd step aside respectfully, even the merchants. How they'd nod as if he were something more than flesh and bone.
Until that respect turned to shame.
Until the noble who'd sworn him in turned against him, whispering lies into the right ears. A maid's accusation. No trial. No defense.
His father was crucified for treason under the red banners of the High Council.
Zac had watched from the crowd, too young to fight, too old to forget.
All that remained was his father's legacy—his sword skill.
And though Zac lived lazy, hiding beneath loose shirts and slouched posture, he had nurtured that gift in secret. Not just mimicked it—but sharpened it. Improved it. Transformed it into something a simple warrior should never possess.
His chains jangled softly as another townsperson was dragged up.
The interrogation continued.
"I'm just a potter," the man croaked. "I don't even know what Nightshade looks like!"
"You praised him," the mage snapped from the knight's side, lips curled in delight. "You toasted his name. That's enough."
The knight didn't even raise an eyebrow. "Where were you the night of the treasury raid?"
"Home! Ask my wife—"
"She's not here," the mage cut in smoothly. "Isn't it convenient? A criminal always has an alibi."
The potter was dragged away in tears.
Next.
A baker. A tanner. A mother with her teenage daughter. All grilled under the heat of accusation. The knight rarely spoke more than ten words. It was the mage who twisted their every word, casting doubt into silence, offering no chance at innocence.
Zac watched it all with a quiet, burning patience.