War Within These Walls

Daren Vos

“She’s dead,” Daren said, his voice loud, hard. “And you’re telling me to sit quiet?”

Adviser Maelin didn’t flinch. “We’re telling you to be careful. The city is already on edge. We can not have news spreading of such a death. Stirring unrest over an isolated incident—”

“Isolated?” His voice cracked like a whip. “She wasn’t ambushed on the front lines; she was murdered here, inside Zadale. Inside our walls. One of our finest, gone, without raising a single alarm.”

“Mind your tone, general,” Velthorn finally spoke, the high councillor’s gaze sharp and cold. “And you believe throwing accusations into the wind will bring her back?”

“I believe someone inside these walls knows what happened,” Daren growled. “And I won’t stand by while the trail goes cold.”

Maelin leaned forward, her voice smooth, dangerous. “We understand your grief, you two were known to be close, but if you pursue this without approval, you’ll risk your command. You’re not just a man mourning a friend, you’re a general. Act like it.”

Daren took a step forward, fists clenched. “And if I can’t protect the very people of our city, what good is that title?”

“She was a soldier,” Maelin shot back. “She knew the risks. This job ends in death more often than not.”

Velthorn’s eyes narrowed. “Careful, Daren. Your loyalty is not in question… yet. But press this further, and we’ll be forced to consider your removal. That would be... unfortunate, with tensions rising between both cities.”

The chamber fell into a tense silence, broken only by the distant murmur of wind through stained glass.

“You’re asking me to abandon her,” Daren said quietly.

“No,” Maelin replied. “We’re asking you to remember your place. We’re at war, but this city isn’t your battlefield. Here, wars are fought with restraint. With patience.”

Daren’s jaw tightened. Inside, rage boiled, but he gave no further outbursts. Just a long, cold stare at both of them before he turned, cloak swirling behind him as he walked toward the door.

“Then I’ll be patient,” he muttered. “For now.”

The doors of the High Councillor’s chambers shut behind him with a dull, final thud. Daren didn’t slow his pace. His boots struck the marble floor with purpose, the echo of each step ringing louder than the last.

Remove me from command? Like hell they will.

He wasn’t some pawn to be moved off the board when it no longer suited them. One of the most capable soldiers Zadale had, and someone had managed to kill her clean, inside the very city walls. No alarms. No witnesses. Just silence and blood. “Wolves had found their way through these walls.” This was a message.

He turned sharply at the hall’s end, descending a stairwell two steps at a time. The cold air of evening hit him as he pushed through the outer gate and into the courtyard, the fading sun bleeding crimson across the rooftops. He didn’t even glance at the guards stationed there; they knew better than to speak.

He moved quickly now, the military quarter giving way to older streets, the kind where the cobbles still held blood from revolts past. It wasn’t far from here. The alley where they’d found her.

He turned a corner and slowed, eyes narrowing at the familiar line of warehouse walls rising like sentinels on either side of the alley. Faint light touched the jagged stone where her body had been found, the memory as vivid as if she were still lying there.

There was movement ahead.

A pair of cleaners, civic workers in grey tunics, were scrubbing the cobbles just outside the alley’s mouth. One knelt, brushing away dried blood that had seeped out under the broken crates. The iron tang still hung faint in the air. The other paused, glancing up at Daren as he approached.

He didn’t speak right away. Just stood there for a long second, shoulders squared, jaw tight.

Then his voice cut through the quiet, firm and cold: “You’re free to leave.”

They didn’t argue. The weight in his voice made refusal unthinkable. Tools were gathered quickly, heads ducked in silent acknowledgment, and soon he was alone again.

Daren stepped into the alley, the stone beneath his boots still faintly damp despite the cleaners’ efforts. The fading light painted long shadows between the buildings, and the faint scent of blood still clung to the air like smoke after a fire.

He knelt near the wall where the smear of blood trailed off, his fingers brushing across the cold surface of the stone. Some of it had been scrubbed away, but not all; there was too much to erase completely. Blood had pooled here, dark and dried, in more than one place.

He stood slowly, eyes scanning the scene with the trained precision of a soldier. This wasn’t a simple kill.

There had been a fight.

