The storm broke over the highlands like an unchained beast, rolling black clouds spilling across the horizon in relentless waves. The wind cut through the jagged ridges, bending the few scraggly pines until they creaked under the strain. Rain lashed against the rocky slopes, carving muddy rivulets that ran down into the valleys below. Through the chaos of the weather, a solitary rider pushed forward, cloak plastered against their body by the force of the gale. Lysara's mount struggled against the shifting terrain, hooves slipping on the wet rock, but she did not slow. She had seen the signs in the morning sky and read the air as she always did, but the urgency of her journey overruled the wisdom of waiting out the storm.
She knew what had happened in the foothill settlements, though no official messenger had yet reached the fortress. The enemy had broken through the outer lines, and worse still, they had done it with uncanny precision, striking where defenses were weakest. That sort of movement was not chance; it was guided. She could feel the shape of it in her mind, the same way a falcon senses the intent of a predator below. Someone had been feeding them information, and the possibilities for who it could be tightened like a noose.
Her destination rose in the distance, half obscured by the storm. The mountain pass narrowed there, funneled between two towering cliffs. At the base of the cliff face stood an old watchtower, long abandoned after the last border skirmish. In calmer times it had been a relic, a stone shell for birds to nest in and moss to claim. But now it had become something else entirely. From the pass's mouth, she could see the faintest flicker of firelight through one of its broken windows. It was occupied again, and whoever had taken it had not bothered to hide their presence.
Her horse balked at the narrowing trail, so she dismounted, leading it forward on foot. Rain drummed against her hood as she reached the tower's worn archway. The firelight within flickered higher, as though whoever was inside had just added more fuel to it. She stepped inside cautiously, boots squelching in the wet earth that coated the stone floor. The air was warmer here but tinged with the smell of damp ash and old, stale food. Her eyes adjusted to the dim light, and she saw him.
A young man sat near the fire, hair plastered to his face, clothes travel-stained. His eyes flicked to hers, and in them she saw a wariness that spoke of both hardship and distrust. His hand rested lightly on the hilt of a short sword at his side, though he made no move to draw it.
"You found the place faster than I expected," he said quietly.
"I follow storms," Lysara replied, stepping closer to the fire. "And this one was heading straight for you."
He studied her for a long moment, then shifted to make space near the flames. She lowered herself to sit, feeling the heat seep into her soaked clothing. The crackle of the fire filled the silence between them until he spoke again.
"You are Lysara. I heard about you in the southern camps."
"What you heard depends on who you spoke to," she said evenly.
"That you were dangerous to your enemies, and unpredictable to your allies," he said, almost as though testing her reaction.
Her lips curved into the faintest shadow of a smile. "Then they spoke true."
For a while they sat without further words, the storm's roar muffled by the thick stone walls. When he finally began speaking again, his voice was low, deliberate. He spoke of the breach, of how the enemy forces had moved with impossible accuracy. He confirmed her suspicion without knowing it, describing incidents too exact to be coincidence. There was a leak in the high command, and it was costing them lives.
She asked questions, listening to the cadence of his voice, the hesitation before certain words. He was young, but not untested, and there was a sharpness to him that told her he had learned to survive in the spaces between larger powers. The kind who could slip through cracks others never noticed. She found herself considering whether he could be of use, though trust was a currency she rarely traded in anymore.
Outside, the storm began to shift, the rain turning to sleet. The sound changed, a hiss replacing the steady drumbeat. The young man glanced toward the entrance as though he had heard something beyond the weather, and Lysara followed his gaze. A faint shape moved beyond the archway, tall and hunched, its silhouette distorted by the slanting sheets of ice.
They both rose silently, and Lysara's hand slid to the hilt of her dagger. The figure lingered just at the edge of sight before melting into the whiteness again.
"They found us," he murmured.
Lysara nodded once, mind already shifting to the next set of moves. The storm had hidden her approach, but it could just as easily hide theirs. And if they had tracked her here, they were closer to the fortress than anyone had realized.
She turned to the young man. "If you want to live, you will follow me without question. Speak only when necessary, and trust that I know the ground better than they do."
His eyes locked onto hers for a heartbeat before he nodded. Whatever uncertainty he carried, it was outweighed by the knowledge that she was his best chance. Together they doused the fire, plunging the tower into darkness.
