Collin J. Earl & JC Anderson
patreon
Chapter 40 Arcane Mercenary Ghost of the Wastes
🕑 Added 2026-01-04 13:51:57 +0000 UTCCale
The more I marinated on this, the less I liked it; the whole thing just wasn’t sitting right with me.
I let myself breathe and cycle mana through my body while I weighed my options, watching people move in patterns that felt too sharp to be coincidence. If this were just a staging area for an assassination, there wouldn’t be this much activity. There was too much muscle here. The operation was too visible—too many layers stacked on top of each other for something that was supposed to be a simple kidnapping for leverage and assassination.
It was pretty clear that something bigger was already in motion, but what? What could be bigger than killing a couple of princesses?
Bonnie’s voice cut in, tight enough that I noticed before I processed the words.
“Cale,” she said. “Their internal traffic on the Arcane lattice just spiked.”
I eased into the shadow beside a load-bearing column and stayed still.
“What kind of traffic?”
“I can’t hear them,” she said. “They locked the auditory side down hard. But there’s a lot of movement on their Arcane lattice. They’re processing a lot of information, trying to do… something. Sorry, I don’t know what. But shit is going down in the main ballroom. Looks like a meeting.”
That made my stomach tighten.
She pushed the layout into my display—tall ceilings, wide open space, designed to impress more than protect.
“It’s two floors up,” she added. “Grand staircase. Big double doors.”
I tracked it in my head.
“I’ve got eyes on the outside of the room,” Bonnie continued. “Security’s heavy. Way heavier than it should be. But there’s a service entrance around the back. It’s got patrols, but I can get you through if you move clean.”
I considered it.
“Go there,” she said. “Blend in.”
I glanced down at myself as I kept moving. Matte black tactical suit. Subtle, but still very much not a waiter.
“Blend in how?” I asked. “I look like I came here to shoot someone.”
I could practically hear Bonnie rolling her eyes.
“You’re one of the scariest people I know,” she said. “You’ve got more combat, infiltration, and assassination experience than anyone I know, and you’ve survived more bad situations than anyone I’ve ever worked with. So what I’m saying is—figure it out.”
That tone again—half compliment, half dare.
I bristled. I was not an assassin.
…Okay. Mostly not an assassin.
I slipped back into the flow of the lodge, letting people and furniture break up my outline while Bonnie rerouted me around tightening security. The deeper I went, the sloppier the systems got—overbuilt in places, rushed in others.
At one junction, I paused just long enough to read a sensor cluster that hadn’t finished calibrating yet. It worked, but it didn’t trust itself.
Sarien’s voice cut in, flat and unimpressed.
“I just want it on record,” she said, “that this is a terrible idea.”
“Which part?” I asked.
“All of it,” she said. “You’re walking toward a fortified gathering without knowing exactly who’s in that room. And the caster’s still active—you know we don’t know what he’s capable of, or even have an inkling of their goal.”
“Still nothing on the missionary, then?” I asked.
“Nothing,” she admitted.
That didn’t really help.
“What are you seeing outside?” I asked.
“More people than makes sense,” Sarien said. “This is way too much firepower for what we thought was their overall goal. It looks like they’re gearing up for something violent.”
I slowed a fraction.
“The kidnapping was always secondary,” I said.
She hesitated. “It’s starting to look that way.”
“That tracks,” I said quietly. “But we can’t change priorities yet. The girl still comes first.”
The service entrance Bonnie flagged opened into a long hallway lined with storage rooms and supply closets. I slipped into one, stripped off the outer layers of my suit, and found servant clothes that fit well enough to pass from a distance. I touched the focus at my collar and let a thin thread of magic move. My hair darkened, the blue-black fading into brown, while my eyes performed a similar transformation—turning from stormglass violet into a dull hazel-brown that was common and instantly forgettable.
I looked in a mirror to confirm it.
I looked totally different. Amazing what a bit of color—or the lack of it—could do.
The lodge twisted around itself like a maze designed by someone who liked watching people get lost slowly. Bonnie kept me oriented as I moved through service corridors that felt oddly empty for a place this full. The staff moved with their eyes down and their steps fast—efficient in a way that usually came from fear rather than complacency.
That fact alone didn’t speak well to the orchestrators’ intentions.
Even the service halls carried signs of old money. Deep burgundy carpets muffled footsteps, their weave thick enough to swallow sound. Gold trim traced the edges of the walls and arches, dulled just enough by age to suggest lineage rather than neglect. Candle posts lined the corridors at measured intervals, their bases worn smooth by generations of passing hands.
