Nick gripped the cold balustrade, his knuckles turning white as his lungs remembered how to draw breath. Projecting his consciousness into the ether to track a master assassin, all while keeping his aura suppressed, exacted a toll. His temples throbbed with a dull ache, and the morning air felt unnaturally sharp against his sweaty skin.
A soft chuff sounded near his boots. Talbot rubbed his flank against Nick’s calf, projecting calm now that the tension in their empathic link had eased. The feline’s glowing eyes signaled the all-clear.
“We really did it," Nick murmured, his voice rough.
He knelt on the stone, retrieving a small scrap of parchment and a piece of charcoal from his pocket. He scribbled a quick, innocuous line: The ink held. The garden is safe.
Once done, Nick rolled the parchment tightly and tied it to a leather cord around Talbot’s neck. "To Arthur," he instructed.
The spirit cat gave an acknowledging purr before dissolving into a streak of blue mist, then bounding over the eaves to deliver the relief the old adventurer desperately needed.
Nick stood and rolled his stiff shoulders, forcing the exhaustion into a tight box at the back of his mind. The midnight audit was over, but a spy of that caliber would not leave after a silent prowling alone. The Shadow would return in the light, seeking a mundane face-to-face interaction or a public display to judge the true nature of House Crowley.
After washing up and changing into clean clothes, he left his quarters and walked through the quiet corridors of the manor, heading straight for the solar.
Eugene and Elena were already awake, the empty pot of dark tea showing they’d been up since the sun’s first rays struck as they waited for his arrival. Eugene stood by the hearth, stoking the morning embers, while Elena sat at the mahogany table, reviewing some paperwork.
“As expected, the hound came sniffing," Nick announced, closing the door behind him as the suppression runes engaged.
Eugene turned, the iron poker still in his hand. “And?"
"They checked the guildhalls, the barracks, and most of the town," Nick reported, walking over to pour himself a cup of water from a silver pitcher. "They bypassed the Temple and Ogden’s lab but went to the farmhouse.”
Elena paused, relaxing only when she saw his thin smile.
"The scrying spell washed over her," he explained, taking a long drink. “But the Dragon Ink absorbed the probe and reflected a mundane swordswoman, prompting the Shadow to dismiss her. The prophecy is broken.”
Eugene let out a breath he seemed to have been holding for weeks. He set the poker aside, softening his expression. “Good work. Then we are secure.”
“I wouldn’t say that quite yet," Nick corrected, setting the cup down. "They lingered outside my door for a long time, measuring the wards. They know I have power, and now they will want to know how I intend to use it. I expect they will be in the streets today, watching us to make sure nothing was missed.”
Elena hummed in thought, her fingers steepled. "Then we should give them a show that presents exactly what the Crown desires: a fiercely loyal, provincial family with no ambition beyond protecting our borders and counting our coin.”
"They will also need a demonstration of my temperament," Nick added. "Something unscripted.”
Given that the Shadow was there for him, he doubted they’d leave until he’d given them something, and they couldn’t afford to keep them around too long, lest they get truly curious.
Elena’s lips curled into a cold smile. "We have the perfect actors waiting in the wings. A merchant company arrived three days ago, operating under the banner of the Silver Coin. I confirmed they are a proxy group with loose ties to the Valerius Consortium.”
Eugene frowned, his gray eyes darkening. “Those rats again. I would have thought the lesson you taught them would have kept their hands off a bit longer, especially now that I’m back.”
“I expect they are here to test the waters to see if our grip has slipped now that you are in charge once more," Elena explained smoothly. "They are sniffing around the old market, trying to pressure local shopkeepers into selling their deeds to establish a foothold. With you in town, love, they are treading carefully and staying within the law, but your fame as a commander is not as intimidating to people so used to underhanded dealings.”
"I can change that," Nick offered, a plan already forming in his mind. "If they are cautious, I can remove their caution. A slight push from the ether, amplifying their greed and pride, will make them reckless.”
