The dimly lit hideout reeked of old parchment, damp stone, and the faint traces of smoke from torches lining the walls. Deep underground beneath the crumbling remains of Keep Valcian, the Syndicate had rebuilt itself in secrecy, and this hideout—one of many—was where its members gathered in hushed meetings and underhanded dealings.
Tonight, however, there was nothing hushed about the voices echoing off the walls.
"Listen, you thick-skulled bastard, I don't care what Varrel says," Harker snapped, leaning aggressively against the wooden table that served as their makeshift war room. "If we keep operating like this, we're just going to end up right back where we were a month ago—on the losing end."
Across from him, an older Syndicate member slammed his fist against the table, scowling. "And I don't care what youthink, boy. We follow orders. That's how it's always been."
Grendon sat nearby, one boot propped up on a chair, watching the exchange with mild amusement. He took a long drag from his pipe before exhaling lazily. "Harker's not wrong, y'know," he drawled, smoke curling around his lips. "Maybe if you'd been there when we got our asses kicked, you'd have a different perspective."
The older member scoffed. "I was securing resources elsewhere. We weren't all standing around waiting to be slaughtered."
The tension thickened, and Harker's grip on the table tightened. "Oh, yeah? And where were those 'resources' when we needed them? Nowhere."
Before the argument could escalate further, the sound of boots against stone echoed through the hall. The bickering ceased as all eyes turned toward the figure entering the room.
Felix Cailen.
Dressed in his usual dark attire, Felix stepped in with the air of someone who had exactly zero patience for the nonsense currently unfolding. His sharp gaze flickered between the tense faces before settling on Grendon, who gave him a knowing smirk.
"Well, if it isn't our favorite brooding errand boy," Grendon mused, taking another leisurely drag from his pipe.
Harker snorted, crossing his arms. "What's the matter, Felix? Run out of ways to kiss Varrel's ass, so now you're here to bother us?"
Felix exhaled sharply through his nose, clearly unimpressed. "Varrel wants a specific tome. It's somewhere in the hideout's library. I need help finding it."
Silence hung in the air for a beat—then the teasing resumed at full force.
Grendon let out a low whistle. "Ah, so you are running errands. How does it feel being Varrel's personal lapdog?"
Harker smirked. "I'd bet good money he makes you fetch his wine, too."
Felix rolled his eyes. "Are you two ever going to say something useful?"
Grendon grinned. "Probably not."
Felix pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about absolute idiots before straightening. "Look, the book's called the Book of Ashes. Varrel wants it now."
At the mention of the name, a flicker of recognition passed over the older Syndicate member's face. "The Book of Ashes?" he repeated, rubbing his chin. "Haven't heard that name in years… If I remember right, it should be in the restricted section."
Felix nodded curtly. "Then we'd better find it. Now."
The group made their way deeper into the hideout, past corridors lined with old Syndicate relics—forgotten weapons, dusty maps, and books stacked haphazardly on shelves. The library itself was a grand, dimly lit chamber filled with towering bookshelves, some of which had collapsed during Ardent's assault a month prior. The scent of old paper and leather bindings lingered thick in the air.
They split up, scouring the shelves in silence. The only sounds were the faint crackling of torches and the occasional thudof books being carelessly tossed aside.
Grendon, still lazily puffing at his pipe, glanced at Felix as he flipped through an old tome. "So what's so special about this Book of Ashes, anyway?"
Felix stiffened. "That's not your concern."
Harker, from a few feet away, raised an eyebrow. "That defensive, huh? Sounds like something very much worth being concerned about."
Felix ignored them, running his fingers over the spines of the books.
Harker exchanged a glance with Grendon before smirking. "C'mon, Felix, we're all friends here."
Felix snorted. "Friends is a strong word."
"Acquaintances with a deep history of pissing each other off, then," Grendon amended.
Harker chuckled. "Either way, if Varrel wants this book bad enough to send you running around for it, then I'd sure as hell like to know why."
Felix finally spotted something. His fingers stopped on a thick, worn tome bound in blackened leather. The spine was unmarked, but as he pulled it free, the front cover bore the words in dark, cracked ink:
The Book of Ashes.
Felix ran a hand over the cover, his jaw tightening slightly. For a brief moment, his usually sharp expression softened into something unreadable—uncertainty, hesitation, maybe even something like dread.
Harker and Grendon noticed.
"Alright," Grendon drawled, tapping the side of his pipe. "Now I really wanna know what's in there."
Felix turned on his heel. "It's none of your business."
Harker stepped forward. "You made it our business the second you got all stiff about it."
Felix shot him a glare, tucking the book securely under his arm. "Varrel will explain what's necessary when the time comes. Until then, keep your noses out of it."
Grendon exhaled smoke. "Tetchy. That just makes me want to know more."
Felix had already turned, making his way swiftly toward the exit.
Harker and Grendon shared a look before Grendon smirked. "He's hiding something."
Harker nodded. "Obviously."
As Felix disappeared down the corridor, his grip on the Book of Ashes tightened.
He had no intention of letting them—or anyone else—know what secrets lay within its pages.
*
The night air was cold as Grendon and Harker made their way toward the northern edge of Oryn-Vel, where the city's architecture began to give way to the rugged wilderness beyond. The streets were quieter here, the hustle and bustle of the central district fading into the chill fog that rolled in from the surrounding forests. A few houses dotted the landscape, most of them small and unremarkable, but one stood apart—a large, stone structure surrounded by tall iron gates. The hideout.
