Chapter7: The Eavesdropper
The sound of retreating boots faded around the stone bend, swallowed by the fortress’s endless dark corridors. I stood, muscles tensed, and stared toward the empty archway. Nyra lifted her massive head from the furs, golden pupils narrowing. A low rumble vibrated through the cavern, rippling along our cracked Soul-Weave.
*Shall I chase?*
*No. If we rush out now, they will know we spotted them. They will cover their tracks.* I sent the thought carefully, keeping our mental voice soft, lest any stray blight crystal hidden nearby overhear our words. *Let them think I did not hear.*
Nyra huffed warm breath that stirred strands of my hair, then settled back onto her bed of straw, but her gaze never left the cavern entrance. I stepped out into the torchlit passage, scanning shadows. The stone floor bore faint mud smudges—valley mud, the same muck we had trudged through only hours ago. Whoever had lingered outside had returned from the valley with our patrol.
I retraced my path back toward Malachi’s study, moving at an unhurried pace, pretending weariness rather than urgency. The prototype’s whisper still lingered at the edge of my awareness, quiet and patient.
*You guessed wrong. That listener is someone you trust.*
I ignored it. When I pushed open Malachi’s door, Kaelen and the scholar both turned toward me, reading the tightness in my expression instantly. Zephyr raised its head from the book pile, static crackling softly in warning.
“There was someone listening outside Nyra’s cavern,” I said, closing the door gently behind me. “Footsteps fled before I could see their face. Mud on the stone—they came back with our patrol.”
Kaelen’s silver eyes sharpened. “That narrows it. Only those who marched into the valley this evening could carry that mud. The archers, shadow-binders, the two rescued scouts.”
“Not conclusive,” Malachi warned, tapping one finger against the map spread over his table. “A guard might have slipped out after our return to speak with the traitor. But it gives us a starting point.” He pulled a sheet of parchment toward himself and picked up charcoal, sketching a rough list of names. “We need to question them separately, quietly. Not an interrogation. Just routine debrief after the blight encounter. Watch their reactions. Look for inconsistencies.”
“Be careful,” Kaelen warned. “The traitor knows we are hunting. And the prototype’s whispers are already burrowing into bonded minds. Stress will make people volatile. Innocent souls may sound guilty when doubt gnaws at them.”
As if to prove his point, a distant shout echoed from the fortress’s eastern barracks. A guard’s voice, sharp and panicked.
Malachi’s head snapped up. “What was that?”
We hurried from the study, following the noise down winding stone halls. The commotion gathered in the barracks wing. One of the rescued scouts sat hunched on a wooden bench, hands clamped over his temples, trembling violently. His Soul-Weave, bound to his partner standing beside him, flickered erratically, flaring and dimming like a guttering candle.
“It keeps speaking to me,” the scout gasped, tears streaking his cheeks. “It tells me my bond is hollow. That I will hurt them. I cannot shut it out.”
His bonded partner knelt beside him, trying to soothe him, but fear had already taken root. Other guards and shadow-binders gathered around, murmuring uneasily. A few of them touched their temples, faces tight; the whisper was spreading.
“The prototype’s echo feeds on fear,” Malachi muttered, kneeling to examine the scout. Zephyr hopped onto the bench and released a gentle wave of cleansing static, wrapping around the scout’s frayed bond. The man’s trembling eased slightly, but the haunted look in his eyes remained. “It does not need to attack directly. It only needs to make us distrust our bonds, distrust each other.”
Kaelen scanned the crowd, his gaze sliding over every face. “Watch everyone here. See who reacts too little, or too much. A guilty person might feign terror, or pretend the whispers do not touch them at all.”
My gaze swept over the patrol members. The archer with the crystal-cut forearm stood at the back of the small crowd, quiet, his face half-shadowed beneath his hood. He watched the suffering scout without much expression. No flinch, no quiet word of comfort. Just observation.
I leaned toward Kaelen, lowering my voice. “The archer. He was with us in the valley. His boots still carry dried mud.”
Kaelen’s eyes flicked to the man, subtle, so no one would notice. “I remember him. His name was Corin. He worked patrols near the valley edge, and had regular access to the storehouse to refill arrow shafts and ward crystals.”
Malachi’s charcoal paused above the name list. “Access to supplies. Perfect for small, repeated thefts.”
We could not confront him here, not in front of the whole barracks. Too many eyes, too many ears, and the traitor might lash out or send word to the prototype at once.
“Separate him later,” Kaelen said. “Tell him we need a private statement about the fight. No mention of listening outside Nyra’s cavern. Let him reveal himself.”
Before we could plan further, Corin turned his head, and his eyes met mine. For a heartbeat, a faint, cold smile tugged at his mouth, hidden quickly behind a neutral mask. Then he stepped back, slipping away from the crowd, vanishing into a side passage.
A chill crawled down my spine. He knew we were watching him.
That night, once the barracks had quieted and the suffering scout was settled in the infirmary, we sent a messenger to fetch Corin to an empty side chamber used for debriefs. The small room held only a rough wooden table, two stools, and a single torch set in the wall bracket. No blight crystal fragments anywhere; Kaelen had swept the space and wrapped the room in a thin veil of shadow magic to block listening.
