The Twice-blessed Paladin

Aldric stands in Falkencrest's study, his armored form still as a statue. The noble, now his devoted servant, sits at his desk, poring over a list of financial records and city contacts.

Zira Noctura kneels before him, her dark form motionless, her sharp eyes downcast. She awaits his orders.

Aldric watches her for a moment before speaking. "The cult is still here. Even if they have gone to ground, they will resurface."

Zira's head tilts slightly, listening.

"You were one of them once," Aldric continues. "You know how they move, how they hide. You will be my blade in the dark, rooting out the remnants that linger in this city."

Zira lifts her gaze slightly. Her voice is quiet but unwavering. "As you command, my lord."

Aldric nods. "Begin your search tonight. Report everything you find. Do not be seen."

Zira bows her head lower. "I will not return until I have answers."

Aldric does not reply immediately. He simply watches her. He feels her obedience, her unwavering loyalty to him, and yet, there is something else.

A flicker of something… human.

She does not remember her past, but she remembers her skills, her instincts. And now, those instincts belong to him.

Aldric steps closer, his shadow falling over her.

"If you find them," he says, voice firm, "eliminate them."

Zira does not hesitate.

"It will be done."

And then, like a wraith, she is gone.

The night air in Gildan's Reach is thick with the scent of burning torches and damp stone. The alleys twist into dark, narrow veins, places where secrets fester.

Zira Noctura moves through them like a shadow.

She feels the city as if it is an extension of herself. The rooftops are her watchtowers. The backstreets are her hunting grounds.

She does not think. She simply moves.

Every breath, every flicker of movement in the darkness—she notices it.

Her mind is quiet. Her purpose is singular.

"Find them. Kill them."

She scales a nearby rooftop, crouching against the stone, her eyes scanning the streets below.

She listens.

A drunkard stumbles out of a tavern. A merchant wheels his cart down the road.

Normal.

She shifts her gaze further. A group of men, hoods pulled tight, moving with quiet purpose.

Not normal.

She follows.

The three men move through the lower district, keeping to the shadows. They do not speak, but their movements are deliberate.

They know where they are going.

Zira follows from above, moving soundlessly, her breath steady.

She waits until they slip into an abandoned warehouse.

Then she follows.

The moment she enters, her body goes tense.

She knows this place.

The markings on the walls, the faint scent of old blood and burning incense.

This was a Veilborn den.

But something is wrong.

"It's been emptied."

She crouches in the rafters, watching as the three men move toward a central altar.

One of them pulls a knife.

Zira acts.

She drops soundlessly, landing behind the nearest man.

Before he can react, her dagger is at his throat.

A wet gurgle. A flash of crimson.

The other two whirl, drawing weapons.

Too slow.

Zira is already on them.

One tries to shout—she kicks his knee in, twisting his head with a brutal snap.

The last man lunges at her, slashing wildly.

Zira sidesteps, catching his arm, driving her dagger between his ribs.

He gasps, choking on his own blood.

Then he collapses.

Silence.

Zira exhales slowly, scanning the room.

Nothing else stirs.

This den was already abandoned.

"The cult is moving."

She slips out into the night, leaving only bodies behind.

Aldric stands in Falkencrest's personal chamber, hands resting on the pommel of his greatsword.

His patience is wearing thin.

Zira returns silently, stepping through the balcony doors, her form slipping from the darkness like a living shadow.

She kneels.

"I have eliminated a small cell," she reports. "Three men. No leaders. No signs of larger gatherings."

Aldric's jaw tightens. "And the other dens?"

Zira hesitates for the first time.

"They are empty."

The room is silent.

Falkencrest watches from his desk, his expression unreadable.

Aldric speaks slowly.

"They were here. And now they are gone."

Zira nods. "They have retreated deeper into hiding, my lord."

Aldric exhales sharply.

He had expected more. He had expected a greater fight, an enemy that would not simply vanish.

But that is exactly what they have done.

The Veilborn are patient.

They will return when the time is right.

Aldric turns to Falkencrest. "Continue your search through the nobility. Find out who still whispers their name."

Falkencrest bows. "It will be done, my lord."

Aldric looks back at Zira.

"You are not finished," he tells her.

Zira does not flinch. "What would you have me do?"

"Go beyond the city," Aldric commands. "If they have fled Gildan's Reach, they may be gathering elsewhere. Find them."

Zira bows her head.

"As you command, my lord."

She rises.

And then, like before, she is gone.

Deep in the wilderness, beyond the walls of Gildan's Reach, the Veilborn gather.

A robed figure kneels before a pool of shifting darkness, their head bowed.

"The Twice-Blessed seeks us still," they whisper.

The darkness shifts.

A voice—cold, endless—responds.

"Let him seek."

The figure hesitates. "Shall we strike back?"

Silence.

Then—laughter.

"No. Let him grow comfortable. Let him believe he has won."

The figure nods.

"And when do we return, my lord?".

The darkness pulses.

"When he has built all he wishes to protect."

"And then we will burn it."

Back in Gildan's Reach, Aldric watches the city from Falkencrest's balcony.

The war is not over.

But for now, the enemy is silent.

Aldric does not mistake that for victory.

The Veilborn Cult is not gone.

They are waiting.

And when they rise again, he will be ready.

But first, he must build up his forces.