Mother of Midnight

Chapter 260 – Lessons

“First target is the bishop,” Derk said, his voice low and firm as the squad crouched in a hollow beneath a ruined arch, the sound of distant marching muffled by the broken stone around them. “When we kill him, they’ll scramble to replace him temporarily. That disruption buys us time. And opportunity.”

The others were silent. Focused.

Derk continued. “Chary’s intel says he holds a sermon every morning at the crack of dawn. Just a short one, ten minutes tops. Always the same spot, always the same time. Afterward, he returns to the High Fang’s chambers to eat breakfast. Alone. The guards are posted outside. Not in the room.”

Brannet leaned back against a mossy stone, fidgeting with a knife in her gloved fingers. “You’d think a bishop would be smarter about security. Dumbass must really think his god’s watching his back.”

“That’s the arrogance of faith,” murmured Aloshia. Her eyes were half-lidded, calm as still water. “It blinds them to the knife behind the prayer.”

Derk nodded, not disagreeing. “Once he’s done eating, he dismisses all but two priests. That’s when he uses a crystal. Enchanted, narrative-tuned. We think it’s how he maintains contact with one of their greater exomancers. Maybe even the high priest.”

Caelum folded his arms. His coat shifted slightly, revealing the glint of the tools strapped inside. “Which means if we’re too late, we risk alerting the entire chain of command.”

“Exactly,” said Derk. “That crystal must be destroyed as well. It’s tied directly to his identity. They won’t know he’s dead until the line goes dead. If we’re quick, clean, and silent, they won’t know he’s gone until midday.”

Sunder grunted. “And that’s our window.”

Derk’s eyes swept across the group. “That’s our window. His chamber remains quiet until the next bell. No guards inside. No divine warding we know of. Chary’s confident of that. The bishop doesn’t believe he needs it. He’s surrounded by layers of comfort, and we’re going to remind him how sharp the world outside can be.”

A moment of silence. Just breathing and wind.

Then Lunas, finally speaking up, added, “What if he’s changed his routine? What if the siege has him spooked?”

“Then we adapt,” Derk said simply. “If he deviates, we fall back. No risks. But if he doesn’t,”

Caelum finished it for him. “Then he dies before he finishes his eggs.”

A few small smiles. The kind that never reached the eyes.

“Good,” said Derk, rising to his feet slowly. “We move out an hour before first light. Pack light, no ranged unless it’s silenced. Blades only. No mistakes. No noise.”

“Just blood,” whispered Wren.

Caelum stood up and made his way over to his belongings. The safehouse on the edge of the city had been a calculated choice. Better to be distant and forgettable than too central and visible. In moments like these, he found himself wishing he had brought his old paladin’s garb. It would have made infiltration simpler. Authority opened doors.

He had been grouped with Hana, Sunder, and Gorde, the four of them forming the muscle of the operation. Subtlety was not their strength. They were meant for direct conflict, to break heads when the time came. The stealthier members would handle the delicate work. Aloshia, no doubt, would be paired with Velaire, and Wren would be their quiet shadow.

Caelum was fine with waiting his turn. He knew he could make a difference. He would prove his worth. He always did.

“Hey, Caelum!” Brannet’s voice pulled him from his thoughts. The older Lekine bounded over, bright-eyed and grinning like mischief incarnate.

Caelum nodded in greeting. “Hey.”

“Want to practice some more dusk aether while we sit around doing nothing?”

Caelum allowed a small smile. “I don’t have a tail to sit on.”

“I know! Tragic. But I can forgive such a grievous character flaw,” Brannet said with a wink, “since you’re otherwise sculpted like a gift from the heavens.”

Caelum’s ears flushed with warmth, and he cleared his throat, trying not to let the compliment knock him too far off center. “I’ll take all the practice I can get.”

Brannet spun a dagger lazily between his fingers. “Good. Because I’m going to make sure you get better at this than I am. Can’t have you outclassed forever.”

“I wasn’t aware you were classed at all,” Caelum replied dryly, stepping into the circle Brannet was marking on the floor with chalk.

Brannet dropped into a low crouch, fingers dancing through the air, shaping faint glyphs that pulsed once and faded into nothing. “Alright, Caelum. Again. Show me your veil thread.”

Caelum mirrored him, his movements deliberate. The dusk aether responded more slowly to his call, but it came. Smoky strands of grey light wove between his fingers as he shaped the thread and tugged it tight, trying to mimic the same subtle shimmer Brannet had conjured moments ago.

“Too much tension,” Brannet said, scooting closer. “You’re thinking about it like it’s something you’re casting. But it’s not. It’s not a command, it’s… a coaxing. Like you're asking dusk to cover you, not telling it to.”

Caelum frowned slightly. “I’m used to calling aether with presence. Authority.”

“Yeah, that’s why you glow like a lighthouse every time you cast.” Brannet reached out and tapped his wrist, the movement light, almost teasing. “Dusk doesn't care about how authoritive your soul is. It likes soft voices. Whispers. Secrets.”

