Page 36 of House of Crimson Cloak and Silver Teeth

“You’re not what I expected,” he finally says.

Neither are you.

Chapter Five

The Hall of Valor smells like burning steel. It’s a scent I’ve grown familiar with over the past three weeks of shadowing the golden son of House Clayborne. I follow Garrett through the halls, no longer hiding in shadows as he insisted.

Stand beside me, not behind me.

So here I am, a wolf among eagles and lions, watching Aelfheim’s finest warriors step aside for their commander.

Weapons line the walls, arranged by type and era. Swords from the Inquisition hang beside shields bearing the crests of fallen heroes. Sunlight streams through the colored glass, painting the stone floor in patterns of red and gold. The clash of steel on steel echoes through the space, a constant rhythm that seems to underscore everything here.

Six Valorians missing in two months.

No bodies, no ransom demands, just empty beds and worried whispers. The remaining guards cluster in small groups. They watch me with open suspicion, the Grimsbane walking beside their golden commander.

I don’t blame them. To them, I’m an outsider. Worse, I’m guild trash from Tiamat, a city they think of as a cesspool of crime and violence. They’re not wrong, but it still stings.

Garrett sits at the large table in the center with parchments and scrolls spread before him. Maps of patrol routes, duty rosters, reports from the city watch. He’s been preparing for this all morning, cross-referencing schedules and movements.

I lean against the stone wall in the corner. Close enough to intervene if needed, far enough away to not intrude. From this vantage point, I can see the entire hall, both entrances, and every window.

He looks up from his papers and catches my eye. Something passes between us. It’s not quite a smile but something. Three weeks is long enough to learn a person’s tells. He’s worried and exhausted.

The shadows under his eyes are darker today. He didn’t sleep well last night. I know because I was in the chair by his window, watching the city while he tossed and turned.

Garrett has nightmares sometimes. He never talks about them, but I hear him wake gasping.

“Send in the first one,” he says to the guard by the door.

The Valorian who enters is broad-shouldered with a scar cutting through his left eyebrow. His uniform is immaculate and polished.

“Sir.” He salutes, fist to chest.

“At ease, Davin.” Garrett gestures to the chair across from him. “Sit. Please.”

The Valorian sits but he doesn’t look at ease. Soldiers don’t like being questioned by their commanders. Even informal questions carry weight, and everyone knows what this is about.

The missing knights.

“Walk me through the last time you saw Marcian,” Garrett says, his voice gentle as if it were a conversation not an interrogation.

“Three nights ago, Commander,” Davin says, his shoulders straightening. “We finished patrol at the ninth bell. Marcian said he was heading home to his wife, Eithne.”

Garrett watches the Valorian carefully. “Did he seem troubled? Distracted?”

“No more than usual, sir.” Davin shifts slightly. “We’re all on edge with the others going missing. Six knights in two months, and now Marcian makes seven.”

Garrett nods, making notes on the parchment before him. His elven handwriting is neat, each word carefully formed. “I understand. Did Marcian mention anything unusual? Anyone following him?”

“No, sir. He was joking about how Eithne would scold him for being late to dinner.” Davin’s expression softens at the memory. “He seemed normal. Happy even.”

“And you went straight home after patrol?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Anyone see you?”