The journey to Descate was uneventful, a necessary tedium endured with outward passivity. Malrik sat within the carriage, a silent, unremarkable figure accompanied by Sir Kaelen and a pair of guards. He maintained the facade of the frail, quiet young master, his gaze distant, his body language conveying a mild, easily tired disposition. Beneath this exterior, his senses were active, cataloging the sights and sounds of the road, probing the mundane mana signatures of the guards, a stark contrast to the corrupted energies he had recently faced.
Descate was a small, functional town, smelling of woodsmoke, livestock, and the faint, ever-present scent of pine from the nearby Whisperwood. The fear that had gripped it days ago had receded somewhat, replaced by a wary tension that lingered in the air like a chill. Malrik noted the subtle shift in atmosphere, the fewer smiles, the quick glances towards the forest edge.
Their destination in the town was the blacksmith's shop, a place of heat, noise, and the ringing clang of hammer on metal. The air inside was thick with the smell of hot iron and coal smoke. Weapons and armor lined the walls, glinting dully in the forge's light.
Malrik entered, Kaelen a watchful presence behind him. He moved through the shop, his steps slow and deliberate, presenting the image of a sheltered noble idly Browse. But his focus was sharp, his gaze intensely appraising each sword. He didn't merely look; his mana sense brushed against the metal, feeling its temper, its integrity, assessing the quality of the craftsmanship beneath the surface polish. He ignored the ornate, decorative blades, his attention drawn to the simpler, more functional ones.
He selected a few promising candidates, handling them with a feigned awkwardness that hid a discerning touch. He felt their weight, their balance, mentally testing their potential as a conduit for mana, assessing their inherent durability and the sharpness of the edge. After a period of silent, focused evaluation, he signaled to the blacksmith, using simple gestures, indicating the design he desired – a normal, straight, single-edged blade, sharp and sturdy, emphasizing durability over elaborate design. Function was paramount.
The blacksmith, a burly man with soot-stained arms, listened patiently, occasionally glancing at Kaelen for confirmation. Kaelen, for his part, seemed mildly amused by the young master's apparent fascination with weaponry, likely seeing it as a fleeting, naive interest. The transaction was arranged, the sword would be ready in a few days.
Leaving the shop, stepping back into the cooler outside air, Malrik maintained his placid demeanor. He walked slowly towards the waiting carriage, Kaelen and the guards close by. But as they moved through the small market square, his mana sense detected something new. Five distinct, focused energy signatures. Not the mundane presence of townspeople, not the righteous energy of Holy Knights (thankfully absent), but something else. They were observing him. Their mana levels were moderate, certainly on par with or slightly weaker than Kaelen's seasoned guard. Not a direct threat in an open confrontation, but their focused, concealed observation was significant.
(Internal Monologue - Malrik: Five signatures. Weak, but concentrated. They are watching me. Why? Who are they? Not random thugs. Not the Duchy Guard. Not the Holy Church. Agents? Of whom? Another noble family perhaps, monitoring the exiled young master? Or something else? Their intent feels... acquisitive? Observational? Not immediately hostile, but definitely interested.)
He registered their presence, pinpointed their rough locations in the surrounding buildings and stalls, but his outward expression remained unchanged. He did not turn his head, did not quicken his step, did not alter his body language in any way that would betray his awareness. He was the oblivious, frail young master, interested only in getting back to the carriage. Revealing his true capability now would be a strategic error. He needed to understand why he was being watched before taking any action.
He reached the carriage, accepted Kaelen's perfunctory assistance in boarding, and settled into his seat, his gaze fixed ahead. The carriage pulled away, leaving Descate and the five watching figures behind.
Upon their return to the Lodge, the routine of exile reasserted itself, but the encounter in Descate, the presence of the watchers, added a new layer of tension for Malrik. He was escorted back to his rooms, the facade maintained.
Later that evening, as dusk began to settle, Malrik, resting in his room, senses still subtly active, detected a shift in Kaelen's energy signature. A focused intent, a preparation for departure. He heard footsteps approaching his wing, Kaelen's voice confirming his suspicion.
"I'll be heading out on patrol, His Gr— Young Master. Just a routine check of the forest edge. Won't be gone long." Kaelen's tone was perhaps a little too casual, a little too dismissive. He left the Lodge shortly after.
(Internal Monologue - Malrik: Patrol? Now? Routine? His energy signature felt... purposeful. Not just a standard patrol. Something specific. And his tone... Dismissive. As always. But was there something else? A tension? A clandestine air?)
Malrik's instinct, honed by months of survival and a deep-seated suspicion of everyone around him, flared. Something was wrong. Kaelen's departure felt... motivated by something beyond routine duty. It felt connected. To Descate? To the watchers? He needed to know.
Waiting only long enough for Kaelen's presence to recede from the immediate vicinity of the Lodge, Malrik left his room. He moved silently, masking his mana signature to the barest whisper, a technique perfected in the Whisperwood. He slipped out of the Lodge, using a less guarded service exit now that Kaelen and a portion of the guards were gone.
He followed Kaelen's trail through the grounds and towards the forest edge. Kaelen was not alone; a couple of other guards were with him. Malrik stayed well back, using the terrain and shadows for cover, relying on his heightened senses to track their movement and, more importantly, their sound.
He heard them talking, their voices low but clear in the night air as they moved along the border of the woods.
"...still can't believe it," one guard muttered.
"Wiped out. Holy Church knights," another replied, fear still evident in his voice.
"And that thing..."
Then, Kaelen's voice. "Forget that for a moment. We need to focus on what was discussed. The buyer confirmed the acquisition in Descate."
"Right. The sword. And the potions. All according to the..." the guard trailed off, the rest inaudible.
Kaelen continued, his tone shifting to one of weary, cynical amusement. "Hard to believe, isn't it? That naive kid, playing at being an adventurer. Buying a sword, potions... acting like he's going to clear the Whisperwood himself. He doesn't have a clue."
(Internal Monologue - Malrik: Naive kid. Playing adventurer. Sword. Potions. Confirmed. They were watching me. Reporting on my purchases. Kaelen... he's involved. Part of the observation. But why? Who is he reporting to? What is this 'buyer'? My activities... they're being monitored. This isn't just exile. It's observation. And Kaelen sees only the facade, the 'idiot' pretending at strength.)
Malrik remained hidden, absorbing the information. Kaelen's "patrol" was a cover for a clandestine meeting, likely to report back on Malrik's actions in Descate. The watchers were connected to Kaelen, part of some network monitoring him. His purchase of a sword and potions (he hadn't even thought about potions, but it made sense as a logical step in preparation – he must have acquired them on instinct in Descate) had been immediately noted and reported. His attempts to prepare for the ogre were being tracked, misinterpreted as the foolish whims of a sheltered noble.
After overhearing enough to confirm the surveillance and Kaelen's involvement, Malrik retreated, moving with the same silent efficiency. He returned to the Lodge, slipping back inside undetected, restoring his facade. Kaelen and his guards returned later, their footsteps echoing in the quiet halls.
Malrik lay in his bed, the wooden clone back in its hiding place, his own presence masked. He had acquired a sword, a tool for his path to power. But he had also acquired new information: he was being watched, his every move potentially reported. His preparations were noted, misunderstood, and likely underestimated. Kaelen, his appointed guardian, was part of the network observing him. This was a complication. But complications could be managed. They required calculation, patience, and the manipulation of ignorance. Let them think him a naive kid playing adventurer. Their underestimation was his advantage. The game had just acquired a new, more intricate layer.