He moved like smoke through the undercity—soft footfalls, no wasted steps, senses tuned to the rhythm of Silvermoon’s bones. He stayed two turns behind them, slipping through maintenance corridors, alcoves left unguarded, service ladders forgotten by time and bureaucracy.

  Above, Matrim and the Guardian—he didn’t know her name yet, but he’d seen her eyes, sharp as broken glass—moved with tension and purpose. He tracked them easily. Matrim had always walked like a man on a mission. Even back in Varenhold.

  Especially back in Varenhold.

  He remembered the desert well. The blistering heat. The red sun hanging like an executioner over the horizon. And the way their company—his company—died by inches under the weight of something they hadn’t understood. The silence of those final days still echoed louder than the battle cries.

  Matrim had disappeared after that.

  Vanished into the sand.

  Everyone thought he was dead.

  Except for him.

  Because when you fought beside someone long enough, you learned to feel it when they were still out there. Like a phantom limb that refused to stop aching.

  He crouched in a collapsed corner of an old aqueduct, watching as the pair emerged from one of the Bastion’s side passages and entered a long hall lined with closed vault doors. Matrim carried a sword now—a different one than he remembered. Cleaner. Lighter. Not mercenary gear.

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  Guardian steel. That meant he’d been given access.

  Or earned it.

  Interesting.

  The woman walked beside him like she didn’t trust anyone else to keep him alive. That told him plenty, too.

  He leaned back against the wall, drawing in a slow breath, cataloguing everything.

  They’d found something.

  He didn’t need to hear the words to know. He could read it in Matrim’s posture. The weight in his steps. The questions burning in his eyes even when he was silent.

  He’d seen that look before—when they’d buried half their company in the sands and still had to keep moving.

  Whatever Matrim had uncovered here in Silvermoon, it was bigger than the Court, bigger than the city’s decaying magic.

  And worse—it had changed him.

  The tunnels beneath the city shifted around him. Not physically, but subtly. There were wards reactivating. Deep ones. Old. His skin itched beneath his leathers. Not dangerous—yet. But it meant people in high places were starting to panic.

  He climbed a narrow ladder into a forgotten overlook—a maintenance hatch high above the next courtyard. The Guardian and Matrim paused below, speaking quietly. He strained to hear, but their words didn’t reach him.

  Still, he could see the weight in Matrim’s shoulders.

  You’re not ready for this.

  He almost said it aloud.

  But then again… Matrim never had been. Not before.

  Not when he chose to take command during the siege at Karesh, not when he stayed behind to buy them time during the desert retreat, not when he buried the last man with shaking hands and dried blood in his eyes.

  And yet—somehow—he survived.

  The mercenary pulled back from the overlook and disappeared into the dark again. Quiet, measured steps. He wouldn’t show himself yet. Not until he knew what Matrim was walking toward.

  And not until he decided whether he’d be walking beside him again…

  …or dragging him out of the ruins before the city swallowed him whole.