"Do it," Eugene ordered. "Take Devon with you. That should show the Crown’s dog that the Heir of Floria is not to be underestimated and that the relationship between the two sons is strong. And try to keep the collateral damage to a minimum.”
By midday, the morning chill had burned off, and the merchant district bustled with activity. Wagons laden with timber, iron ore, and winter wheat rattled over the cobblestones. Citizens were out in droves to take advantage of new shipments of spices, tools, and rare commodities that would once have been unimaginable this far west.
Devon walked half a step ahead of Nick, his new duelist's leathers oiled and gleaming. He was in high spirits, talking animatedly about the blades he intended to inspect.
"Yohan said he received a shipment of dwarven-forged steel from the North," Devon said, expertly navigating the crowded street. "If it’s any good, I want you to look into enchanting the crossguard. Something for kinetic absorption, maybe? I don’t want a repeat of the Oni debacle.”
"We will see what the steel can handle," Nick replied, his tone casual, though his esoteric senses were stretched to their limit.
He wasn’t surprised to sense a void.
It was a cold spot in the bustling crowd, trailing fifty paces behind them. The Shadow had adopted a mundane disguise, masking their physical features, but the absence of a spiritual signature in the ether gave them away to Nick’s perception, even if it wasn’t easy to keep track of them in the crowd.
The spy was watching every interaction, judging how the townsfolk bowed their heads respectfully to Devon, and analyzing the brotherly dynamic.
"Let us cut through the old market," Nick suggested, subtly guiding Devon toward the target area. "I want to check whether Markus received any new tomes.”
They rounded a corner, stepping into a narrower street lined with older shops. Ahead, the faded wooden sign of The Finest Grimoire Shop hung above a display window filled with dusty books and minor enchanted trinkets.
A disturbance blocked the entrance.
Four men in fine clothes stood before the door, flanked by six sellswords in enchanted leathers and chainmail.
The merchants were cornering an old, stooped man in simple robes. Markus, the librarian, clutched a leather-bound account book to his chest, looking cornered and distressed.
Huh, I didn’t even need to lure them here. Well, I’m not going to complain, even though the fact that they felt safe enough to do this out in the open isn’t a good sign.
"The offer is more than generous, old man," the lead merchant said loudly. "Your shop is a relic of the past and could be put to much better use. Sign the deed, take the gold, and retire to the countryside before we reconsider our charity.”
"The shop is not for sale," Markus stammered, his knuckles white around the book. "Lord Eugene’s own father granted me this charter. You have no right to demand—”
One of the sellswords stepped forward, resting a hand on the pommel of his blade, looming over the frail shopkeeper.
Though he was clearly trying to intimidate Markus, Nick could tell it was mostly for show. They had no intention of letting things escalate into violence, and if they were denied more firmly, they’d look for other prey or perhaps come back another day.
Still, very few people would be able to tell, and he fully intended for things to spiral beyond what the merchants wanted.
Reaching into the ether, he brushed his consciousness against the raw emotional currents radiating from the Valerius proxies. He found the natural arrogance born of their wealth, the simmering greed, and the superiority they felt over the provincial locals. Nick grasped those threads and fed them a steady stream from the colorful eddies, amplifying the emotions until they drowned out logic and caution.
And just to be sure, he cast a subtle compulsion of invincibility over their minds.
At his signal, Devon stepped forward, straightened to his full height, and gripped his sword.
“Step away from the man," he commanded loudly.
The merchant turned. Without Nick’s manipulation, he would have seen the sigil of House Crowley on Devon’s coat and immediately groveled, knowing better than to confront the Heir directly. But the spiritual static clouding his judgment made him sneer instead.
"This is a private negotiation, boy," the merchant spat, emboldened by the false courage surging in his chest. "Walk away before my guards teach you manners.”
Devon’s eyes narrowed, though he did not unsheathe his sword just yet, projecting total confidence. "You stand in Floria. You are threatening a chartered citizen of my father's Barony. I am Devon Crowley, and I order you to leave this man be.”
