The moon hid behind clouds as Caelan slipped from his window, death in his wake.
The shadow cloak flowed around him like liquid darkness, making him nearly invisible against the stone walls of the manor.
The night air felt different on his skin in this medieval world—cooler, fresher, untainted by the pollution he'd known in his previous life. But the darkness? That was familiar.
Darkness had always been his ally.
His body ached with the effort of climbing down—muscles still weak despite days of training—but his mind remained sharp, focused on the mission ahead.
Aldric waited below with a horse, its coat as black as the night sky.
No ordinary mount, but one of the few remaining Albrecht treasures: a mare trained to move silently and respond to the lightest touch.
"Remember your limitations, my lord," Aldric whispered as he helped Caelan into the saddle.
"Your mind may know what to do, but your body—"
"Will do what it must," Caelan finished.
He adjusted the small crossbow strapped to his forearm and checked the vials of poison secured at his belt.
"If I'm not back by dawn—"
"I'll wait until the following night," Aldric said firmly.
"No rescue attempts that might expose us."
Caelan nodded. Even in failure, secrecy was essential. House Fenn must not learn of his activities—not yet.
"The Raven watches," Caelan said, reciting the farewell Aldric had taught him.
"And remembers," the old servant completed the ritual phrase.
"Return safely, my lord."
With a gentle nudge, Caelan directed the horse eastward, toward Blackthorn Keep. The old fortress stood five miles away, on a hill overlooking the river.
Once an Albrecht outpost, now a bandit stronghold.
The night was still young—plenty of time to reach the keep while the bandits would be celebrating their recent victory at Westford village.
The forest was alive with sounds—rustling leaves, night creatures, the occasional hoot of an owl. Caelan moved through it like a ghost, his steps making no more noise than a breeze.
Caelan's body protested every jolt and bump, but he pushed through the pain. Marcus Chen had endured worse. His body might be weak, but years of training had taught him how to distribute his weight, how to use the environment to mask his presence.
As he approached the final mile, Caelan left the main road, guiding his mount through the trees.
The keep appeared in the distance—a dark silhouette against the night sky, with flickering firelight visible through broken windows.
He dismounted at the edge of the forest, securing the horse to a tree where it could be easily found later, assuming he survived.
From here, he would continue on foot. He removed the jar of shadow salve and smeared the cold paste on his exposed skin.
It tingled strangely, as though tiny ants were crawling across his face.
According to Aldric, the salve would help conceal him from magical detection—useful if any of the bandits had minor sensing abilities.
Crouching low, Caelan approached the keep.
Two sentries stood at the main gate, looking bored as they passed a wineskin between them.
Four more patrolled the walls—fewer than he'd expected. Perhaps they felt secure in their remote location.
Caelan circled to the eastern wall, where the maps had shown partial collapse. The climb would be challenging, but avoiding the guards at the gate would be worth the effort.
He attached the climbing spikes to his hands—small metal claws that would give him a better grip on the rough stone.
Each pull upward sent fire through his arms.
The original Caelan had never climbed anything more challenging than the manor's stairs.
But Marcus Chen had scaled sheer glass buildings, cliff faces, and security walls. The muscle memory wasn't there, but the technique remained.
Halfway up, he paused to rest, wedging himself into a crevice. Voices drifted down from above—two bandits complaining about watch duty.
"—freezing my arse off while they're all drinking and whoring inside," one said.
"Shut your hole," the other replied.
"Brock says we need extra eyes tonight. Something about 'unexpected visitors.'"
Caelan frowned. Had they been warned?
Was he expected?
He waited until the voices moved away, then continued his climb, more cautious now.
At the top, he peered over the edge. The wall walk was empty for the moment, the guards having moved farther along their patrol route.
He hauled himself over and crouched in the shadows, catching his breath. His arms trembled with exhaustion, but there was no time to rest.
The keep's interior courtyard spread below him. A dozen men gathered around a large fire, drinking and laughing.
Others moved between buildings—the old barracks, kitchen, and the central tower where the leader likely stayed. Caelan counted at least twenty men, more than Aldric's information had suggested.
He moved silently along the wall, staying low to avoid being silhouetted against the sky. His first objective was to locate Brock the Butcher. Eliminate the leader, and the rest would be easier to handle.
A loud burst of laughter drew his attention to the central tower. A large man emerged onto a balcony overlooking the courtyard, raising a tankard to the cheering men below.
Brock, presumably. He was massive—broad-shouldered and tall, with a thick beard and arms covered in crude tattoos.
At his side stood a slimmer figure in the green and gold of House Fenn.
