The dawn light over Delwig was still pale and cold, seeping through the cracks in the fortress walls as Damien and Captain Apnoch made their rounds through the garrison after the departure of Arielle and Lyone.
The clatter of boots and the hum of mana forges filled the morning air, but beneath that order, Damien could still feel it—the faint, lingering tension of sothing wrong.
They passed through the barracks first, where rows of disciplined soldiers stood in quiet formation.
The armories glead, ticulously arranged, each weapon accounted for. The guards saluted as the two n passed, and everything looked perfectly routine. Too routine.
Apnoch’s brows drew together, his patience thinning by the minute. "This is a waste of ti. If those impostor guards left a trace, it would’ve been gone by now."
"Maybe," Damien said, voice calm as he trailed a gloved hand along the stone wall.
His eyes glead faintly silver as his essence perception spread outward, feeling for disruptions in the mana flow. "But they had to co from sowhere. And everything with magic essence that moves leaves a trail—no matter how faint."
Apnoch grunted, skeptical, but followed in silence. The tour took them through Delwig’s inner levels—the gatehouses, the storehouses, even the old ss hall—but every corridor sang with the sa mundane energy. Nothing.
Until they reached one of the quarter.
Damien stopped mid-stride, his gaze flicking toward the looming structure at the edge of the wall—the fourth watchtower.
It looked ordinary enough: a two-story post with a dull gray finish, manned by only a few sentries. But there, against the lower wall near its base, he felt it—an aftertaste of mana. Old, dissipated, but distinct. A residue that didn’t belong.
"Apnoch," Damien said quietly, "clear out this section. Have the n stand down."
The captain frowned. "You think it’s here?"
"I have a feeling that it is."
Apnoch didn’t argue. Within minutes, he had the watchtower vacated. The two of them stood alone beneath its shadow, the wind whispering faintly through the open gate above.
The tower interior was spotless. Every step Damien took echoed too crisply off the walls. He ran a finger across a railing—nothing. No dust, no residue, not even the scent of oil or tal.
Apnoch muttered, "Our n don’t clean this well."
"I don’t doubt that," Damien said.
He knelt, placing a hand on the cold stone floor. His essence flowed out in thin, invisible waves, brushing along the structure’s foundation.
Beneath the outer layer, sothing pulsed, faint and rhythmic. Like a heartbeat muffled by stone.
He focused his perception, peeling back the natural mana pattern of the tower until he saw it: faint red etchings running across the floor and up the base of the wall—runes.
Concealnt runes, woven cleverly into the existing enchantnts of the building so they wouldn’t be detected during standard sweeps.
"Soone knew what they were doing," Damien murmured as he pointed at the runes. "And they’ve been here long enough to understand Delwig’s warding system."
Apnoch crouched beside him, eyes narrowing. "These markings... I’ve never seen them before. They’re not from the military."
Damien extended his hand, letting a thread of his essence seep into one of the runes. It flared in response, glowing a dull crimson before vanishing as if retreating into itself. The air grew a degree colder.
Apnoch’s expression darkened. "That’s not good."
"No," Damien said, straightening. "But it’s deliberate."
He stepped closer to the wall where the runes converged, studying the stonework. Then, with a small shift of his wrist, he pressed his palm against one of the carved symbols and twisted. The wall clicked—a chanical sound—and a small portion of it slid open with a hiss of air.
Behind it, darkness waited.
The crawl-space stretched narrow and uneven, wide enough for one man to move through at a crouch. Damien Manfred a faint glow in his palm, revealing walls carved from rough stone.
This section was old, far older than Delwig’s current layout. The air was stale, almost suffocating, and sowhere deeper inside ca the faint hum of decayed magic.
Apnoch followed him in, voice low. "This isn’t in the fortress plans."
"I didn’t think it would be."
After a few ters, the tunnel widened into a small alcove, just tall enough for them to stand. Crates lay stacked against one wall—empty, hollow, and scorched from the inside.
On a makeshift table sat several broken communication crystals, their cores lted down to slag.
Apnoch knelt and picked one up. The edges were still warm. "They destroyed these recently."
"Self-destruction seals," Damien said, examining the fragnts. "Triggered the mont the network was compromised. Which ans—"
"—soone was here not long ago."
Damien nodded. The faint dust patterns told the sa story. Two sets of footprints—one light, one heavier—ran through the tunnel, back toward another section of wall. They stopped abruptly at a dead end, as if the users had simply vanished.
Apnoch’s jaw tightened. "They had a way out. Hidden escape route, maybe. Damn them."
