Orvin paced the length of his dimly lit quarters, jaw set, hands flexing in frustrated fists. Outside, the shouts of his men echoed through the empty streets, punctuated by hurried footsteps as they swept the Low Quarter for any sign of Kyrell. This was the third search tonight, and each one came up empty. The barracks fire had rattled his entire operation, leaving his men terrified, their numbers dwindled, and his patience frayed.

  The Low Quarter, which had once yielded to his Grey Cloak’s presence, now felt more like a trap, thick with shadowed alleyways that Kyrell could be using to watch them even now. And he was out there somewhere. Orvin was certain of it. Kyrell had vanished weeks ago, but the chaos he had left in his wake was unmistakeable. The fire had been the test blow, striking straight to the Grey Cloaks’ core. Three of his men had barely escaped, their bodies burned, spirits shattered. And the others, he knew, were beginning to think of him as a ghost – a shadow that struck and the disappeared into thin air.

  The Marshall’s orders weighed heavily on him. It wasn’t just about Kyrell anymore. He wanted the stone, and Orvin was running out of ways to expin that every lead they chased led to nothing. Orvin’s gaze drifted toward the desk where the test directive y, the scrawled handwriting of the Marshall, sharp, insistent: “This task is not to be deyed any longer, Orvin. Find him. And bring me the stone.”

  He exhaled sharply, leaning on the desk as if by pressing harder, he could will Kyrell out of the city’s shadows. His men were waiting for his commands, looking to him to lead them through a string of deaths and unanswered questions. The st time Kyrell had been seen was weeks ago, when they had found Taren’s body alongside three Grey Cloaks in Kyrell’s old apartment. All four had been left in pieces, brutal, as if to send a message. But since then, Kyrell had vanished, leaving nothing but his name as a murmur of fear.

  “Captain Orvin!” The call from outside was accompanied by the hurried shuffle of boots on cobblestone. Orvin straightened as the door opened, and a guard appeared, his eyes tired, face drawn and grey. “We have finished sweeping the Low Quarter. Still nothing. The men… well, some of them are saying that maybe Kyrell has moved on.”

  Orvin’s jaw clenched. He knew what they weren’t saying – that this was all pointless. But Orvin couldn’t allow that; he couldn’t afford another order from the Marshall pressing on him like a vice. “Listen closely,” he said, his voice low, steady. “Kyrell hasn’t left. He’s lying low, hiding somewhere, biding his time. And we’re going to root him out. Tell the men to search every rat-infested corner again. Every warehouse, every crumbling shack. He left enough bodies behind to prove he hasn’t given up yet.”

  The man nodded hesitantly but stopped at the door, gncing over his shoulder. “With respect, Captain… they are scared. This… thing that’s happening… it isn’t natural. He’s like a wraith. They are saying he’s been touched by some power beyond us.”

  Orvin felt a pulse of anger heat his blood. “Kyrell is a man, just like the rest of us. A thief with a bde, that’s all. Tell the men to stop thinking otherwise, or it will be more that Kyrell that they will have to fear.”

  The guard nodded, muttering a hurried, “Yes, sir,” before leaving.

  Orvin slumped down into his chair, dragging a hand across his face. He felt the tension gripping him tighter with every passing day. He had men to lead, and right now, they were on the brink of falling apart. Worse, he couldn’t ignore that Kyrell had struck fear deep into them, as deeply as any bde. It didn’t help that each new order from the Marshall carried with it a thinly veiled warning. Orvin had held the Low Quarter with an iron grip for years, but this – this was tearing his authority to shreds, leaving him grasping at whispers of a ghostly murderer and a stone that didn’t officially exist.

  As he sunk deeper into his thoughts, a sensation crawled down his spine – a cold, creeping awareness that he was no longer alone. The very air seemed to shift, as though the shadows themselves were breathing. A voice low and ced with malice, broke the silence it was a voice that seemed to curl around his very bones, sending an icy shiver from his neck to the tips of his fingers.

  “So, this is the captain of the Grey Cloaks,” it hissed, as though mocking the title. Orvin’s heart pounded in his chest, the blood roaring in his ears. He wanted to turn, to see who had spoken, but he felt locked in pce, every muscle tense with fear.

