B3 INTERLUDE 9: PLANS AND BETRAYALS

Cronte only remembered he was missing an arm when the ghost of his fingers slid right through the itch just behind his ear. He scowled, letting his stump fall limp as he returned his focus to the light forest around them. Regenerating the damn thing was going to cost him half of his bloody savings — sourcing those potions anonymously was not cheap.

Torin gave him a look, but wisely decided not to press him further.

At the very least they had made it away from the beast wave that had engulfed Old Yon’s compound — though not without a few new holes in his clothes. Bloody bastards might have been weak, but they’d been nigh unending.

He shuddered as memories of gnashing teeth and heaving carpets of fur washed over him. Just what fell affliction had fallen on the beasts, had encouraged them to such rabid heights? It was downright unnatural, and unexplainable at that.

Because of course the second he started to work his way up the hierarchy — earn some real respect — an act of the fucking gods flushed it all down the drain!

Though, perhaps that was a blessing? Old Yon was going to be apoplectic with them either way, but if those kids had escaped without him and his men being preoccupied with an all out assault? Well, he likely wouldn’t have survived the anger that would have inspired — no matter how valuable he might be as a Silver.

Cronte sighed — it was a fool’s hope, he knew that.

“Do you think our news about the beasts will mollify him at all?”

Torin gave him a sharp look of disbelief.

“That clusterfuck? The one that wiped his precious compound — and several hundred of his most trusted men, mind you — off the map? Cronte, don’t be fucking daft — the bastard’s going to be furious. I’m still half the mind to cut my losses and try my luck somewhere else — preferably on the other side of Vaastivar.”

“Really?” he raised an eyebrow in surprise.

Cutting his ties was no small thing — it would all but require Torin to choose a new line of work. It was hard to even find a new crew — especially if he still had designs on full access to Onyx resources, something even Old Yon lacked. Worse, even as a silver, men in their line of work were not so trusting, and if word got out he’d fled after a bad job he wouldn’t survive long.

“It can’t be that bad, can it? Old Yon will certainly be furious, but we’re Silver. It’s not like he’ll kill us, we’re far too powerful and valuable to attempt something so crude — at worst we’ll just need to prove our value again.”

Besides, if either of them wanted true access to the value the Onyx provided, Old Yon was still their best bet — the man was still technically an associate, and if they could help him take a single step further they would gain much.

Cronte’s eyes twinkled, his imagination drifting to a sea of masked faces, bidding over a crystal that thrummed with domination affinity — a black auction, buried deep beneath the beating heart of a thriving metropolis. He needed that access! More than the jobs, the prestige, and the connections. Those exclusive gatherings were the only place that he would be able to secure the materials he needed for the ritual he had discovered.

If he was lucky, he might even be able to secure the two extra legacy skills his family needed. Nothing phenomenal, but he had no doubt that some of the more ‘common’ Skills would be available there — everything that had a price was.

A racial trait…maybe even two, if he got enough for Dynastic. Even if they only granted a single extra stat point, it would give his sister the edge she needed to stay out of the shitheap he had found himself in. He only had another four years. Four, short, years. Far too little time for him to be cutting his losses.

Torin, it seemed, disagreed with him. The hunter snorted, shaking his head.

“You think it's Old Yon that I'm worried about?” Torin scowled, spitting at his feet. “It’s the bloody Guild that will kill us without a second thought — let alone those blasted kids.”

Cronte gave the hunter a disbelieving look. He was worried about the team that escaped? Regardless of what their boss might do to them, he wasn’t just going to take this loss lying down — Old Yon had far too much of his wealth tied up in that vault, and far too much riding on the knowledge that had been in that team's head. No — if he knew the man at all, he would divert everything he had to the team’s recapture. It wouldn’t even be hard, with the tracking curse and the number of silvers he could call upon.

He was certain of it, that brat who had taken his arm would be back in chains in a month or two at most — this time without his arms and legs attached!

“Think about it you fool — one of them was enough to lop off your bloody arm, and fight both of us to a damned standstill. In the middle of a siege, no less! How fast do you think a team like that could level? Regardless of how he was blocking analysis Skills, I doubt their leader was all that much higher level than their mage — and he was already kicking our teeth in! What sort of monster do you think he’ll be at one-fifty? Or, gods forbid, Silver?”

Opening his mouth, Cronte searched for a response, but failed to find the words.

The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

He wanted to brush Torin off as overly paranoid, but was he?

