The city walls behind me looked smaller with every step, swallowed by mist and moonlight. The night was cool, the air thin. Beyond the east gate, the land rose into broken hills, their slopes jagged like the spines of a sleeping dragon.
Silent Reed's trail wasn't obvious. That was the first confirmation I was on the right path. A man like him wouldn't leave footprints unless he wanted them found.
I crouched at the first bend in the road, studying the ground. To anyone else, it would look undisturbed — just dry dirt and scattered pine needles. But there was a shift in weight here, a subtle depression beneath the needles, the kind made by a heel pressed down more than once. He had paused here, looked back, then moved on.
Not careless. Deliberate.
* * * * * * * * *
The moon was bright enough to guide me without a torch, but I stayed low, letting the hills' shadows cover my movements. Every hundred steps, I stopped to listen. The wind moved through the pines like water over stone. Farther ahead, there was the faint rustle of loose gravel — a sound out of rhythm with the wind.
Reed was moving fast, but not too fast. I could keep pace without running. He wanted me just close enough to feel his presence, just far enough to wonder if I could catch him.
This wasn't a retreat. It was an invitation.
* * * * * * * * *
After half an hour, the dirt road gave way to a narrow goat path clinging to the side of a ridge. To my left, the slope fell away into darkness. To my right, the hill rose in a wall of black rock. The path twisted so tightly that I couldn't see more than a few paces ahead.
Perfect for an ambush.
I slid my hand to the knife at my belt and shifted my stance so that every step forward could become a pivot backward. My breathing was slow, measured.
The turn ahead came, and nothing greeted me but more empty path. Still, I did not relax. With men like Reed, the attack often came after you thought you'd passed the danger.
* * * * * * * * *
The path narrowed further, then opened into a small plateau. There, I found the first sign of his craft.
A feather.
Black fletching, bound with a thin cord of pale thread. It lay in the center of the path, too obviously placed to be accidental.
I picked it up and rolled it between my fingers. The thread was silk — the kind used in Murim sects for ceremonial binding, dyed in rare indigo. The knot was loose, not from wear but because it had never been tightened. A calling card.
I had read of assassins who left marks for their clients — proof they had reached a certain stage of the kill. But here, Reed was leaving me the proof. This was a trail I could follow without fear of losing him.
Which meant the real danger wasn't losing the trail. It was following it exactly where he wanted.
* * * * * * * * *
The terrain shifted as I moved deeper into the hills. The pines gave way to low shrubs, the air sharper, filled with the scent of stone dust. My boots brushed loose gravel, and each sound felt too loud.
Ahead, I glimpsed movement — the faintest shape cresting the ridge. A lean figure, head uncovered, the curve of a bow across his back catching a sliver of moonlight. He did not look back.
I almost admired his control. Most men would glance over their shoulder when they knew they were being followed. Reed didn't. He didn't need to. He could feel my presence as surely as I felt his.
* * * * * * * * *
The trail took me across a rope bridge strung between two cliff faces. The wood planks were weathered, some missing entirely. The ropes creaked under my weight, swaying slightly with the wind. Halfway across, I paused and glanced down.
The gorge below was deep — perhaps fifty paces. Moonlight touched the jagged stones at the bottom, white and cold. One cut rope and my body would be another nameless corpse in the ravine.
If Reed wanted to kill me here, he could. The fact that he didn't was its own message.
* * * * * * * * *
The bridge led to a narrower path that wound upward like a coiled snake. At intervals, small cairns of stone marked the edge, each with another black feather tied with silk thread. Some threads were crimson, others indigo. A code, no doubt.
I memorized the sequence as I went — crimson, indigo, indigo, crimson. Not random. The order repeated every seven cairns. A signal to someone else in these hills, or perhaps a way to mark time.
The thought gnawed at me. This was bigger than one man's hideout.
* * * * * * * * *
At the crest of the path, the wind shifted. It carried with it the faintest trace of woodsmoke and something more — dried herbs, bitter and sharp. I recognized the scent: shadowleaf, a plant burned to mask human scent from trained beasts.
Reed was covering his trail, even now. Which meant there were others he didn't want finding him — or perhaps others he didn't want to know I was here.
I moved slower, using the wind to listen ahead. The sound of gravel came again, then stopped. My hand tightened on the knife.
Silence.
I crouched, eyes scanning the ridgeline ahead. That's when I saw it — a shape against the sky, not moving, bow in hand. The arrow was nocked but not drawn.
He knew I could see him.
And then, without loosing the arrow, he lowered the bow and stepped behind the ridge, vanishing from sight.
Not a challenge. Not a warning. An instruction: Follow.
* * * * * * * * *
I stood at the ridge's edge for a long moment, watching the spot where Silent Reed had vanished. Every instinct told me to move slowly, but instinct alone wasn't enough here — I needed discipline. Men like him set traps not just in the earth but in the mind, letting urgency dig your grave for you.
I descended the far slope in a crouch, keeping my weight balanced, every footfall deliberate. The air grew colder as the rocks closed in, funnelling me into a narrow gulch. I checked the walls — jagged stone, no loose rubble above to indicate an ambush from the heights. Still, I didn't trust it.