Caelan crept closer, positioning himself within earshot of the balcony.
"—good work at Westford," the Fenn man was saying.
"Lord Vaeron is pleased. But he wants more."
"More?" Brock's voice was surprisingly refined for a man of his appearance.
"We've hit three villages in as many weeks. The Albrecht brat hasn't sent so much as a strongly worded letter in response."
"Lord Vaeron believes he's gathering funds for the tribute. Each village we destroy reduces his resources further."
"And increases our risk," Brock countered.
"The crown might ignore a few raids, but burning entire villages will eventually draw attention."
The Fenn man's laugh was cold.
"The crown sees what Lord Vaeron tells it to see. Your only concern is following orders. The next target is Oakmeadow, three days from now. And this time, no survivors."
"No survivors?" Even Brock seemed disturbed by this.
"That's a village of over a hundred people. Women, children—"
"Are you growing soft, Butcher? Lord Vaeron pays for results, not conscience."
The confirmation of House Fenn's involvement was exactly what Caelan had suspected, but the planned escalation to wholesale slaughter was worse than he'd feared.
He needed to end this now.
Caelan moved away from the balcony, considering his options.
Taking out Brock while the Fenn representative was present would send the strongest message, but the open balcony offered no approach that wouldn't expose him to the entire camp.
He needed to divide them. Create confusion. Make them fear an enemy they couldn't see.
The sentries would be his first targets.
Caelan made his way back along the wall, approaching the nearest guard from behind.
The man stood looking outward, unaware of the death that crept toward him.
One quick movement—a garrote wire around the throat, pulled tight—and the sentry died silently. Caelan lowered the body into the shadows of the parapet.
One down.
He moved to the next guard post, dispatching the second sentry with equal efficiency. Then the third. Each killing was easier than the last, as Marcus Chen's cold professionalism took over.
By the time he'd eliminated all four wall guards, Caelan had settled into a rhythm.
His body's weakness remained, but he compensated with careful planning and minimal movement. No wasted energy, no unnecessary risks.
The two gate guards were next. A poisoned crossbow bolt for one, the garrote for the other.
Six men down, and still no alarm raised.
Caelan slipped into the courtyard proper, sticking to the deeper shadows.
The main group around the fire had grown rowdier, many now clearly drunk. Perfect.
Intoxicated men made mistakes, jumped at shadows, and turned on each other when frightened.
From his belt, Caelan removed a small object Aldric had provided—
a "shock stone," a rare mineral that, when broken, released a burst of magical energy similar to lightning.
He positioned it carefully near a stack of barrels, then retreated to a safe distance.
The explosion when he triggered it was more impressive than expected. Barrels flew in all directions, some catching fire and spreading flames to nearby structures.
Men shouted in alarm, rushing toward the blaze.
In the confusion, Caelan moved toward the central tower.
The door stood unguarded, the interior dark. He slipped inside, climbing the narrow stairs toward the chamber where he'd seen Brock and the Fenn representative.
Voices echoed down the stairwell—angry, urgent.
"—under attack!" the Fenn man was saying.
"This is no accident!"
"Calm yourself," Brock replied.
"Probably just some fool dropped a torch near the spirits. My men will handle it."
Caelan reached the landing outside their door. It stood ajar, firelight flickering from within. He loaded his crossbow with a poisoned bolt and peered through the gap.
Brock stood with his back to the door, looking out the window at the chaos below. The Fenn representative paced, hand on his sword hilt.
"I don't like it," the Fenn man said.
"The timing is too convenient. Perhaps the Albrecht boy isn't as helpless as we thought."
Brock laughed. "That sickly runt? He can barely stand, let alone attack a fortified position."
"Then who took out our sentries? Look at the walls—not a single guard remains at his post."
This was Caelan's moment. He pushed the door open silently and raised his crossbow.
The bolt took Brock in the neck—a perfect shot. The big man staggered, clutching at the shaft, then collapsed to his knees.
The poison would work quickly—a particularly nasty concoction that Aldric had described as "turning the blood to fire."
The Fenn representative spun around, drawing his sword.
"Who—" He froze at the sight of Caelan, cloaked in shadow, face partially concealed.
"House Albrecht sends its regards," Caelan said, his voice deliberately soft, forcing the man to strain to hear him.
"Impossible," the man whispered. "You can't be—"
"The Raven's Ghost," Caelan supplied.
"That's what they'll call me. Tell Lord Vaeron that House Albrecht knows what he's done.
The villages, the bandits, the false tribute. Tell him the debt will be paid—in blood."
On the floor, Brock convulsed, foam flecking his lips as the poison did its work.
