Chapter 12 : Whispers Beneath the City

Ah. Of course.
Recognition came swift and certain.

The medallion was a token of allegiance, the sigil of House Plagius—more specifically, a badge bestowed upon their sworn martial retainers.

Despite their arcane renown, the Plagius lineage, like many noble mage-houses, held not only sorcerers but common servants, warriors, and guards within their fold.
Magic was a closed inheritance, bound tightly by blood.
Even the mightiest of wizarding clans bore few true mages.

This man, then, had never stood beside Zerion or Elissa. Curtis  would have known.
Which could only mean—he was close to one of the others.
Lucius . Ariana. Or Raven.
Those three, the vipers in noble garb.

Curtis  had no personal quarrel with this man, no vendetta, no rivalry.
A trained warrior does not suddenly turn to banditry.
This was not random violence.
This was an order.
Elissa’s warning had come to pass—sooner than expected.
They had not even waited a single day.

“Couldn’t be patient, could you, you wretched, twitching little snakes…”
“Very well. One day, I’ll return this debt—coin for coin, blood for blood.”

With a jaw clenched in cold fury, Curtis  hefted the corpse over his shoulder.
He wrapped the oil-lantern tightly in the black mask to dim its light and stole into the alleyways.
He knew this town—every stone, every shadow. Twenty years of life carved its map into his mind.
The watchmen seldom patrolled this quarter, more focused on the bustling harborfront.

Under faint starlight, Curtis  moved like a ghost through winding lanes until he reached his destination: the sewers.

Unlike some distant lands, the sewers here were built as vast underground tunnels, open to any who dared enter—though few did, save for the desperate or deranged.

By the lantern’s light, he descended carefully into the reeking dark.
The stench hit him like a wave, but he pressed on.
Soon, he stood before a sluggish river of filth, winding like a foul serpent through the bowels of the city.

Splash.

Without hesitation, he cast the body into the mire.
With a whisper of Flowweaving, he summoned the water’s aid, forcing the corpse beneath the surface, deep and forgotten.

Only once it vanished from sight did he turn and return, lighter in body and soul.
He crept past the still-slumbering innkeeper and replaced the lantern and keys exactly as they had been.
Then, like a shadow swallowed by dawn, he vanished into his room.

Not a soul had seen him. Not a whisper would betray him.

“Hah…”

Only when he collapsed onto the bed did Curtis  allow his breath to tremble.
The tension bled from his limbs all at once.

Unless someone thought to search the sewers—unlikely at best—the body would never be found.
And even if it were, who would suspect Curtis ?

Who would believe that a manservant of ten long years had suddenly awakened as a mage, and turned death back upon his would-be assassin?

No—should the corpse surface, the assumption would be simple:
He had aid.
Elissa, perhaps, had noticed something and stepped in.
A convenient misunderstanding—one no one would dare question.

So long as that illusion held, Curtis  was safe.
He wasn’t a man of great power, nor one whose death was worth such a costly effort.
He could be anywhere by now.
If they tried again, they might fail again. Assassination was starting to look like a poor investment.

They were arrogant, yes—but not witless.

Still… it wasn’t impossible. There was always a chance they’d try again… just not tonight.
And every day they waited, his Flowweaving grew stronger.

Time, at least, was on Curtis ’s side.

Later that morning, a bewildered innkeeper would knock on every guest’s door in a panic.
None had seen a thing.
No one had been robbed.
They’d merely been rudely awoken in the middle of the night, and the poor man was swiftly branded a fool chasing phantoms.
Curtis  felt a touch of guilt—but only a touch.
Sometimes, ignorance truly was bliss.

He left the inn before sunrise and boarded the ship he’d arranged the day before.

The voyage to Nigerte would take twenty-five days.
The delay was due to frequent stops—loading and unloading cargo at each harbor they passed.

Curtis  had little to do but wait.
The sea stretched endlessly in all directions.
Water was everywhere.
And so, he practiced.

He would stand at the railing, eyes on the shifting tide, and secretly manipulate the waves lapping at the hull.
The ocean, always restless, masked his work. No one noticed.

[Flowweaving Lv. 39]
[Progress to Next Level: 4%]

By the time they reached Nigerte, his magic had transformed.
Curtis  stepped ashore with quiet satisfaction, a different man than when he’d first boarded.

Near the docks, a cluster of coachmen gathered, chatting beneath the morning sun.
No one knew a city better than those who roamed its streets daily.

Curtis  approached, and a few turned toward him.

“I’m looking for a ride.”

“Alone?”

“Yes.”

“Where to?”

“First, I need a place to stay. Any inns you’d recommend?”

“There’s no shortage of inns, friend,” chuckled a stout man with a mustache, his balding companion chiming in.

“You’ll need to be more specific. What kind of place are you looking for?”

“I’m planning to stay for a month, maybe longer. Clean. Decent food. And, if possible… secure.”

“Worried about bandits in the night?” the mustached one asked with a grin.

“Let’s say… I’ve had the experience.”

When Curtis  shrugged, the grin faltered. The coachman rubbed his nose sheepishly.

“Well, why not go to a proper high-end inn?”

“They’re… expensive.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” said the other. “What about Bron?”

“That place’s safe?” the mustached man asked.

“Safe enough. No thief in their right mind would target it.”

“Bron?” Curtis  echoed. “Is that the name of the inn?”

“It is. Bron Brothers’ Rest, they call it. Run by two brothers—mercenaries in another life. Folks just call it Bron.”

“They well-known?”

“Well enough. Retired with all limbs intact. That should tell you something. Reasonable rates, solid reputation.”

“Sounds perfect.”

“Well, it is… save for the noise. Mercenaries love the place. Drink, laugh, brawl—usually until dawn.”

“And the owners don’t stop them?”

“They try. Not that it helps. But I hear they keep the chaos from spilling onto the innocent. They don’t tolerate mercs picking fights with regular guests.”

“So, I won’t get punched in the face?”

“Not unless you’re very unlucky.”

“I’ll find out soon enough.”

Though Curtis  hadn’t intended to probe for such a place, it sounded perfect.
A loud, rough inn brimming with warriors was not an easy target for assassination.
And if trouble did find him, perhaps the retired mercenary innkeepers would lend a hand.
Better still, mercenaries often held more knowledge than scholars or spies—if he stayed long, perhaps he could earn their trust.

“Will you take me there?”

“To Bron? You’re sure?”

“I am.”

“Alright, I’ll take you. Just don’t curse my name if you don’t like it.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

And so, with a rattle of wheels, the coach set off toward the heart of the city—
—and Curtis  watched the road ahead, steady and silent, as the next chapter began.