The rain had finally stopped by the time Kael and Elara left the Archivum. The streets of Ebonreach gleamed with a slick sheen, lanterns glowing like pools of molten gold in the wet cobblestones. The city was alive again, merchants shouting over one another in the market square, drunks spilling laughter from tavern doors, guards patrolling with hands on hilts.
Yet despite the noise, Kael felt the silence pressing against his chest. A silence not born of absence, but of presence.
He knew they were being followed.
It began as nothing more than the weight of eyes on his back, a sensation too familiar to ignore. A soldier's instincts rarely lied, and though his body bore the scars of battle, his senses had never dulled. He adjusted the weight of his cloak, his hand brushing against the hilt of his sword as his gaze flicked to every shadow in the alleys.
The cursed blade pulsed faintly at his side, as though it too sensed the one tailing them.
Elara walked beside him, her satchel hugged tightly against her chest. The lamplight danced over her auburn hair, turning it to copper, while her sharp green eyes studied him with quiet concern. "You've been looking over your shoulder since we left," she murmured. "Do you see something I don't?"
Kael's lips pressed into a thin line. "Not see. Feel."
She slowed her steps, adjusting her cloak. "We're being followed?"
"Yes," Kael said simply, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "A mercenary. I don't know his name, but I saw him in the square. He has the look of a man paid to wait for the right moment."
Her brows furrowed. "And you're sure?"
Kael's jaw tightened. "I've learned not to ignore a hunter's gaze."
They continued walking, weaving through the evening bustle. Kael did not point, did not break stride. That was how amateurs behaved, and amateurs ended up with steel in their backs. Instead, he let the weight of those unseen eyes press against him, searching the rhythm of footsteps behind theirs, the pauses when they turned corners.
The Rival Mercenary was good—good enough that most would never notice. His presence was smoke in the air, shadows shifting in tandem with the city's heartbeat. But Kael could sense him in the way the silence thickened when a crowd parted, the way shadows lingered too long after passing lamp-light.
The cursed blade whispered in Kael's mind, its voice like oil seeping into water. Strike now… sever the watcher's throat before he closes in. Blood will scatter your fears.
Kael clenched his fist against the urge, forcing the whispers down. Not yet. He would not let the blade dictate his every move.
Elara's hand brushed against his arm, grounding him. "If someone's after us, shouldn't we confront them?"
"No," Kael said sharply, then softened his tone when he saw her frown. "Not yet. If we show our hand too early, we lose control. Let him think we're unaware. It's better to let hunters reveal themselves."
They crossed into a quieter district of Ebonreach, where the laughter of the taverns dulled and the streets narrowed into twisting veins. Here, the walls leaned close, dripping with moss and age. The lanterns hung further apart, casting deep pools of darkness between each island of light.
The air was colder.
The presence behind them grew heavier.
Kael could almost picture the Rival Mercenary now—broad shoulders pressed against wet stone, a scar cut across his cheek, eyes that gleamed like a wolf's in the night. He could smell the faint hint of oil and steel every time the wind shifted.
The cursed blade thrummed, eager. Turn… kill him now… spill him across the cobbles.
Kael gritted his teeth. No. Not yet.
"Kael," Elara whispered, clutching his sleeve. "He's still there, isn't he?"
Kael nodded once. His eyes flicked up to a nearby rooftop where rainwater dripped from broken tiles. For the briefest moment, he caught a darker shadow sliding along the roof's edge, vanishing as though it had never been. His heart hammered, not with fear, but with grim certainty.
The Rival Mercenary was indeed skilled. Patient. Dangerous.
They passed under a crumbling archway, its stone scarred by centuries of weather. Beyond lay the quieter parts of Ebonreach, where the streets bent into labyrinthine paths that even locals hesitated to tread at night. Kael stopped abruptly, placing a hand against Elara's arm.
"We need to change course," he muttered.
Elara blinked. "Why? If he's following, won't he follow no matter where we go?"
"Yes," Kael said, scanning the rooftops. "But right now, he's the one choosing the ground. If we keep walking blind, we'll walk straight into his snare."
Elara's lips pressed into a thin line, but she nodded. "Where, then?"
Kael's eyes hardened. "Somewhere I can see him coming."
They turned down a narrow alley, its stones slick and uneven. Broken crates lay against the walls, and scraps of parchment clung to the wet ground. It was a place most avoided—too tight, too dimly lit—but Kael moved with purpose, guiding Elara until they emerged into a broader square bordered by abandoned stalls.
A dry fountain stood at the center, its stone statues cracked and headless, moss climbing their torsos.
Kael stopped there, turning his body slightly so the lamplight caught the steel of his sword. He rested a hand against the hilt, the motion deliberate.
Elara's voice was tight. "You're baiting him."
"Yes."
She swallowed, but did not argue.
The night pressed heavy around them. Kael let the silence stretch, his ears straining for the scrape of boots, the clink of metal. The cursed blade hummed with anticipation, its whispers now a steady drone in his skull. He waits… he watches… call him forth and bleed him…
Minutes stretched like hours.
Then—movement.
A shadow slipped into the square from one of the alleys, silent as smoke. He did not approach directly, instead circling the fountain's edge, his outline barely visible in the gloom. Kael's grip on his sword tightened, his muscles coiled to strike—yet he held still, forcing patience into his bones.
The Rival Mercenary never fully revealed himself. He lingered at the edges, eyes glinting once from beneath a hood. His presence was oppressive, like the slow suffocation of air.
Then, as suddenly as he appeared, he stepped back into shadow. Gone.
Elara exhaled shakily. "He… left?"
Kael didn't relax. His gaze remained fixed on the alley. "No. He's only reminding us he's there. A wolf circling sheep. He wants me unsettled."
Her hand brushed against his. "And are you?"
Kael finally tore his eyes from the shadows to look at her. In the lamplight, her face was pale but steady, her jaw set with a stubborn courage he hadn't expected. Something in his chest tightened—an anchor against the whispers clawing at his mind.
"I've been hunted before," Kael murmured. "But this time, I'm not the only one in danger."
Elara held his gaze. "Then we face it together."
The cursed blade hissed, venomous in its hunger. Weakness… she makes you weak. Cut her free. Hunt alone, as you were meant to.
Kael's teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached. He ignored it, forcing the voice into silence. "Let him stalk. Let him circle. When the time comes, I'll be ready."
Elara squeezed his hand once, firm and unyielding. "Then I'll be ready too."
For a moment, the hunter in the shadows and the cursed whispers faded, replaced by the simple weight of her touch.
But the reprieve was brief. Above them, unseen, the Rival Mercenary watched from the rooftops, a faint grin curling his lips. His patience was endless. And the game had only just begun.