When they stepped out into the storm again, the wind cut at their faces and the sleet stung their skin, but Lysara felt a fierce clarity settle over her. Somewhere out in the swirling white, the enemy was closing in. The game had shifted again, and this time, she intended to be the one laying the snare.
The streets of Kharath were restless that night. Lysara could feel it in the rhythm of the cobblestones beneath her boots, the way sound carried strangely through the narrow alleys, the way shadows seemed to linger too long after she passed. It had been years since she had walked this deep into the inner wards, and even after a decade away from her childhood haunts, she knew the undercurrent of danger here had not faded. If anything, it had grown sharper, like a blade left to rust and then honed again by a less careful hand.
She moved swiftly, keeping her hood low, the fabric brushing the tops of her cheeks as she scanned each corner. Her errand tonight was not the sort that could be delayed. A sealed message rested in the inner pocket of her cloak, pressed flat against her ribs. It bore the sigil of the Outer Council, something that would be dangerous for anyone to see, let alone read. She had been warned that interception was a real threat, and every whisper of movement in the dark made her fingers twitch toward the dagger at her belt.
At the end of the alley, a door with peeling green paint loomed. It looked abandoned, the sort of place no merchant would think to store goods and no official would bother to inspect. She stepped inside without knocking. The air was thick with the smell of old paper, candle wax, and the faint bitterness of dried herbs. A man sat hunched at a table in the back, his hands steady as he worked a thin file over a piece of brass. He did not look up until she placed the sealed message between them.
"You took longer than I expected," he said. His voice was low but carried a rasp, as if it had been years since he had spoken without caution.
"The checkpoints were tighter than usual," Lysara replied, watching his eyes flick to the seal and back to her face. "I did not linger."
"You never do." He set the brass aside and broke the seal with a fingernail. His eyes scanned the letter quickly, and Lysara noted how his jaw tightened on certain lines. When he finished, he folded the paper once and tucked it into the inner lining of his vest.
"This will change things," he said. "But not yet. We will have to be patient."
Patience was not something Lysara enjoyed. Ten years of work, ten years of surviving in silence and shadows, and still the balance had not shifted in their favor. She glanced toward the shuttered window, listening to the faint echo of voices outside. "Patience will not stop them from tightening their grip," she said. "And it will not keep our people fed."
The man gave her a measured look. "You are beginning to sound like Kaelen."
Her lips tightened at the name. She had not heard it spoken aloud in years, yet the memory of him was never far from her thoughts. He had been the one to set her on this path, the one who had shown her that survival alone was not enough. She wondered where he was now, if he was even still alive.
The man pushed a small folded scrap of paper across the table toward her. "This is where you will go next. Speak to no one along the way, and trust no one once you arrive. They will know you by the phrase you used as a child."
Lysara raised a brow but took the note without unfolding it. "And if they do not?"
"Then you will leave," he said simply. "Quickly."
She nodded, turning toward the door. The night air felt colder when she stepped outside, the streets narrower and more hostile than before. Somewhere in the distance, a bell tolled twice, followed by a faint, uneven rhythm of footsteps that seemed to follow her.
She kept moving, slipping between market stalls left empty overnight, weaving through lanes where stray dogs pawed at refuse. Each time she glanced back, she saw nothing, yet her instincts told her she was not alone. When she reached the next junction, she ducked suddenly into a side passage and pressed herself against the wall, hand on her dagger.
A figure passed the mouth of the alley, their movements slow and deliberate. They did not look in her direction, but Lysara could feel their awareness brushing against her like an unwelcome hand. She waited until they had gone before stepping out again, her pace quicker now, her eyes sharp.
The address on the folded note led her toward the old aqueducts, where crumbling stone arches stretched over still pools of black water. Here the air was cooler, carrying the scent of damp moss and old iron. She found the place—a narrow entrance half-hidden by a curtain of ivy—and slipped inside.
The room beyond was dimly lit, the walls lined with maps and crude sketches. A woman stood near the far wall, her back turned as she sorted through bundles of parchment. She did not turn until Lysara spoke the phrase from her childhood, the one her mother had whispered to her before she disappeared from the city forever.
The woman's gaze was sharp, assessing, and after a moment she gave a small nod. "Then you are the one we have been waiting for," she said.
Lysara stepped forward, the sound of the distant footsteps still echoing faintly in her mind. Whatever lay ahead, she knew she had crossed another line she could never step back from.