The sunlight was already fading when he opened his eyes, the st of the day slipping into twilight. Night had always been his comfort, his ally, but now, it was something more – a cover, a darkness that lent him strength.
He slipped out of the hideout, feeling the familiar pull of shadows around him as he moved. The directions the guard had given him were still fresh in his mind, he traced the path carefully, moving through the quiet streets, his eyes alert for any signs of movement.
It wasn’t long before he spotted the building the guard had described. A low, wide structure with wooden walls and a faint glow of torchlight from within. He approached slowly, crouching low as he reached the edge of the building, gncing around to ensure he wasn’t seen.
Through the faint crack in the door, he could make out racks of weapons – swords, spears, axes, all stacked and waiting, like tools ready for a craftsman’s hand. A pair of torches flickered near the doorway, casting a faint light over the packed interior. The faint metallic scent of steel lingered in the air.
Kyrell’s eyes moved over the racks, the glint of steel catching his attention. Near the back, he spotted a row of bows and a pile of arrows stacked in a barrel. Moving silently, he slipped in, keeping low as he navigated his way to the back of the storage. His hand closed around one of the bows, its wood cool and solid under his grip. He grabbed a side quiver and a few arrows, sliding them carefully into the quiver.
Outside, the sound of footsteps approached – two guards, talking in low voices, their shadows spilling into the dim light. Kyrell ducked back, slipping into the darkness near the entrance, his body blending seamlessly with the shadows as he waited, silent and still.
The guards stopped a few paces away, gncing briefly inside the storage before turning back to their conversation. Kyrell moved swiftly, his bde fshing as he stepped up behind the first guard, plunging the dagger deep into the man’s neck. He pulled the bde out in a single, fluid motion, catching the faint spray of blood as the guard colpsed.
The second guard turned, his eyes widening as he opened his mouth to shout. But Kyrell was faster, stepping forward as he drove the dagger into the guard’s throat, silencing him before a sound could escape. Both bodies y still in the dim light, the faint metallic scent of blood spreading in the street.
He wiped his bde clean, gncing briefly at the two guards before stepping back toward the storage room. With ease, he pulled one of the torches from it’s sconce, the fmes casting a warm, flickering glow over his face.
One by one he began to light sections of the storage room – first the racks of weapons then the stacks of crates along the far wall. The fmes caught quickly, spreading eagerly across the dry wood and crates, the heat building up as the fire began to roar.
Kyrell stepped back, watching as the fmes licked higher, the glow casting long, jagged shadows over the building. The heat seared through the air, a crackling intensity that filled the silence around him. He Turned, slipping back into the twisting streets as the fmes consumed the storage room, leaving the Grey Cloaks’ precious supplies to smoulder in the heart of the fire.
In the distance, he could already hear the cmour of boots and voices as guards poured out from their posts, likely drawn by the sudden glow and smoke. Every guard within earshot would be on high alert, and it would only be a matter of time before they began sweeping the area. But he had his next step pnned.
“First, supplies,” he reminded himself. His fingers traced the weight of the bow slung across his back, a new and powerful addition to his arsenal. He’d need food and water, enough to st him a week, and a sturdy pack to carry it all. His aim was to vanish from Makar for a time, to slip away unnoticed and make his way to the forest west of the city, an hour’s walk if he kept up a steady pace. There, he’d have the quiet and privacy he needed to practice with his new bow.
He moved swiftly along the edge of a marketpce now dim In the pre-dawn shadows. The market’s stalls were silent, their wares locked away until sunrise, but Kyrell knew a few shops that might be easy to pick open. He’d broken into enough pces in this district to know which locks flimsy, which doors were had faulty hinges. Choosing a small provision shop nestled in the corner of a side street, he slipped into the doorway, his fingers deftly working on the lock with practiced precision.
A faint click confirmed the lock’s weakness, and he eased the door open, slipping inside. The darkness cloaked everything within, but he could make out the outlines of barrels, shelves, and baskets. Quietly, he moved through the shop, gathering what he needed – a sturdy backpack, some dried meats and hardtack, and a small waterskin. He wrapped them carefully in a cloth to keep them from jingling together as he walked.
