Tilda soon returned with food, setting simple but generous portions on the table. They ate in quiet gratitude. When the plates were cleared and the table wiped clean, Tilda finally turned her attention back to Favian.

  “Where have you been?” she asked softly. “What have you been doing all this time?”

  Favian leaned back in his chair. “Sadnon,” he said. “We found ourselves in trouble there. Dangerous trouble. We had to leave before the Valiants realised what we were.”

  Tilda shook her head. “Staying in Sadnon at all took courage.”

  “We thought we could keep our heads down,” Favian replied. “We were wrong.”

  After a moment, he looked at her. “What about you? What have you all been doing here?”

  Tilda glanced at Marshal. He gave a small nod.

  “We were camped in Ardet at first,” she said. “It was safer. But then we heard that Truthers had been captured and brought to Almeroth.” She paused. “Including Brenna’s brother.”

  Darius stiffened. His gaze flicked to Brenna, then back to Tilda, his thoughts turning inward. If Brenna was here… had her brother been brought here by the Unknown as well?

  Tilda continued, unaware. “We’ve been planning to free them. We act tomorrow, during the celebrations.”

  “Tomorrow?” Favian echoed, surprised.

  “Yes,” Marshal said. “Most of the Viceroys will be at the city square. Soldiers too… more than usual. They’ll be focused on guarding the Viceroys and controlling the crowds.”

  Darius spoke up then. “What celebration?”

  Tilda met his gaze. “It marks the day Almeroth joined the Anasonian Empire. It’s been years, but they still honour it.” She hesitated. “There’s talk the Emperor himself may attend.”

  Darius felt a stir of awe and unease.

  The Emperor of Anason. The most powerful man in the world, ruler of the very system he was meant to one day tear down.

  And he might be standing in the open, within reach.

  Favian leaned forward. “So what’s the plan?”

  Tilda lowered her voice instinctively, as though the walls themselves might be listening. “Once the celebrations draw the city to the square, we move for the Shadows Keep. That’s where they’re holding the Truthers.”

  She rose from her seat and crossed the room, opening a narrow cupboard set into the wall. From it, she drew out a folded sheet of parchment, worn soft at the edges. When she returned to the table, she spread it flat between them.

  “This is the Keep,” she said.

  The drawing showed a grim stone fortress: high, unbroken walls, a single main gate flanked by two watchtowers, and a central courtyard marked with arrows leading down into underground cells. Narrow escape routes were sketched in darker ink, hurried but precise.

  “Marshal made this,” Tilda added, glancing at him. “He’s been shifting into workers, sometimes even guards. Long enough to learn the layout, and memorise the weak points.”

  She leaned closer to the table, bracing one hand on the parchment. Her eyes moved from face to face.

  “We’ve taken uniforms from dirty laundry,” she said quietly. “They’ll be our way in.”

  She tapped the edge of the map.

  “The Festival will pull most of the city’s forces to the palace square. Parades, feasting, keeping the Viceroys safe. That leaves the Keep lightly manned. A dozen guards at most.”

  Her finger traced the watchtowers, then the gate.

  “No full patrols,” she went on. “Just skeleton shifts. Spread thin.”

  She straightened slightly, her expression bold. “That’s our advantage.”

  Then, more softly, “But we can’t afford mistakes.”

  “We strike at midnight. When the celebrations are loudest. When the guards here are likely nursing their mugs of ale and wishing they were anywhere else.”

  Tilda looked at Favian and smiled. “I’d planned to have Marshal go in first to scout,” she said, “but since you’ve got a spy bird, that works even better.”

  Favian nodded. “That should do.”

  “Brilliant.” Tilda’s tone sharpened as she slipped fully into command. “Phase one is infiltration and reconnaissance.”

  She turned slightly towards Favian. “This is where your weapon shines. You’ll send the bird, it’s nothing flashy. It won’t draw eyes. An hour before we move, it flies over the walls. Scouts the courtyard. Notes guard positions and watches for any unexpected reinforcements.”

  As she spoke, she tapped the table lightly, once for each point.

  The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  “Listen for chatter,” she continued. “Find out if they’ve rotated shifts, or if anyone’s on edge. When it’s done, it comes back to you and shows us what it saw. If it’s clear, we proceed. If it’s not…” she paused, meeting his gaze “...we abort. No heroics tonight.”

  She straightened and shifted her attention to the rest of them.

  “While the bird is scouting, we don the uniforms. Marshal, you’ll shapeshift into a familiar soldier and take point as our sergeant. Make sure the build fits the role.”

  Marshal gave a small nod.

  “Favian, Tristan, and I will pose as your squad,” Tilda went on. “Smear dirt on the insignias to make them look worn. We don’t want anyone noticing fresh theft.”

  She traced an invisible line through the air. “We approach from the eastern trail, the one shadowed by the old oaks. Walk in like we belong there. Casual. Like a relief shift coming in early from festival duty.”

  Her voice dropped, roughening slightly. “If the gate guards challenge us, Marshal, you bark orders. ‘Captain’s orders—extra hands for the night watch. Festival’s got riots brewing.’”

  She gave a faint, approving nod. “Your gruff voice will sell it.”

  Marshal smiled sheepishly at that, rubbing the back of his neck.