Corin arrived alone, bow slung over one shoulder. He sat calmly across from us, resting his hands flat on the table. His forearm bandage was clean, the crystal wound wrapped neatly.
“You wanted to speak about the valley fight?” he asked, voice steady.
“Just a few extra details,” Malachi replied, keeping his tone casual. “We noticed mud on your boots after we returned. Did you linger anywhere after the prototype retreated?”
Corin’s expression did not shift. “I helped round up crystal shards from the stream bed, as ordered. Nothing unusual.”
“After we returned to the fortress,” I cut in, “did you walk toward the western cavern wing? Near Nyra’s chamber?”
A tiny, almost imperceptible pause. Just a fraction of a second.
“I passed through that corridor,” he said. “I was returning my bow to the armoury. I heard voices, but I did not stop to listen.”
*Lie.* The thought settled cold in my mind. The prototype’s whisper stirred again at the edge of my skull.
*He is clever. He will not crack easily.*
Kaelen leaned forward slightly. “The storehouse logs show small losses of binding oil and ward shards over many weeks. Any idea who might be taking them?”
Corin shrugged. “Servants come and go. Any number of people could sneak things out. I have no knowledge of theft.”
His answers were smooth, rehearsed. No stammer, no obvious panic. But as he spoke, I caught a faint glint beneath his sleeve: a tiny shard of pale blight crystal tucked into a leather wristband. The crystal did not glow, but I felt its faint, parasitic hum. He carried the prototype’s ear on his own body.
Before I could speak of it, Corin stood abruptly. “If that is all, I should rest. Tomorrow’s patrol begins early.”
He turned and walked out of the chamber, leaving us three staring at one another.
“He carries blight crystal on him,” I said quietly once the door shut. “Hidden on his wrist. That is how the prototype hears everything he learns.”
Malachi exhaled slowly. “That is proof, but not enough to arrest him outright. If we accuse him now and lack solid evidence, the council will call our claim suspicion and hearsay. And he will warn the prototype immediately.”
Kaelen’s shadow smoke curled gently around his knuckles. “Then we watch him. Track where he goes, who he meets. We follow his trail to whatever hidden channel he uses to pass stolen supplies into the valley mist. When he makes the next delivery, we catch him red-handed.”
Outside the chamber, distant torchlight flickered. Somewhere in the fortress, the whispers continued to creep into bonded minds, planting doubt and fear. And Corin walked free among us, feeding every secret straight to the prototype waiting in the valley.
The traitor was within our sight. But catching him would be far more dangerous than any fight in the mist.
— End of Chapter7 —
*Shall I chase?*
*No. If we rush out now, they will know we spotted them. They will cover their tracks.* I sent the thought carefully, keeping our mental voice soft, lest any stray blight crystal hidden nearby overhear our words. *Let them think I did not hear.*
Nyra huffed warm breath that stirred strands of my hair, then settled back onto her bed of straw, but her gaze never left the cavern entrance. I stepped out into the torchlit passage, scanning shadows. The stone floor bore faint mud smudges—valley mud, the same muck we had trudged through only hours ago. Whoever had lingered outside had returned from the valley with our patrol.
I retraced my path back toward Malachi’s study, moving at an unhurried pace, pretending weariness rather than urgency. The prototype’s whisper still lingered at the edge of my awareness, quiet and patient.
*You guessed wrong. That listener is someone you trust.*
I ignored it. When I pushed open Malachi’s door, Kaelen and the scholar both turned toward me, reading the tightness in my expression instantly. Zephyr raised its head from the book pile, static crackling softly in warning.
“There was someone listening outside Nyra’s cavern,” I said, closing the door gently behind me. “Footsteps fled before I could see their face. Mud on the stone—they came back with our patrol.”
Kaelen’s silver eyes sharpened. “That narrows it. Only those who marched into the valley this evening could carry that mud. The archers, shadow-binders, the two rescued scouts.”
“Not conclusive,” Malachi warned, tapping one finger against the map spread over his table. “A guard might have slipped out after our return to speak with the traitor. But it gives us a starting point.” He pulled a sheet of parchment toward himself and picked up charcoal, sketching a rough list of names. “We need to question them separately, quietly. Not an interrogation. Just routine debrief after the blight encounter. Watch their reactions. Look for inconsistencies.”
“Be careful,” Kaelen warned. “The traitor knows we are hunting. And the prototype’s whispers are already burrowing into bonded minds. Stress will make people volatile. Innocent souls may sound guilty when doubt gnaws at them.”
As if to prove his point, a distant shout echoed from the fortress’s eastern barracks. A guard’s voice, sharp and panicked.
Malachi’s head snapped up. “What was that?”
We hurried from the study, following the noise down winding stone halls. The commotion gathered in the barracks wing. One of the rescued scouts sat hunched on a wooden bench, hands clamped over his temples, trembling violently. His Soul-Weave, bound to his partner standing beside him, flickered erratically, flaring and dimming like a guttering candle.
