“An elven female Infiltrator?” Governor Panglos Fell’s voice boomed in the dark. “That’s your answer?”
Windrest Keep was the political heart of Storm Island. Gaslights blazed in every corridor, every salon, every office.
Everywhere except the lowest basement.
Down here, stone pillars and mold-stained walls formed a damp maze. The air tasted of stagnant water, no matter how the vents labored. Torches were the only light, and even their flames seemed tired.
Boots struck rubble. A tall figure strode in with the weight of authority, stopping before an altar crowded with hundreds of candles.
Their flames burned green.
Seated on the floor, back to the room, was a man in a robe embroidered with unsettling patterns. He didn’t turn. One skeletal hand reached out, brushed the air above a wick, and the jumping flames calmed.
Governor Fell’s face flickered in the candlelight.
“Marsas,” he said, voice hard. “I told you to divine Rhine’s location. Not chase the murderer of Borg Moros. That matter is important, but you have something more important to do.”
“I told you,” Marsas replied, his voice dry as old bone. “He’s smart.”
“Smart?” Fell sneered. “That’s your excuse?”
He paced once, anger tight in his shoulders. “My people turned up a detail. Dr. Danny is Lady Alwen’s granddaughter’s husband. Which means this: the one who killed Borg Moros and dragged his filth into the open… could very well be Rhine.”
It wasn’t only suspicion.
The moment Marsas’ divination produced Gold Lake Town, Fell had already formed a plan.
Rhine was a royal free man—untouchable on paper. Fell couldn’t openly mobilize soldiers to “deal with” him without inviting questions from the Crown.
But if the governor framed it as a manhunt for a noble’s killer?
He could send troops anywhere. “Mistakes” could happen. A body could fall beneath “confusion.” A confession could be forced from a corpse.
Once Rhine was dead, Fell could sigh publicly and call it a tragedy.
Or he could simply pin the murder of Borg Moros on Rhine and wash his hands of the whole thing.
Either way, the outcome was the same:
Rhine would be dead… or quietly taken.
That was why last night’s knights and soldiers had stormed the pine grove outside Gold Lake Town.
And that was why Fell was here now—furious.
Because the raid had failed.
They hadn’t found Rhine.
They’d found an elf.
A maddening elf.
“A first-tier Hunter, huh?” Marsas laughed softly. “Governor… you’re a dragon-slayer. How can you not connect the dots?”
Fell’s eyes narrowed. The word dragon-slayer always sharpened the air between them.
But he didn’t explode. He waited.
Marsas continued, still facing the wall. “Borg Moros and his steward were killed by an Infiltrator. And the killer took my Twin Blood Crystal.”
He tilted his head toward the blood-red gem set beside him—only one half, now dull. The veins inside it had thickened into clots, no longer swirling.
“The one who killed them understood my art,” Marsas said. “They came specifically to disrupt my ritual.”
“Marsas!” Fell snapped.
His patience thinned. “Don’t tell me you’ve been draining my resources, using my soldiers, all for your own revenge.”
Fell didn’t care about Marsas’ wounded pride.
He cared about the notebook.
He cared about the path beyond the Unbreakable Threshold.
He cared about becoming more than a man.
Fell had known Rhine left Windrest City by train. His knights trailed him—until they lost him. Furious, Fell had ordered every station on Storm Island watched.
Nothing.
No sightings. No leads.
Marsas, the Soulreaver, finally spoke of Lady Alwen, of Garde, of the old cabin in Wood County.
Only then did Fell understand the shape of the puzzle.
And only then did he realize how close Rhine might be to the thing everyone wanted.
Marsas’ voice stayed calm. “Governor, I don’t deny Rhine has motive. Danny was framed. Borg Moros deserved a knife. But answer me this.”
He paused.
“If Rhine is only a first-tier Hunter… why do his murders look like an Infiltrator’s work? And why did an elven Infiltrator appear?”
Fell’s jaw clenched. “Spit it out.”
Marsas did.
“The Black & White Court.”
For a breath, Fell’s fingers went still.
His face darkened further. “You’re saying the Court is working with Rhine.”
“Or helping him against us,” Marsas said, unhurried.
Fell dragged a chair closer and sat, knuckles drumming the wood.