Most of the flames burned without heat. Wax stood untouched beneath them, preserved in perfect shape—old Arcanum work, subtle and self-satisfied, the kind meant to say we’ve always done it this way.
I reached the upper level and slowed as the space opened into the grand foyer.
The ceiling rose sharply overhead, vaulted and ribbed with dark stone beams that drew the eye upward whether you wanted them to or not. Chandeliers hung in staggered tiers, each one a careful balance of crystal and metal, their light warm and steady, designed to impress without blinding. The floor spread wide beneath them, polished stone broken by inlaid sigils that guided foot traffic without ever looking like barriers.
Wide staircases curved down from both sides, meeting at the center like converging rivers. Balconies ringed the upper levels, their railings carved with the same restrained filigree I’d seen elsewhere, offering clear views of anyone who entered the space. Sound carried cleanly here—voices softened but not lost, footsteps audible without echo.
“Damn,” I said under my breath. “I’m in the wrong business.”
At the far end of the foyer, the doors dominated the space.
They stood nearly thirty feet tall, carved from reinforced wood and stone, worked with scenes that suggested conquest, oath-taking, and judgment. Not subtle. Not decorative. The kind of doors built so that whatever happened beyond them would feel important long after it was over.
Gravebound moved through the foyer in loose inspection routes, their paths overlapping without forming ranks. Their attention stayed angled outward, tracking approaches rather than exits, hands never far from weapons. They weren’t there to welcome anyone.
I stopped and considered the situation while trying to look obvious in my introspection. I’d come up here to understand what this operation was really about—to parse out what was cloak and shadow in this game of life and politics. But for half a second, I wondered if it was my responsibility to care. Rich, powerful people doing rich, powerful things. Did I really need to get involved?
I was here for the girl. For the innocent. Did I have an obligation to go beyond that?
It was a dirty thought, but I was used to dirty thoughts and decisions. I’d had to make them constantly in the Wastes.
I steadied my breathing and straightened my posture. I could turn back, get the girl, and get the hell out—let the authorities deal with… whatever this was.
No. I knew better than most how turning your back on a situation like this could snowball into something destructive. If I was worried about innocents, then I needed to at least know what they were planning.
“I can see you fighting your instinct, Cale,” Bonnie said. “You don’t have to do anything. It’s not your responsibility. Don’t worry—I’ll make it so that chick can’t hear us.”
I steadied myself and thought back to my recovery with the Knights and the Order. The Captain, the men-at-arms, the others—how they’d embraced me, even setting me up with a specialized Sanitatio expert to help heal my mind.
Kindness. Camaraderie. Duty.
Those Knights had embodied those ideals.
I made my choice.
Instead of retreating, I headed for the servant’s entrance at the back of the hall.
I slipped into the recess beside the wall hangings.
Voices echoed from ahead—not shouting, not calm either. The sound of people wrapping something up they believed was already decided.
I waited until the flow shifted, watching the obvious movement of Arcanum ripple through the hallways.
The double doors opened.
Up close, they were even more elaborate—stone and reinforced wood carved with indulgent care. The theater and declaration were obvious. People filtered out in clusters, well-dressed and controlled. A few glanced at the security presence like they expected trouble later. Most walked right past me.
Gravebound stayed focused on the hall, not the exits. They weren’t worried about who was leaving.
I stepped forward with the rest, matching pace, copying the tired satisfaction of people who thought their part was finished. The servant’s entrance stood open behind the hall, ignored now that attention had moved.
I slipped through as the last group passed.
Inside, the air still felt tight.
Force residue clung to the space—the echo of something shaped carefully and recently. The room was massive, cleared of furniture, built for movement rather than comfort.
The meeting had just ended.
Chairs were being moved. Papers gathered. A few figures stayed behind, voices low and intent.
And then I saw him.
He stood apart from the others, close enough to matter, far enough to stay untouched. Relaxed. Contained. The kind of stillness that made everyone else unconsciously adjust around him.
I didn’t stare. Recognition came quietly, like it always did. The wrong person—the kind you didn’t want on the other side of a plan.
With him here, I knew what sort of plan he was capable of, and I prayed—really prayed, to gods I didn’t believe in—that it wasn’t that kind of plan this time.
I let the crowd carry me forward one more step, eyes down, expression blank, already shifting my angle.
The meeting was over.
Whatever came next was going to be violent.