He slamd a fist lightly against the stone. "We’ve been watching our walls for years, and sohow this nest’s been growing right beneath our boots."
Damien’s gaze lingered on the ground, tracing the fading mana threads that connected the crystals. He could almost visualize the communication network that once existed here—a spiderweb stretching from Delwig outward. A relay point, not a base. Which ant there were others.
"Captain," he said quietly, "this wasn’t their hideout. This was a communication post. Whoever ran it had access to our guard shifts, barrier activation sequences, and patrol timing. They weren’t observing—they were coordinating."
Apnoch’s head snapped toward him. "You’re saying we still have a mole inside?"
"At least one," Damien said. "Maybe more."
He stood, brushing the dust from his hands as his eyes swept the hidden chamber once more. Every sign had been erased, but not perfectly. They’d been careful—but rushed. Whoever cleared this space had known ti was short.
Apnoch exhaled sharply, frustration giving way to grim determination. "Then we start flushing them out. I’ll have every officer in this sector questioned by nightfall."
"Do that," Damien said. "But quietly. If you make noise, the mole will vanish before sunset."
He turned toward the sealed end of the tunnel. The faint hum of the concealnt sigils still vibrated there, weak but constant.
Soone had used them to mask movent in and out of this place—and judging by the mana alignnt, the last activation was less than a day ago.
Damien rested a hand on the wall and closed his eyes briefly, morizing the mana signature imprinted there. It was sharp, heavy with a dark undertone that left a tallic taste in his mouth. He recognized it.
"Sa essence pattern as the beasts from the tunnel," he murmured.
Apnoch straightened. "You’re sure?"
"Yes." Damien stepped back from the wall, eyes cold. "They’re not just infiltrating the city. They’re coordinating with whatever’s beneath it."
Apnoch fell silent, the weight of that realization sinking in. "Then Delwig’s already compromised."
Damien looked up at the ceiling—the faint red veins of the concealnt sigils still flickered faintly there, like cracks in the stone bleeding light. "Not yet," he said softly. "But it will be... unless we move first."
For a long mont, the two n stood in silence, the sound of distant wind whistling faintly through the tunnel mouth. Then Damien turned away, his expression unreadable.
"Seal this place off," he said. "No one enters without my permission. If the mole’s still active, they’ll notice this place has gone dark. That’ll make them nervous—and that’s when they’ll slip."
Apnoch nodded, his voice grim. "And when they do?"
Damien’s eyes flickered with quiet steel. "We’ll be waiting."
They left the southern watchtower behind as the first bells of noon echoed through Delwig.
Outside, everything seed calm once more—the city’s daily rhythm resuming as though nothing had changed.
But beneath the stone, the echo of corrupted mana still pulsed, faint and patient, like a secret heartbeat waiting to rise again.
The echo of their footsteps filled the narrow passage, a slow rhythm swallowed by the stone. Damien’s light cast long, dancing shadows across the walls, painting the rough carvings in faint light.
This watchtower’s hidden tunnel was silent now—too silent—its secrets burned away, its air thick with the scent of old mana and dust.
Apnoch exhaled beside him, rolling his shoulders. "We seal it off and call it done, yeah?"
"Almost," Damien murmured, scanning the floor again. The mana traces from earlier still whispered through the cracks—thin, like blood vessels pulsing faintly beneath the rock. "I want to make sure there’s nothing left behind."
Apnoch grunted his acknowledgnt, stepping back to give him space.
The sound ca then—faint, asured, approaching from the tunnel entrance they’d co through. Footsteps. Two pairs. Heavy boots against stone.
Apnoch turned toward the sound, hand instinctively resting on his blade. "Could be one of Ivaan’s n. He might’ve sent soone after us."
"Maybe." Damien straightened slowly, his gaze fixed on the darkness ahead. His senses spread out, tracing the incoming mana signatures.
Two soldiers, fully ard.
Both emanated a faint layer of shielding essence—standard for trained guards—but beneath that, sothing was wrong. The mana vibrated too tightly, the rhythm too erratic. Like a caged storm.
The two guards erged from the tunnel mouth monts later, torchlight flickering across their faces.
They wore Delwig’s colors—silver and black—and their insignias glead faintly on their breastplates. One was tall, broad-shouldered, his expression neutral. The other, shorter and wirier, held himself with the easy poise of soone accustod to command.
"Captain Apnoch," the taller one greeted, saluting crisply. "General Ivaan sent us to assist with the investigation. We were ordered to secure your flank."
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