  “Your men… those who haven’t been left in pieces… whisper of me like a myth, a wraith.” The voice grew nearer, and Orvin’s skin prickled as he realized it was right behind him. “Yet here I am, flesh and bone, right before their esteemed captain.”

  He swallowed, his throat dry, his heart hammering painfully against his ribs. He felt now warmth, no human breath or presence – only an all-consuming cold that wrapped around him, paralyzing his very soul. When he tried to speak, the words died in his throat, his voice barely more than a whisper. “What… what do you want?”

  Kyrell’s ugh was a low, chilling sound, echoing through the dimly lit room. “I’ve had my fun toying with your pitiful guards,” he said, his voice smooth yet dripping with venom. “But I’ve grown tired of these games. There is an easier way for all of us.”

  Orvin felt a hand – barely there but unmistakable – brush his shoulder, sending another jolt of terror down his spine. He forced himself to breathe, to grip the edge of the desk, anything to ground himself as he listened to Kyrell’s offer.

  “You will gather your men, Orvin. And you will publicly decre that you, and every Grey Cloak under your command, bow to me. Kyrell is the name you will swear fealty to. You will obey my orders. And in return,” he whispered, his voice dark as death, “I will spare you… and the others you hold dear.”

  Orvin’s mind raced, and for a moment he almost mustered the courage to protest. But then he thought of the lifeless bodies of his men – the hushed terror in their voiced as they whispered of a shadow that moved through the city, striking with lethal precision. And then, he thought of his wife. The thought of her brought a fresh wave of fear, ced with something deeper, something primal – a need to protect her from whatever dark fate this… thing would bring upon them.

  He closed his eyes, fighting to keep his voice steady. His heart hammered in his chest as he struggled with the choice id out before him. The shame, the sheer dishonour, burned deep within him. But he had no choice. His life was nothing compared to hers. Finally, with a voice barely above a whisper, he forced himself to respond.

  “I… agree.” The words tasted like ash on his tongue, each sylble a blow to his pride.

  He felt Kyrell’s shadow withdraw slightly, as if satisfied, the chill in the room ebbed just enough for Orvin to feel the blood return to his veins. He wanted to colpse, but he kept his gaze fixed ahead, his fists clenched, haunted by the realization that his life – and the lives of those he cared for – now belonged to this monster.

  Orvin’s head spun as he left the confines of his quarters, a hollow feeling settling in his chest as he prepared to carry out the orders given by the voice that had come upon him like a curse. He moved through the barracks, past the remaining Grey Cloaks who lingered, their eyes hollow and wary from sleepless nights of searching for the killer that had hunted them down one by one. Tonight, their search would end, but not in the way they expected.

  He found his sergeants clustered near the main gates, weapons at their sides, faces set with the fatigue of the st few weeks. They looked up at him as he approached, expectant and waiting for orders. He could feel their tension, the fear simmering beneath their loyalty, and for a moment, Orvin almost hesitated.

  “We’re calling off the sweeps,” he announced, his voice steady despite the weight that pressed upon him. “Send the men to rest. They need it. We all do.”

  His words hung in the air, met with a moment of silence as the sergeants exchanged bewildered gnces.

  “Sir?” one of them asked, disbelief pin of his face. “After everything, we’re just… calling it off?”

  Orvin forced a hard look, setting his jaw to steel himself. “Those are your orders. Get everyone out of the streets and back here. Go along with it for now… I’ll expin tomorrow.”

  The sergeants nodded reluctantly, though confusion lingered in their eyes. With low murmurs, they departed, each of them breaking off to rey the orders to their men. One by one, the remaining Grey Cloaks returned, their forms fading into the barracks and the rooms nearby until only Orvin was left standing in the quiet night, alone with the knowledge of the decision he had made.

  Morning dawned cold and pale over Makar, and by noon, Bckhold Square was filled with Grey Cloaks, gathered in formation and waiting under a chill sky that seemed to mirror the tension rippling through their ranks. The faces in the crowd ranged from weary to anxious, though each one held a faint gleam of hope – the unspoken wish that maybe, just maybe, this strange gathering meant an end to the invisible war that had taken so many of their brothers.

  Orvin stood at the front, fnked by his sergeants, his gaze sweeping across the faces of the sixty men who remained. Every word he had rehearsed, every expnation he had pnned felt bitter on his tongue. He had no idea how to expin the change to the public, so to not take the risk of disappointing Kyrell, he reluctantly decided to paint him as a rebel, fighting against the system.