Marsas pressed on. “Think about it. A first-tier Hunter doesn’t slip your surveillance, kill my three apprentices, then wipe out an entire Moros estate on his own. Someone is backing him.”
“And I’m certain,” Marsas added, the conviction hardening, “that last night Rhine was with that elf. My divination is not wrong.”
Fell’s lips curled. “Then explain how he escaped. My men sealed that grove.”
Marsas was quiet for a moment.
“Why do you think the elf played with your knights? She wasn’t just mocking them. She was buying Rhine time to disappear.”
Fell exhaled through his nose, irritation turning to a cold focus.
Marsas might be right.
But none of it mattered if the notebook slipped away.
“Enough,” Fell said. “All of this is noise.”
He stared into the green flames as if they might show him the future. “Tell me one thing. Do you think Rhine already has the notebook?”
This time, Marsas didn’t answer immediately.
His instincts screamed yes.
And that truth tasted like ash.
Marsas was fourth-tier, ninth-grade. He’d spent decades clawing at the Unbreakable Threshold. He’d paid with forbidden magic until he was barely human. He’d waited and schemed and slaughtered.
And now a young Hunter—barely awakened—had followed a trail of old grief straight to Garde’s cabin.
If Rhine had the notes already…
Marsas closed his sunken eyes. When he spoke, his voice was thinner.
“I don’t have the vitality for another divination. But my gut says he has it.”
He paused.
“So, Governor… it’s your turn.”
Fell’s reply was a cold smile.
“As long as he’s still on Storm Island.”
In the damp basement, the governor and the Soulreaver circled the same obsession from different angles.
A demigod’s door had cracked open.
Neither could afford to let it close.
They rehashed every detail, every timeline, every possible route. They weren’t fools. Their reconstruction was frighteningly close to the truth.
But two facts escaped them completely.
First: Rhine wasn’t relying on an elven Infiltrator.
Rhine was an Infiltrator.
Second: the “Faranir notes” they were hunting were only Garde’s half-finished translation.
The truly valuable work—Faranir’s own autobiography, the thing that hinted at deeper truths—was already in Rhine’s hands.
And no one knew it.
…
“People only pay a price for something more important.”
In a shuttered room at a roadside inn, Ethan murmured the line again.
He held an antique letter opener—Diviner’s steel—and stared at the paper it had split. The artifact never spoke plainly. It loved riddles.
He’d asked a simple question:
Were last night’s soldiers hunting Borg Moros’ killer… or were they hunting Rhine, chasing the notebook?
To outsiders, those weren’t the same person.
The letter opener’s answer told him which motive outweighed the other.
More important.
Demigod.
Notebook.
So, yes—Fell had used the murder as a legal excuse. An excuse to beat a “suspect” to death and pretend the royal title never existed.
A neat plan.
Ethan let out a short laugh.
He replayed what Morningstar had told him.
Borg Moros had been a candidate—perfect for a Soulreaver’s taboo requirements. The Twin Blood Crystal had twisted him, fed his rage. He’d killed a maid, then framed Danny. Ethan had stepped in.
And that, in turn, had triggered Morningstar’s arrival.
The Black & White Court had noticed the forbidden magic and sent her to clean it up.
Morningstar had also mentioned something else—something that made Ethan’s skin crawl.
The other half of the Twin Blood Crystal.
The one held by the caster.
According to her investigation, it was somewhere in the direction of Windrest City.
That reminded Ethan of the three supernaturals who’d tried to kill him at Garde’s cabin.
They’d been under a curse that made betrayal impossible.
A Soulreaver’s signature.
Ethan rubbed his brow.
One enemy was a governor who could send soldiers after him under any pretext.
Another enemy was a hidden Soulreaver who could send bound assassins.
Two killers in Windrest City.
And both of them believed an elven Infiltrator was covering Ethan—maybe even believed the Black & White Court had chosen him.
Fine.
Let them believe it.
There were two things they still couldn’t guess.
First: Ethan wasn’t only a Hunter.
Second: the notes they were chasing weren’t the true treasure.
The real key—the autobiography—was already in his hands.
Behind closed curtains, Ethan weighed his advantages.
He began to plan what came next.