The streets of Gravenmoor never slept, but they exhaled. Mist clung to gas lamps like a shroud, muting their glow and casting the city in a dim amber haze. Cobblestones glistened underfoot, wet from a fog that smelled faintly of iron and ash. Most citizens hurried along in silence, unwilling to glance too long at the dark corners between buildings. It was a city that thrived on shadows, and shadows always remembered.
Elvis moved through the mist as if it were part of him. Every step was measured, deliberate, a chess piece sliding across the board. His coat, dark and unremarkable, hid the subtle curve of his chest harness where his shard was bound. To the casual observer, he was merely another man navigating the fog. But to those who had learned to read the currents of danger, he was a storm waiting to strike.
He paused at the corner of Argent Street, listening. Breath everyone's breath told stories. The staccato rhythm of a courier's steps, shallow and rapid; the deep, steady inhalations of a guardsman making his rounds. All of it, every whispered exhalation, was information. The Shard of Breath, bound to him as intimately as his own lungs, let him feel the currents of life itself.
He inhaled deliberately, drawing in the fog, the faint scent of rain-soaked brick, the invisible pulse of countless lives. Then, almost imperceptibly, he shifted. Air obeyed him. It flowed, it separated, it became a blade as sharp as any sword. A man approaching too quickly found himself tripping over nothing, a current of air pushing him aside without leaving a mark. To Elvis, such manipulations were trivial warm-up exercises for the city's real threats.
A soft clatter echoed from the alley ahead. He smelled fear, hesitation. There were two men, their movements awkward, yet precise. Professional, but nervous. Mercenaries, by the way they masked their breathing. He smiled faintly.
The first rule of strategy, he thought, is to know the battlefield before committing.
He stepped into the alley, his presence invisible, his intent quiet. The fog twisted around him, guiding him like a loyal apprentice. One of the mercenaries bent down to inspect a crate, and Elvis let the shard flow. The air around the man thickened subtly, just enough to make his head swim, his thoughts stumble. The other companion cursed under his breath, unaware that the pressure in their lungs was no accident.
By the time they realized something was wrong, Elvis had already moved behind them. With a slight exhalation, he drew a breath from the alley itself, concentrating the flow. The first mercenary doubled over as if struck, gasping uncontrollably, while the second stumbled backward, unable to maintain balance. No weapon touched them. No hand had been raised.
Elvis studied them calmly. He could have killed them in a heartbeat, but this was not the time. Observation first, elimination second. Every move they made, every desperate inhale, revealed more about their training, their origin, their employer.
Patience is victory, he reminded himself. To rush is to fall into the enemy's plan.
As the fog thickened, blending him perfectly into the city's breath, Elvis exhaled softly. The mercenaries were still alive, still fighting against a force they could not see. Their struggle amused him, but more importantly, it informed him. He would follow their scent to its source. Soon, the board would be set, and every piece would move exactly as he intended.
In Gravenmoor, the fog swallowed everything eventually but not before it whispered secrets to those who knew how to listen.
And Elvis had learned to listen better than anyone.