The two Syndicate members moved stealthily through the shadows, their steps silent against the cobblestone. This wasn't a mission for subtlety; it was a mission to observe, to see what the two Holy Knights were up to. Grendon and Harker were tasked with checking in on Sir Alden and Lady Zefaria, the two knights Varrel had brought into the Syndicate's fold. They were here under orders, watching the Holy Church's movements after whispers of heresy had surfaced in the capital. Varrel had his suspicions that the Church might be planning something. Infiltrating the city was no easy task, especially for those as high-ranked as Sir Alden and Lady Zefaria, but if there was a plan in motion, the Syndicate needed to be ready.
The gates creaked open with a slight push from Grendon, and the two slipped inside. The hideout was a fortress of sorts, built to withstand the prying eyes of both the Church and rival factions. Its thick stone walls were adorned with a few ornate symbols, the remnants of its more religious past. Now, it was a base of operations for the two Holy Knights who had seemingly betrayed their former allegiances for the sake of the Syndicate's cause.
Grendon took a deep breath, his thick beard shifting as he spoke in a low voice. "I still don't get why we're babysitting these two. Sir Alden and Lady Zefaria—Holy Knights, for gods' sake. They're either too valuable to be trusted or too dangerous to be left alone. I'm betting on the latter."
Harker, a little more reserved in his approach, kept his voice even as they moved toward the main door. "Varrel doesn't make mistakes with this kind of thing. Alden and Zefaria are useful, but we need to keep tabs on them. They're not just here to drink tea and play cards. If they're investigating the Church, it's because they know something we don't. And that's the kind of information that can win us a war."
Grendon gave a chuckle and slapped Harker on the back. "Always so serious. But you're right. If they're plotting, we need to know exactly where they stand."
The door creaked open, revealing a lavish interior—unlike anything they'd expect from a hideout. The walls were lined with tapestries, some depicting religious iconography, others featuring scenes of battles long past. The place had the sterile, almost austere feel of a church, but with the darker undertones of people accustomed to secrecy and power.
Sir Alden was sitting by the hearth, his black and silver armor gleaming in the dim light of the room. He looked up as Grendon and Harker entered, his steely gaze piercing. Lady Zefaria, standing by the window with her arms crossed, didn't even acknowledge their presence at first. She was dressed in her full Holy Knight regalia, but something about the way she carried herself—rigid, cold—told Grendon she was as dangerous as any assassin.
"I see you've arrived," Alden said with a deadpan face, the deep baritone of his voice echoing through the room. He stood and walked toward them, extending a hand to Grendon.
Grendon took it with a smile, his grip firm, but his eyes scanning for weaknesses, looking for any signs of tension between the two knights. "You two keeping out of trouble, I hope?"
"Trouble seems to find us, no matter how hard we try to avoid it. But we're here for a reason." He nodded to the room. "The Church is getting restless. Our orders are clear, but they don't tell us everything. We can't be sure of what's coming, but I'm sure you know as well as I do that the Church has their own plans for Oryn-Vel."
Harker spoke up, his voice low and cautious. "So you're saying they're preparing something? A strike of some kind?"
Lady Zefaria, who had been silent until now, turned her piercing eyes toward them. Her gaze was sharp and calculating, and for a moment, Grendon felt an uncomfortable chill crawl down his spine. "You'd be foolish to assume they're just sitting back and letting things unfold. The Church has always kept its secrets, and we're here to uncover them. We'll do what we can to protect the city, but don't mistake us for your pawns."
Grendon, ever the smooth talker, grinned. "Of course, Lady Zefaria. But surely, there's no harm in a little... camaraderie, eh? Perhaps a drink to lighten the mood?"
Zefaria narrowed her eyes, and Grendon felt a flutter of excitement. He couldn't help himself—there was something about the fierce Holy Knight that intrigued him. He leaned forward slightly, trying to charm her with a playful grin. "I'm sure you've had your share of serious talks, but don't you think we could relax a bit? I'm sure we could get along just fine."
Before he could say more, Zefaria snapped with the swiftness of a striking snake.
Slap!
Grendon's face stung from the sharp impact of her palm, and he staggered back, stunned. His hand instinctively went to his face as his beard bristled in shock.
"Don't ever think you can charm me with your ridiculous antics," Zefaria spat, her voice dripping with disdain. "I'm not here for your games. We have a purpose, and it's not to entertain you."
Harker chuckled under his breath, a low, amused sound that echoed around the room. Grendon, rubbing his reddening cheek, shot a glare at him. "I was just trying to... you know... lighten the mood."
"Maybe you should learn to keep it light, but not too close," Harker teased, his tone mocking.
Zefaria turned away from Grendon, crossing her arms. "You'd do well to remember your place, Syndicate member. You're here because Varrel believes you're useful. Don't get too comfortable."
Grendon, despite his wounded pride, simply laughed it off. "I suppose it's a good thing I'm used to being slapped around. Keeps things interesting."
Sir Alden stepped between them, his calm demeanor cutting through the tension like a blade. "Enough. We have more pressing matters to discuss than your antics, Grendon."
The mood in the room shifted quickly, and Grendon knew when to back off. He gave Zefaria a rueful grin, then returned to the topic at hand.
"So, what's next for us, then? You mentioned the Church—are we planning to head there soon?"
Alden's face grew more serious. "Not yet. But we're getting close. We need more information. We can't move until we know exactly what they're planning. If they make a move against Oryn-Vel, we need to be ready."
Grendon and Harker nodded in agreement. The weight of the conversation settled heavily around them. This wasn't just another game. This was a war, and the Syndicate had more at stake than ever.
"Well," Grendon said, his voice turning serious for once. "We'll be ready."