The iron gates of Sylvane groaned shut behind them, sealing the outside lawless wilderness behind. Inside, the capital was picturesque in white and gold. It was as bustling as ever, a hive of nobles in silk carriages and commoners treading the cobblestones with bowed heads.
Azrael did not turn his steps toward the Vaeloreth House. To return home now was to invite the unnecessary scrutiny. Even though he was independent after the ritual, If he presents himself on the grounds of the Vaeloreth Castle there will be eyes and questions. So Instead, he navigated the lower districts, eventually booking an inconspicuous inn, tucked into a remote corner of the city where questions were rarely asked and silver spoke louder than words.
He settled Rodrick into a small wood-paneled room. The weeks of travel from TradeHaven had finally begun to weigh on Azrael's physical frame. While his mind wasn't tired due to the constant switches, his muscles ached with the memory of the road.
"We rest today," Azrael announced, dropping into a rickety chair.
Rodrick watched him, his eyes filled with wary confusion. Throughout their journey, the man had been spooked more times than he cared to admit. The "switching" was the cause. One moment, Azrael would be a whimsical, almost playful youth, chatting about the scenery; then, in the blink of an eye, his posture would stiffen, his eyes would turn into frozen ice, and his voice would drop into the tone of Master White.
When Master White was in control, the mannerisms were sharp and surgical. When Azrael returned, he was all pleasant smiles and lighthearted mockery. To Rodrick, it felt as though he were traveling with two ghosts fighting for residence in a single corpse. It made the former Baron deeply question his decision to follow "Azrael," but the hunger for revenge was the only anchor he had left.
"Rodrick," Azrael said, his voice snapping the man out of his thoughts. "I have paid the innkeep for a month of residence. You stay here until we return. We don't want any hindrances in the initial phase of the operation."
Rodrick's brow furrowed, his hands clenching at his sides. "I want to come with you. This is my vengeance. I should be the one to drive the blade."
Azrael stood, his expression turning flat. "Think about it, Rodrick. You are a cultivator with a shattered core and atrophied muscles. We are moving against a Marquis. In a high-stakes infiltration, you aren't an asset, you're a handicap. Stay here, and wait. Your revenge will come to you, I promise."
Rodrick opened his mouth to protest, but the cold finality in Azrael's eyes silenced him. He reluctantly nodded. "Okay."
"Good." Azrael smirked, tossing a small pouch of coins onto the table. "Eat well. Don't leave the room."
They both rested for the day.
The next morning, Azrael exited the inn and soon after, the capital itself. He ventured deep into the wilderness surrounding Sylvane, pushing through dense thickets and overgrown paths until he found a secluded limestone cave hidden behind a curtain of wild bushes. This was a place of silence, far from the prying eyes of the populace.
Master White switched with Azrael, the transition seamless as the body relaxed into a more disciplined stance. Azrael's translucent spirit materialized beside him, sitting cross-legged in the air.
"So, White, how are we doing this?" Azrael asked, his voice echoing in the cave.
"First, we reach SableWood. Marquis Vance's ancestral territory by tomorrow night," Master White replied, his eyes fixed. "We will analyze the security of his manor, observe the rotations of his guard, and wait for the precise moment the shield wavers. It will be either a surgical assassination or a total massacre. I have no preference for either, provided the objective is met."
"Cold as always," Azrael chuckled. "But what do we actually know about the target? A Marquis isn't a small fry."
"He is a Tier-4 cultivator," Master White explained, his mind already cataloging the threat. "That is the threshold for a Marquessate declared by the crown. It will be challenging but not difficult if we leverage Life and Death attributes. However, the true variable is his personal guard. Most men of his rank employ a 'Shadow' a Tier-4 specialist who never leaves their side. If that is the case, it will be two against one."
"Then we take the guard out first," Azrael said, his eyes narrowing. "Strip the lion of his claws before we go for the throat."
