I stood beside the armored car, watching the hotel entrance with detached patience. The nobles had taken their time—typical. Their idea of an "investigation" was likely as polished and naive as a Sylvaris Atheneum student's thesis.
How long does it take to prepare for a walk through filth? I mused, gloved fingers tapping once against the car's reinforced plating. Blackwater's damp air clung to everything, thick with the reek of salt, rust, and something fouler beneath.
The door finally swung open.
Donovan Hargrave emerged first, his polished boots already grimacing at the mud. He flicked a dismissive hand in my direction without so much as a glance.
"Chauffeur, wait here. I expect you to attend to Lady Elyria's needs promptly upon our return."
"Of course, Lord Donovan." My voice was flat, automatic.
Theron followed, adjusting his embroidered coat with the self-importance of a man who'd never had to draw his own blade. "One can only hope the locals have the decency to contain their squalor. This place reeks of peasant negligence."
Elyria was last, her gloved fingers tracing the silver pendant at her throat—a scholar's charm, or perhaps a ward. Her gaze swept over the crumbling docks, sharp where the others were merely disdainful.
"Let's not waste time," she said. "The warehouse is this way."
I fell into step behind them, close enough to intervene if needed, far enough to avoid the illusion of camaraderie. The streets narrowed as we moved toward the suspected cult hideout, the shadows thickening like old blood.
Blackwater's people watched from doorways and broken windows—eyes glinting with resentment, fear, or worse. The nobles didn't notice. To them, this was a tainted excursion, a distasteful chore. To the dockfolk, it was another invasion.
And to me?
Just be an ordinary chauffeur.
The warehouse loomed ahead, its rusted iron beams jutting into the fog like the ribs of a long-dead beast. A fitting temple for necromancers, really.
I adjusted the silver-threaded gloves on my hands, the enchantments humming faintly against my skin. Beside me, Donovan tapped his foot impatiently, while Theron fussed with his coat—as if the grime of Blackwater might dare cling to Sylvaris silk.
Amateurs.
But useful ones.
"Remember," I murmured, "we take them alive. The High Inquisitor wants answers, not corpses."
Donovan scoffed. "A waste of effort. These rats won't know anything worthwhile."
Theron, ever eager, flexed his fingers. "Shall we announce ourselves? A formal challenge—"
I didn't let him finish.
With a flick of my wrist, the air rippled.
The Strike
The doors exploded inward—not with brute force, but with precision. A controlled detonation of kinetic energy, courtesy of my Aetheric Lash. The spell unspooled like liquid silver, lashing through the dim interior, sending cultists sprawling before they could so much as gasp.
Twenty men. One heartbeat.
I stepped through the wreckage, my heels clicking against the damp stone. The cultists groaned, twitched, but none rose. The Lash didn't just strike flesh—it severed the nerves, if only for a moment. A gentle touch, by my standards.
At the far end of the room, a hooded figure scrambled backward. The leader.
"Theron," I said.
He lunged forward, eager to prove himself. A mistake.
The cult leader's hand flashed—a jagged bone dagger, glowing with sickly green light. Theron yelped as the blade grazed his sleeve, the fabric rotting on contact.
Necrotic enchantment. How quaint.
I sighed, then moved.
Elyria's Finisher: Celestial Rebuke
The dagger came again, this time aimed at my throat.
I didn't dodge.
Instead, I caught the blade between my fingers. The necrotic energy hissed against my gloves—then shattered, repelled by the Sylvaris wards woven into the silk.
The cultist's eyes widened.
"Disappointing," I said.
My free hand pressed against his chest.
"Lux Divina."
Light erupted—not the gaudy fireworks of battlemages, but a single, searing beam, precise as a surgeon's scalpel. It didn't burn. It didn't scar.
It simply unmade the will to resist.
The man collapsed, convulsing, his mind scrubbed clean of defiance.
Donovan wrinkled his nose at the unconscious bodies. "Messy."
I wiped my gloves on a less-filthy patch of the cultist's robe. "Efficient."
Theron, still clutching his decayed sleeve, stared at me with something between awe and terror. "You—you didn't even draw your weapon."
I smiled. "Why would I?"
Outside, the distant wail of harbor bells echoed. Somewhere in Blackwater, the real game was beginning.
And I intended to play.
The cult leader's body twitched, his fingers still curled around the fading spell circle. Then—
A sound like wet leather tearing.