  Orvin cleared his throat, silencing the murmurs among his men and the onlookers gathered around Bckhold Square. His voice rose steadily, drawing everyone’s attention.

  “Today, I stand before you to address the events that have shaken us all – the attacks, the deaths, the destruction.” He paused, his gaze sweeping over his men, lingering on the onlookers who listened in tense anticipation. “But I will not call them crimes. No, these acts are something more than the violence they appear to be. They are acts of justice.”

  The Grey Cloaks exchanged gnces, some frowning deeply, others simply staring in quiet disbelief. Orvin saw their reactions but pressed on. He had to. Kyrell had made that clear.

  “Some of you knew Kyrell. He was once a man like any other here, a man born in the low quarter, one who felt the same anger, the same frustration with the suffering and inequality that many of us have come to accept as normal.” He paused for a few seconds to let it settle before continuing.

  “The killings, the fires all of it, were a call for change, a decration against the corruption that strangles this city. He fights for the people who have long been unheard.”

  There was silence, thick and uncomfortable. Orvin saw his men stiffen, caught off guard by his words. He didn’t bme them – he could hardly believe he was saying it himself. Noone broke rank, but the distrust and confusion on their faces were unmistakeable. He knew that they would demand answers, and that there was no way out of expining himself when they returned to the barracks. He forced himself to finish.

  “We the Grey Cloaks of the Lower Quarter, will now serve under his command.”

  A ripple of shock passed through the ranks, but the Guards held their formation. In the crowd stood Elda, in stunned silence, her mind not gripping what’s going on. That didn’t sound like the Kyrell she had known, though she hasn’t seen him since the rumours started.

  After a moment, Orvin signalled his men to move out, leading them back to the training ground. The journey was quiet, but tension hung thickly in the air. His men kept their stoic expressions, but he could feel the unspoken questions simmering beneath the surface. By the time they reached the training yard, the silence had become nearly unbearable.

  As soon as they had assembled, one of the sergeants stepped forward, his eyes sharp and demanding. “Captain… what is this about? You’re saying we’re supposed to serve a murderer? A man who’s been sughtering our own?”

  Another voice joined in, echoing the sentiment. “This isn’t what we signed up for, Captain!”

  Orvin held up a hand, trying to calm them, though he felt as unsettled as they did. He knew that words alone wouldn’t ease their concerns; he had barely convinced himself of his own speech. He was about to speak when an unnatural silence spread over the yard, cutting through the soldiers’ voices, and repcing them with a heavy, almost suffocating quiet.

  Kyrell appeared behind the gathered Grey Cloaks, emerging from the shadows with an unnatural, deathly grace. In his head, Orvin knew it was just a man stepping out of the darkness, but his instincts screamed otherwise. It was as though the shadows clung to him, shifting, and coiling around his frame like restless spirits. Even Orvin’s vision wavered, seeing faint illusions of spectral, twisted shapes that seemed to flicker in and out of the edges of his sight.

  But the terror that gripped Orvin paled in comparison to the effect Kyrell had on his men.

  Orvin could see it – their eyes widening, faces going pale as they watched him approach. Some of them began to tremble, unable to look away as Kyrell’s cold, unblinking gaze fell upon them. The men started whispering, muttering in fragmented fear, some casting desperate sidelong gnces at Orvin, pleading silently for an expnation he couldn’t give. Their panic only grew as they caught sight of him – shadows stretching into monstrous shapes that seemed to flicker like horns over his head as he walked.

  One of the guards near the back let out a strangled cry, swearing under his breath that he could see faces – warped, anguished expressions floating just beyond Kyrell, like souls trapped in some unnatural aura around him. Some of them stumbled, hands shaking as they tried to stay on their feet.

  Kyrell stopped beside Orvin; he felt his presence settle with a final crushing weight. The deathly silence stretched, and then Kyrell’s voice cut through it, low and cold, piercing straight to the heart.

  “You have two choices,” he said, his gaze sweeping over them with a detached calm that made Orvin’s blood run colder. “You can follow my orders – obey me, and live. Or you can refuse… and watch your loved ones suffer a fate far worse than death.”

