Amelia glided through the night like a ghost, leaving barely a faint ripple of shadow against the dingy city walls and murky alleyways. Some in the War Council might think of Hassel as a city in recovery, made of patched rooftops, bustling markets, and hopeful people.

But Amelia knew the remnants of the old regime still conspired. Few dared to openly oppose the Revolution now, yet plots festered in the hidden corners of Hassel.

She moved quietly through the lower quarter, a labyrinth of narrow lanes once known for cheap taverns and low-wage labor. New structures rose here, thanks to the wave of reconstruction, but many stood as abandoned husks, having been deemed of secondary importance.

The unpaved streets reeked of stale sewage and rotting scraps, indicating that the work being done in the sewers had yet to reach this area. Even at this late hour, small groups of ragged men and women huddled in precariously stable buildings, warily watching their surroundings.

Her shadows had whispered of a clandestine gathering in a derelict house on Winding Rat Street—an unremarkable name for an unremarkable place. More than once, she had considered ignoring it. The city had already been thoroughly combed for major threats, and the War Council believed that any true danger had likely gone underground, possibly even fled. Yet she persisted. As Leonard's intelligence officer, Amelia allowed no stone to go unturned.

She paused at the building in question, little more than a dilapidated shack wedged between two crumbling warehouses. A single crooked door hung from a rusty hinge, and the tiny windows were boarded up. From the outside, it looked like a collapsed storeroom unsuitable for habitation.

Yet she could see smooth stone through a hairline gap in the boards. Amelia's eyes narrowed. It would have been impossible for a regular soldier to notice in the gloom, but she wasn't so limited.

She slipped inside through a side window, bypassing the rotting door. As she expected, the floorboards creaked precariously, even without any weight on them, but no signs of life stirred in the dusty main room. Her shadowy form drifted through a narrow corridor. The stench of mold and decay grew stronger. The only clues that someone had occupied this place were scattered footprints in the dust and a faint hiss of stale air from beyond a hidden hatch.

A quick push against the nearest wall revealed a loose panel. She knelt down, peering inside. Sure enough, a narrow staircase descended into darkness, leading far deeper than any ordinary basement should go.

She pressed her palm against the edge of the door. The faint swirl of magic told her it was sealed from below. Nothing she couldn't handle. A murmured incantation made shadows coalesce around the latch, dissolving the crude wards. Amelia slipped through the now unprotected gap, not needing to open the latch and potentially reveal herself.

The cramped staircase twisted uncomfortably as it led down. At times, it was barely wide enough for a man to pass. A sour smell of damp earth mingled with the tang of burnt-out candles. She moved carefully, stepping lightly to avoid disturbing even the air. Eventually, after what felt like a hundred feet, she glimpsed a dull glow ahead.

Sliding to the edge of the corridor, Amelia peered into a vast underground chamber. Flickering lanterns illuminated rows of battered crates, a couple of old tables, and a stretch of stone floor that seemed incongruous with the dirt walls. There, four men stood around a makeshift desk scattered with papers and half-burned candles.

"-the best we can do given the circumstances," one man was saying, his voice a thin rasp. "Four carts is all I can manage. The guard we bribed is risking his neck just to arrange this gap in the patrol schedule. If we push for more..."

Another man, older, with a reedy frame and an air of indignation, pounded the table. "I can't cram my entire fortune into one cart, Arell! I could let go of the chaff, but we're talking about prime stock! Slaves I've spent years curating. I can't leave them behind in this wretched city."

A third man, balding and rotund, shot him a baleful glare. "Those days are gone, Welf. The Revolution isn't letting you stroll out with a train of your precious cargo. If you want to keep anything, you'll need to stack them like fish and hope they don't suffocate."

Welf bristled but fell silent as the fourth man spoke, his tone clipped and condescending. "We are already behind schedule. The First Lance will be displeased if we aren't at the rendezvous by the appointed time. The best we can do is to bring fresh intel to the Royal Army. Dragging your entire menagerie is not within our current capabilities."

The mention of the First Lance drew immediate hisses from the others, and the man who'd said it looked abashed, muttering, "Right, not so loud."

Amelia's eyes narrowed. I knew he couldn't keep away.

She'd heard enough. Emerging from the shadow, she let a tendril of darkness snake forth, flickering along the edges of the lanterns. The men froze, confusion etched on their faces as they sensed the ominous shift but couldn't locate its origin.

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With a subtle gesture, Amelia sent a gust of dark wind whipping through the chamber. It extinguished all but one candle, plunging the men into near darkness. Immediately, they panicked.

"What the—?"

Before they could organize, Amelia struck. She slammed her palms together, conjuring shackles of solidified darkness. The black manacles latched onto the men's arms and legs, yanking them to the ground.

Three of them barely had a chance to cry out. The one called Welf attempted to lunge for a dagger hidden under his cloak, but a surge of constricting shadow pinned his wrist. He let out a strangled yelp.

"Easy," Amelia said, her tone smooth as polished steel. She stepped forward, allowing just enough candlelight to reveal her silhouette. Her presence radiated a cold menace. "No one's dying if you come quietly."

To their credit, they recognized how hopelessly outmatched they were. Welf attempted to spit an insult, but Amelia tightened the dark bonds around his throat just enough to silence him without fully choking him. He gave a choked gargle.

She calmly began searching them, gathering a half-dozen concealed weapons from hidden pockets and boots. The older man with the reedy voice had a stash of sealed letters tucked inside his coat, each bearing the watermark of a noble house. She pocketed those for further reading.