Before leaving, he considered what else he might need. In a back corner, he found a thin, rolled-up bnked – a bit of comfort for the cold nights in the woods. He stuffed it into the pack, pulling the drawstrings tight before swinging it over his shoulders.
As he turned to exit, he heard the muffled sound of footsteps outside, the guards evidently patrolling even here. He froze, listening as they drew nearer, their voices low and wary.
“Keep your eyes open,” one of them muttered. “Whoever’s out there isn’t done yet, I’ll wager. They want us to scatter, to feel unsafe.”
Kyrell’s lips quirked with a dark satisfaction. The voice was right; they were becoming predictable in their fear. It would only make his movements easier to mask.
When the footsteps passed, he slipped out, keeping to the shadows until he felt the city’s gates looming close. Just a few minutes more, and he’d be free of Makar’s boundaries. He quickened his pace as he neared the edge of the city, blending into the shadows, his new supplies slung securely across his back.
The gate was shut, but the wall just to its right was low enough for a practiced thief. With a quiet focus, Kyrell climbed the rough stone, pulling himself up and vaulting silently over. He nded softly on the other side, brushing off his hands and melting back into the night.
As Kyrell put the city walls behind him, the open expanse of fields began stretching out under the night’s waning cover. The sky held a hint of dawn, but he kept to the shadows, sticking close to tree lines and low ridges. He’d grown up navigating Makar’s twisting alleys and yered quarters, but tonight was the first time he truly felt its hold loosening as he left it behind.
Makar itself was a city built upon trade and wealth, a thriving network of commerce that touched nearly every part of the known nds. It was divided into four distinct quarters, each one almost a word of its own. The low quarter sprawled in the southeast, where worn buildings crowded the winding alleys. The people here scraped by in whatever way they could, and Kyrell knew those streets better than most. The city guards barely patrolled here, and even in broad daylight shadows held tight to the walls.
On the northern side of the city y the Haven, where ships moored and mercenaries and sailors filled the taverns, bringing stories of distant nds, of wild seas, and of fortunes made and lost. The harbour was often buzzing with activity, ships of all sizes packed in alongside narrow piers, loaded with goods and travellers alike. It was here that Makar kept its pulse on the outside world, securing trade routes to distant shores and feeding the city’s hunger for riches.
The middle quarter rose beyond, a level up from the crowded Haven and Low Quarter. Here, moderately successful merchants and skilled craftsmen lived, their houses lined along cobblestone streets wide enough for carts and carriages. The residents weren’t as rich as those in the High Quarter, but they lived comfortably, their daily worries more about business and social standing than survival. Kyrell had sometimes worked these streets, nabbing the odd purse or slipping into unlocked windows, but he had learned quickly that the city guards here were alert and not afraid to crack down on suspicious figures.
The High Quarter, however, was the crown jewel of Makar, nestled in the upper reaches of the city. It was a world of its own, with stone walls, grand estates, and manicured gardens that even the Middle Quarter folk admired from afar. Here, wealthy merchants, high-ranking politicians, and those with powerful connections held sway. Success in Makar meant making it to the High Quarter, were influence and money reigned supreme. Kyrell had never dared step foot here – until now.
Beyond Makar’s northern limits y the sea, the cold and deep waters connecting the city to nds both known and strange. On its southern side, the city received valuable ores from the dwarven cities nestled within the mountain ranges. It was this network of ores, trade routes, and sea imports that had made Makar prosperous, and the envy of other cities. The wealth was impressive, but as Kyrell well knew, it was far from equally shared.
To the west, the dark line of the forest spread out, thick and dense, an untamed nd. It bordered the trade road leading out toward the distant city of Ironstead. Ironstead, another trade centre, was known for its ironworks and crafted weaponry, an ally and occasional rival in trade. Kyrell’s destination wasn’t Ironstead, but the stretch of woods that y just this side of it, here he would find his solitude and hone his skills.
The forest floor was damp, the scen” of ’arth and moss strong in the crisp night air. Above him, the trees reached upward, branches thick and tangled, casting deep shadows that made his steps feel concealed, hidden.