The name should have struck fear. Instead, the sellsword captain—a hulking man with freckled cheeks—laughed, a grating sound.
"Crowley or not, we answer to the Consortium," he growled, stepping away from Markus and advancing on Devon. "Maybe the Lord needs a reminder that there are always bigger fish.”
Again, this was not something he would normally do. For all that his mind was strangely simple, he was self-aware enough to know not to attack a noble scion in public. But the haze kept him confident, almost drunk on power, and swept the others along with it.
Then the captain drew his blade. The scrape of steel was loud in the tense silence that gripped the street.
Nick fought back a smile. I guess it’s my turn now.
He stepped past Devon, positioning himself between his brother and the drawn steel, his expression a mask of stone.
“I will give you one chance to drop your sword and beg for forgiveness.”
As expected, that only drew more laughter, and the other mercenaries joined their leader.
Lifting a hand, Nick took advantage of all the work he’d done on them, filling their bodies with spiritual mana, and invoked the concept of Weight, drawing the necessary sigils in the ether.
The captain, though decently strong by sellsword standards, simply lacked the esoteric defense to resist it.
He collapsed as if a boulder had been dropped on his shoulders, hitting the ground with a crack as his blade clattered away. His armor groaned under the invisible pressure, and he lay pinned flat against the dirt, gasping for breath, unable to lift so much as a finger.
The remaining five sellswords shouted in alarm and lunged forward.
Not bothering to hide his smile this time, Nick finished weaving the threads of [Gleipnir] through the ether.
Invisible chains lashed out, wrapping around the charging men and clamping down on their wrists, ankles, and throats, sinking into their souls. The sellswords froze mid-stride, their weapons locked in the air, completely paralyzed.
The merchants backed away as the spiritual compulsion of invincibility shattered under what was clearly a Prestige-tier display. They stumbled into each other, their faces draining of color.
Nick lowered his hand. He stepped over the pinned captain and stopped before the trembling merchants.
He projected his voice, ensuring it carried down the street, reaching the ears of the townsfolk and the cold void within the crowd.
"Floria is a shield for the Kingdom," he growled, his voice ringing with the dutiful fanaticism of a zealot. "We stand on the border against the dark. My father's word is the law that holds that line. My brother is the future of that law.”
To drive the point home, Nick let a fraction of his aura bleed into the physical world. The sheer pressure forced the merchants to their knees.
"Bring your gold," he continued, looking down at the groveling men. "Trade in our markets. Pay our tolls. But if you ever threaten the peace of my family's domain again, I will not bother with the dungeons. I will reduce you to ash and scatter you across the plains.”
He held the silence, letting the absolute threat settle over the street. By attacking merchants with such connections, he projected no ambition beyond the town, no desire for politics. He was exactly what the Crown feared, but pointed in the exact direction the Crown needed: outward. A protective dog guarding its master's yard.
"Guards," Devon called out, slipping back into the role of the commanding Lord.
A squad of Floria’s militia, drawn by the commotion, pushed through the crowd.
"Strip them of their weapons," Devon ordered, gesturing toward the paralyzed sellswords and the kneeling merchants. “And throw them in the holding cells. I want them fined and banished from the Barony by nightfall.”
At his gesture, Nick dissolved the chains and lifted the conceptual weight from the captain. The sellswords collapsed, groaning in pain, offering no resistance as the militia hauled them to their feet and dragged them away.
Markus stood in his doorway, clutching his ledger and staring at Nick in awe.
"Thank you, my Lords," he breathed, bowing deeply.
“House Crowley protects its own” was the only reply.
The Shadow lingered for a few more minutes, studying the scene. They had seen the power Nick wielded and, more importantly, his deference to his brother's authority and his fanatical obsession with protecting his family’s lands.
Slowly, the cold spot in the ether began to drift away, making a few stops along the way, but moving west toward the gates.