Caelum took a breath and tried again, softening his focus. He reached not with power but with intent, letting the dusk curl around him rather than bend beneath him. The thread dimmed. Not vanished—just hidden, its shimmer now barely perceptible unless you knew exactly where to look.

Brannet’s ears perked. “There you go.”

“I barely did anything.”

“Exactly. That’s dusk.” Brannet rolled onto his back and stretched. “It’s a lie told so gently even you believe it.”

Caelum glanced at him. “You talk a lot for someone teaching silence.”

Brannet laughed. “It’s all part of the charm. Besides, if I didn’t talk, how would you fall in love with me?”

Caelum looked back to his hands, but his smirk was obvious. “One spell at a time, apparently.”

Brannet’s eyes widened in mock surprise. “Oh, is that flirting I hear?”

“No,” Caelum said quickly. Then, “Maybe.”

Brannet gave him a toothy grin, tail swishing. “Don’t worry. I’m very patient.”

Caelum choked on nothing, ears darkening at the tips. “S-so was there any other incantation you could teach me?”

The older man tilted his head, eyes gleaming with that same effortless mischief. “I might have a few. But hey, I’ve been doing this free of charge. You know teachers usually charge, right?”

Caelum’s expression dropped instantly. “Oh. S-sorry. I didn’t mean to assume or—”

Brannet cackled and waved a hand. “I’m kidding! Please, Caelum, if I charged you for every time you looked flustered I’d be richer than the High Fang.”

Caelum opened his mouth, closed it, then gave a helpless little sigh.

Brannet patted his shoulder. “Relax. You’re part of this team now. That means we all help each other become the best version of ourselves.” His smirk widened. “Even if that best version is a big, overgrown meathead.”

He raised his voice at the last part—just enough that Hana’s head snapped around from across the room. Her glare could have killed a bear.

Brannet, completely unbothered, gave her a wink.

Caelum leaned closer and muttered, “Do you just enjoy poking the dangerous ones?”

“I like to know where everyone’s limits are,” Brannet said, waggling his eyebrows. “Professionally, of course.”

“Of course,” Caelum replied, unconvinced, his tone dry.

Brannet’s gaze lingered a second too long, eyes glinting with something unreadable, before he chuckled and leaned back on his palms. “Yes, yes, I can share some incantations. I really only know a few stealth-focused ones, plus one cold evocation. Most enchantments can be reworked into augmentations and vice versa with a little effort, but evocations?” He whistled low. “Those are a different beast. Harder to bend, if not outright impossible depending on the weave.”

Caelum nodded attentively, already reaching for a stick of chalk from his pouch.

Brannet continued, gesturing with one hand as he spoke. “There’s a basic stealth cloak I can show you. It’s good for field use, short bursts. You’ll need to alter the ending sequence for your own aether signature, but I know a few tricks to make it stick without blowing your cover.”

“I’d love that,” Caelum said, already scribbling a few notes in a small booklet pulled from his coat.

Brannet grinned. “I aim to please.”

Then he scooted closer, tapping the chalk out of Caelum’s hand and redrawing the sigil himself, long fingers dragging through the dirt with practiced precision. “Now, the chant’s rhythmic, syncs with breath and heart rate. If you mess up the pacing, it just makes you shimmer like the night sky. Trust me, not stealthy.”

Caelum winced. “I’ll get it right.”

Brannet glanced sideways. “I know you will. You're sharp. Little uptight, but sharp.”

“I'm not uptight,” Caelum muttered.

Brannet just laughed. “Sure, and I’m not charming.”

Caelum spent most of the day in Brannet’s company. The two of them were hunched over chalk-drawn sigils in the dirt or murmuring through aether sequences beside the hearth. Brannet was a patient teacher, if a bit theatrical. He liked to illustrate concepts with wide gestures and snide remarks, often pausing midsentence to throw a wink or a grin. But underneath the easy charm, his knowledge ran deep, and Caelum soaked it up like dry earth taking rain.

They worked primarily on stealth spells: subtle manipulations of dusk aether that blurred edges and softened presence. Cloaking weaves, noise suppression, light-bending fields—Brannet knew them all, and walked Caelum through each one like he was teaching an old friend rather than a new recruit.

Caelum, for his part, proved a quick study. He made mistakes, naturally. His augment variant of a muffling ward kept redirecting the sound into a single audible pop, which made Brannet burst out laughing every time. But by midday he had most of the fundamentals down. Not perfect, not elegant, but stable enough to pass in a pinch. "Good enough," as Brannet said, patting him on the shoulder.

"You’ve got talent," Brannet admitted, lounging against a crate as Caelum etched another runic sequence into the dirt. "Bit too serious for your own good, but talented."

"I’m just focused," Caelum muttered, wiping sweat from his brow. The sun was dipping low behind the ruined skyline, painting everything in amber and rust.