“The shadows greet you here, Kyrell,” the voice whispered, its tone reassuring, like a companion he’d always known. “They welcome your presence.”
Kyrell moved deeper into the forest, keeping his eyes sharp for a spot to make camp. The shadows of the dense canopy stretched around him, but he pressed on, searching for somewhere that would keep him hidden yet provide what he needed. It wasn’t long before he heard the faint burble of water. Following the sound, he came upon a small creek winding through the trees, its waters clear and shallow, running over a bed of smooth stones. The creek was perfect; he could refill his waterskin easily and keep his camp nearby. He set his pack down, the tension in his shoulders finally loosening as he surveyed the surroundings.
The first few hours, Kyrell used to set up a basic camp he gathered some deadfall and propped up a makeshift shelter against a cluster of sturdy trees near the creek. It wasn’t much, but it would shield him from the rain and serve well enough for his purposes. He settled in, the quiet sound of the woods wrapping around him, and took a moment to breath in the fresh scent of damp earth and pine.
Well into the morning he began practicing with the bow. It felt foreign in his hands, heavier and more cumbersome than he’d expected, but he was determined. Picking out a thick tree a short distance away, he set it as his target, took aim, and released his first arrow. It sailed far wide, embedding itself somewhere off to the right in a tangle of brush. Kyrell narrowed his eyes, already feeling a twingle of irritation. The voice in his head chuckled lightly, though it didn’t speak.
“Alright,” he muttered to himself, trying again. This time he focused, adjusting his stance and grip, and took his time aiming. He released the arrow, which flew closer to the tree but missed the mark entirely.
So it went, arrow after arrow, each one reminding him just how much he had to learn. He spent hours, often stopping to find the arrows he missed, and to catch his breath or shake out the soreness that was already creeping into his arms and shoulders. The voice, meanwhile, stayed silent, offering no advice, leaving him to work through the learning process on his own.
By the end of the first day, he’d managed to nd only a few arrows into the trunk of the tree, and even then, they were scattered, with no pattern or accuracy to speak of. Frustration simmered under his skin, but he forced himself to keep going, knowing that persistence was the only way forward.
Day by day, he kept at it, repeating the process. Each morning he rose with the sun, filled his waterskin at the creek, and then resumed his practice, pushing himself until the bowstring bit into his fingers and his arms ached. He noticed improvement, but it was slow and inconsistent; his aim was far from reliable, and he was still missing more often than hitting his target. He had never realized how much strength, patience, and precision archery demanded.
At the end of the first week, he took stock of his progress – or ck thereof. He could sometimes hit the tree from different distances, but accuracy remained elusive. He knew he wasn’t yet at a level where he could rely on the bow in a real fight. Frustration gnawed on him, but he was practical enough to admit that mastery wouldn’t come easily. “Two more weeks,” he told himself. “I will stay until I can do this right.”
The second week rolled by, and he added a new challenge to his routine: hunting. Stalking through the forest, he sought out small game, the rabbits and birds that moved stealthily through the underbrush. Tracking and waiting for the right shot tested his patience in ways he hadn’t anticipated. Kyrell spent countless hours crouched in the shadows, waiting for the right moment, and more often than not, he missed or scared his target off before he could draw back his bowstring.
But gradually, over those next weeks, he began to improve. His stance became steadier, his aim truer. He managed to bring down a rabbit now and then, enough to sustain him and to keep his determination high. Each successful hint felt like a small victory, a sign that he was growing into this new skill. His muscles hardened, his senses sharpened, and, for the first time, he felt a sense of accomplishment that didn’t rely on the voice’s whispers or his knack for theft and stealth.
In the quiet hours of the forest, he began to feel a new kind of confidence, one rooted in his own perseverance. It was, in its way, satisfying, and each day he stayed longer only confirmed to him that he was preparing for something bigger, something just beyond the horizon.
Satisfied with his progress, Kyrell made his way back to the edge of the forest just as dawn began to colour the horizon. His time away had done him good. His body felt leaner, honed by the days of training, and he moved with a new kind of control, a silent confidence he hadn’t felt before. He kept to the treeline as he approached Makar, noting how the distant spires and walls rose up against the morning sky.
