Chapter 119: Infiltration

Chapter 119: InfiltrationNight had fallen over Elandra, and the city’s glow flickered like a sea of fireflies trapped beneath the veil of stars. Lanterns swayed on iron posts. Taverns hummed with laughter. And guards—armored, yawning, half-alert—marched their usual routes, unaware that something ancient and malevolent had slipped past their walls. They never heard the first blade. A sentry atop the southern tower blinked, rubbed his eyes, and reached for his waterskin. A second later, his throat opened in a clean, perfect line. No noise. No struggle. Just a sharp exhale of surprise as he collapsed behind the crenellations, eyes still wide. A shadow moved behind him. It didn’t walk. It glided. Draped in charcoal-gray wrappings that drank the light, the assassin wiped the blade and slid it back into its sheath. The body was dragged silently into a hatch in the tower floor and hidden behind stacked crates. The assassin left no trace—only a faint whiff of brimstone that vanished on the wind. Across the city, in the western district, two more fell. One was a street patrol officer, joking with his partner about a local fruit vendor. A moment later, he was gone—his body disappearing into the alley with a soft thud. His partner turned too late. A black spike slipped through his back and out his chest like a spear of shadow. The creature that killed him looked human at first. But its eyes glowed faint orange beneath the hood, and its tongue flicked out like a serpent’s before retreating into the dark. By midnight, eight royal guards were dead. None of them had time to raise an alarm. The killings were surgical, quiet, spread just far enough apart to avoid suspicion—but coordinated. Like a symphony of silence. Elandra still slept. But beneath the lanterns, something was waking. In the heart of the Adventurer’s Quarter, Inigo stirred in his bed. His sleep was restless. Sweat clung to his brow, and his fingers twitched against the sheets. Dreams clawed at him—images of fire and ash, of eyes watching from behind fractured mirrors. And voices. Whispers that weren’t his own. "Hunter." "Anomaly." "Joker." He jolted upright, gasping. The room was dark save for the faint orange glow of the lantern outside. He rubbed his eyes, sat on the edge of the bed, and listened. Nothing. No footsteps. No screams. Just the usual creaks of wood and the hum of wind against shutters. But the silence felt wrong. He stood, reached for his rifle, and moved to the window. The street below looked normal. A drunk staggered home. A cat darted across the road. Nothing seemed out of place—yet his gut twisted. That feeling hadn’t saved him from the Rift, but it had kept him alive inside it. Inigo didn’t sleep again. Meanwhile, far beneath the cobbled streets of the eastern watch district, a hidden gate groaned open. Five figures stepped out from the shadows. They wore no insignias. No banners. Only the scent of sulfur and the telltale shimmer of protective enchantments woven by the Rift’s warlocks. These were no mere spies. They were Destruction’s Shades—agents bred for sabotage, assassination, and fear. The leader, a lean figure with coiled cords of muscle beneath his tight cloak, raised two fingers. The others split into pairs, fanning out across the sewers and alleys above. Their targets: Elandra’s outer barracks, key messengers, and high-ranking patrol lieutenants. Tonight was not about conquest. It was preparation. They didn’t kill everyone—only those whose absence would matter. A sergeant with knowledge of city maps. A scout who had patrolled the Rift. A courier scheduled to deliver morning reports to the guild. Each death was purposeful. Quiet. Efficient. They left no blood trails. No witnesses. Only empty boots and doors ajar. By dawn, the city remained unaware. The market stalls opened. Bakers lit their ovens. Bells rang from the temple spires. But several morning shifts didn’t report in. The captain of the eastern barracks scratched his head, wondering where Sergeant Darvon had gotten off to. A replacement was sent without urgency. And on the rooftops, a single shadow watched. Destruction himself stood above the city in a cloak of shifting black smoke. He wasn’t in his full armor. Not yet. Tonight, he wore the form of a traveler—tall, cloaked, face obscured by a wide-brimmed hat that concealed the molten eyes beneath. He watched the streets below with restrained hunger. "Inigo..." he said under his breath, tasting