Chapter 59: Kareth Investigation

Fenric’s gaze sharpened, the faint smile never quite reaching his eyes. "And with all the privileges," he added, "come all the dangers. Every shadow hides a blade. Every courtesy hides a trap. The Dark Empress knows this... and so does her pet viper." He rose, crossing to the window where the rain-specked glass reflected both him and the city below. "Kareth will already be moving. He’s not here to ’assist.’ He’s here to sift through my streets like a scavenger—searching for something, anything, that can be tied to a third prince’s mission. That’s the proof he needs to brand me unfit." Far below, under the slate-grey sky, Kareth stood atop the roof of an old stone granary, his crimson cloak snapping in the wind. From there, the sprawl of Lyria unfolded before him—market stalls clustered like barnacles, crooked alleys twisting into shadow, the spires of the old temples stabbing upward like accusations. He yawned once, more out of habit than fatigue, then stepped lightly along the ridge tiles until he reached the edge. His gaze moved over the streets like a hawk’s. The common folk went about their business, carts rattling over cobblestone, vendors calling prices. No panic. No tension. The rumors had promised a city trembling under the heel of a cold-blooded prince. What Kareth saw instead were smiles. Greetings exchanged in passing. Children darting between stalls, laughing. He crouched, one gloved hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Strange, he thought. Fear leaves a different mark than this. And that—he knew—was its own kind of danger. He stayed tucked into the deeper dark of the alley’s mouth, just another shadow among many. The damp air clung to him, carrying the low rumble of voices farther than the speakers likely intended. "...told you, the prince doesn’t play games," the foreman muttered. "Two nights ago, Old Jerrik tried skimming the grain tax. Now there’s a spike in the square with—" A quick shushing from the wiry man cut him off. "Careful. You never know who’s listening." The younger one chuckled nervously. "If he’s got ears everywhere, maybe we should just stop talking about him." They shifted the conversation toward mundane port gossip—cargo weights, missing crates, a fight on Pier Six—but Kareth had already caught what he needed. He eased back into the narrow lane, boots making no more noise than the drizzle slipping from the eaves above. He didn’t bother with the patrol routes tonight. Instead, he threaded his way toward the kind of tavern that reeked of cheap ale and cheaper caution. Inside, the hum of conversation was thick with rumor.A barmaid poured a mug for a merchant who was whispering to his companion about "the prince who made the City Guard his own."Two dice-players grumbled about new curfew fines.At the far end of the counter, a toothless old man swore up and down he’d seen the prince walking the docks without an escort, "just to see who’d look him in the eye." Kareth listened.He never interrupted.He just let the city speak to him in fragments—fear wrapped in respect, respect tinged with uncertainty. By the time Kareth slipped back into the rain-washed streets, he knew one thing for certain. "It’s different from the rumors in the capital," he muttered under his breath. "There, everyone talks about Lyria like it’s under the Third Prince’s iron grip. But here..." His gaze lingered on the warm glow of an inn’s window, where laughter spilled out into the street. "...here, they respect him." The realization made his task heavier. He wasn’t a citizen, not even a neutral party—he was a man from the Dark Empress’s faction. His only goal in coming to Lyria had been to dig up something... unpleasant about the prince. A weakness, a scandal, anything he could carry back. Yet after days of listening in taverns, alleys, and market stalls, he hadn’t uncovered a single damning secret. No whispers of tyranny. No evidence of corruption. Only the unshakable livelihood of the people and a city that seemed... alive. It was infuriating. And, though he’d never admit it aloud, just a little unsettling. In the weeks that followed, life in Lyria settled into a rhythm that was almost... comfortable. For Fenric, mornings often began in the palace courtyard, the crisp scent of rain lingering from the night before. The city lord’s residence—once little more than a crumbling relic—now bustled with disciplined guards, attentive stewards, and the hum of purposeful work. Word of his reforms had