The scuffs in the dirt, broken crate splinters, a crack running through one of the low stone walls, all subtle signs of a struggle. Whoever Silene had fought, she’d pushed them hard. Hard enough to bleed them. Hard enough to win. There were sharp gouges in the stone from a blade, and another darker stain a few paces from the wall; someone else had also been wounded. If it had been just one opponent, Daren doubted Silene would’ve fallen. Not without dragging them down with her.

His gaze swept the alley again. The angles of the bloodstains, the disrupted crates, the faint streaks leading further down, the fact that there was also blood out and away from the alley, the story was there, if you knew how to read it.

She’d probably been winning, took one down, but was left weakened. Wounded. And when she let her guard down, walked out of the alley, that’s when the second one struck.

His hand went to the wall where faint scratches in the stone told a story of close combat. He rose slowly, scanning the end of the alley where the blood trail thinned. Then, further along the wall, something caught his eye. A broken clasp. Tiny, delicate, gilded, barely noticeable. He picked it up and turned it in his fingers. It wasn’t hers.

He had something to lead on with.

Daren stood in the narrowing end of the alleyway, where the blood trail had faded to near nothing. His eyes scanned the debris: broken crates, torn parchment, and something tucked faintly beneath a crate.

He knelt.

It was a crossbow bolt, its fletching torn, the shaft streaked red. Something the cleaners had either missed or hadn’t gotten the chance to pick up before he arrived. Daren knelt, fingers closing around it. He turned it over slowly in his palm, noting the weight, the balance. This wasn’t standard-issue military. It was precise. Not street-made. Not cheap.

His gaze narrowed.

On the steel tip, barely visible beneath the drying blood, was a maker’s mark: Grellin & Sons, First Tier. An elite weapon-smith, known for arming Zadale’s officers and private clients high within the city’s power structure.

He exhaled through his nose. Someone with status. Access. Cover. He slid the bolt into his pocket, his jaw tightening.

He glanced once more down the alleyway, committing every detail to memory: the drag marks, the cracked crate edge with a smear of blood, the faint boot prints near the wall. This place was a wound in the city’s skin. He’d visit Grellin & Sons right now, before the high council gets wind of his investigation. He needed to know who purchased that bolt, cross-reference orders, and delivery records. Maybe even bribe someone into talking.

He turned from the alley without wasting any more time, the scent of blood and dust still clinging to the back of his throat. His steps were purposeful.

The shop wasn’t far from the alley, or Daren’s mind was elsewhere, not noticing how long the walk took. Grellin & Sons Weaponry stood just off a clean cobbled lane, its windows high and narrow, reinforced with decorative iron grilles. The sign above the door was freshly painted, gold filigree curling around the letters. A place that sold elegance and precision with every sharpened edge.

Daren adjusted the silver clasp of his cape before stepping inside.

A chime rang as the door closed behind him. The scent of oiled leather, polish, and steel filled the air. Rows of gleaming weapons lined the walls, crossbows, swords, and blades of every make. Behind the front desk, a middle-aged dwarf in a dark apron looked up, then smiled with the kind of guarded professionalism common among merchants who catered to high-paying clients.

“Evening, sir. Looking for new weaponry?” the man asked.

“Not exactly,” Daren said, voice low but steady. He pulled the bolt from his pocket and placed it on the counter. “I was hoping you could tell me who this was sold to.”

The man’s eyes flicked to the bolt, and for the briefest moment, his smile faltered.

“I’m afraid we don’t normally share client records,” he said, already slipping into trained defensiveness.

Daren leaned forward, his tone cold enough to chill steel. “Then don’t call it sharing. Call it a transaction. I pay, you check your books. Or I start asking questions a different way.”

He tossed a coin pouch onto the counter. Heavy. Enough to turn most stubborn shopkeepers cooperative.

The man hesitated, then his eyes darted to the red falcon insignia on Daren’s armour: one that a few dared ignore in this city. Then, fingers twitching at his side, he slowly reached under the counter and pulled out a thick ledger. “I must tell you,” he said as he opened the book, flipping past orders with ink-stained fingers, “our bolts are sold in bulk. I doubt this will do you any good, unless you’ve got something more specific than a single shot.”

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Several tense minutes passed in silence, the only sound the faint rustle of parchment. Then he paused.