At the gulch's base, the path widened into a hollow between three ridges. It wasn't natural. Someone had cut into the hillside here long ago, leaving a depression shaped like a giant's palm. The moonlight didn't reach far inside, but I saw flickers of orange deeper within — firelight, faint but steady.
Reed was here. And he wasn't alone.
* * * * * * * * *
I lowered myself into the hollow, hugging the shadowed edge. My ears caught the low hum of voices — more than one, speaking in a clipped dialect I didn't recognize. The firelight pulsed against the rocks, then receded as if blocked by movement.
A thin trail of smoke rose from the far side. I followed it until the smell of shadowleaf grew stronger, mixed now with roasting meat.
Then I saw them.
Three men crouched around a pit, roasting skewers of what looked like mountain hare. All three wore dark leather armor reinforced with iron plates at the shoulders. Their heads were shaved save for a single long braid — the mark of a southern border clan, the kind often hired for blood work.
None of them looked relaxed, even while eating. Their eyes swept the hollow in slow, regular patterns. Guards.
And no sign of Reed.
* * * * * * * * *
I stayed hidden, taking stock. From the guards' position, the firepit sat in front of a low arch in the rock face. A tunnel entrance.
If I had come charging in, the first man through that tunnel would have had a dozen arrows in his chest before taking two steps.
A shadow moved across the firelight inside the tunnel. Tall, lean — a bow slung across his back. Reed.
He emerged just far enough for the guards to glance up, then disappeared again, speaking briefly to someone within. His tone was low but firm.
I didn't need to hear the words to understand. Orders.
* * * * * * * * *
I withdrew a few paces into the gulch, out of sight, and weighed my options.
1. I could retreat and come back with more information, risking that the trail would go cold.
2. I could try to slip past the guards, but even if I managed, I'd be walking into a space Reed controlled entirely.
3. I could create a distraction, draw out a portion of his men, and slip inside while their attention was split.
The third was risky, but risk was the currency I'd been trading in since the day I woke to relive my life.
* * * * * * * * *
I circled wide around the hollow, climbing the ridge to its north side. From here, I had a clear line to the tunnel entrance — too far for a clean throw, but close enough for a plan. I took a small clay jar from my satchel — one of three I had prepared earlier, filled with oil-soaked cloth.
A spark from my flint, a brief hiss, and the jar began to smoke. I lobbed it toward a clump of dry brush at the far end of the hollow.
The jar shattered, and the brush caught instantly. Flames rose in a hungry orange bloom, snapping the guards' attention toward it. Two of them moved quickly to investigate, one staying by the firepit with his spear lowered.
I waited until their backs were turned, then descended the ridge, keeping low and silent. The lone guard at the firepit glanced toward the burning brush again. That moment of distraction was enough.
* * * * * * * * *
I slid behind him, clamping a hand over his mouth and driving the knife into the gap between his neck and shoulder. A quick, brutal thrust — he shuddered once, then went limp. I eased him to the ground, taking his spear and dragging the body into the shadows.
The tunnel was close now, the air within carrying a cooler, damper scent. I entered, each step measured, my grip on the spear firm.
* * * * * * * * *
The passage was narrow at first, the walls damp with condensation. Then it opened into a chamber lit by a single brazier. Crates and barrels lined the walls — supplies, likely stolen. At the far end, a second tunnel sloped downward into darkness.
A voice echoed from below. Reed's voice. Calm, deliberate.
"…three days at most. If they send more, we move the caches to the west ridge."
Another voice answered — female, sharper. "And what of the one following you?"
A pause. Then Reed: "If he lives past tonight, it's because I want him to."
* * * * * * * * *
I stayed pressed against the chamber wall, listening. My mind ran through the implications. Reed knew I was here, knew I would come this far — and he wasn't stopping me. Which meant either I was walking into a recruitment… or a lesson.
The sound of footsteps rose from the lower tunnel. I slid behind a stack of crates as Reed emerged, followed by a woman in pale leather armor. Her eyes were like black glass, her hair bound high in a knot. She carried no visible weapon, which told me she was either overconfident or her weapon was one I couldn't see.
Reed stopped in the center of the chamber, gaze sweeping the shadows. I stayed still, barely breathing.
"Enough hiding," he said quietly. "Come."
* * * * * * * * *
The tone wasn't a challenge. It was an invitation — the same as lowering the bow on the ridge.
I stepped from behind the crates, spear in hand. The woman's gaze narrowed slightly, assessing. Reed's expression didn't change.
"You've followed me far," he said. "And you've seen enough to know I could have ended you a dozen times."
I didn't answer. Words were cheap in places like this.
"I'm not here to kill you," he continued. "Yet."
The woman shifted her weight, clearly disagreeing with his restraint. Reed ignored her.
"You want to live in this world without a leash around your neck," he said. "You want to move without fear of the sects, the clans, or the imperial dogs. I can teach you how."
He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "But everything has a price."