Chapter Eight

  A week later, the docks of Emberhol loomed in the mist, jagged with cranes and the silhouettes of warships. The city, carved into the mountainside and layered with iron bridges and towering keeps, felt colder than Islehaim—despite the sun.

  Valdis stepped off the ship first, her boots clanking against stone. Argus followed, heavy with silence. Neither wore the Black Crow uniform—just simple cloaks and travel leathers—but their presence still turned heads. Some remembered their faces. Others simply sensed the weight they carried.

  They didn’t speak much as they crossed the lower tiers of the capital. They kept their pace steady, ignoring merchants and patrols, climbing stairwells and passing through shadowed alleys that twisted behind the facade of nobility and power.

  Eventually, they reached it.

  The Hideout.

  Hidden beneath the old sewers of Emberhol, through a passage sealed with runes and a shifting lock only Black Crows knew. It took Argus a moment to open it—his fingers moved slower than before, like something inside him hesitated.

  They stepped into the gloom.

  Old stone walls greeted them, wrapped in roots and the stale scent of ink and ash. The glowstones flickered to life one by one as they passed, revealing maps, weapon racks, shelves of scrolls, and the emblem of the Black Crows etched in obsidian on the back wall.

  It was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  No greetings. No shouts. No sarcasm-laced jabs from Hayes. Just stillness.

  “Where is he?” Valdis muttered.

  Argus shrugged, walking toward the long table in the center of the room. A few new reports had been stacked on the side. One marked from Aria. Still sealed. Untouched.

  “He hasn’t come back yet.”

  Valdis frowned. “He left before us. Should’ve returned days ago.”

  Argus didn’t respond. His eyes moved across the table, resting briefly on a carved map of the continent. His fingers traced from Islehaim to Aria… then to Talcroft. His brow furrowed.

  Valdis paced to the corner where her desk sat. She brushed dust off the surface, settling back into her old place like slipping on a glove she thought she'd lost.

  She exhaled slowly. “We’ll hold the line.”

  Argus leaned against the edge of the table. “We’ll stick to the story. Locals confirmed the shipwreck. No survivors. Nothing left to find.”

  “If Hayes asks,” Valdis added, “we mourned, we searched, we buried the past.”

  Argus gave a small nod. “And we wait.”

  Valdis’s eyes narrowed. “And if he suspects?”

  Argus’s voice turned to steel. “Then we deal with it.”

  A long pause.

  Then, from deeper in the hideout, the echo of footsteps.

  Someone was coming.

  But it wasn’t Hayes.

  The footsteps echoed louder now—slow, deliberate, each step like a drumbeat carved from stone. Valdis turned toward the corridor first, her posture stiffening, every muscle tightening beneath her cloak. Argus stood straighter, instinct pulling him to place a hand on the hilt of his blade—though he didn’t draw.

  Then he emerged.

  Crowfather.

  He didn’t need the mask today. The pale, timeworn face behind it was sharper than memory. Hair long and silver, braided with iron thorns; eyes like shadowed ice, calm yet bottomless. His long coat swept the ground like wings, the black threads marked with ancient runes few could read anymore.

  Silence followed him like a cloak.

  “Valdis,” he said first, voice soft but soaked in gravity.

  She bowed her head, just enough to show respect. “Crowfather.”

  “Argus.” The name lingered a bit longer.

  “Sir,” Argus said, nodding once. His voice was rough.

  Crowfather moved to the center of the chamber, fingers lightly grazing the carved table. His presence made the room feel smaller, tighter.

  “I heard you returned early.”

  Valdis cleared her throat. “The wreckage was found. North coast of Islehaim. Locals confirmed: no survivors. We searched what we could. Nothing remained but shattered timber.”

  Crowfather’s pale eyes slid over to Argus, watching him with that same unreadable stare he always had. “And Ravyn?”

  Argus held his gaze. “Gone.”

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  A long pause. Crowfather didn’t blink.

  Valdis stepped in smoothly. “If he lived, someone would’ve seen him. But the sea there is vicious. Not much survives those tides.”

  Crowfather said nothing at first. He turned toward the wall where the Black Crow insignia loomed above a set of old relics—daggers, feathers, broken sigils from past lieutenants.

  “When a bird leaves the flock,” he said, “sometimes it finds its own sky. Sometimes it breaks its wings.”

  Valdis felt her pulse skip. “We did what we could.”

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “You did.”

  Another silence. Then, suddenly, he turned to them fully. “You’ll continue your duties as before. There is unrest stirring in the northern courts. The Queen of Aria is playing a dangerous game, and I’ll need eyes closer than the court mages.”

  He stepped toward Valdis. “You.”

  Then to Argus. “And you.”

  Neither protested.

  “I expect your full reports within the week.” Crowfather’s voice dropped slightly. “And if there is even a whisper—of a shadow—of Ravyn’s return... I want to know.”

  Valdis bowed her head again. “Of course.”

  Argus didn’t move. “And if he does?”

  Crowfather stared at him. “Then we finish what he started—or what he refused to.”