"Focused," Brannet echoed, amused. "Right. That’s what we’re calling it now."

Still, despite the teasing, there was a rhythm between them. Caelum absorbed technique like a sponge, and Brannet adjusted his pacing to match. By evening, the two had developed a quiet rapport, a shared language of nods, muttered corrections, and quick glances.

And though Caelum never quite relaxed, not fully, he found himself smiling more than once.

Especially when Brannet leaned close to correct a sigil with one finger, his breath warm at Caelum’s cheek, and said casually, "You know, if this whole assassination gig doesn’t work out, you’d make a decent partner for a spellcrafter like me."

Caelum pretended not to hear the implication.

He also pretended not to notice how pleased it made him.

The trapdoor creaked open with a soft groan, dust drifting in the thin shaft of lamplight that spilled down from above. One by one, three figures dropped silently into the safehouse cellar, boots landing with the practiced quiet of seasoned infiltrators.

All conversation stopped. The dozen or so assassins already present turned in unison, the quiet anticipation in the room sharpening like drawn steel. Every gaze fell on the newcomers, who stood without speaking, cloaked in shadow and the faint scent of wind and stone.

The first was Velaire, unmistakable even in low light, his lean frame wrapped in dark leathers streaked with damp soot. His eyes scanned the room and then narrowed slightly as if counting heads, confirming formations, reading intent.

Wren followed close behind, smaller and quicker, shoulders tense with coiled energy. She gave a slight nod toward Caelum and Brannet but said nothing, eyes sharp, hands never straying far from her belt.

Last was Aloshia. She moved like water flowing into a room, smooth, fluid, unhurried. Her pale gaze passed over Derk and lingered on him for half a breath longer than necessary, unreadable as ever.

Derk straightened from his crouch by the makeshift war table. "You're late," he said, voice even.

Velaire offered no apology. "Had to take the long way. Patrols were tighter than expected."

"Report?" Derk prompted, his voice a low rumble that cut through the hushed stillness of the safehouse.

Aloshia stepped forward with her usual composed grace, her boots silent on the old wooden floor. That ever-present cool smile curved her lips, like someone who never doubted their own precision. “The bishop is dead.”

A few glances shifted her way, but no one interrupted.

“They’ll find him slumped over his morning tea, no sign of struggle. It will look peaceful. Painless.” She clasped her hands behind her back. “Poison. Traced, if they dig deep enough, to a vial hidden in the belongings of the third High Captain.”

Derk’s brow arched slightly. “And the connection?”

“The bishop and the captain have a history of disagreements. Loud ones. Regular.” She tilted her head slightly. “There are witnesses to the last three arguments. The story practically writes itself. A power grab in the midst of war.”

A slow, satisfied exhale escaped from Gorde.

“And the communication crystal?” Derk asked, eyes sharp, never missing a beat.

“Destroyed,” Aloshia confirmed. “It cracked when he died, as expected. Narrative anchor was soul-linked. Shattered into dust.”

Caelum felt something loosen in his chest. No alert. No alarm bells. At least, not yet.

“They’ll spend half the day arguing over succession,” Wren murmured from the shadows, fiddling with the edge of his sleeve. “Perfect chaos.”

“And we’ll be long gone by then,” added Brannet, voice low and steady.

Derk gave a single, resolute nod. “Excellent work. Rest while you can. The next phase begins once they name a replacement. We will not let the head grow back.” His gaze swept the room, pausing briefly on each face before settling on Brannet and Caelum. “For now—Brannet. You’ve been teaching Caelum some dusk manipulation, yes?”

Brannet straightened, grinning like a wolf who’d been caught stealing chickens. “Yes, sir!” he said brightly. “He’s a quick study. Absurdly so, really. What should’ve taken a few days he managed in under a few bells.”

Caelum rubbed the back of his neck, looking faintly bashful under the praise.

“Good,” said Derk. “I want you two moving together for the next few hours. Low exposure. No glory. I want patrols picked off one by one—silent, clean. No mess, no theatrics. If even one of them raises the alarm, we’ve lost our advantage.”

Brannet’s grin sobered into something more professional. “Understood. Stick to the shadows. Leave nothing behind.”

“Precisely.” Derk turned to Caelum. “You’ve proved you’re fast on your feet. This is where you show me you can be quiet too.”

Caelum nodded, face serious now. “You can count on me.”

“See that I can.”

Aloshia glanced over, her voice like silk over steel. “If you need backup, don’t hesitate. I’d rather we abort than lose a finger of the hand.”

“No need,” Brannet said, already adjusting the strap on his cloak. “We’ll be ghosts. Come on, Caelum. Let’s go see who forgot to check behind them today.”

Caelum followed, dusk aether already curling at his fingertips, ready to dim sound and blur his outline.

The hunt had begun. Quiet, slow, patient. Just how Derk liked it.