Chapter 471: Whispers Beneath the Silk (3)
"Enough for what? We lost the name."
"Enough for a hunt," Lyan said. He stepped closer to the corpse, studying the charred lines of the rune, the curling smoke. His gaze flicked to the empty space behind the man’s eyes, and something in his own hardened further—as if filing away the image where it would never dull. "We know their creed, their symbol, and their reach. We push that knife back up the arm toward the hand that wields it."
Ravia folded her arms tight, feeling chill seep through leather. "And when the mole feels us closing?"
"Let them," Lyan answered. He turned, cloak whispering over the flagstones, eyes settling briefly—too briefly—on the swell of Ravia’s chest heaving under the heat-fret. He forced his gaze to Xena. "Fear makes people clumsy."
(You look at her like she’s a candle on a long night) Lilith teased inside his mind.
He ignored the purr, focusing on the smoldering rune. A final coil of smoke drifted upward, touched the lantern, and vanished. Somewhere high above, music still floated faintly—a violin phrase trembling like a bird held too tight. Down here the shadows swallowed it.
Lyan’s jaw knotted. "No matter. We have direction—and time runs short."
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Alicia adjusted her stance, boots creaking against the battered rug as she leaned closer to the serpent-sealed letter. The faintest tremor travelled from her shoulders into her fingertips, but she steadied herself with a long exhale—slow, measured, the way Master Edevin had taught when she was still more scholar than battlemage. With the next breath she let her mind sink past the scents of the war-room—lamp-oil, ink, smoke from the hearth dying in the corner—and reach for the coppery tang of old magic hidden in wax.