“It keeps speaking to me,” the scout gasped, tears streaking his cheeks. “It tells me my bond is hollow. That I will hurt them. I cannot shut it out.”
His bonded partner knelt beside him, trying to soothe him, but fear had already taken root. Other guards and shadow-binders gathered around, murmuring uneasily. A few of them touched their temples, faces tight; the whisper was spreading.
“The prototype’s echo feeds on fear,” Malachi muttered, kneeling to examine the scout. Zephyr hopped onto the bench and released a gentle wave of cleansing static, wrapping around the scout’s frayed bond. The man’s trembling eased slightly, but the haunted look in his eyes remained. “It does not need to attack directly. It only needs to make us distrust our bonds, distrust each other.”
Kaelen scanned the crowd, his gaze sliding over every face. “Watch everyone here. See who reacts too little, or too much. A guilty person might feign terror, or pretend the whispers do not touch them at all.”
My gaze swept over the patrol members. The archer with the crystal-cut forearm stood at the back of the small crowd, quiet, his face half-shadowed beneath his hood. He watched the suffering scout without much expression. No flinch, no quiet word of comfort. Just observation.
I leaned toward Kaelen, lowering my voice. “The archer. He was with us in the valley. His boots still carry dried mud.”
Kaelen’s eyes flicked to the man, subtle, so no one would notice. “I remember him. His name was Corin. He worked patrols near the valley edge, and had regular access to the storehouse to refill arrow shafts and ward crystals.”
Malachi’s charcoal paused above the name list. “Access to supplies. Perfect for small, repeated thefts.”
We could not confront him here, not in front of the whole barracks. Too many eyes, too many ears, and the traitor might lash out or send word to the prototype at once.
“Separate him later,” Kaelen said. “Tell him we need a private statement about the fight. No mention of listening outside Nyra’s cavern. Let him reveal himself.”
Before we could plan further, Corin turned his head, and his eyes met mine. For a heartbeat, a faint, cold smile tugged at his mouth, hidden quickly behind a neutral mask. Then he stepped back, slipping away from the crowd, vanishing into a side passage.
A chill crawled down my spine. He knew we were watching him.
That night, once the barracks had quieted and the suffering scout was settled in the infirmary, we sent a messenger to fetch Corin to an empty side chamber used for debriefs. The small room held only a rough wooden table, two stools, and a single torch set in the wall bracket. No blight crystal fragments anywhere; Kaelen had swept the space and wrapped the room in a thin veil of shadow magic to block listening.
Corin arrived alone, bow slung over one shoulder. He sat calmly across from us, resting his hands flat on the table. His forearm bandage was clean, the crystal wound wrapped neatly.
“You wanted to speak about the valley fight?” he asked, voice steady.
“Just a few extra details,” Malachi replied, keeping his tone casual. “We noticed mud on your boots after we returned. Did you linger anywhere after the prototype retreated?”
Corin’s expression did not shift. “I helped round up crystal shards from the stream bed, as ordered. Nothing unusual.”
“After we returned to the fortress,” I cut in, “did you walk toward the western cavern wing? Near Nyra’s chamber?”
A tiny, almost imperceptible pause. Just a fraction of a second.
“I passed through that corridor,” he said. “I was returning my bow to the armoury. I heard voices, but I did not stop to listen.”
*Lie.* The thought settled cold in my mind. The prototype’s whisper stirred again at the edge of my skull.
*He is clever. He will not crack easily.*
Kaelen leaned forward slightly. “The storehouse logs show small losses of binding oil and ward shards over many weeks. Any idea who might be taking them?”
Corin shrugged. “Servants come and go. Any number of people could sneak things out. I have no knowledge of theft.”
His answers were smooth, rehearsed. No stammer, no obvious panic. But as he spoke, I caught a faint glint beneath his sleeve: a tiny shard of pale blight crystal tucked into a leather wristband. The crystal did not glow, but I felt its faint, parasitic hum. He carried the prototype’s ear on his own body.
Before I could speak of it, Corin stood abruptly. “If that is all, I should rest. Tomorrow’s patrol begins early.”
He turned and walked out of the chamber, leaving us three staring at one another.
“He carries blight crystal on him,” I said quietly once the door shut. “Hidden on his wrist. That is how the prototype hears everything he learns.”
Malachi exhaled slowly. “That is proof, but not enough to arrest him outright. If we accuse him now and lack solid evidence, the council will call our claim suspicion and hearsay. And he will warn the prototype immediately.”
Kaelen’s shadow smoke curled gently around his knuckles. “Then we watch him. Track where he goes, who he meets. We follow his trail to whatever hidden channel he uses to pass stolen supplies into the valley mist. When he makes the next delivery, we catch him red-handed.”
Outside the chamber, distant torchlight flickered. Somewhere in the fortress, the whispers continued to creep into bonded minds, planting doubt and fear. And Corin walked free among us, feeding every secret straight to the prototype waiting in the valley.
The traitor was within our sight. But catching him would be far more dangerous than any fight in the mist.
— End of Chapter7 —