  He turned and walked toward the deeper chambers, the glowstones dimming in his wake. Just before the darkness swallowed him, he paused.

  “Loyalty is not a feeling,” he said quietly. “It is a chain. Break it… and it breaks you.”

  Then he vanished into shadow.

  The room stayed silent a long time after.

  Valdis finally exhaled. “He suspects.”

  Argus’s jaw clenched. “Let him.”

  They didn’t speak of Ravyn again that night—but both knew the chain wasn’t broken yet. It had simply gone deeper underground.

  The sun had barely risen when the black ship drifted into harbor, its sails stitched with the faded emblem of the Talcroft merchant guild. No banners. No fanfare. Just shadow and stillness.

  In the capital’s lower docks, the hidden passage behind the fisherman's shack groaned open. Boots echoed through the narrow stone corridor beneath Emberhol—measured, confident steps.

  Hayes had returned.

  Valdis stood still as he entered the base, the firelight glinting off his daggers, freshly sharpened and cleaned. He looked unchanged. Pale gray cloak, the same wolfish smile that never quite reached his eyes. But something in his stance had grown colder.

  “Miss me?” he said.

  Argus didn't answer. He stood by the old war table, arms crossed, eyes narrowing. Valdis barely lifted her gaze.

  Hayes walked in like he owned the room.

  “No survivors in Aria,” he said, dropping his satchel on the bench. “Tried the coastline, the hidden coves. Questioned half a dozen portmasters. Not a soul knew a damn thing about a wrecked ship.” He shrugged. “Either the sea swallowed him whole... or we’ve been chasing ghosts.”

  Valdis met his eyes. “You sound disappointed.”

  Hayes grinned. “Only in the waste of coin.”

  Argus finally spoke. “And you? Find anything else out there?”

  “Plenty.” Hayes leaned against the stone wall. “Rumors of movement in the Arian court. Something stirs, but no one says what. I think their Queen’s preparing for war, or something worse. But nothing about Ravyn.”

  A pause. Thick.

  Then Hayes added, “And you? Any sign of our ghost?”

  Valdis shook her head, voice steady. “Shipwreck was real. Locals remember the storm. Found the remains. No survivors, just driftwood and wreckage.”

  Argus nodded. “We spoke to the hunters who found the wreck. They confirmed it.”

  Hayes tilted his head, watching them both.

  “Just like that, huh?” he said. “You two seem... strangely resigned.”

  “We saw it with our own eyes,” Argus growled.

  Hayes studied them a moment longer. Then gave a slight, slow nod. “Well then. If Ravyn’s truly dead...”

  He looked to the obsidian dagger still resting on the table—Ravyn’s old blade, dulled and cracked.

  “...Long live the Black Crows.”

  Before the silence could settle, the heavy door creaked open again.

  A woman stepped inside.

  She moved like smoke, her steps graceful, almost soundless despite the worn stone beneath her boots. Dark hair, long and braided down her back, shimmered with threads of silver beads. Her eyes, dark as obsidian, scanned the room without urgency—but nothing escaped them. A curved blade rested on her hip, the hilt wrapped in red silk. Her robe, layered in deep shades of plum and midnight, gave her a regal but dangerous air. Tattoos coiled up the length of her neck—symbols neither Valdis nor Argus could place, but that thrummed faintly with magic.

  Persian, or something older.

  Hayes smiled as he pushed away from the wall, his voice almost casual.

  “Ah. I was wondering when you’d catch up.” He gestured toward her. “Valdis, Argus—this is Soraya. Aria’s mage, and former Hashashin.”

  Valdis’s jaw clenched. Even Argus, ever the stone, shifted slightly.

  Hashashin.

  Few words carried more weight in the underground.

  They were shadows within shadows, trained killers of the ancient eastern guilds—believed long disbanded. The mention of one alive, let alone standing here under the same roof as a Black Crow, was enough to freeze the air.

  Soraya inclined her head slowly. “Your names I know.”

  Her voice was calm, smooth, with an accent that curled at the edges of her words like smoke from incense.

  “I’ve heard of your dead lieutenant,” she added, gaze settling on the blade still resting on the table. “Ravyn.”

  Valdis didn’t answer. Argus stood rigid.

  Hayes, ever the serpent, continued. “She’s a gift, in a way. From the Queen of Aria herself. Sent with blessings—and curiosity.”

  “And what does she want with us?” Argus asked coldly.

  Soraya stepped forward, her presence commanding yet quiet.

  “To know the truth. About the man you called Ravyn.” She paused, then added, “Because the Queen of Aria suspects he was not merely a soldier. She believes he carried something older in his blood.”

  Valdis’s heart skipped.

  Hayes chuckled softly. “And here I thought this was going to be a boring debrief.”

  When Hayes funnily left Soraya reached into the folds of her robe and drew out a long, narrow parchment.

  She unrolled it with deliberate care, revealing a hand-drawn sigil in fine ink—ornate, ancient, and unmistakably familiar.

  Valdis stepped closer, breath catching.

  The shape was precise: a silver medallion coiled in a twin serpent motif, marked with strange glyphs at the edge. She’d seen it just once—glimpsed hanging from Ravyn’s neck before he disappeared into the sea.

