The winds near Harbinth carried the smell of river silt, wet stone, and iron.

  Keshik crouched low behind a patch of dead thistle on the ridge, his body still as if carved from obsidian. His feathered cowl stirred faintly in the breeze, but otherwise he gave no sign of life. Below him stretched the outer districts of Harbinth. Mudbrick walls lined the riverbank, and copper-plated roofs caught the late sun in dull flashes. Thin trails of smoke rose from chimneys, and the faint clang of hammers echoed where smiths were already at work. The air carried the sweetness of bread and the rough bite of tanned leather. Children darted between narrow alleys, their shouts carried upward on the wind.

  Slit-Tongue crept beside him, slithering low through the brush. His grin showed sharp teeth. “Ripest fruit we’ve seen yet,” he whispered, eyes darting hungrily toward the city gates.

  Keshik didn’t answer right away. His gaze lingered on the people below. To them, the walls seemed enough. Guards lounged near the gates, merchants argued over awnings, and life unfolded without fear. He felt a chill in that. Complacency.

  “They’ve grown lazy behind their walls,” Keshik said at last, his voice quiet, steady. “They trust stone and trade to keep them safe.”

  Slit-Tongue snorted softly. “Safe until we decide they’re not.” He squinted. “Still no word of the artifact in Elzibar. The humans who survived swore it wasn’t there. No relics. No treasure hoards. Just fire and bones.”

  Keshik’s lip curled faintly. “Ash hides secrets better than stone. But if it wasn’t there…” His eyes slid toward Harbinth. “Then it may be here.”

  Slit-Tongue frowned. “You really think so? That the dragon piece could be buried under this human port?”

  Keshik’s claws dug absently into the dirt. He tilted his head toward the city as if listening for something beneath the noise of carts and voices. “Harbinth is older than it pretends. Humans build quickly, then forget. They set new walls on the bones of the old. But the earth remembers.”

  Slit-Tongue scratched his jaw. “Nezzarod said we failed him in Elzibar. That the power he felt wasn’t destroyed. He’s certain it still lingers. If he feels it here, then…”

  “It is here,” Keshik cut in. His eyes narrowed. “And not just what he sensed before. Something more. The flow is stronger in this place. It pools here like a river at a bend.”

  He fell silent for a long moment. He could feel it, faint but undeniable. A tug in the air, a hum in the stone. It reminded him of the moments before lightning strikes, the world holding its breath, energy waiting to be released.

  Slit-Tongue leaned closer. “What does it feel like? You’ve got the gift for sensing it. I don’t.”

  Keshik let out a slow breath. “It feels like something buried, but alive. Old power. Restless.”

  Slit-Tongue’s grin widened. “Then maybe it’s the dragon shard after all. Imagine what we could do with it. Not just those stone golems smashing walls for us. Not just tools.” His voice lowered. “We could reshape the world. Bend it. Force it to kneel.”

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  Keshik’s gaze stayed on the city. “Not just war. Domination.”

  The word hung between them.

  Slit-Tongue laughed softly under his breath. “You sound like the master when you say it like that.”

  “Not like him,” Keshik replied sharply, then eased his tone. “He wants victory. I want something else.”

  Slit-Tongue tilted his head. “What?”

  “Legacy,” Keshik said, almost to himself. “Not just fire and ruin. Something that lasts. Something the world cannot erase, even with ash.”

  They sat in silence again, watching Harbinth. The city lived in its rhythms, boats unloading at the docks, women hanging wet cloth from lines, guards yawning in the sun. None of them looked toward the hills. None of them knew.

  Slit-Tongue finally broke the quiet. “So what now? We slip in, find the source, take it for ourselves?” His tone carried hope, but also doubt.

  Keshik shook his head. He rose slowly, brushing the dust from his leathers. “Not yet. No use walking into a feast with no teeth. A place like this will have defenders. Magi, soldiers, priests. We would not leave alive.”

  He glanced eastward, toward the trail they had come. “We circle back. Gather the rest of the army as we did before. A strike like this cannot be done in shadows alone.”

  Slit-Tongue hissed with impatience. “And if someone else finds it first? If the magi here already guard it?”

  Keshik studied the horizon, the light fading into the sea. “If they know what sleeps within their streets, then they’re fools for staying. Power this strong cannot be tamed. It will come out, one way or another. And when it does, it won’t care whose hands claimed it first.”

  Slit-Tongue tapped his claws together. “Then all we need is to be ready when it breaks loose.”

  “Yes,” Keshik said. “And to guide it. Harness it. Bend it before it bends us.”

  His words came quieter now, almost lost in the wind. “The master thinks fear is power. He clings to it like a coward clings to a shield. But this… this is life twisted into force. That is power worth carrying.”

  Slit-Tongue’s grin faded slightly. He studied Keshik’s profile. “And Nezzarod? What of him? He doesn’t share power. He won’t let anyone take what he believes is his.”

  Keshik’s eyes hardened. “Then he’ll have to be reminded. We serve until we don’t. If the relic answers to me, not him, then even Nezzarod will bow.”

  The words surprised even Slit-Tongue. He stared, then gave a crooked smile. “Careful, brother. Speak like that too loud, and the shadows will whisper it back to him.”

  “Let them,” Keshik said, his voice flat. “I’m not afraid of shadows.”

  For a long moment, neither spoke. The city below moved on in its ordinary ways. A fisherman unloaded nets at the quay. A child tumbled chasing a hoop. Life went on, blind to what watched from the hills.

  At last, Slit-Tongue stood, stretching his back. “So we go back to camp. Tell the others what we’ve seen. Let the master decide.”

  Keshik gave one last look at Harbinth, the copper roofs glowing like embers in the fading light. His claws flexed as if he wanted to carve the sight into memory.

  “Yes,” he said quietly. “We go back. But remember this view, Slit-Tongue. Because the next time we stand here, this city will be different. It will know our names.”

  He turned without waiting, slipping into the thorns, his body vanishing into the brush like smoke carried by the wind.

  Slit-Tongue lingered. His grin returned, sharp and cruel. He looked down at the bustling streets, at people laughing in the evening glow.

  “Let them bake their bread,” he whispered. “Let them kiss their wives. Let them sleep without fear.”

  He spat into the dust.

  “They won’t sleep long.”

  Then he followed after Keshik, leaving the ridge empty.

  The city of Harbinth breathed on, unaware of what watched from the hills.

  But dusk was coming.

  And dusk carried the scent of war.