Master White nodded. "There is more. Vance is a man of profound insecurities. He has been married for twenty years without an offspring. His manor is filled with concubines and 'fertility experts,' yet he remains without an heir. He is likely impotent, but his narcissism stops him from admitting it. Consequently, the mansion is overstaffed with servants and guards to compensate for his lack of a legacy. He surrounds himself with bodies to feel powerful."
Azrael leaned back, absorbing the information. "A self-centered, corrupt, and desperate man. He sounds like a typical villain, but those are often the most dangerous ones."
"Precisely," Master White said. "He has survived multiple reports of extortion and corruption because he knows whose boots to lick in the capital. But political immunity doesn't protect against a blade in the dark. So, let's rest now, Azrael. We move before the sun."
The journey to SableWood was grueling. They traveled by foot, avoiding the main trade routes, cutting through the dense forestry that gave the territory its name. By the time the sun dipped below the horizon on the second day, the estate of the Marquis came into view.
SableWood was an unsettlingly "peaceful" town. On the surface, it had well-paved roads, clean streets, well-dressed people and a quiet marketplace. Nothing was happening in the present, and nothing happened in the past which was of note.
They secured a room in a small tavern on the outskirts, posing as a traveling scholar. Over the next four days, the "scholar" became a ghost.
The stalk began at sunrise.
For four days, they were ghosts in the periphery of Marquis Vance's world. From the cover of an attic room overlooking the grand plaza, through the eyes of beggars they paid in coin, from the deep shadows of the manicured gardens adjacent to the estate walls, they watched.
They mapped the rhythms of the mansion. The changing of the guard occurred with clockwork precision at dawn, noon, dusk, and midnight. They counted twenty regular guards, all cultivators between Tier-1 and Tier-2. They identified the Captain, a hulking Tier-3 who patrolled with a permanent scowl.
And they saw the protector. A lean, silent man who shadowed the Marquis on the rare occasions he emerged onto a balcony or stepped into his carriage. The man moved like a predator, his eyes constantly scanning. Master White confirmed it: a Tier-4. His energy signature was a controlled low-burning furnace, distinct from the Marquis's more showy and arrogant aura.
They learned the Marquis's routine: a late rise, hours spent with stewards and merchants in his study, a solitary walk in his private garden at precisely the third hour past noon, an evening of feasting and entertainment with his courtiers.
And on the third day of their vigil, they heard the gossip, seeded in taverns and markets by the mansion's talkative steward. Azrael heard a name whispered: Garoth.
Day Four: The final piece of the puzzle fell into place. While trailing a supply carriage, they intercepted a messenger bearing a sealed crest. Master White's deft fingers opened the letter and resealed it before the messenger even woke from his "nap."
The letter was an invitation, or rather, a summon to Viscount Garoth. The man who had personally overseen the slaughter of Rodrick's family was traveling to SableWood to deliver a "special tribute" from the Enos crystal cave..
"haha.. it really is fate, White! You can't convince me otherwise. This is the best possibility we could hope for." Azrael's thrilled voice echoed in his mind. "A house accommodating both our objectives, it is a heaven-sent opportunity."
"I agree. The guard rotations will be altered for the Viscount's reception," Master White stated, peering through a slit in the shutters. "The formal dinner will anchor the Marquis, his protector, and most of the senior staff in the main hall. The perimeter will be stiff, but the internal focus will be on the occasion."
The intelligence was a spark on tinder. The Viscount's presence meant additional guards, more activity, a heightened state of alert. It also meant distraction, ceremony, and a predictable schedule. The mansion would be focused on hospitality, its routines stretched to accommodate a noble.
On the evening of the fourth day, as the sun disappeared, Master White and Azrael reconvened in their attic room. Below, the town lamps were being lit, one by one.
Master White's spectral form turned from the window, a cold certainty settling in the room. The four days of silent watching, of patient mapping, had crystallized into a single point of intent. The waiting was over.
"We strike tomorrow night" Master White said, the finality in his tone leaving no room for doubt, "when the Marquis hosts Viscount Garoth."