He stopped at an old, half buried stone under a dense patch of trees not far from the city’s southern gate. Here, he unstrung the bow and wrapped it in a coarse cloth, tying it securely before stashing it in a hollow beneath a root. He carefully covered the spot with loose earth and leaves, making sure it was hidden but still accessible for when he would need it ter. The bow would be difficult to hide inside the city without raising suspicion, but he would come back for it before the day was through.
With that settled, he headed toward the low quarter, blending into the early trickle of people entering Makar. As he moved through the familiar streets, he observed his surroundings, watching for any changes in the city’s atmosphere since his departure. The guards, he noted were no longer patrolling as rigorously. Groups of three, heavily armed, still patrolled the main streets, but the intensity of their sweeps had dwindled. They walked with a certain impatience, as though the fervour of their earlier investigations had begun to fade.
Moving through the streets, he overheard conversations here and there. Most of the talk had shifted away from the attacks that had gripped the city a few weeks ago. Whispers about the burnt warehouse and the dead Grey Cloaks lingered, but they were already beginning to sing into the background of city gossip. People specuted on new trade deals, rising prices at the harbour, and a rumoured feud between two prominent merchant families. The Grey Cloaks were still present, watching, but they seemed less alert, their eyes no longer sweeping every shadow and alley as thoroughly as before.
Kyrell kept a low profile, slipping past a few pairs of guards and ducking out of sight whenever he passed any Grey Cloaks. He made his way to a small, inconspicuous inn on the edge of Bckhold Square. It was a modest pce, nothing fancy, but it had a steady turnover of travellers and didn’t ask too many questions. He sat at a corner table and ordered a simple meal – bread, cheese, a thin soup with root vegetables, and a small mug of ale. The food, though humble, felt rich after weeks of game and foraged greens, and he savoured every bite.
After he finished his meal, Kyrell returned to his hidden spot outside the walls and retrieved his bow. It was still wrapped in cloth, which hie tucked under his cloak as best he could, heading back into the city with his target already in mind. Bckhold Square would serve as the perfect location. Busy and bustling, the square was filled with peddlers, merchants, and common folk who kept their heads down. And if he timed it right, the strike would send a message to the Grey Cloaks themselves – no one, not even in the midst of a crowded market, was beyond his reach.
By early afternoon, he reached Bckhold Square and began scouting for an ideal vantage point. He spotted a small two-story building near the marketpce, its roof just above the milling crowd below. On the ground floor, vendors shouted their wares – fruit vegetables, fabrics and spices – and the air was thick with the sound of haggling and ughter.
Kyrell circled the building, taking note of its narrow alleyway on one side and a stack of crates piled near its back entrance. He slipped into the alley and, making sure he wasn’t being watched, climbed onto the crates, hoisting himself onto the roof. Once he was up, he crouched low, edging forward until he found a spot near the edge where he had a clear line of sight to the square below.
From here, he could see most of the market. Kyrell took a deep breath, scanning the bustling crowd, searching for his target – a lone Grey Cloak moving purposefully through the crowd, the telltale glint of chainmail under his worn cloak. His quarry was close, only a short distance from Kyrell’s position, pausing near a spice vendor, oblivious to the threat looming above.
He steadied himself, pulling the cloth from his bow and stringing it carefully. Drawing an arrow from the quiver, he knocked it, feeling the tension of the string under his fingers. His heart beat steadily as he drew back, keeping his breathing even as he lined up the shot.
The voice in his mind whispered approvingly, “Take your time, Kyrell. Make him feel it.”
He aimed, feeling the strain in his arm, his fingers wrapped tight around the string. With a controlled breath, he released.
The arrow flew true, striking the Grey Cloak just below his left shoulder. The man staggered, his expression a mix of confusion and pain as he looked down at the feathered shaft protruding from his chest. He stumbled forward, colpsing onto the cobblestones of Bckhold Square. Around him, a shocked hush fell over the crowd as people backed away, their faces pale, murmuring in horror. Then came the cries, panic erupting as merchants and common folk alike rushed away from the scene.
