They arrived in Anticourt with the sun sliding toward the horizon, the crossing-town was as loud as mid-morning in Bren. Carts rattled over stone. Merchants shouted prices from open fronts. Bells clanged as some shutters came down and others went up. Smoke from spices and frying fat mixed with tanned leather and fresh-cut wood.
What had once been a waystation had swollen into a market in its own right. Anticourt sat where three main roads met—the Fulmen Trident's southern forks and a lesser trade spur—and coin in Fulmen seemed to pass through here at least once.
Stone houses leaned into stout timber frames, packed tight without any proper wall. Anticourt trusted distance from the Badlands and the profit of its stalls more than any curtain of stone.
They drew looks as they rode in.
Five Blackfyre knights in matte-black plate. Two Demon Hunters in leather and shadow. One Riverrunner with his fish-helmed visor hanging at his side.
And a toddler on a knight's saddle.
Men at carts paused mid-haggle. A woman with a basket blinked, made a quick warding sign, then looked away as if she hadn't. Children pointed until their parents slapped their hands down.
"Eyes forward," Evan murmured.
Ezra's weight was a familiar warmth against his chest. The boy's cloak hood sat low enough to shade his face, but not low enough to read as concealment.
They had already agreed: no names, no titles, no crest displayed if they could help it. Lord Blackfyre's heir in a busy trader's haven was bait.
Their destination sat ahead—a three-story inn of cut stone and dark timber, shutters painted deep red, iron lanterns bracketing the doors. Armoured men in Baronial colours held the entrance, halberds grounded, eyes up.
"The Flameheart Tavern," Deimos said quietly. "Baron Flair's pride. He keeps his own guards, and half the merchants in Anticourt hide their ledgers in his cellars. If you're going to sleep with a child in tow, this is the place."
Inside, warmth and noise hit again. A fire burned deep in the hearth, smoke feeding into a hooded chimney. Long tables held merchants, caravan guards, a few minor knights. Dice clattered. A lute worked somewhere near the far wall.
Conversations dipped when their party entered. A Demon Hunter's black coat read anywhere in the Empire. The fish-helm of a Riverrunner drew its own unease. Add five Blackfyre Guard and a cloaked child, and subtlety died on contact.
The barkeep recovered first—a broad man with thinning hair tied back with a leather thong. "Welcome, sers," he called. "Rooms, food, or both?"
"Both," Deimos said. "Separate rooms for my men. One larger suite for Sir Evan and the boy."
The barkeep's eyes flicked to Ezra—quick, sharp—then away. Whatever he guessed, he kept it.
"You're in luck," he said. "We've space. And clean straw, too. The owner insists." He put pride on the last word.
Baron Flair Incendis appeared as they sorted payment—a thickset man with a walrus moustache and a chest like a brewer's barrel. He wore good wool, not armour, but he moved like someone who remembered plate.
"Sers," he greeted. "Any man bearing Blackfyre's mark is welcome under my roof." He clasped wrists with Rycharde and Deimos, eyes lingering a heartbeat on Ezra before sliding away. "If you need guards, the men at the door answer to me. And by extension, to your lord."
"Your hospitality honours us, Baron Flair," Evan said.
They were given good rooms. The Blackfyre Guard and the Demon Hunters took their chambers. Evan and Ezra were led to a larger suite: wide bed, second pallet, small sitting area. After Irriton's dirt and blood, it qualified as luxury.
Reitz had pressed a heavy purse into Evan's hand before he left Bren, with a simple instruction: Spend what you must. Don't be stingy where Ezra's safety is concerned.
For once, Evan obeyed without hesitation.
Before sleep, there was duty.
Once Ezra was washed, fed, and folding into drowsiness, Evan tucked him into the bed and watched his breathing settle. Then he turned to Rycharde.
"Captain," he said quietly. "I must send word to Lord Blackfyre. Will you watch him?"
Rycharde straightened from unbuckling his greaves. "With my life," he said. "Go."
The messenger post sat across the main square, a squat stone building with a tall, caged tower above it. Even at this hour, soft coos and rustlings came from the upper floors—pigeons, crows, and the sleek shapes of trained hawks.
Normally, Imperial messengers didn't fly at night. But when Evan presented the Blackfyre seal to the duty clerk—a wax impression pressed into steel, heavy as a promise—the man's expression snapped from bored to alert.
"This way, ser," he said.
He led Evan to a smaller side room where a half-dozen larger hawks dozed on high perches, leather jesses hanging from their legs.
Evan wrote fast.
Arrived Anticourt. Ezra alive. With me.
Felbeasts in Irriton unusually active.
Encountered Demon Hunters Deimos and Phobos; encountered Preacantae-class Chimeraan. Survived.
Further details on return.
He hesitated, then added a final line.
Ezra… commanded well.
He signed. Sealed. Watched the clerk tie the message-cylinder to a hawk's leg and send it up into the night with a sharp whistle.
Only when the bird vanished did Evan let himself exhale.
An hour had passed by the time he stepped back into the square. Anticourt had quieted. Shutters were mostly closed. Lanterns were dimmed. Only a few stubborn taverns still leaked light and song.