No, the hunter had to be wrong— no matter the boy's strength, it was impossible to climb that fast. Even if he was a suicidal fool who solely fought monsters at the edge of his strength, the experience bonus couldn’t be that extreme. Old Yon wasn’t going to give those brats years to grow in peace, and he doubted they had the stomach for a multi-year delve. No, most likely they were fleeing straight to the arms of the Guild — it would be trivial to ambush them upon their return. 𝘳ãℕÔ𝖇ĚŞ

Torin waved him off dismissively.

“Bah, I can see you’re too much of a fool to consider it. You do what you must, and I’ll do the same.”

“I’ll do that.”

Silence fell over them again, and Cronte focused on making good time. They weren’t far off from one of the entrances to Deadacre’s catacombs that were hidden outside its walls.

If Torin was getting cold feet, that was his own problem — bloody coward. Still… perhaps that was something he could use? Surely Old Yon could be…mollified, even if only slightly, if he was to share that one of his men was getting nervous?

Cronte smiled. Yes, he would salvage something from this catastrophic failure — even if only proving his loyalty.

…

Grave-eye stared out of his office window with wild eyes. Fools and rats loitered on the streets, going about their days without a care for the city collapsing down around their ears. Any of them could have been a spy — a plant, sent by Old Yon to ensure his loyalty.

One? One? He was mad — it had to be at least four! No, five! That is what he would do, with more to watch the watchers. Who knew how many more were out there, agents of his rivals waiting for him to show the slightest signs of weakness now that he had risen above their station!

Jealous wretches! They were just waiting for him to stumble — hoping that he would slip so that they could ruin him and try to take his place. He wouldn’t let them!

Yes, they were watching. He knew that with a certainty — could feel their eyes crawling over his skin like vermin. He should get away from the window, but that was what they wanted. Weakness. Insecurity. No, he had to show them he was strong — capable.

Grave-eye kept pacing, walking along the windows that gave him a perfect view of the street outside. His fine red silks stuck to his skin, soiled from days of wear. He didn’t have the time to wash — such vulnerability was too great of a risk. They wouldn’t catch him! Not with his deft intelligence and fine wit.

He could see right through their clever little plans. Hells, he bet Old Yon was working with them already. Of course he’d had to reward Grave-eye — he’d known of his family name! It was only proper to reward one of his noble bearing, Yon’s honour and reputation would demand it.

But now? Now? He was a risk — clearly a man like Old Yon would not stand to have someone with such superior connections in his employ. He’d served his use, and now the bastard was working with his enemies. Blast, he wouldn’t be surprised to find Whisper scuttling about if he overturned enough flagstones.

They were trying to remove him — look for any opening where he could be disappeared without risking the retaliation of a Noble house — he was sure of it.

Everyone was suspect. Even that oversized rat Gorm

. He still kept the man around — he was too useful, and too stupid to pull off anything of real danger. Plus, there was no doubt he was loyal — though he’d caught signs the brute was being manipulated to someone else's ends. Even someone of meagre intelligence could pull off such a thing — all it would take is a few too many large words, and a promise it was ‘all in Grave-eye’s best interest’.

Why else would he vanish at odd times, only to reappear hours later? He said it was to replenish their supplies — a reasonable excuse, it would be far too great a risk to leave his sanctum now. He knew the truth. That was only a cover. No, Gorm was meeting his enemies, being twisted against him. He was sure of it.

Grave-eye gasped, every breath rasping against his dry throat. Racing for his desk, he poured himself a brandy — and ignored the spillage that soaked into his books.

It had all gone so wrong! This was supposed to be his rise to prominence, and now he was beset by shadowed knives from every angle.

Those fucking disappearances. He knew they were aimed at him. No doubt his enemies pulling their men from the streets — a coy ploy to show him what they planned to do to him. Jealous, fearful rats, the lot of them!

He wouldn’t break! He wouldn’t!

No, he was a superior man — they thought they had him cornered? Fools! He had a dozen different routes out of the city, a dozen!

Just a few more weeks — he only had to hold until he’d finished liquidating his interests. Slow as it might be, he refused to give Old Yon even a hint of his plans. This city was a pit of vipers — a destitute wasteland that was no fit for a man of his peerage!

It was time to return to Silverwind.

A hand slammed into his shoulder, his bones creaking in agony as he was forced to his knees.

Terror slammed through him.

“Hello, Rondal,” a woman’s voice — half familiar — whispered behind him, dark and furious.

His heart leapt into his throat.

“Gorm! Gorm!”

“There’s no one here, you utter fool.”

He felt the woman’s warm breath on his ear.

“You’re all alone.”

His heart sank, every scrap of struggle still left in him fleeing in an instant. So Gorm had been compromised.

Sold out by his manservant, how pathetic.