the name. He’d been briefed. A mortal. Armed with thundersteel. Slippery. Tactical. Possibly unaware of his true nature. Destruction grinned. Perfect. He would wait one more night. Let the Shades finish their sweep. Confirm the target’s habits, lodgings, companions. And then—he would strike. That evening, Lyra returned to the inn with bread and stew from the local baker. She knocked on Inigo’s door. "You decent?" she called. "Yeah," came the tired voice from inside. She stepped in and handed him the food. He nodded in thanks but didn’t smile. He hadn’t been the same since they came back. None of them were. She sat opposite him, chewing on a crust. "Still can’t sleep?" He shook his head. "Something’s... off," he said finally. "Like something’s watching. Like the Rift didn’t end when we left it." She hesitated, then nodded. "I feel it too." They sat in silence for a moment, just the two of them in the small, fire-warmed room. Below their floorboards, unseen by either of them, a tiny sigil of black glass pulsed once in the inn’s foundation. A magical mark placed by one of the Shades during the night. A beacon. Destruction would not need to search tomorrow. He would know exactly where to find him. Outside, the lanterns began to flicker again. And in alleyways where no wind should blow, cloaked figures disappeared into the night—leaving behind only whispers. The hunt had begun. *** In the noble quarter, just before midnight, Captain Renwald adjusted the silver clasp on his collar and stepped out from the manor guardhouse. The moonlight gave his polished cuirass a soft gleam, and his sword clinked lightly against his hip. The rotation was late. His men should have arrived an hour ago. It wasn’t like them to dawdle. A gust of wind rolled through the corridor. Too cold for this time of year. Renwald frowned and made for the street—but didn’t take three steps before something dropped behind him. He turned— Nothing. He drew his blade instinctively and paced forward, boots clicking. His breath fogged in front of him now, each exhale visible. That wasn’t right either. Then he saw it—just a glimpse in a window reflection. A figure standing directly behind him. He spun, sword raised. But there was no time to swing. A hand caught his wrist, fingers like iron, and wrenched it sideways. The blade clattered uselessly to the cobblestones. Renwald opened his mouth to yell—then felt something sharp and cold pierce the base of his skull. He twitched once, twice... and fell backward. The Shade crouched beside his body and wiped the needle-like weapon on the captain’s sash. Then it dragged the corpse into the bushes beside the manor gate, crouched in the shrubbery for a moment longer, and vanished into the hedge wall like smoke. Elandra’s command structure was beginning to hollow out. Back at the inn, Inigo finally stood from his chair and began checking his gear. He removed the bolt from his rifle, cleaned it with care, and checked the firestones in his satchel. They were running low. He’d need to craft more soon—or find someone who could. Ammunition was becoming a luxury. "You’re prepping," Lyra said softly. He nodded. "I don’t think this is paranoia anymore," he muttered. "Something’s coming. I can feel it in my spine." Lyra placed a hand on his arm. "Then maybe it’s time we stop waiting for it to find us." Inigo gave her a look. "We move?" he asked. "We move," she said. She stood up, adjusting the blades strapped across her back. Her expression was tense, but resolute. "I’ll gather the others," she continued. "We pack light. Be ready by dawn." Inigo watched her leave. Then he glanced out the window again. The street below was empty. Too empty. Even the drunk who usually passed out on the barrel by the lamp post was gone. And the light of the lantern outside their inn flickered—not from wind, but as if something unseen passed in front of it, again and again. His breath slowed. Then he noticed something else. Carved faintly into the inside of the windowsill—barely visible unless you knew to look—was a thin sigil, etched in some foreign black ink that shimmered faintly when it caught the light. His eyes narrowed. He didn’t know what it was, but he knew what it meant something. In the skies above Elandra, a soft crack tore through the clouds as a rift-thread pulsed and faded. Destruction, still cloaked in mortal shape, stood atop the steeple of the city’s central chapel, eyes locked on the Adventurer’s Quarter. The sigil glowed.