“Here,” he said, tapping the page. “Three orders with that made in the last ten days. One from House Varnholt, for the noble’s personal guards, I assume. Another for a shipment routed through the city watch, but that was standard supply, not this tip style. And the third… that private military firm a few blocks from here. The one that caters to the First Tier elites and merchants.”

“What’s the firm’s name?” Daren inquired, voice low.

The shopkeeper hesitated for half a breath, then tapped the entry again. “Eidolon Security & Holdings. Opened a satellite office six months ago. Moose district, west quadrant. Expensive contracts.”

Daren doubted the city watch had anyone skilled enough to take down Silene, not without raising an alarm. And Varnholt, he’d been with Daren around the time she was killed, but his guards had walked away to let the two speak. Daren couldn’t recall the weapons they carried, but Varnholt himself hadn’t seemed like a threat. Someone hired through that firm then? He nodded once to himself and turned toward the door.

The dwarf called after him. “I didn’t tell you anything.”

“You didn’t,” Daren said without looking back. Then he vanished into the street, cloak trailing behind.

The streets of Zadale were thinning as night deepened, but Daren walked with purpose, boots striking stone in even, measured steps. The area the shopkeeper had pointed him toward led to a modest but well-kept building nestled between a jeweler’s guildhouse and a closed apothecary. A polished brass sign hung just above the doorframe:

Eidolon Security & Acquisitions“Protection Refined.”

It wasn’t the kind of name that boasted brute mercenaries, more the sort rich folks liked to throw coin at when they wanted to feel safe without sullying their estates with actual soldiers.

He approached the door, which was flanked by a pair of unlit lanterns and a thin silver line etched across the stone threshold, a warding glyph, old and passive, more ceremonial than functional.

He knocked.

After a moment, the door creaked open to reveal a woman in a dark vest and cravat, sleeves rolled up, a ledger in one hand, a dagger sheathed in her belt. Her eyes flicked over him, noting his horns and then moving down to the insignia on his armor.

“Office’s closed,” she said, cool and polite. “We don’t usually take contracts after dusk. Though I doubt a military official is here for a contract.”

“I’m here for information,” Daren replied, stepping into the light.

“Most people write letters for that.”

He stepped forward slightly, his tone hardening. “A soldier died. I need names. I have reason to believe one of your hired men, or one of your clients, is involved.”

The woman didn’t blink, but her grip on the ledger shifted. “We don’t give out client information. Not without authorization. You should know standard protocol.”

“We’re at war; protocol is the last thing you should be worried about.”

Her expression tightened, just slightly, but Daren caught it. The subtle shift in her posture. A flash of unease.

“I don’t make those decisions,” she said finally, her voice clipped. “If you want records, you’ll speak to our overseer. Wait here.”

She vanished deeper into the building, boots echoing down the hallway. Daren didn’t sit. He stood by the wall, arms crossed, eyes scanning every detail of the office: the precise order of the weapons display, the polished brass fixtures, the faint scent of incense burned to mask the smell of oil and leather, the armor stands placed only for aesthetic purposes. This place was run tight. Efficient. Expensive.

Minutes passed.

Then the woman returned, this time with a man in a high-collared coat, trimmed with the firm’s colors, grey and black. His skin was deep onyx, his hair pure white, a striking contrast that immediately gave him away. Daren recognized what he was: a changeling. A creature born with the gift of glamour, able to shift their appearance at will. A scar cut through one eyebrow, and his left arm was wrapped in a leather brace that looked less decorative and more like it had caught a blade once too often.

“You’re the general,” the man said, not asking. “Vos.”

“I’m here about one of your shipments,” Daren replied. “A bolt, sold in bulk. Killed a soldier of mine.”

The overseer studied him for a long moment. “We move a lot of steel. A lot of clients.”

“This one came stamped with your supplier’s mark, Grellin & Sons. Bought in the last ten days. You’ve only placed one order that matches.”

The man’s mouth twitched. Not quite a frown. “You’ve done your homework.”

“Now I need you to finish it for me,” Daren said, his voice low and unwavering. “Who were the last few of your men to access that shipment?”