  Tilda drew a slow breath, then continued, her finger sliding to another point on the rough map.

  “Second phase,” she said quietly. “Breaching the gate.”

  She glanced at Favian first, then around the table. “Assuming the bird gives us the all-clear, we march straight up. The gatehouse usually has two guards—one in each tower, one working the portcullis.”

  Her gaze settled on Tristan. “You’re our distraction prince.”

  Tristan raised a brow, already smiling.

  “You slip ahead in the shadows while we approach,” Tilda went on. “Use the foxglove essence we lifted; just a drop in their water skins or ale mugs. Enough to make them drowsy. Slow, but not dead.” She shook her head once. “We don’t need bodies. Just hesitation.”

  She shifted her weight and tapped the courtyard on the map.

  “Once we’re inside, we split. Favian and I head straight for the guardroom off the courtyard. That’s where they keep the keys and the logs. With the festival pulling men away, it should be empty, or close to it.”

  Her voice softened, but only slightly. “Anyone we do find gets dealt with quietly. Chokeholds. Or Tristan’s sleep darts.” She nodded towards him. “You did say they work.”

  “They do,” Tristan replied lightly.

  “We take the cell keys and the prisoner manifest,” Tilda continued. “Our people will be below, Block C. That’s where they keep political prisoners.”

  She straightened and turned to Marshal.

  “Then phase three. Diversion and extraction.”

  Marshal leaned forward a fraction, listening closely.

  “While Favian and I secure the keys,” Tilda said, “you and Tristan create chaos in the barracks wing. Marshal, you shift into a guard, one you saw during recon. Copy him exactly. The walk, the voice… even the moustache, if you must.”

  A faint grin tugged at Marshal’s mouth.

  “You ‘discover’ a fire in the hay stores,” Tilda went on. “Tristan will set it. It should be small and controlled. Enough smoke and shouting to draw every spare guard away from the cells.”

  Her eyes flicked back to Favian. “If things go wrong, you take the walls. Cover us from above. Your bow is quiet, and that range gives us breathing room.”

  Favian’s lips curved into a dark, knowing smile as the plan settled into place.

  Tilda continued, her voice steady as she traced a path down the map with her finger.

  “With the diversion pulling eyes away, Favian and I head into the dungeons. The stairs are narrow; one way down. Easy to defend if we’re chased, but we won’t linger.” She glanced up briefly. “We move fast.”

  She tapped the lowest level. “We unlock the cells and arm our comrades with whatever we find. Chains or Loose stones as clubs. There are six to free—Silas, Renn, Kara, and three others.” A faint note of relief slipped into her voice. “Silas can weave illusions once he’s out. That will help us vanish.”

  She straightened. “Final phase: exfiltration.”

  Her eyes moved from face to face. “We regroup in the courtyard. Marshal, if needed, do shift into someone big. Big enough to smash locked side doors or send guards running. Panic works in our favour.”

  Marshal gave a small nod.

  “We exit through the postern gate on the south wall,” Tilda continued. “It’s lightly watched and leads straight to the riverbank. The boat is already stashed there.” She looked to Tristan. “You cover our retreat with smoke bombs.”

  Then to Favian. “If anyone follows us to the water, you deal with them from the boat.”

  Around the table, heads dipped in quiet understanding.

  Tilda drew a breath, then added, “Contingencies.”

  She folded the map once. “If the bird spots too many guards, we shift to Plan B—tunnel in through the old sewer grate we scouted last week. Favian, Tristan, that puts you on shovel duty.” A faint smile touched her lips, then faded. “If we’re discovered mid-plan, we fall back to the woods. No standing fights.”

  Her gaze hardened. “And no killing unless absolutely necessary. We disappear like ghosts. We do not start a war.”

  She looked at Favian, then at the others. “This plan plays to our strengths. The bird shifts the odds. The uniforms buy us time. The festival thins their ranks.” A pause. “If we pull this off, our friends walk free by dawn.”

  She fell silent, eyes moving across the group, ready for questions.

  None came.

  The nods around the table told her everything she needed to know.

  Darius, who had remained silent until then, lifted his hand slowly.

  “I have a question,” he said.

  Tilda nodded, motioning for him to continue.

  “What is my role in all of this?”

  Tilda answered without hesitation. “You’ll stay here and watch over Brenna and Cormac. They only arrived in this world two days ago.”

  Favian and Darius both stared at her.

  “Two days ago?” Favian echoed.

  Tilda nodded. “Yes. The Unknown is still sending more, likely to replace the number of Truthers lost during the purge.”

  Darius shook his head. “I’m not babysitting,” he said flatly. “I want to go with you. I’ll be useful.”

  Tilda’s expression hardened. “We need experienced hands in the Keep.”

  Darius scoffed. “I am experienced.”

  He turned to Favian, waiting.

  Favian hesitated, then looked back at Tilda. “It’s best Kriger comes with us.”

  Tilda exhaled slowly. “Very well. But he stays close; near you and me at all times.”

  Darius nodded. “That’s fine.”

  “Good,” Tilda said. “Then get some rest. Tomorrow matters. Whatever happens next will echo far beyond Almeroth.”

  The group rose. Darius followed, outwardly calm. But inside, his thoughts were already elsewhere.

  This mission was about freeing prisoners. His own was about finding Ron.