  The words sank into the men like venom, their faces frozen in terror. Orvin could feel it – the unbearable dread radiating through them, and he knew none of them would dare to speak up now. Their whispers of fear had faded into dead silence, as if they’d all become prisoners to the same haunting vision, barely daring to breathe. He could see how they saw Kyrell – an emissary of death itself.

  The silence lingered, Orvin finally cleared his throat, his voice steadying just enough to press the point. “You have heard him,” he said, his tone low, measured. “Do you understand now? This isn’t a choice.”

  No one dared to reply. Not a single man moved to argue or resist. Instead, they simply stood there, backs stiff and pale-faced, as Orvin told them to rest until the sergeants came with new orders. They filed out in silence, shoulders slumped, their fear turning to a quiet resignation. They understood now; they had no other option.

  When the st of them had left, Orvin felt the grip of dread release, though his nerves were far from settled. He turned to Kyrell, his own hesitation flickering for a moment before he led him across the quiet grounds, guiding him towards his office. He opened the door, holding it for Kyrell, who stepped inside without a word, his expression eerily composed, calm, like a man completely untouched by the storm he had just unleashed. As Orvin closed the door behind them, he took a steadying breath, preparing himself for whatever y ahead.

  Orvin watched in silence as Kyrell strode confidently to his chair – the captain’s own chair – and seated himself with a casual ease, propping his boots on the desk. The eerie, haunting aura he had projected outside had vanished, and in its pce, Kyrell looked… almost ordinary. He gestured for Orvin to sit, his expression calm, even conversational. Warily, Orvin took the chair across from him, hands resting tensely on his knees.

  Kyrell leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head, and smiled in a way that chilled Orvin more than any of the night’s earlier horrors.

  “You know,” Kyrell began, his voice unhurried, disturbingly normal, “this is all just to keep you and your men in line right, Captain? Nothing personal. You hunted me, so I hunted you back. It was fair game.” He paused, his gaze unwavering, almost sympathetic, as if he were expining some simple truth. “From now on, you and your men can go back to your business – patrolling, keeping order, doing what guards are supposed to do.”

  Orvin’s brow furrowed slightly, not quite understanding where Kyrell was leading with this. The men outside, the threats, the darkness… none of it fit with this calm, straightforward tone. Kyrell continued before he could even consider speaking up.

  “But that intimidation – shaking down folks who have done nothing wrong – that stops. Immediately.” Kyrell’s tone sharpened briefly, his eyes glinting with a cool edge. “I don’t want my name, or any hint of my presence associated with needless cruelty. Do your jobs as guards, and do them fairly, but don’t start trouble where there isn’t any.”

  Orvin nodded, finding himself almost involuntarily in agreement. He had been stuck enforcing orders he had never agreed with, yet orders that kept him in good standing with the Marshall and the wealthier patrons.

  “Besides,” Kyrell added with a casual shrug, “any restrictions the Marshall had you enforcing? Lifted. Completely. Help the people here however you see fit. Patrol the way you should have been all along.” He sat up a little straighter, his face hardening into a look of cold determination. “The Marshall and Lord Estan… they are the ones who will have problems soon. You and your men have nothing to worry about – so long as you stay out of my way.”

  Orvin listened, speechless. The implications settled heavily on him as Kyrell continued, his tone almost mocking, as though he were letting him in on some private joke.

  “As soon as they hear about your ‘public announcement,’ both the Marshall and Estan will lose their minds.” He smirked, gncing at Orvin. “They are going to see this as outright rebellion. Let them. It will keep their attention off me and give them more than enough to worry about.”

  Orvin felt his pulse quicken, but his confusion gave to a strange understanding. This man in front of him – who had terrorized his men, set fire to the barracks, and assassinated them in cold blood – had orchestrated it all to turn the tables on their real enemies, the ones who kept Makar’s Lower Quarter in a state of near-wlessness for their own profit. Kyrell’s warning hadn’t been a death sentence; it had been a test of loyalty, and one Orvin had passed simply by surviving it.

  Kyrell leaned back again, folding his hands in his p, a faint smile lingering on his lips. “Remember, Captain. As long as you and your men keep to your duties without crossing lines, you are free to operate as you wish. Make life a little better here if you feel like it.”

  Orvin swallowed, his mind racing with the scope of what Kyrell just set into motion. There was no denying the ruthless efficiency of it. Whatever doubts he had about Kyrell’s sanity or motives, he now understood his intentions.