The changeling studied him for a moment, sharp eyes weighing every word, every edge of Daren’s stance. “We rotate men frequently. It could’ve been anyone from a dozen teams. Depends on who was on the assignment sheet that day.”

“Then I’ll need the names of those teams,” Daren pressed.

“That information isn’t public.”

“It’s not public,” Daren echoed, stepping forward, “but it’s not protected either, not from someone of my rank.”

The changeling’s jaw tensed. For a moment, Daren thought he’d refuse. Then the man turned on his heel. “Wait here.”

Minutes passed, heavy with silence. Then the man returned, holding a slim folder bound in twine. “Make this quick,” he said, passing it over.

Daren flipped it open, scanning the assignment logs. Pages marked with dates and names, delivery manifests, and rotation shifts. Then, there it was.

A shipment was logged four days prior. The bolt type matched. The only team to access that specific armament had been hired to escort a merchant affiliated with one of Zadale’s northern trade guilds. The destination was vague, the purpose listed simply as “departure escort—city perimeter.” No military stamp. No ongoing contract.

That didn’t add up. He nodded once, tucked the folder shut, and handed it back.

“Appreciate the help.”

The changeling gave no reply.

Outside, the wind had grown colder. Daren exhaled sharply, frustration tightening in his chest, his mind already piecing the threads together. The dwarf at Grellin & Sons had mentioned three recent buyers: the private firm, the City Watch, and Lord Varnholt’s estate.

The merchant didn’t fit. If he and his hired men had already left the city, they couldn’t have been the ones to kill Silene. That left only two.

The City Watch? Unlikely. He’d seen their training. Maybe enough to control a crowd, not enough to kill someone like Silene.

Which meant only one other possibility.

Daren’s jaw set.

It was someone under Lord Varnholt’s command.

Someone Daren had let walk beside him.

----------------------------------------

The doors of Varnholt’s office slammed open with a crack like thunder.

Maelin, the high councillor’s advisor, was present here. She jumped in her seat, half-rising from the velvet chair she occupied near the hearth. Her startled expression hardened into something colder as she saw who it was. Across the room, Lord Varnholt turned with a faint scowl, the gold and copper of his polished scales glinting like firelight on armor.

“Daren Vos,” Maelin said sharply, “you can’t just—”

“I’ll do more than interrupt if I don’t get answers,” Daren growled, striding forward, cloak swirling behind him like a stormcloud. His hand hovered dangerously close to the pommel of his blade. “You murdered one of your own. One of ours. And I’ll have your head for it, Varnholt, unless you start talking.”

Varnholt did not flinch. The bronze dragonborn’s gaze narrowed, the slit pupils tightening like a predator’s. “You’d draw steel on a noble in the heart of Zadale?” His voice was calm, dangerous. “I’d expect better from a general.”

“She was my soldier,” Daren snarled. “And she died not on the front lines, not on a battlefield, but here, in the city. Slaughtered. And the trail of that murder leads right to your house.”

Maelin stepped between them, her voice taut with panic. “Daren, stop this madness. You’re speaking without proof. And threatening a noble under the banner of the high council is treason.”

“You think I care?” Daren shot back. “You people want me to be patient? To sit quiet while murderers wear noble robes and spit polished lies?” He turned slightly, eyes fixed on Varnholt. “You’ll answer for what you’ve done. If not to the council, then to me.”

Varnholt’s nostrils flared, but he remained still, calculating. “You’re letting grief make you stupid, General. My house has nothing to do with the death of your friend.”

Maelin’s voice cracked like a whip. “Stand down, Daren. Now. Or I swear, I will have your title revoked before the sun sets.”

A long, terrible silence followed. The only sound was the slow ticking of the old brass clock on the wall.

Daren’s glare never left Varnholt. His fingers curled around the hilt of his longsword, the one that had never left his side.

Maelin took a step forward, placing herself more firmly between the two men. Her voice was sharper now, taut with alarm. “If you draw that blade, the High Councillor will hear of this. You think you’ve been reprimanded before, Daren? That would be nothing compared to the storm you’ll invite.”

The silence thickened, suffocating. Daren’s grip didn’t loosen.

Then Varnholt raised one clawed hand, his voice calm and deep, like a bell echoing through still water. “There is no need to escalate, Lady Maelin.” His golden eyes were fixed on Daren, steady but unreadable. “He is a grieving man. I understand that pain.”

