Low-Fantasy Occultist

The half day since they had hatched their plan had seen Toneburg descend further into madness.

What had begun as sudden riots in the outer rings had rapidly escalated into entrenched urban warfare. The city was now cleanly fractured, with barricaded neighborhoods serving as shifting front lines between the Black Hounds, their mercenary allies and the Ultimer loyalists, which included most of the nobles, though not all.

Nick, observing from the ruined second floor of a burned-out tailor's shop in the merchant district, had watched the conflict unfold.

There were no more attempts at parley. The King's Shadows had done their work too well. Whenever the fighting began to lull, a prominent mercenary lieutenant or an Ultimer quartermaster would turn up dead with an opposing faction's dagger in their back.

Everyone of import seemed aware that tricks were being played and that some other force was moving events, but the momentum was too great and the mercenaries too enraged to stop now.

And it’s not just the Shadows. I sensed more than one noble taking advantage of the chaos to get their licks in, and many of the mercs are little more than brigands with better equipment. They care naught for the reasons, only relishing the slaughter after months of being kept in line.

The smoke rising from the eastern wards choked the morning sun, plunging Toneburg into perpetual twilight.

"They should be coming," Gaelen whispered, crouching by the shattered window.

Nick pulled his attention away from the distant fires. He reached out with [Empyrean Intuition], filtering through the chaotic noise of the burning city. Down the ash-covered avenue, the rumble of a reinforced supply wagon echoed off the stone.

It was surrounded by a heavily armed group of Ultimer guards, who looked ready to take on anyone foolish enough to challenge them. But Nick’s senses immediately caught something else.

"The protection detail is smaller than Raul predicted," he murmured, his eyes tracking the etheric signatures. "But the quality is higher. Look at the driver's seat.”

Sitting next to the human driver was a hulking figure cloaked in a heavy gray tabard. It radiated a cold, utterly stagnant presence. It wasn’t human but a collection of alchemically hardened flesh and rune-carved bone.

"A homunculus," Rhea deduced softly from the shadows of the room. "Nestor’s work. He must really need it to send out one of its defenders.”

"It isn't just the big lump, either," Nick added, his gaze drifting upward.

High above the street, circling through the thick, gray smoke, were two mighty presences he might have mistaken for monsters, if not for the wards not reacting to them. These were bird-like homunculi, their stitched wings catching the thermals as they served as the convoy’s eyes in the sky. If the wagon was attacked, those birds would shriek and immediately alert the nearest Ultimer garrison, then drop in with a formidable strike from above.

"I will handle the scouts," Nick finally said. Those two were annoying but not particularly powerful, and they needed to go before they could make their move.

Raising two fingers, he compressed the ambient air, drawing it taut until it vibrated with tension. Next, he fed it his emotions, his intentions of immediate lethality, and his desire to see the enemy destroyed.

Only then did he release it.

Two invisible needles of spiritual wind shot upward, slicing through the smoke with nary a ripple. They struck the artificial birds perfectly, severing their cores from their stitched bodies and killing them instantly. They tumbled from the sky and crashed silently onto the slate roofs of nearby buildings, out of sight of the guards below, thanks to the clouds.

Huh. Less resilient than I’d have thought. But then again, I’ve gotten quite a bit stronger, and these aren’t meant for battle. The big bruiser will likely take much more punishment.