The air split open, and out lunged a creature of coiled muscle and gleaming orange scales.
Theron screamed first.
The thing moved like liquid, its lithe body twisting mid-air before landing in a crouch. A Sea Panther—its name borrowed from some ancient mariner's nightmare.
[Sea Panther]
Threat Level: ★★★☆☆ (Speed Demon, Precision Striker)
Traits:
- Size: 160 cm (compact but built like a coiled spring).
- Scales: Glossy orange with sea-worn scars (water-repellent, slightly resistant to fire).
- Weakness: Electricity (causes muscle spasms) / Holy Magic (burns its necrotic core).
Behavior:
- Idle: Prowls in slow, hypnotic circles, tail flicking like a metronome.
- Combat: Dirty fighter—eye gouges, nerve pinches, and uses the environment to trip foes.
Special:
- Tidal Dash: Moves in bursts of speed, leaving afterimages (confuses lock-on spells).
- Venomous Claws: Paralytic saliva on claws (gradual numbness; Donovan's sword arm fails mid-swing).
Donovan struck first, his warhammer a silver arc—but the Panther flowed under it, claws raking his forearm. He snarled as his fingers spasmed open. "Damn beast—!"
Theron lunged with a dagger, but the Panther spun, tail whipping his ankles out from under him. He crashed face-first into the dock's filth.
Elyria remained still, analyzing:
Too fast for brute force.
Ignores armor—targets weak points.
It's toying with us.
Then it looked at her. Yellow eyes, slit like a shark's.
Challenge accepted.
She fired an Aetheric Lash—it Tidal Dashed, the spell shredding a crate behind it.
Another lash. Another dodge.
The Panther closed the distance, claws aimed for her throat. She barely pivoted, feeling the wind of its strike graze her cheek.
Too close.
Her Sylvaris Ward-Weave glowed as it blocked a follow-up swipe, but the impact still sent her stumbling.
First blood to the beast.
Donovan, half-numb, roared and kicked a water barrel toward it. The Panther hissed—then froze as Elyria's hand snapped up.
"Fulgur."
A whip of lightning cracked from her fingertips.
The Panther shrieked as its muscles locked, scales smoking. Elyria didn't relent—she advanced, weaving a net of sparks until the creature collapsed, twitching.
Silence.
Then—
Gunther's voice, dry as bone, from the doorway: "You missed one."
Another spell circle flared to life.
The Sea Panther's corpse slumped to the ground, its orange scales still crackling with the remnants of Elyria's lightning. The air stank of burnt ozone and wet fur.
Then—
Another pulse.
The spell circle at the center of the room flared once more, its necrotic runes writhing like maggots.
Another Sea Panther clawed its way out.
Donovan cursed, hefting his warhammer with a white-knuckled grip. His right arm still trembled from the last beast's venom, but his pride wouldn't let him retreat. "This is absurd!"
Theron, panting, wiped blood from his split lip. "We—we killed the cult leader! Why won't it stop?!"
Elyria's jaw tightened. Because we missed something.
The second Panther lunged—this one larger, its stripes darker, its movements even more refined.
Donovan swung. His warhammer crashed into the ground where the beast had been half a second prior, splintering wood. The Panther countered, raking its claws across his thigh. He roared, but this time, he didn't drop.
Theron tried to flank it, dagger raised—but the Panther whipped its tail, sending him crashing into a stack of crates.
Elyria's Aetheric Lash lashed out—missed. The Panther Tidal Dashed, reappearing behind her. She barely twisted away in time, but its claws still grazed her shoulder.
First blood.
The Cycle Continues
They fought.
Panther after Panther.
Each one faster. Each one smarter.
Donovan's warhammer grew heavier, his movements sluggish.
Theron's dagger arm was numb, his breath ragged.
Elyria's spells were draining her mana, her precision fraying.
And still, the spell circle pulsed.
Another.
Another.
Another.
The Realization
Elyria's eyes darted to the cult leader's corpse—still grinning.
No.
Not a corpse.
A puppet.
The real leader was elsewhere, fueling this from a distance.
We're not fighting a summoning circle.
We're fighting a trap.
Donovan's warhammer slipped from his grip, landing with a dull thud on the rotting warehouse floor. His arms burned, his breath came in ragged gasps, and his vision swam.
"Damn… beasts…" he growled, swaying on his feet.
Theron had long since collapsed against a broken crate, his dagger lying useless beside him. His once-pristine Sylvaris uniform was torn and splattered with grime, his face pale with exhaustion.