One by one, she dragged them to the far corner. They attempted to resist or bribe her with whispered pleas, but she ignored them all. She didn't know them personally but recognized the types as part of the old upper class, greedy for slaves and fortunes, even as the world changed around them. Relics. Parasitic relics.

Soon, she had them hogtied with conjured shackles. They stared with terror or hatred. Possibly both. Satisfied, Amelia summoned a swirl of shadow that wrapped their mouths, muffling any attempts to yell before stepping away.

Just as she saw the glimmer of hope enter their eyes, that she'd be foolish enough to leave them alone while she checked the rest of the basement, she allowed one of her spirits to reveal itself.

The panther-like elemental prowled around them, emitting a low rumble of warning and letting them know that any attempt to escape would end in blood.

A brief sweep revealed no additional conspirators, though the labyrinthine tunnels suggested prior use—likely an old smuggling route. She discovered a stash of coins, both gold and silver minted under the old King's crest, along with a handful of documents detailing patrol routes. The Revolution can use these, she thought, pocketing them all. We may not be able to stifle it completely, but knowing how corruption moves around is good.

With a murmured command, she conjured a dark wind that lifted the men off the floor. They floated, bound in her swirling shadows, as she began the ascent back upstairs. She would need a small dive into the Shadows to transport them to the Tower without being noticed, but the discomfort it would cause them was a trifling detail. The important part was that these pigs wouldn't pass crucial intel to the Royal Army.

Hours later, Amelia moved through the abandoned farmland beyond Hassel, as light and fleeting as a breath of night air. She had left her captives in Neer's custody, ensuring they were bound, gagged, and caged—her only regret was not being able to interrogate them personally right away. However, they needed immediate answers regarding the army's movements, which she could not entrust solely to her spirits. Leonard's orders took priority.

The fields were once lush with corn and wheat, but they had been abandoned when the lines of war shifted. The crops stood half-rotted, left to wither in the sun. Vermin scurried beneath decaying husks, and a stale wind rattled the empty stalks. Amelia understood that, in more peaceful times, losing such a significant harvest would devastate local communities. Now, it was considered a minor sacrifice if it meant the two armies would have some distance.

Occasionally, she paused to examine footprints or minor disturbances in the flattened pathways. Abandoned campsites conveyed the story of refugees who had passed through. However, there were no recent signs of occupancy. The whole stretch of farmland between Hetnia and Nevielle was a scar, a neutral zone that no one dared to occupy.

Eventually, she neared the true border, where the farmland ended and the rolling hills of Nevielle began. Here, the atmosphere shifted. Torchlights glowed in large clusters, revealing the presence of a well-organized, well-equipped army. Through her heightened senses, Amelia felt the hum of wards and detection spells layered throughout the fields.

So they have a robust perimeter, she thought wryly, pulling her shadow cloak tighter. Better than Count Luster-Treon, at the very least. I would have been disappointed otherwise.

Staying low, she let the darkness envelop her. Occasionally, the wards brushed against her illusions, but she was accustomed to circumventing such magical tripwires. More than once, she had to pause and compress her aura, allowing patrolling knights to pass just yards away. Their armor gleamed under the moonlight, with runes etched into the metal signifying advanced enchantments— far more sophisticated than the half-trained squads that once opposed them in Hetnia.

Amelia recognized the style as a Royal Army standard issue, but it seemed to be a newer generation. Their discipline was evident in the precision of their steps and the taut lines of their posture. Gunmen scanned the horizon with vigilance, and she could sense specialized mages stationed in higher vantage points sweeping the area for mana fluctuations.

Even so, Amelia was no novice in the arts of stealth. She glided between guard stations, timing her movements to avoid their lines of sight. On two occasions, a sensor mage's searching wave of detection nearly brushed her location, forcing her to sink deeper into the shadows. She stifled her aura to the bare minimum, her heart racing with the thrill of near discovery.

Finally, she left the farmland behind, entering the outskirts of Bunchester, the first major town in Nevielle. The Royal Army had claimed the entire settlement, transforming it into an elaborate camp. Streets normally filled with merchants were now lined with tents bearing the King's insignia. Soldiers moved about with confidence, showing that their hold was not contested. The city lamps flickered, revealing glimpses of heavy supply wagons and siege engines parked in the squares.

Amelia slipped through the narrower byways, where fewer torches illuminated the corners. Still, she had to be exceedingly careful. Curfews meant no civilians roamed, so a lone shadow would stand out if spotted. She navigated back routes, cloaking herself in illusions of drifting mist.

At last, she beheld her target: a stately manse perched on the northern side of town atop a small rise. Surrounded by an ornate iron fence, the manse glimmered with braziers and warding lanterns. A pair of gilded banners hung from the second-floor balcony, displaying the Lancers' crest. The cobbled courtyard teemed with armed guards, their discipline reminiscent of elite knights rather than regular foot soldiers. Something important—someone important—was here.

She crouched behind an overgrown hedgerow, letting the night's darkness envelop her. From here, she could see a cluster of robed figures entering through the main gate— lesser mages, perhaps. Her breath slowed, her pulse calm.

It didn't take long for her to find her target. Handsome and charming as always, Bernard De Luminier lay alone on a luxurious recliner in a well-lit courtyard, sipping red wine. An empty chair rested before him, and if Amelia knew her old comrade from the Hero Party at all, it was meant for her.

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