Chapter 33: The Uninvited Guest
The aftermath of the Ley-Well ambush was a whirlwind of controlled panic. The city watch, led by the formidable Captain Brann, cordoned off the area. The subdued attackers—now clearly Drac'num radicals with forged groundskeeping credentials—were dragged away, their mouths shut with more than just gags if Brann's grim expression was anything to go by. The official story, already being whispered by court heralds, was a "regrettable incident with unstable sylvan flora" and "overzealous royal guards subduing the dangerous plants."
Prince Caelan played his part flawlessly, expressing polite concern for the "disturbed flowerbed" and gratitude for his guards' "botanical diligence." As their carriage rolled back through the Undergate, the atmosphere inside was different. The tension had morphed. It was no longer a wire about to snap, but the buzzing hum after a lightning strike.
Jax was practically vibrating. "Did you see the one with the big nose? He tried to block my axe with a trowel. A trowel!" He shook his head, a wide, fierce grin on his face. "I almost felt bad. Almost."
"Your right flank was open on the follow-through," the Prince said, peering out the carriage window at the passing tunnel lights.
Jax's grin vanished. He blinked. "My… what?"
"When you cleaved the large one—Bors, I think his name was—you over-rotated. Your right side was exposed for a full second. If his companion had been quicker with her shears, she could have done some damage."
Jax stared at the Prince, his tactical joy deflating like a punctured waterskin. "Shears?"
"They were disguised as pruning shears, but the edges were sharpened to a razoredge. Quite clever."
Ryley coughed to hide a laugh. The greatest warrior in their group, possibly in this entire golden age, had just gotten a combat critique from a fourteen-year-old who liked fluffy pancakes.
"I'll… keep that in mind, Highness," Jax mumbled, sinking back into his seat and looking thoroughly chastened.
Back at the palace, the real work began. They were summoned not to the glittering throne room, but to King Theron's private strategy chamber—a room that smelled of old parchment, oiled metal, and quiet power. The King, looking even more like a weary mountain, listened as Ryley gave a pared-down report.
"Forgemaster Kaelen," the King rumbled when Ryley finished. The name was a curse in his mouth. "He has always been… devout. To a fault. To see that devotion twisted into this…" He sighed, a sound like continents shifting. "You have done well. You have my thanks, and more importantly, you have my trust. From this moment, you are not just my son's guard. You are my hunters. Find this Cabal. Rip it out by the roots. You have the authority to question anyone below the High Council. Use it."
It was the mandate they needed. The game had changed. They were no longer just waiting for the next attack. They had a license to investigate.
Their first target was obvious: Forgemaster Kaelen's workshop in the deep forges. That evening, under the guise of a "security sweep" ordered by the Crown, they descended into the industrial heart of the city. The air grew hot and thick with the smell of molten metal, ozone, and the deep, rhythmic clang of endless hammers. It was a cathedral to industry, vast and awe-inspiring.
The Forgemaster's personal domain was a cluttered cavern of schematics, half-fitted armor, and strange, humming devices. Kaelen himself was a block of a man with a beard woven with copper wires and eyes that burned with a zealot's fire. He was not intimidated by their Argent Guard sigils.
"The Prince is an amalgamation," he declared, not even denying his involvement once Ryley presented the testimony of the captured acolyte. "A beautiful, dangerous mistake. The bloodlines must remain pure for the covenants with the earth and sky to hold! The Sundering Cabal does not seek to harm the Prince, Captain. We seek to save the world by offering his unique spirit back to the fractured elements, to mend the tears his very existence creates!"
It was fanaticism, polished to a fine, insane logic. He wouldn't give up other names. He saw himself as a patriot, a martyr.
As Liana meticulously searched his ledgers, she found something else. Not names, but requisitions. Massive amounts of refined celestial bronze, rare Syl'endi heartwood, and—most tellingly—Kaminari focusing crystals tuned to a specific, dissonant frequency. The materials weren't for weapons. They were for a ritual arch. And the delivery location was a warehouse in the Ironwharf district, scheduled for tonight.