Kyrell stayed low, watching the chaos unfold below as people pointed and guards began rushing into the square. He couldn’t hear the voice, but felt a dark satisfaction settling within him, the thrill of a successful kill. When the guards were fully distracted by the corpse, he slipped back down the building, blending into the crowd as it funnelled away from the scene. He knew this would spread through the city like wildfire, stoking fear within the Grey Cloaks and ensuring they’d tread more carefully from now on.
Kyrell moved around the Low Quarter, carefully evading the Grey Cloaks as dusk approached, his mind already forming the steps for his next strike. The coin he had gained from the dead mercenary jingled faintly in his pocket, and he knew he needed to use it wisely to make this next pn work. He navigated his way through the cramped streets, keeping his eyes sharp for anything useful. After a few turns, he found a stall selling small, round cy pots of mp oil. He bought three and tucked them carefully into his satchel alongside a newly acquired flint stone.
The Grey Cloak’s barracks stood at the edge of the Low Quarter, a stout stone building with barred windows and reinforced doors. By design, it was meant to keep people out – or keep certain residents in. But Kyrell had no intention of entering the barracks; he intended to light it up from the outside, trapping the men within.
He waited until deep into the night, when the streets were empty, and the only sounds were the shuffling footsteps of the st few guards finishing their rounds. He slipped into the shadows, as he neared the front of the barracks. He reached the door, a solid wooden sb that loomed tall in the flickering light of a lone torch. Working quickly, he poured oil from the pots around the entrance and along the ground at the base of the doorframe. The oil soaked into the wood and pooled beneath it, shimmering faintly.
Next, he circled the building to the back door. He spotted a heavy, rusted iron crate leaning against the barracks wall, likely used for transporting firewood. Kyrell crouched, gripping the metal edges, and with a soft grunt, dragged it across the ground and wedged it tightly against the back door. He checked it twice, ensuring it was solidly in pce, leaving the guards inside one less exit.
Satisfied, he moved to the side of a nearby building and scaled its rough stone wall, climbing up to the rooftop where he could get a clear view of the barracks below. The cool night air sharpened his senses as he unwrapped his bow, tied a strip of cloth around an arrowhead, and carefully doused the cloth in the st of his mp oil. His fingers worked deftly with the flint stone, striking it until a small spark caught, igniting the oil-soaked cloth in a flickering orange fme.
He raised the bow, knocking the fming arrow, his pulse steady as he aimed toward the oil-slicked door. He exhaled, released the arrow, and watched as it sailed through the dark, hitting the door dead-centre with a dull thud. The fmes caught instantly, licking up the wood and spreading in bright, hungry tongues.
From his perch, Kyrell watched as the fire grew, spreading up the doorframe and spilling into the threshold. The smoke thickened, curling through the cracks and seams of the barracks, creeping under the doorway, and seeping into the building. Inside, he began to hear faint shouts, voices and muffled desperate.
The Grey Cloaks had woken.
The sound grew more frantic, with men pounding on the back door and struggling against the crate blocking it. One managed to kick open the front door only to be met by a fresh surge of fmes. He stumbled back, screaming, and Kyrell could see him stagger away with his arm and part of his face lit up, the skin searing and bckening under the heat.
The mercenaries tried again, this time throwing themselves against the back door. A few splintering cracks echoed out, and some managed to squeeze through, coughing and cwing their way into the open air. But Kyrell could see the damage was done – several staggered out covered in burns, and the smoke continued to pour from the building, carrying with it the scent of charred wood and desperation. Only a handful had managed to escape; the rest were silenced within.
Kyrell heard the rapid pounding of footsteps of approaching guards echoing through the narrow streets. Their shouts pierced the night, voices sharp with urgency as they neared the scene, the clinking of armour and scabbards loud against the otherwise quiet city.
He could see their shadows stretching across the cobblestones, cast long and dark by the roaring fire. One guard called out, his voice thick with shock and arm, “The barracks – they set it on fire! Get water, now!”
Kyrell tensed, easing back into the deeper shadows of the roofline, listening as the men rushed forward to help their wounded comrades. The panic in their voices carried well above the crackling of the fmes.