Elyria stood at the center, her silver-threaded gloves flickering weakly—her mana nearly spent. Another Sea Panther emerged from the glowing summoning circle, its yellow eyes locking onto her with predatory focus.
This is it.
She braced herself, forcing her trembling fingers into a final casting stance.
From the shadows of the rafters, Gunther observed.
His sharp eyes had long since deciphered the pattern:
Each Sea Panther was summoned the moment the previous one died.
The circle didn't stop—because it fed on death.
A simple solution, then.
He plucked a single, unremarkable pebble from the debris.
No magic. No flourish.
Just physics.
The Stone's Flight
The Sea Panther lunged—
A blur of motion.
CRACK.
The stone struck the beast's temple with surgical precision, sending it crumpling to the ground—alive, but unconscious.
Silence.
The summoning circle flickered.
No new Panther emerged.
Elyria blinked, her spell fizzling in her fingertips.
"What…?"
Donovan, still heaving for breath, squinted at the unconscious beast. "Did it… trip?"
Theron let out a weak, delirious laugh. "Divine intervention?"
Elyria's eyes scanned the room—then landed on a small, unassuming pebble rolling away into the shadows.
No magic residue. No trace of a caster.
Just… a rock.
Her lips pressed into a thin line.
Someone's toying with us.
The Sea Panther lay bound and unconscious, its breaths slow but steady. Elyria crouched beside it, her gloved fingers pressing against its scaled neck—no pulse of magic, no lingering summoning link.
Just a creature. Not a spell.
She straightened, her gaze sweeping over the ruined warehouse. "This wasn't a cult."
Donovan scoffed, rubbing his sore arm. "Then what the hell was it? A damned menagerie?"
Theron, still shaky, eyed the beast warily. "Maybe… maybe it was a test?"
Elyria's lips thinned. "A test we nearly failed."
The walk back was silent, the weight of the night pressing on them. Blackwater's fog clung to their clothes, the distant creak of ships the only sound.
"Donovan," Elyria finally said, her voice low. "Did anything feel… off to you back there?"
He grunted. "Aside from nearly being mauled by overgrown lizards? No." A pause. "Wait. The cultists. They fought like peasants, not zealots."
"Exactly." Elyria's eyes narrowed. "Why send Sylvaris elites to crush rabble? And why could they summon Sea Panthers at all?"
Theron swallowed. "You think someone… wanted us there?"
Elyria didn't answer.
The armored car loomed ahead, its polished surface reflecting the dim harbor lights. And beside it, Gunther.
Still. Unreadable.
As always.
Donovan barely glanced at him. "Chauffeur. Open the damn door."
Gunther obeyed without a word.
Elyria, however, paused. Her eyes flicked to him—too calm, too clean for someone who'd been waiting in Blackwater's filth all night.
Where were you really?
But she said nothing. Just slid into the car, her mind racing.
The hotel hallway was silent as the Sylvaris team retreated to their rooms. Elyria locked her door, the hot water of the shower doing little to wash away the tension coiled in her muscles. She exhaled slowly, pressing her palms against the tiled wall.
Something is wrong.
The cultists had been weak. Too weak. And yet the Sea Panther—that had been real.
Across the hall, Donovan was already snoring, his warhammer leaning against the bedside table like a discarded toy. Theron hadn't even bothered to undress, collapsing face-first onto the mattress, his dagger still clutched in his limp hand.
None of them noticed the shadow slipping back into the night.
The warehouse was as they'd left it—almost.
The Sea Panther lay where Elyria had bound it, its chest rising and falling in slow, drugged breaths. The ropes were tight, but Gunther knew better than to trust knots.
He crouched beside the creature, his kris knife glinting in the dim moonlight.
No hesitation.
One clean cut. The beast's forelimb severed at the joint, black blood oozing sluggishly.
Another. The hind leg.
The Panther didn't wake. It wouldn't. Not with the precision of his strikes—just enough to cripple, not enough to kill.
No more running. No more hunting.
He wiped the blade on the creature's pelt, then vanished into the dark before the first whimper escaped its throat.
The Blackwater docks were never truly silent. Even at this hour, the groan of tired wood and the lap of oily waves filled the air. The stench of salt and rotting fish clung to everything, but Gunther had long since learned to ignore it.