He checked his surroundings out of habit.
That was when he saw the pendant.
A hooded figure crossed the far edge of the square, cloak pulled tight. Nothing strange in that—Anticourt nights could bite—but as the man passed under a lamppost he turned his head once, and something at his throat caught the light.
Iron, ringed in gold. A stylized crest, half-hidden by cloth.
Evan's gut clenched.
He had seen that design before: on letters, on banners, on the breastplate of a nobleman who looked at Lord Blackfyre with polite hate.
He moved without fully deciding.
He tracked along the square's edge, keeping to shadow, letting carts and stacked crates break line of sight. The hooded man cut down a narrow side street, then another. Buildings thinned. Wind picked up, cold and carrying the dry smell of field and trampled grass.
At the edge of town, houses gave way to open land.
Too exposed, Evan thought, flattening against the last stone wall.
If I follow on foot across the fields, I'd stand out like a torch in a darkhill
He dropped into the tall grass, belly and knees soaking with dew, and crawled. Slow. Controlled. Letting the grass close over him.
Ahead, the hooded man walked on.
After a short distance, he stopped.
Two other men waited—armoured, by the set of their shoulders and the weight of their steps. Heads bowed. They touched fists to chests in a salute Evan didn't recognize from any Fulmen unit.
The hooded figure returned a curt nod and led them farther out into the dark, away from Anticourt's last lamp-glow.
Evan followed, teeth locked against the urge to rush.
They reached a small rise: a bare patch of earth amid grass. Shapes waited there.
Two of them.
Black from throat to boot. Cloaks and hoods so dark starlight didn't catch. When they shifted, shadow held to their faces like a mask. No skin. No eye-glint.
Evan tried to pull a profile out of it.
Nothing.
The man Evan had followed pushed his hood back.
Evan's breath caught.
Duke Terros of Loria.
He'd seen that face across Reitz's war table—handsome in a cold, carved way, mouth often set in a polite smile that never reached his eyes. Terros had toasted Lord Blackfyre's "good fortune" when Reitz was rewarded with the mines, he hadn't meant a word.
Now he dipped his head—not deep, not like a vassal, but enough to acknowledge the two in black.
"Esteemed Shadow Walkers," Duke Terros said. His voice carried in the still air. "I am Terros, Duke of Loria. I am told, through certain channels, that you will undertake… particular tasks, in exchange for magic cores."
Evan's stomach knotted.
Shadow Walkers. Arcanists. Here.
Treason. Not just against Reitz, but against the Empire. Any traffic with Arcanists was a hanging offence in the Capital—worse if they wanted an example.
"I would ask your cooperation in a matter concerning Earl Blackfyre," Terros went on.
The night felt tighter.
"The mercenaries I hired were useless," the duke said, irritation cutting through his polish. "They failed to kill Reitz. I am prepared to offer twenty thousand magic cores as down payment."
Silence.
The Shadow Walkers didn't shift. Didn't confer. Didn't even breathe where Evan could see it.
Terros's jaw tightened. Fingers tapped against his thigh.
When one of the hooded men finally spoke, his voice was low and smooth, with no accent Evan could place.
"Thirty thousand."
The number hit like a thrown weight.
"Twenty thousand for the Lord of Fulmen," the Shadow Walker continued. "Ten thousand for intelligence. The ways in and out of his castle. The likes and dislikes of his guards. The patterns of his patrols. We do not walk blind."
Evan's hand closed on his sword hilt.
They were discussing Castle Blackfyre as prey.
"Thirty thousand is too much," Terros snapped, then forced his voice back toward smooth. "I can part with twenty-five."
"I am afraid," the Arcanist said, "that we must part ways, Duke Terros."
The air around them thickened.
At first it was a dimming, like a veil drawn over the stars. Then the darkness at their feet deepened and pooled, spreading, rising.
They were leaving.
Panic broke through Terros's control. He stepped forward, hand out.
"Wait," he said. "Wait. I can offer twenty-seven thousand. That is no small sum."
Silence.
Darkness climbed.
Terros swallowed. Pride and fury fought across his face.
"Fine," he bit out. "Thirty. I will find thirty thousand cores."
The darkness stilled.
"Then so it shall be," the Shadow Walker said. "The payment will be delivered tomorrow at the place we will name. You will ensure no Imperial eyes follow your shipment. We will handle the rest."
Evan had heard enough.
He eased back, inch by inch, letting the grass cover him again. Heart hammering. He needed to reach the inn. He needed to get word to Reitz that his neighbour was buying Arcanist knives with stolen Imperial tribute.
He had just started to turn when a third voice spoke.
"We will also take care of the spy," the Shadow Walker said mildly. "Consider it a courtesy."
The world tightened around Evan.
He didn't waste time on cursing his ill luck.
He sprang up and ran. Legs churning for the darker cut of a ditch that might give him cover.
Shadow moved with him.
At the edge of his vision, the night thickened. Darkness slid along the ground in wisps, curling through grass, reaching as if it was reaching for his boots.
Evan lowered his head and ran harder.