The outer barracks reeked of sweat, mixed with oil, along with that damp stone smell from years ago.
Aiden paused at the bottom of the broad stairs, Rowan just slightly back, taking it all in. Up ahead, the structure climbed up three floors, marked from old training sessions and late-night fights. People in uniforms moved through the entrance - some joking around, others shouting, a few so worn out they didn't even bother.
Back then, this place felt like where I belonged.
Now this place belonged to them - hostile, unfamiliar ground.
"Big house," Rowan muttered. "For people who like yelling."
"They like order," Aiden said. "Yelling is just how they decorate it."
He shifted his armor to show off the emblem on his chest, while keeping the fresh documents tucked just beneath the metal. Moving ahead didn't make his skin heat up, yet a familiar tension stirred inside - like muscle memory kicking in.
The yard before the barracks bustled. New soldiers trudged in jagged rows as a grizzled sergeant yelled fixes nobody caught. Two seasoned fighters slouched by a pole, wagering who'd drop earliest. A wagon piled with lances clattered by, the hauler cursing folks to shift.
No one gave a second glance to another guy in armor moving through the mess - just blended into the chaos like smoke in wind.
Good.
Aiden went up the stairs, then slipped through the doors into the big room. The stone soaked up street sounds, swapping them for something else - boots thudding on steps, people talking over each other, metal banging from somewhere farther in.
A desk was on the left side near the door, with a slim guy sitting there, jotting stuff down using an old-looking pen. He had little hair, kept scratching lines into a book. When Aiden came closer, the man's nose twitched - like interruptions were something he hated deep down.
"Yes?" he snapped without looking up. "If you're here to complain about rations, find a wall and shout at it instead."
"I'm not here to complain," Aiden said. "I'm here to be put to work."
That got the clerk to look up at last. His gaze skimmed the armor, the badge, Rowan - then settled back on Aiden's face. "What do they call you?"
Aiden dropped the crumpled sheets on the table - Elias Grant, fresh outta Holt's crew, tagged for clerk duty
The clerk squinted slightly. As he opened the old paper, his mouth quietly followed each line. Light from the lamp caught the seal - red wax still intact, showing a sharp lion emblem.
Rowan moved closer to Aiden, hunching his shoulders. Inside the bag, the kitten made a quiet grumble.
The clerk grunted. "Always sending more bodies and never more ink," he muttered. "Fine. We'll find a corner to stuff you into."
He dipped his quill in ink, scribbled something in the ledger, then shoved the papers back at Aiden. "Second floor, east corridor. Records room. Report to Sergeant Varro. If he throws a book at you, you're in the right place."
Aiden grabbed the documents. What about the kid?
"What about him?"
"He's a labor recruit," Aiden said. "Sent to be assigned where needed. Put him on record."
The clerk let out a sigh, like every additional word hurt his body. "What's your name?"
"Rowan," he blurted out. But from Westvale
The clerk wrote it down, barely listening. "Fine. Stables, outer yard, for now. Report to whoever shouts first. Next!"
They moved off from the table while the guy still hesitated on whether to speak up.
Rowan exhaled hard. "I thought he was going to see straight through everything."
"He doesn't see people," Aiden said. "He sees problems and whether they involve more ink."
They got to the bottom step. Rowan paused for a sec. "Uh… this is where we go separate ways?"
"For now," Aiden said. "The stables will hear everything the officers don't want to get their boots dirty with. Listen. Don't repeat."
Rowan gave a quick nod, teeth clenched. "What about you - huh?"
"I start being Elias."
Rowan stared at him, like he was squeezing two souls into a single head. Yet don't lose track of who you truly are
Aiden almost smiled. "That one doesn't forget."
They split up by the staircase - Rowan ducked off through a narrow exit heading to the backyard, while Aiden went up, moving into the wooden frame of the dorm building.
The second floor felt calmer - though not by much. Down the hallway, light slipped through tall windows while flickering lanterns added their glow. Rooms opened on both sides, many left ajar: inside, you'd spot stacked beds, storage spaces, or a shadowy dining area.
A bit farther ahead, a doorway hung slightly ajar, with an old tag up top that read: RECORDS.
Aiden tapped the door one time - then walked in.
The room reeked of old paper, dirt, yet trapped breath. Shelves bent low from heaps of rolled scripts along with leather-clad volumes. Sheets teetered in uneven piles over each open spot. Right in the middle of that mess lounged a thick-set guy, bald, marked by a slash across his snout, scowling at a page like it did him wrong.
Without looking up, he said, "If you lost another requisition form, I swear I'll—"
"I'm not here to lose anything," Aiden said. "I'm here to be lost inside all this."
The guy looked up. His gaze moved over the suit, the badge, the documents Aiden was holding. After a pause, he gave a short sound. "Are you the latest one handling paperwork?"
Aiden answered, handing over the task slip - his voice quiet but clear.
The sergeant skimmed it, snorted, and tossed it onto a pile. "Varro. You answer to me. You don't touch anything unless I tell you. You don't file anything unless I tell you. And if you mix up unit rosters again, I will throw you out a window."
"Again?" Aiden asked.
Varro eyed him. "The last one thought 'alphabetical order' was a suggestion. We almost sent three squads to the wrong gate. The captain nearly took my head off."
Holt.
Aiden stayed calm-faced. "Better next time," he said instead
"You'd better." Varro jerked his chin toward a cluttered corner and an empty stool. "Sit. Start by copying those patrol reports onto clean sheets. Some genius spilled ale on them."
Aiden moved across the room, slipping into place. Then he grabbed a quill, dunked it in ink, started copying things down. His hand knew just what to do - knights scribbled notes all the time, not just clerks.
Names and paths scrolled past his gaze. Shift schedules. Changing checkpoints. Records of who came and went. All the details someone trying to sneak through would need.
While he scribbled notes, talk floated in from the hallway. Guys passing through, shoes dragging on the mat.
"…Holt's looking for someone, I'm telling you. He's had us double-checking records for three days."
"Looking for what? A rat?"
"Maybe the wrong corpse."
Laughter. Fading footsteps.
Aiden's pen stopped - just for a second - on the page. After that, it went on writing.
[Sub-Quest: Mask of the Living – Progress Updated.]
Status: ID checked. Got into system files
[New Sub-Quest Unlocked: Measure the Wolf.]
[Objective: Determine Captain Holt's current strength, habits, and vulnerabilities.]
Check the size of the wolf before slicing its neck.
Varro snapped the book closed, muttering a curse. "That guy's infuriating."
Aiden looked up. "What's wrong?"
"Always," Varro muttered. "Captain wants another summary report on unit readiness by tonight. As if numbers make men fight better."
"Sometimes numbers make men sleep easier," Aiden said.
Varro snorted. "Holt doesn't sleep."
That, Aiden believed.
He brushed off a smudge on the paper using his cuff. "Let me write up the summary," he added. "Then you just sign off." Way fewer tasks for you
Varro looked at him. In his eyes, doubt mixed with a flicker of trust - and weariness tugged hard. "You able to write like someone who's been trained?"
"I can write like someone who doesn't want Holt breathing down his neck," Aiden said.
The sergeant grinned, sudden and sharp. "Good answer. Fine. You do the quill work. I do the shouting."
When Aiden leaned into the desk again, the character started to feel real. Not loud or flashy - just Elias Grant. A guy who kept to himself. Good at his job. No fuss.
The type of guy nobody noticed passing through corridors, holding documents that unlocked entrances.
The corpse finally got hold of his mask - only now it was useless.
Soon he'd be near Holt - along with the rest - so the mask would become their final vision.