He moved like a ghost between the fishing boats, his boots soundless on the damp planks. Each vessel was the same—weathered, patched, reeking of the sea. Nothing out of place.
Until he reached the last one.
The Passenger Ship. It was the only boat with seats. Not the rough benches of a trawler, but proper, if worn, passenger seating.
No tourists in Blackwater. So who rides this?
He slipped aboard, his fingers tracing the helm.
No dials. No gauges.
Just runes, carved deep into the wood.
A twist of the wheel, and the markings glowed faintly—activation sigils, simple enough for a child to use. Too simple.
Designed for locals. But which locals?
Then he saw it.
Carved into the mast, painted on crates, even stitched into the sails—a goat's head, horns curled like serpents.
Sometimes black. Sometimes white. Once, gold.
Hierarchy? Affiliation?
He memorized each variation.
Then froze. Footsteps.
The Dockhand. A man shuffled toward the pier, lantern in hand. His coat bore the same goat emblem—black, this time.
Gunther melted into the shadows, his hand resting on the hilt of his kris.
The dockhand paused, sniffed the air, then muttered something in guttural Blackwater slang.
"Ship's been touched."
Gunther didn't breathe.
The man peered into the darkness—then turned away, grumbling.
The Bar: "The Rusty Hook"
The tavern was a den of smoke and low voices. Fishermen, smugglers, and the kind of men who never looked directly at you.
Gunther took a seat at the bar, his back to the wall.
"Coffee. Black."
The bartender—a one-eyed woman with a scarred lip—snorted. "We ain't a damn Atheneum café."
"Then pretend." He slid a silver coin across the counter.
She took it. The brew she slammed down was thick as tar and bitter as regret.
Perfect.
Two fishermen slumped at a corner table, already deep in their cups.
"…another one gone missing last night. Old Man Harker's boy."
"Same as the others?"
"Aye. Took the Gold Horn ship. Never came back."
Gunther's fingers tightened around his cup.
Gold Horn. The symbol. The highest tier.
Then—
A hand clamped on his shoulder.
"You're sittin' in my seat."
The Threat
The man behind him reeked of sweat and cheap whiskey. His coat was open, revealing a white goat emblem—and the knife at his belt.
Gunther didn't turn.
"My mistake." He stood slowly, leaving half the coffee untouched.
The brute grinned, yellow teeth glinting. "Smart. Woulda hated to stain the floor."
Laughter rippled through the bar.
Gunther walked out without a word.
Stain the floor.
How quaint.
Outside, the fog had thickened. Somewhere in the maze of Blackwater's alleys, a gold-horned ship was waiting.
And Gunther intended to find it.
The hotel room was silent save for the scratch of pen on paper.
Gunther sat at the small wooden desk, the dim glow of the oil lamp casting long shadows across the parchment. His movements were precise, methodical—each stroke of the pen deliberate.
"Subject: Blackwater Docks Investigation."
He paused, eyes narrowing slightly as he recalled the details.
The goat symbol. The missing locals. The too-convenient passenger ship.
His pen resumed its motion.
[The Report]
Location: Blackwater Docks, Warehouse District
Findings:
Cult Activity: Suspected necromancer presence confirmed, though primary cell appears inactive. Secondary faction identified—Goat's Head Sect—operating under maritime cover.
Symbolism: Recurring emblem of a goat's head (black, white, gold) found on vessels, cargo, and personnel. Hierarchy suspected:
- Black Horn: Low-ranking operatives (dockhands, enforcers).
- White Horn: Mid-tier (ship crew, smugglers).
- Gold Horn: Leadership or transport designation (linked to disappearances).
Missing Persons: Locals taken aboard gold-marked ships, never returning. Pattern suggests ritual abductions or labor trafficking.
Jenuvian League Connection: None confirmed. Sect appears independent but growing in influence. Potential future threat to crown stability if left unchecked.
Sketch Attached: Detailed rendering of goat emblem variants. Deck layout of passenger vessel (rune-controlled, minimal crew required).
"Jenuvians wouldn't be this sloppy."
His grip on the pen tightened.
"But stupidity doesn't make them harmless."
A memory flickered—the brute in the tavern, the white horn on his coat.
"They're organized enough to disappear people. Bold enough to flaunt their symbol. That's not fear. That's entitlement."
He dipped the pen again, adding a final note:
"Recommendation: Immediate surveillance on gold-horned vessels. Interrogation of dockmaster for shipment records. Avoid direct engagement until chain of command confirmed."