# Chapter 379: The Spy in the Ranks
The shock of The Ironclad's lesson still hung in the air, a cold fog over Elder Caine. In Lena's tavern, the usual boisterous energy was muted, replaced by a low hum of speculation. The air, thick with the smell of roasting meat, spilled ale, and damp wool from travelers' cloaks, carried snippets of hushed conversation. Soren's defeat was the topic on every tongue, but the tone wasn't mockery; it was a strange, new kind of reverence. He had been humbled, and in that humility, he had become more real, more one of them.
Lena moved behind the bar, her motions economical and precise. Her eyes, sharp and missed little, missed nothing. She wiped down a worn wooden counter, her gaze sweeping over her patrons, assessing moods, noting alliances. It was a skill she'd honed long before the Ladder, back when her tavern was a neutral ground in a city of shifting loyalties. Tonight, her attention kept snagging on the new barhand, a quiet young man named Joric. He'd arrived a week ago, claiming to be a refugee from a northern farmstead, looking for honest work. He was strong, quick to learn, and kept to himself. A perfect employee.
Too perfect.
He was polishing a tankard with a little too much focus, his head cocked toward a table where two of Captain Bren's off-duty guardsmen were talking. They weren't discussing state secrets, just complaining about the rotation schedule for the western watchtower. But Joric's interest was more than casual. Lena saw the way his eyes narrowed, the subtle tightening of his grip on the tankard when they mentioned the time of the supply wagons. Earlier, he'd been clearing tables near a group of Soren's scouts, lingering just a moment too long as they discussed the patrol routes around the Bloom-Wastes. He never asked a direct question, never inserted himself into the conversation. He just… absorbed. He was a sponge, soaking up droplets of strategic information, each one insignificant on its own but forming a dangerous puddle when gathered together.
Lena's hand stilled on the counter. She had seen this before, in the back alleys of the Sunken City. The quiet observer, the unassuming servant, the fly on the wall who was really a spider. She finished wiping the counter, her expression unchanged, and moved to the other end of the bar where Nyra sat, nursing a cup of herbal tea. Nyra's gaze was distant, her mind clearly replaying the duel, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup.
"Another round for the guardsmen, on the house," Lena said, her voice a low murmur as she placed a fresh pitcher of ale on the bar. Her eyes flicked toward Joric for a fraction of a second. "New boy's a bit too thirsty for knowledge, don't you think?"
Nyra's focus snapped back, the strategist in her instantly online. She followed Lena's gaze. Joric was now laughing at a joke one of the patrons had made, the picture of an affable worker. But Nyra saw the slight delay, the way the laughter didn't quite reach his eyes. It was a mask, and a good one, but not perfect. Not to her.
"How long?" Nyra asked, her voice equally low.
"Week. Came in with papers from a farmer's guild, but the ink was too fresh. Seals were perfect, though. Expensive." Lena poured the tea, her movements a casual cover for their conversation. "He asks questions like he's mapping the place. Not the 'where's the privy' kind. The 'how many men guard the east gate at dawn' kind, phrased like he's just making conversation."
Nyra's mind raced. The Ashen Remnant. The Synod. Soren's public display of vulnerability. It was the perfect time for an enemy to probe their defenses. "He's a plant."
"Looks that way," Lena agreed. "He's not just listening. He's watching. He knows the faces of the guards, the scouts, the supply runners. He's building a picture."
Nyra pushed her cup away. "I'll handle it." She stood, stretching as if bored, and began a slow circuit of the tavern. She paused near the guardsmen's table, laughing at their stories, her presence a bright, distracting spark. She felt Joric's eyes on her, a physical weight. He was assessing her, too. Good. Let him. She was just the sponsor's daughter, a pretty face in the crowd. She let her gaze drift over him, a flicker of dismissive interest, before moving on. The performance was flawless.
She left the tavern through the back door, stepping into the cool night air. The alleyway was narrow, smelling of damp earth and refuse. Instead of heading toward the command tents, she melted into the shadows beside the building, her dark clothing making her nearly invisible. This was her element. Not the arena, not the war room, but the quiet, deadly spaces in between. She waited, her breathing slow and even, a predator at rest.
An hour later, the tavern's back door creaked open. Joric stepped out, pulling a rough wool cap over his head. He didn't look left or right. He moved with a purpose that belied his casual demeanor inside. He didn't head toward the barracks or the residential quarters. He cut through a maze of alleys, heading toward the older, less-traveled part of the settlement where the original stone buildings of the town were slowly being reclaimed by the encampment.
Nyra followed, a ghost on his heels. She moved from shadow to shadow, her steps silent on the packed earth. She used the terrain—a stack of empty crates, the overhang of a thatched roof, the deep gloom of an unlit doorway—to conceal her approach. Joric was good, but he was a soldier, not a spook. He checked his back, but he checked it like a man expecting to be followed by another soldier. He never thought to look up.