Daren’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t pretend sympathy with me.”

“I’m not pretending,” Varnholt said coolly. “But your rage clouds the truth. And you came here demanding answers without asking a single question.”

A beat passed. Daren said nothing.

Varnholt stepped forward slightly, the sigil of his house catching the lamplight. “So I ask you now, General Vos, do I have your permission to speak?”

Daren’s jaw clenched, but slowly, reluctantly, his fingers uncurled from the hilt. He gave a single nod. “I’m listening,” he said.

Varnholt inclined his head slightly, a diplomat’s gesture cloaked in a warrior’s poise. “Lady Maelin was here, in fact, to discuss this very matter,” he said, glancing toward the advisor, whose expression had settled into something harder to read, less fearful now, more calculating.

“I did not summon her,” he continued, folding his arms behind his back, “but she arrived not long ago, demanding answers just as you have. Answers about what transpired in that alley.”

Daren’s posture stiffened, the muscles in his jaw working.

“I lost two men that night,” Varnholt said, voice quiet but weighted. “Two of my best. Dead in the same ambush. Same alley. Same bloodstained stone.”

Maelin said nothing, her expression didn’t change, as if she already had this information.

Varnholt’s eyes gleamed faintly under the room’s golden light. “I told you before, General. Wolves had entered these walls. And now you’ve seen what they can do.”

He stepped around the edge of the wide table, his tone turning grim. “My men were trained veterans. Silene, from what I’ve heard, was no less. And yet all three are dead. My men have spotted Lucian soldiers in our city walls, and I believe this was their doing.”

Daren’s expression didn’t shift, but behind his eyes, gears turned.

“Ask yourself,” Varnholt went on, “Was I not with you around the hours this attack took place?”

Daren didn’t answer. He didn’t need to, and Varnholt wasn’t looking for a reply.

The Dragonborn lord continued, circling the table slowly, his words measured, his tone slipping into something colder, more calculating. “But I suppose you deserve to know the full picture, General. You see, loyalty, at least among Lucian agents, doesn’t exactly seem to be their strongest trait.”

Maelin’s brow twitched, but she remained silent.

“I have a spy among them,” Varnholt said, folding his hands neatly behind his back. “A mole. Embedded in their ranks. It seems gold speaks louder than patriotism these days.”

He paused near the tall window, where light slanted in across his sigil.

“My spy has occasional meetings with my men. We were tipped off. My spy told my men where they’ve been hiding.” Varnholt turned, eyes locking on Daren’s with quiet gravity. “An old warehouse. I’ve already sent my men to surround the location. If fortune favors us, they’ll be taken alive. If not…” A small shrug. “Then we’ll have corpses to inspect for evidence.”

A cold knot tightened in Daren’s stomach. He didn’t know whether it was anger, suspicion, or dread.

Varnholt’s gaze didn’t waver. “Either way, the truth will come to light.”

Daren stepped forward, boots thudding hard against the polished floor, every line of his posture radiating restrained fury.

“You have two days, Varnholt,” he said, voice sharp enough to cut steel. “Two days to bring these so-called Lucian soldiers in. With proof. If you don’t…” He let the words hang for a beat, then leaned forward. “I’ll consider this story a fabrication. A cover. And I’ll take matters into my own hands.”

Maelin drew in a breath, ready to object. “General, this isn’t your call to—”

Varnholt raised a clawed hand gently, silencing her.

“It’s alright, Lady Maelin,” he said smoothly. “Let the man grieve. His friend was killed. His judgment is clouded, understandably so.”

Daren’s eyes narrowed at the patronizing tone, but he didn’t bite.

“I’ll give you your two days,” Varnholt continued, folding his hands before him. “And when they’re over, I hope you’ll see I’ve been working for the good of Zadale all along.”

Daren gave a short nod, whether it was agreement or warning, even he wasn’t sure, then turned on his heel and left without another word.

Behind him, the room fell silent again, save for the slow ticking of that old brass clock.

Daren exhaled slowly. Most of what Lord Varnholt had said sounded believable. But that was the danger of a noble and their polished lies. For now, he’d have to place his trust in Varnholt’s supposed spy.