The Fenn representative backed away, terror plain on his face.
"You're making a mistake," he stammered. "Lord Vaeron will—"
"Die," Caelan finished simply.
"Eventually. As will you, if you're found in Albrecht lands again."
A shout from below indicated the bandits had started to organise a search. Caelan needed to finish here quickly.
"Please," the Fenn man begged. "I was only following orders."
"Then follow this one: run."
The man didn't need to be told twice. He bolted past Caelan and down the stairs, abandoning dignity in his flight.
Caelan turned his attention to Brock's chamber.
A quick search revealed what he sought—a wooden chest containing correspondence.
He rifled through the papers, finding multiple letters bearing the Fenn seal.
Direct evidence of their involvement.
More interestingly, he found correspondence with other bandit groups.
Inside, among various stolen goods, he found something unexpected—a small wooden box containing several letters.
He scanned them, his eyes narrowing. The correspondence was not just with House Fenn as he'd suspected, but mentioned an organisation called "The Crimson Hand" and its meetings in various cities.
Apparently, Brock's operation was just one small part of a larger criminal enterprise, one that had connections with noble houses throughout the kingdom.
One letter in particular caught his attention. It was sealed with a familiar symbol—a half-eclipse with a star at its centre.
"The Eclipsed Order," he murmured.
Caelan pocketed the most incriminating documents. They would be valuable leverage if needed.
Shouts grew louder from the courtyard. Time to leave.
But not before delivering the final part of his message.
From his pouch, Caelan removed a small token Aldric had prepared—a wooden coin carved with the Albrecht raven.
He placed it on Brock's chest, where it couldn't be missed.
Then he made his way to the window, which overlooked the darkest part of the courtyard.
Using his rope and climbing spikes, he descended quickly, ignoring the burning in his arms and shoulders.
As Caelan slipped into the shadows of the outer wall, chaos reigned in the keep.
Bandits ran in all directions, some fighting the fire, others searching for the mysterious attacker, a few already fleeing into the night.
The next phase of his attack was more direct. From the shadows, he launched several small daggers in quick succession.
One man took a blade to the thigh, another to the shoulder. Both fell, screaming.
"There he is!" someone shouted, pointing in the wrong direction.
Three bandits charged toward the spot, swinging their swords wildly at shadows.
Caelan circled behind them and took out a fourth man with a precise strike to the base of the skull.
"It's the Raven's Ghost!" one of the remaining bandits cried out.
"My father told me stories—the Albrechts make pacts with dark spirits!"
"House Fenn's lapdogs will all die tonight," he intoned, his voice carrying across the clearing.
The momentary distraction was all he needed. As the men recoiled from the flaring fire, Caelan struck with lethal precision.
Two more down in seconds, daggers finding vital spots with practised ease.
He spotted one bandit—younger than the rest, clearly terrified—trying to hide behind a water barrel. This one would do nicely.
Caelan approached silently, then pressed his dagger to the young bandit's throat.
"Listen carefully," he whispered. "You will live, but only to deliver a message."
The bandit nodded frantically, too frightened to speak.
"Tell everyone what happened here. Tell them the Raven's Ghost came for your leader.
Tell them House Albrecht protects its people. And tell them that anyone who threatens Albrecht's lands will meet the same fate."
"Y-yes, sir," the bandit stammered. "I swear it."
"Good." Caelan released him.
"Now run. And remember—the raven watches."
The bandit scrambled to his feet and ran, crashing through the underbrush without looking back.
Caelan surveyed the destruction around him. The camp was in ruins, bodies scattered about, tents still smouldering.
It was a message that would be unmistakable to House Fenn: House Albrecht was not as defenceless as they thought.
He melted back into the shadows as the bandits fled, climbing over the rubble of the collapsed wall rather than risking the main gate.
Caelan made his own exit the same way, his body screaming with exhaustion, but his mind exhilarated.
Marcus Chen's methodical efficiency combined with Caelan Albrecht's knowledge of the land had proven a powerful combination.
For the first time since awakening in this frail body, he felt truly alive.
The ride back to Albrecht Manor was more difficult than the journey out. Every muscle protested, and twice he nearly fell from the saddle.
But determination kept him upright. He had struck the first meaningful blow against House Fenn. A small one, perhaps, but significant nonetheless.
As the manor came into view in the pre-dawn light, Caelan allowed himself a grim smile.
Tonight, he had proven something—not just to House Fenn or the bandits, but to himself.
His physical limitations could be overcome with planning and precision. The powerless could wield fear as a weapon more terrible than steel.
And House Albrecht's enemies would soon learn just how sharp a raven's talons could be.