They left the Forgemaster in the custody of real Argent Guards, his ranting echoing behind them. They had a new destination.
The Ironwharf district at night was a different beast. The beautiful, clean city showed its gritty underbelly. The streets were narrower, shadowed by looming grain silos and rust-streaked cranes. The smell of the sea mixed with the pungent odor of fish, tar, and the ever-present metallic tang that was growing stronger.
The warehouse was a decaying hulk at the end of a mist-wrapped pier. No lights showed from within, but they could feel the hum of active magic—a low, nasty vibration that set their teeth on edge. This was the place.
"Alright," Ryley whispered, huddling them in the lee of a stack of soggy crates. "We go in, we secure the ritual materials, we grab anyone inside, we get out. Clean. Jax, you're the door."
Jax cracked his neck. "Finally. A proper door."
The "door" was a massive, iron-reinforced slab of timber. Jax took three running steps and hit it with his shoulder, channeling a hint of Blooded Rage. The sound wasn't a crack; it was a thunderclap as the door splintered inward off its hinges.
They surged inside.
And stopped.
The warehouse was not full of cowering cultists. It was full of mannequins. Dozens of them, dressed in elaborate, half-finished ceremonial robes of black, silver, and blood-red. In the center, the ritual arch stood half-assembled, a grotesque skeleton of bronze and glowing, sickly-purple crystal.
And standing before it, illuminated by a single, hovering light-orb, was a woman. She was Kaminari, tall and elegant, her silver hair swept into a severe bun. She wore the robes of a mid-level court bureaucrat. She held a stylus and a data-slate, and she looked up at the shattered door with an expression of profound annoyance, as if they'd interrupted a tedious budgeting session.
"You're early," she said, her voice cool and dry. "The shipment of sacrificial glyph-carvers isn't due until moonpeak."
Ryley leveled his sword. "You're under arrest by order of the King. The Cabal ends here."
The woman, who the Mandate-knowledge supplied as Administrator Veya, didn't even blink. She tapped her data-slate. "Arrest code 7-B, subsection 'Threat to Royal Line,' requires a warrant signed by two members of the High Council. Do you have such a warrant?"
Liana was already moving, flanking. "We have a smashed door and several captured terrorists who named this place."
"Hearsay," Veya sniffed. "And property damage. I'll be adding that to my report." She looked at the half-built arch. "This is a licensed artistic installation for the upcoming Festival of Penumbra. All materials are legally acquired. You'll find the permits in order."
She was utterly, maddeningly calm. A paper-pushing zealot. They could arrest her, but she was right—without hard proof linking her directly to an attack, she'd be out by morning, and the Cabal would know every detail of their investigation.
As they stood in a stalemate, Maya, who had been hanging back, suddenly went very still. She wasn't looking at Veya or the arch. She was looking at the warehouse floor. At the intricate, almost invisible pattern of inlaid copper wires that ran from the arch out into the shadows of the building.
"Ryley," she whispered, her voice tense. "It's not a ritual site. It's a battery. And it's… charging."
Veya's lip curled into the first real emotion they'd seen: a smirk. "Perceptive. The Festival of Penumbra does require such vibrant lighting."
A deep, resonant thrum pulsed through the floor. The purple crystals in the arch flared. And from the shadows behind the rows of mannequins, figures detached themselves. Not Drac'num radicals this time. These were sleek, silent constructs of polished brass and whirring gears—Aethereal Wardens, automated guardians used for high-security areas. But their eye-lenses glowed with the same sickly purple light.
Veya took a step back, her data-slate now clearly a control device. "I'm afraid your unauthorized incursion has triggered a security response. How… unfortunate."
Six Wardens advanced, their movements eerily fluid, weapons—energy blades and projectile launchers—humming to life.
Jax hefted his axe, his earlier frustration gone, replaced by pure glee. "Now that's a proper doorbell."
Adminstrator Veya had not invited them to the ritual. But she had, it seemed, prepared a very hostile welcome party.