He finally stopped in a small, forgotten courtyard choked with weeds. In the center stood a crumbling stone fountain, dry and filled with dead leaves. Joric knelt, pretending to tie his boot. He reached under the lip of the fountain's basin, his fingers searching for a loose stone. He found it, pulled out a small, folded piece of parchment, and slipped it into his tunic. Then he placed another, identical-looking piece of parchment into the hiding spot. A dead drop. He was collecting intelligence and leaving instructions.
Nyra had seen enough. She could take him now, drag him back to the war room, and wring everything he knew out of him. But her Sable League training screamed at her to wait. Who was he meeting? Who was his handler? The spy was a tool. The real prize was the hand that wielded him.
She remained perfectly still as Joric stood, gave the courtyard one last, cursory glance, and walked away. Nyra waited, her senses straining. The night was alive with the chirping of crickets and the distant hoot of an owl. Minutes stretched. She was about to give up, to follow Joric and apprehend him before he could disappear, when a flicker of movement at the far edge of the courtyard caught her eye.
It wasn't a person. It was a patch of darkness that detached itself from the deeper shadows of the alleyway. It flowed, rather than walked, a silhouette of absolute blackness against the grey stone of the buildings. The figure was slim and moved with an unnerving grace, its steps making no sound whatsoever. It was a level of stealth Nyra had only ever read about, the kind practiced by the Synod's most elite operatives.
The figure glided across the courtyard to the fountain. It didn't kneel. It simply extended a hand, and the loose stone in the basin lifted out as if pulled by an invisible string. The figure retrieved the parchment Joric had left, its movements economical and devoid of any wasted energy. It then turned its head, its gaze sweeping the courtyard.
Nyra froze, pressing herself flat against the cold stone of the wall behind her. She didn't dare breathe. She felt a strange, tingling pressure at the edge of her senses, a probing, invasive feeling that was the hallmark of a Gifted ability. An investigative Gift. The figure was scanning for life, for any flicker of consciousness that didn't belong. Nyra focused her mind, slowing her heartbeat, emptying her thoughts, becoming just another part of the stone and shadows. It was a mental discipline Talia Ashfor had drilled into her until it was second nature.
The pressure passed. The figure, seemingly satisfied, turned to leave. But as it did, it paused. Its head tilted, as if hearing something Nyra couldn't. Joric was returning. He was coming back. Why? Had he forgotten something? Or was this part of the plan?
Joric entered the courtyard, his posture now tense, alert. He stopped a few feet from the fountain. "You were supposed to be gone," he said, his voice a low, nervous rasp.
The shadowy figure turned. Even in the dim moonlight, Nyra could make out the glint of silver hair, the severe, angular features of a young woman. Isolde. The Inquisitor-in-training who had been assigned to monitor Soren. The true believer.
"Plans change," Isolde said, her voice as cold and sharp as broken glass. "Your usefulness has reached its end."
Joric's hand went to the knife at his belt, but he was too slow. Isolde moved. It wasn't a blur of motion; it was a simple, economical step forward. Her hand flicked out, and a thin, dark needle shot from her sleeve, embedding itself in Joric's throat. He made a choked, gurgling sound, his eyes wide with disbelief. He clutched at his neck, stumbling back against the dry fountain. He fell to his knees, then slumped forward, his body twitching once before going still.
Isolde walked over to him, her expression one of detached boredom. She knelt beside the body, not to check for a pulse, but to retrieve something. She pulled a small, wooden token from Joric's clenched fist. It was crudely carved, the symbol of the Ashen Remnant. She held it for a moment, then tossed it contemptuously onto the ground beside the body. Then she reached into her own pouch and placed a different object in Joric's hand—a small, bronze disc stamped with the sun-and-scales sigil of the Radiant Synod.
A message. A deliberate, horrifying piece of theater.
Isolde stood and looked directly at Nyra's hiding spot. A faint, cruel smile touched her lips. She had known Nyra was there all along. The scan hadn't been to find her; it had been to confirm her presence. This entire execution had been an audience. A warning.
Without another word, Isolde turned and melted back into the shadows, leaving Nyra alone in the courtyard with the dead.
Nyra waited until the oppressive sense of Isolde's presence had completely faded before she moved. She stepped out into the moonlight, her heart a cold, heavy stone in her chest. She knelt beside Joric's body. The Remnant token lay in the dirt. But it was the object in his hand that made her blood run cold. The Synod token. It wasn't just a clue; it was a declaration. The hunters and the zealots, two enemies she had been fighting on separate fronts, were now marching under the same banner.
She stood up, the grim evidence of the unholy alliance in her mind. Soren's words from earlier, his fear of a new kind of war, echoed in her ears. He was right. They weren't just fighting spies and fanatics anymore. They were fighting a unified conspiracy, one that had already slipped its killers inside their walls. And it had just left its calling card.