Valen dismounted with the ease of a man who’d never been questioned about the worthiness of the ground beneath him.
First boot, then the second, silver plate flashed underneath a familiar torchlight as if he’d practiced the sight in a mirror before the grand entrances for crowds.
The men and women of the square parted for him, and, as always, forgot that they were hungry and tired and three weeks away from their next payday.
“You look like an actual Knight-Commander!” someone near Kaelen breathed, his voice awash with awed wonder.
“In Oakhaven!”
Inside the grain merchant’s shadow, Kaelen made a point of hiding inside in it which is a soft hood pulled low over borrowed brows.
Beat heart thudded against borrowed ribs, thirty hours to go.
Get a good look.
You’ll be seeing that face a lot sooner than you think.
[Ding!
Passive Scan Initiated: Target – – – Sir Valen]
The System’s quiet response, Kaelen realized, was the first thing he’d ever felt close to actual fear since waking in this body.
[Class: Holy Knight – (Ascended Tier)].
[Passive Skill Detected: Holy Aura – disintegrates low – tier dark – aligned entities upon direct contact].
[Warning: Current core organism classification – Dark-Aligned, Sub-Cellular.
Contact risk: LETHAL].
Lethal .
Kaelen’s eyes went hard, tracked Valen’s easy laughter at something one of his gaurds said, as if he’d never heard the word on that long list with a red mark next to it.
“To clarify,” Nix spoke, sensing what he probably needed, “your standard infection method – direct thread contact through skin or fluid – will result in immediate incineration upon approach.
His body’s passive defenses treat your current biological signature similar to sunlight on mold.”
Mold.
Kaelen nearly laughing out loud, such a wonderful analogy to make in this lifetime.
Very helpful and confidence building!
“I’m not in the business of confidence.
I’m in the business of accurate risk assessment.”
Then I would be more impressed with your skills if I knew how you intended to survive an area of influence with a kill radius of five feet.
Kaelen waited.
“Unknown,” Nix replied.
“No previous documentation exists for the infection of a Hol-Aligned Ascended.
you will require either a vector his aura does not recognize, or a period of compromise.”
A blind spot, Kaelen considered, filing that thought in the back of his mind with everything else he hadn’t thought of in the nearly seven years he’d been awake in this flesh.
Everyone had one.
It was only fair, really.
he listened to the conversation, the laughter, the words from where he hovered near the edge, safe in the dark.
Valen knew no reason to keep suspicion in his heart.
He gave the people what they wanted: arrogance, disdain, an easy, careless smile.
He made an impression, he knew, and a man making a impression would give his all to a crowd just as eagerly as they gave their lives.
Vain, predictable – excellent.
Kaelen memorized the ebb and flow of men in clusters around Valen, his body language as loose and careless as a hound dog in the summer heat.
He knew the first weakness: Valen hovered in the square an hour after his men had retreated, signing a parchment from star-struck local child, an artist trying to draw him in the dying light.
All of it was carefully crafted nonsense.
Predictable mania.
As a man predicting his every move was what Kaelen was already doing, not that it mattered.
[Ding!
Behavioral Pattern Assessed: Pattern Routines]
[Routine – Morning: Private Quarters, Garrison East Wing, Guarded]
[Routine – Afternoon: Public Training Fields, Open to Spectators]
[Routined – Evening: Private Dining, Garrison Officer’s Hall, Limited Access]
Perfect.
he tracked the procession of horses toward the garrison’s officer’s quarters, the sound of their hooves pounding a steady rhythm in his blood.
Conversaton drifted back to him, snippets of talk from the honor guard on Valen flanking his horse.
” – Catacombs expedition leaves in two days.
Commander wants guides.
Cheap guides.
Expendable, if need be.”
“Woeing Catacombs,” the honor guard muttered, shuddering despite the armor on his back.
“Man’s got a death wish, that’s what it is.
Not a single one of the last bunch of fool explorers made it back up again.”
Kaelen’s mind reeled, turning this bit of news over in his mind like a coin, weighing its metal.
Two days.
An expedition .
He grinned, teeth flashing.
Away from the garrison, away from the guards, away from the prying eyes, ears, anything that could look past the skin, the name.
A chance – a holy chance – to slip inside the man’s very marrow, his very thought, and find the opening big enough to save both their lives.
A perfect opportunity, really, one he’d probably miss because he still had another chance to miss it entirely.
And the commander needs guides.
he thought.
Men who don’t mind the dirt.
Good men with blood on their hands .
.
.
[Ding!
Opportunity Assesssed: Expedition Vacancies: Weeping Catacombs]
[Expedition Assessment: HIGH RISK.
HIGH ISOLATION.
HIGH POTENTIAL – Vessel Objective Compatibility]
“You are considering volunteering your CURRENT, DECAYING host for a multi-day expedition inside the Weeping Catacombs – one of the most dangerous, unpredictable, and well – documented deathtraps in the region!”
“More than I can say for this one.” Nix muttered.
“You’ve got less than sixty hours to live!”
“Then you’re aware of the potential that Corin will not last long enough to reach any sort of host opening.”
“Then I’ll be finding an opening!” Kaelen assured him, watching the long line of honor guards fall in on either side of the horse as the disappeared beyond the garrison’s gates.
“Or find a way inside fast enough.”
Either way, I’m going in, the words of promise, finality hanging in his lungs like ash.
he spotted the recruitment advertisement tacked to the public board an hour afterwards, fresh ink still wet on the paper, half-dozen locals already gathered to it.
GUIDES WANTED: PREFERRED DUNGEON EXPERIENCE WEEPING CATACOMBS EXPEDITION Payment: Substantial Risk: Severe Report to Guild Quortemaster Before Dawn.
Corin’s memory, already fraying by the day, provided more than enough experience to fill that out, a name he owed money to who was also dead and would never know what he wrote.
Good men .
Kaelen had thought, writing Corin’s name onto the ledger in careful script.
Good men who were good at their jobs survived these things, no matter what gods watched their backs and smiled.
A hand curled around his wrist, stopping mid-sentence of his name, fingers tight and rough like barnacles holding onto a ship’s hull.
“You’ve got some nerve,” Talia’s voice was quiet, close behind his head, where no one else in the square could hear.
“Sunrise came, Corin.
And instead of answers, I find you volunteering for some suicide mission?”
her grip tightened.
“Now, tell me what this is about – before I take you in, myself.”