traveled far. Trade routes that were half-dead before now thrived, the flow of caravans doubling, then tripling in just three short months. New faces arrived in the markets every day—merchants from the East, scholars from the South, even mercenaries looking for honest pay. The people noticed. The city noticed. And though Fenric carried himself with the same quiet, calculating air, there was an undercurrent in the streets now—a sense that Lyria was no longer just another provincial outpost. Kareth noticed too. He’d taken on the false name "Kein," posing as a minor scribe for the city records office. Each day, he wove himself deeper into the local gossip, hoping to catch even a scrap of dirt that could be twisted into a weapon against Fenric. But it was maddening. There was nothing. No illicit dealings, no bribery, no whispers of cruelty. Even when he tried to fabricate something, the threads fell apart under the weight of the people’s loyalty. He needed evidence. Real, hard evidence. And so far, Lyria had given him nothing but frustration. Meanwhile, Fenric’s cultivation advanced with startling speed. His daily sessions in the secluded garden—equal parts meditation and sparring—pushed him to the Fifth Stage of the Low Master Realm, each breakthrough steady and earned. Aria, too, refused to be left behind; she had surged to the Sixth Stage of the High Master Realm, her progress fueled by a competitiveness she barely tried to hide. It was a day like any other—until a breathless runner came skidding into the courtyard. "Lord Fenric, we have an urgent situation," the young man panted, rainwater dripping from his cloak. Fenric wiped his sweat as he asked, one brow raised. "What is it?" "The grain caravan from the west... it was attacked by bandits!" Aria, who had been leaning against the wall, straightened instantly. "Bandits? I thought we cleared out their nest weeks ago. Where did this lot come from?" "We don’t know," the runner admitted, voice trembling. "But one of the guards who survived said the leader—he was unlike any man he’d ever seen. Spoke of him as if... blessed by something unnatural." Fenric’s gaze sharpened. "And the rest of the guards?" The runner hesitated. "...All dead. Only the man who spoke to us survived. He’s resting now, but in bad shape." Aria exchanged a look with Fenric. In this city, so much had changed in three months—the people had begun to trust him, life was improving, and even the Bandits were killed long ago to keep the routes safe. So, where this new bandits came from? "Well, go and see to this, Aria—and watch from a distance. It smells like a trap to me," Fenric said. She gave a sharp nod and was gone in the next heartbeat, vanishing down the corridor like a gust of wind. Fenric turned to the waiting servant. "Take me to the guard." The servant bowed and led him swiftly through the keep, their footsteps echoing off the stone halls until they entered the infirmary. The air smelled faintly of herbs and iron. On the bed lay the survivor—a man pale from blood loss, his left hand gone entirely, the stump wrapped in thick linen. His head was bound with another bandage, and bruises darkened the skin around his eyes. Fenric stood at the bedside for a moment, studying him in silence before finally speaking. Fenric pulled a chair closer and sat, his silver-white hair catching the dim light. "Tell me," he said quietly, "what happened?" The guard stirred, his breath uneven, and opened his eyes with visible effort. "We were... escorting the grain caravan, my lord," he rasped. "Everything was quiet—too quiet—until they came out of the trees. At first, I thought it was just another gang of road scum. But..." His eyes unfocused for a moment, as if replaying it. "They moved like soldiers. Not starving thieves—trained." Fenric’s gaze sharpened. "And this ’man in red’ the messenger spoke of?" The guard swallowed. "Aye... him. Wore a crimson coat, like some noble’s son gone wrong. Carried no sword, no bow. Just walked toward us... and then—" His hand trembled against the blanket. "My shield shattered. I didn’t even see what struck it. Men fell without him lifting a weapon. Like... like the air itself obeyed him." Fenric leaned back slightly, weighing every word. "And the others? How many survived?" The guard’s eyes dimmed. "Only me, my lord. The rest... they never got back up." Fenric’s gaze narrowed. "Then why did he leave you alive?" The question struck like a hammer. The man froze, lips parting but no words forming. Then—shhk!