The name didn’t need to be spoken loudly. Raizō said it once, low and controlled, as if restraint alone might dull its weight.

  “Seris Thayne.”

  The man behind the counter froze. Not subtly. His hand stopped halfway through wiping the wood, fingers tightening around the rag as though it had suddenly become something fragile. The tavern didn’t go silent all at once, but the noise thinned, conversations faded, laughter cutting off mid-breath. Raizō waited. The man cleared his throat. His eyes flicked toward the door, then to the corner where two merchants sat hunched over watered wine. One shook his head almost imperceptibly. The other stared into his cup.

  “Don’t say that here,” the man muttered.

  “I’m asking for information,” Raizō replied evenly.

  The bartender’s jaw tightened. “You already have it. Enough to get yourself killed.”

  Taren shifted beside him. “We’re not looking for trouble.”

  “That’s the problem,” the man said quietly. “You’re standing in it.”

  He turned away and began stacking cups that didn’t need stacking. They left. Outside, the street felt narrower. People adjusted their paths when they noticed them. A laborer crossing ahead slowed, then crossed the street entirely. A woman pushing a cart met Raizō’s eyes once and turned sharply into an alley.

  Taren exhaled. “That’s the fourth.”

  “They’re not afraid of us,” Raizō said. “They’re afraid of what follows.”

  They stopped asking questions. Instead, they watched. Raizō leaned against the stone of a narrow street, arms folded loosely, eyes half-lidded. Taren drifted a few steps away, pretending to examine a rack of tools while tracking movement in the crowd. It wasn’t fear that moved people away, it was recognition.

  “They know the name,” Taren said quietly.

  “And they don’t want to be seen knowing it.”

  A man passed at the far end of the street, ink stains dark on his fingers and cuffs. A scribe. His gaze lingered half a second too long before he turned away and quickened his pace.

  Raizō pushed off the wall. “Follow him.”

  The scribe spun the moment Raizō entered the alley.

  “I don’t know anything,” he blurted.

  Raizō stopped several steps away, hands visible. “We’re not here to hurt you.”

  “That’s not what I meant,” the man said, eyes darting toward the street. “You shouldn’t be asking these questions.”

  Taren leaned against the wall behind them. “Then tell us where to stop.”

  The scribe swallowed. “She came from Eryndor. About a year ago.”

  Raizō’s attention sharpened.

  “She was a captain,” the man continued. “Public-facing. Respected. Helped civilians.”

  “What changed?” Raizō asked.

  “Her father,” the scribe said. “Former Paladin-Legate executive. Clean record. He was killed quietly. No trial. No announcement.”

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  Taren stiffened. “And they sealed it.”

  “Yes. Funeral too.” The scribe’s hands shook. “That’s why people don’t talk. Because they liked her. And because the Church doesn’t forgive symbols that survive without them.”

  Raizō let the silence stretch.

  “What are they saying now?” he asked.

  “That she defected. That she ran. That she became a liability.”

  “And the truth?”

  “I don’t know,” the man said. “But if you find her—don’t bring her back.”

  Taren scoffed. “That’s the contract.”

  The scribe met his eyes. “Then it isn’t justice. It’s erasure.”

  He gave directions quickly, but imprecisely. Regions. Old roads. Places people no longer used.

  “I never saw you,” he said.

  They left the alley without looking back. They didn’t leave Aseran immediately. Raizō altered their course instead.

  “We prepare,” he said.

  Taren nodded. “If the Church is passing names around, this won’t stay quiet.”

  They stayed to the outer ring, where merchants asked fewer questions and cared less about origins. Raizō replaced worn bindings, reinforced his gloves, and wrapped insulated layers beneath them without explanation. Taren traded out his spearhead for something heavier, tested balance, replaced boots that had carried him through too many fights already. Neither of them lingered. They left the city the following morning. Days passed. Stone gave way to scrubland. Roads fractured into paths no one maintained. The wind carried dust one day and damp cold the next. Supplies dwindled just enough to be noticed. They didn’t find a trail. What they found were absences. Cold fire pits, days old. Stones arranged neatly, then abandoned. Footprints that appeared briefly, then vanished entirely.

  “She doesn’t want to be followed,” Taren said one night.

  “No,” Raizō replied. “She wants control.”

  The ambush came on the fourth day.

  The first arrow struck the dirt near Raizō’s foot. He twisted aside as a second hissed past his cheek. A third came low, he jumped back just as it buried itself where his foot had been. Taren spun, spear sweeping up. The shaft rang as it deflected an arrow meant for his chest.

  “Five,” Taren said instantly. “Two back. Three closing.”

  Mercenaries stepped out from the treeline with practiced ease. Two archers held the rear. Three advanced, blades low, spacing clean.

  “Well,” one of them said, rolling his shoulders. “Looks like we’re not the only ones hunting.”

  Taren smirked. “You always open conversations like this?”

  “Only with people worth the trouble.”

  Lightning crackled unevenly around Raizō’s shoulders, wild, unstable, bleeding into the air instead of forming clean arcs.

  “You really thought you’d walk away after taking Church work?” the mercenary continued. “Raizō.”

  The name landed like a shove.

  Taren’s jaw tightened. “So that’s how it is now.”

  Another mercenary grinned. “Taren, right?”

  Raizō exhaled slowly. Shizume’s voice surfaced unbidden.

  You’re brutal.

  The archers loosed. Raizō didn’t strike back. He ran. Arrows screamed past him. One clipped his sleeve. Another shattered against the ground as he veered sharply, lightning flaring behind him in uncontrolled bursts that shattered earth and bark alike. One mercenary lunged to intercept. Raizō ducked under the blade, drove a shoulder into the man’s chest, and sent him sprawling. He struck the man’s arm hard enough to numb it, and kept moving.

  “Close the distance!” someone shouted.

  It was too late. Raizō reached the first archer in an instant. The man dropped his bow and reached for a knife. Raizō struck once with an open palm to the sternum, sending him tumbling backward into a tree. The archer slid down and didn’t rise. The second archer abandoned his bow entirely, blade flashing. Raizō let the lightning surge inward, then slammed his fist into the ground. The shockwave knocked the man off his feet, disorienting him without breaking anything. Raizō stood over him for a breath. He turned away. Behind him, Taren was fighting to keep space. One mercenary pressed hard, another circled. Taren took a shallow cut, then drove the butt of his spear into a knee with a sharp crack.

  “This is getting dangerous now that they know our names!” Taren barked.

  Raizō didn’t argue. Lightning tore through the clearing, uncontrolled and violent. A tree split in half. One mercenary stumbled, blinded. Raizō closed instantly, sweeping the man’s legs out and driving him into the dirt. Only one remained standing. He looked at the fallen, then ran. Raizō caught him in seconds, slammed him into the ground, lightning snapping dangerously close without touching.

  “Who gave you our names?” Raizō demanded.

  The man laughed weakly. “Do you really not know?”

  Raizō struck once, knocking him unconscious. Silence followed.

  Taren leaned on his spear, breathing hard. “It’s dangerous now.”

  “Yes,” Raizō said. “And it will keep getting worse.”

  They moved on. Hours later, they reached a village. it was abandoned, long forgotten. A bell tower leaned against the sky. The bell rang once.

  “She’s not hiding,” he said quietly.

  “No,” Taren replied. “She’s waiting.”

  Raizō stepped forward. This time, the road didn’t resist at all.