  “Understood…sir.” Orvin finally replied, his voice low as he processed the full weight of his new allegiance.

  Kyrell’s gaze softened slightly as he nodded. “Good.” He said quietly.

  He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk as he studied Orvin. “There are a few things we need to straighten out Captain.” He said, voice steady. “This arrangement will only work if I know exactly who I am dealing with – and how everything operates.”

  Orvin gave a slow nod, listening intently.

  “First I need everything you know about the Marshall and Lord Estan,” Kyrell said, “every vulnerability, every routine. I want to know how they operate and where their strings are tied.” He tapped the desk for emphasis. “Write it down – leave nothing out.”

  Orvin’s face hardened with a sense of grim duty. “Understood” he replied, forcing a level tone. He was already picturing the careful notes he needed to draft ter in the night, writing out the secrets that could put his own life on the line.

  Kyrell continued, “And tell me about the Grey Cloaks here and in the other quarters. How does your operation work exactly? Where do the orders come from, who enforces them, and how far does the influence spread?”

  Orvin hesitated, choosing his words carefully. “The Grey Cloaks operate separately in each quarter, with leaders like myself in charge, but the real orders come from the Marshall. In the Low Quarter, we are supposed to ‘keep the peace’, though you and I both know that means keeping the poor in check and keeping the trade routes to the Haven secure. It’s a different story in the high quarter – they cater to Estan and his allies there, enforcing Estan’s influence.

  Kyrell gave a slow, satisfied nod. “Good. You are going to document all of that too, in detail. I want every gap, every weak spot.”

  Orvin exhaled sharply, fully realizing the extent of what Kyrell was asking. “Understood sir.” He said, though the weight of his agreement made his shoulders leaden.

  “Also, I want to know where the funds come from to keep all this running. Every coin has a source. I will make sure you are still able to pay your men – don’t worry about that.”

  Orvin’s brow furrowed. “Much of it is funded by Estan, through the Marshall.” He replied, though he had never been privy to all the specifics. “In the low quarter, we…take a percentage from merchants’ tolls and ‘protection fees’ in exchange for keeping certain merchants safe.”

  Kyrell’s eyes narrowed. “Those merchants won’t be your concern much longer. Just make sure I have everything – who, where, when.”

  The Captain nodded, the pressure mounting as he mentally catalogued each piece of sensitive information he needed to organize.

  “Once I have what I need,” Kyrell continued, “I’ll put together a pn, and I’ll contact you. Your men will know when it’s time to act and you will have your orders.” Kyrell gave Orvin a final, penetrating look. “And Captain, remember this – if any part of the Grey Cloaks keep me from my objective, they will wish they hadn’t.”

  Orvin met Kyrell’s gaze, sensing the quiet threat that lingered beneath his words. “Understood,” he said, voice firm.

  Kyrell settled back in Orvin’s chair, arms crossed, his tone oddly calm but carrying an unmistakeable edge. “In the meantime, I’ll be staying here,” he said, as though he were simply taking up residence at an inn. “Sooner or ter, the Marshall will realize he’s losing control and send his own soldiers down to recim the Low Quarter, starting with you and your men. It’s a predictable move.”

  Orvin shifted uncomfortably, fully understanding what that meant for him and the remaining Grey Cloaks. They’d be the first line of defense against an attack from their own superiors.

  Kyrell continued; his gaze focused but oddly reassuring. “I’m not interested in seeing anyone that serves me, forced or not, getting killed, if it is something I can take care of. When they come, all I need from you and your men is to stay out of it. You won’t lift a finger. I can use the practise anyway.”

  Orvin swallowed, unsure whether to be relieved or more unnerved. “You’re… certain you can handle them?”

  Kyrell’s lips twitched into a smile that was more a hint than a full expression. “I wouldn’t say it if I couldn’t.”

  After a pause, Kyrell added, “As for the information I asked for – write it down. There is no rush; it doesn’t need to be tomorrow. Take your time, make sure it’s right. I want to know every crack in Estan’s walls and every weakness the Marshall has tried to keep hidden.”

  Orvin nodded, “I’ll make sure its thorough.”

  “Good. Now go. Rest up. I need you focused Captain.” Said Kyrell, with finality.