When he got back to his room that night, Aston removed the mask and took the tube.

The ink didn't bleed, but shimmered faintly under Nova's filtered vision—a clear sign it was meant only for those keyed to Shadow Operations encoding.

Aston read slowly.

—

[ADDENDUM – TASK XVC003 – CLASSIFIED FOR EYES OF ASSIGNED CANDIDATE ONLY]

Subject Identification: Linna Veydran Alias: Silverroot Broker

Known Attributes:

Rogue spiritualist (former Second Circle Ritualist, Eastern Temple) Disavowed from official binding circles Current affiliation: Independent, but suspected ties to the Ironveil Conduit (unconfirmed)

Status: Highly persuasive. Dangerous only when threatened.

Last Confirmed Activity: Brokered a shipment of modified lesser-core crystals to an unknown buyer in Outer Zone 2. Suspected involvement in rare core bleaching.

Objective Specifics:

Confirm Linna's presence at Westridge Hollow Verify shipment location (identified by silver-thread seals on spirit crates) Tag shipment cache with the provided relay markers (located inside the tube compartment) Avoid direct conversation with Linna unless absolutely necessary

If contact is unavoidable, ensure code phrase is prepared: "The moth only lands when no one watches."

—

Aston paused, letting the paper curl slightly as he exhaled.

Linna Veydran.

He recognized the name—not because it had ever been on a public registry, but because Elder Veris once mentioned a "ritualist gone rogue" during a lecture on unstable core practices.

"Bleached cores destabilize more than energy," he'd said. "They unmoor the will of the beast. And once the bond severs, the consequences are… unpredictable."

Aston tucked the scroll under his arm and opened the secondary tube. Inside was a single silver tag, rune-etched but inert until activated with a drop of his essence. He didn't touch it yet—doing so would start the countdown on its tracking beacon.

He folded the scroll tightly and slid both pieces back into their hidden satchel pocket.

Linna.

He remembered her face now—soft-spoken, unassuming. No visible guards. The sort of person people didn't question in a quiet town like this. But the calm demeanor? That was the oldest mask in the book.

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He whispered to himself.

"Nova. Search for local records, shadow archives. Any mention of Silverroot or Linna Veydran."

[Stand by…]

[Match found. One local merchant licensed under the name L. Rootwell. Purchased establishment lease for 'Herbal Wares & Binding Charms' six weeks ago. Operates under independent permit. No formal affiliations.]

So she was hiding in plain sight.

He leaned his head back against the kiln wall, the scent of soot mixing with damp clay and midnight moss.

This wasn't a game.

A rogue ritualist dealing in bleached cores wasn't just a Shadow Ops concern—it was a threat to spirit tamers across the region. If those crystals made it into circulation, someone less skilled than Linna might use them… and pay the price in blood.

He rubbed his face, then glanced down at the Seraphis Shed's edge, still tucked securely in his belt.

Six hours maximum.

And the clock was already ticking.

He stood slowly and walked out of the alley with calm, measured steps. As Narec Vale, the tired drifter. As no one worth noticing.

Tomorrow, he'd visit the herbal shop.

Tonight… he needed to prepare.

—

Aston awoke from his dreamless sleep before dawn.

Gray was already awake, perched near the window ledge, his obsidian eyes fixed on the quiet rooftops outside. Mirage hovered faintly behind the spirit-shielded curtains, her wings barely stirring the dust.

Aston rose without a sound.

The floor of the modest room creaked only once beneath his foot. The innkeeper, a portly man with one eye and a polite disinterest in everyone's business, had given him a corner room on the second floor. Sparse furniture. One sink. No surveillance wards.

He splashed cold water onto his face and stared into the warped tin mirror.

For a moment, it reflected his real face—twelve-year-old Aston Rhyner, just a boy. A student. Someone who still hesitated when asked if he was certain about anything.

Then he reached for the Seraphis Shed.

It shimmered like spun breath in his palm, cool and pliable. When he pressed it to his face again, the transformation was seamless.

The man in the mirror now had a slightly worn, thirty-something countenance, the look of a nomadic tamer used to mild dust and mild violence. Narec Vale. A drifter from the East Reaches.

Aston adjusted his gait in the room, rolling his shoulder once, matching the weight of a taller frame. Gray, still watching, blinked in quiet approval.

He slung his satchel over his shoulder, hiding the relay tag deep within a padded inner compartment. He triple-checked the resonance ward Nova had laid over his presence. No trace aura. No Dawn Crest signal.

He was no one now.

"Narec Vale," he said quietly to himself. "You're a little curious about herbs. You're just here for rest. You leave no trail."

[Five hours and fifty-six minutes remaining until mask shift threshold.]

Nova's voice pinged calmly.

He stepped outside into the cold morning mist.

Westridge Hollow was already waking—slowly, but purposefully. A group of men hauled crates toward the warehouse quarter, their steps heavier than the hour should allow. A butcher opened shop with no words and no prices. A flower-seller arranged wilted blossoms into decorative charms that no one seemed to buy.

The air was thick with woodsmoke and the faint buzz of damp spirit residue—this place was alive, but hiding it.

He passed the innkeeper without a glance and followed the slope of the main path until he reached a fork near the plaza.

There, nested between a tea house and a forge, was a modest greenwood building with a faded sign.

Herbal Wares & Binding Charms.

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