  Argus’s brow furrowed. “That’s his medallion.”

  “You’re certain?” Soraya asked.

  Argus nodded slowly. “His mother’s. He never took it off.”

  Soraya’s dark eyes lifted to meet his. “It was not merely sentimental.”

  Valdis stiffened. “What do you mean?”

  Soraya leaned forward, her voice quiet but sharp. “This medallion is an heirloom of the royal line. A sigil of the House of Ashar. Reserved only for blood kin.”

  Argus shook his head. “That can’t be. His mother was a mystic from Aria, yes—but she was no noble.”

  “She was more than that,” Soraya said. “Her name was Yasmina Ashar. Youngest sister of our Queen. She vanished decades ago—before the war with the northern clans. Most believed her dead.”

  Valdis whispered, “You’re saying Ravyn…”

  Soraya nodded. “Is Aria’s nephew. Direct blood of the crown.”

  A heavy silence dropped.

  Argus turned away, running a hand over his face. “That’s impossible.”

  “She died,” he muttered. “I remember the funeral. He was eight. The fire was real.”

  “Bodies burn,” Soraya said, “but truth doesn’t.”

  Argus clenched his jaw, his voice low. “Why would Yasmina run from the crown? Why hide her son in a Talcroft village?”

  Soraya’s gaze sharpened. “Because she knew what he was.”

  Valdis asked carefully, “What is he?”

  Soraya hesitated. Then, softly: “The last blood-binder.”

  Argus and Valdis exchanged a look, confusion shadowed with dread.

  “A relic,” Soraya continued. “Of a forgotten art. Not taught. Not learned. Only inherited. Only awakened.”

  Argus’s thoughts ran wild—memories of Ravyn’s uncanny instincts, his unnatural perception in the field, the way shadows bent around him when he fought.

  Valdis whispered, “And if Hayes learns this?”

  “He won’t,” Soraya said firmly. “He must not.”

  Argus stared at the parchment again.

  A boy raised in hiding.

  A war that was never just about nations.

  He exhaled. “Then Ravyn can never come back.”

  Valdis nodded. “Not as Ravyn.”

  Soraya carefully rolled the parchment back up. “Then we protect him. From Hayes. From the Guild. From the throne.”

  Argus looked toward the sealed window. Somewhere far, in a snowy land surrounded by monsters and mist, the boy he raised now wore another name.

  He was no longer just a runaway.

  He was the heir to a secret buried too deep.

  And perhaps… the beginning of a war.

  The chamber was quiet, shadows stretching long across the stone walls. The fire in the corner crackled faintly, casting a flickering glow over their faces.

  Argus sat heavily on the edge of the table, hands clasped, brow furrowed deep in thought. Valdis leaned against the wall beside him, her arms crossed tightly, guarded.

  Soraya waited, her dark eyes steady but patient. “You know more than you’ve said.”

  Argus exchanged a glance with Valdis, as if searching for silent approval.

  She gave a single nod.

  Argus exhaled slowly. “We found him. In Islehaim.”

  Soraya’s brows lifted just slightly. “Alive?”

  Valdis stepped forward. “He didn’t want to be found. He didn’t even tell us his name at first. He’s changed. Hardened.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “We left him,” Argus said. “Per his wishes. And we told Hayes he was dead.”

  Soraya’s expression didn’t change—but her eyes gleamed with something close to satisfaction. “So he lives. And Hayes believes otherwise.”

  Valdis narrowed her gaze. “That man manipulated everything. Ravyn found a report—supposedly sent from me—betraying our position. But I never sent it. The seal was mine, the words in my style, but I swear on my life, it wasn’t mine.”

  Argus added, “Hayes forged it. Or had it forged. He wanted Ravyn to believe Valdis had betrayed him. And it worked.”

  “It broke him,” Valdis murmured. “He vanished. And we spent a month believing he turned traitor… when he was the one betrayed. We where chasing him, trying to kill. But he escaped. Then we heard from locals in small village, that the ship he was on sinked.”

  Soraya’s face darkened. “Hayes orchestrated the split.”

  Argus nodded. “He wanted Ravyn out of the way. Maybe even dead. And now he has the Crowfather’s ear.”

  The room was heavy with quiet again. Then Soraya said, “You did right. Leaving Ravyn in Islehaim. No safer place to vanish. Not now.”

  Valdis stepped closer. “Why are you helping us?”

  Soraya’s voice was low but resolute. “Because Hayes isn’t the only one who understands power. If what you’ve told me is true—if Ravyn carries that bloodline and that gift—then he’s more than just a threat. He’s a key.”

  “To what?” Argus asked.

  “To a war,” Soraya said. “Or to ending one.”

  Valdis’s breath hitched.

  Argus narrowed his eyes. “Then we keep lying to Hayes.”

  “We do more than lie,” Soraya said. “We feed him just enough truth to keep him convinced. And we prepare.”

  “For what?” Valdis asked.

  Soraya turned toward the fire, her silhouette framed in golden light.

  “For the day Ravyn stops hiding.”