Ludger did not pretend he liked it. He had never pretended to be a saint; he was practical, efficient, and very careful with his moral arithmetic. The men they’d captured were ankle-deep in other people’s misery—moving herbs that burned minds, hauling bodies, taking coin for lives. He pictured the trader’s face, the empty stalls, the mothers who’d lit candles and gotten silence in return. Mercy here would be a liability.

They’d made no effort to cover their features—faces scraped by travel, eyes weeds of fear and guilt—and that made the decision simpler. If anyone woke and recognized the investigators, if any of them were dragged into a tavern and told the wrong story, the Lionsguard’s name could be smeared like oil on a map. He would not give that to the prisoners.

His palm touched the cold stone, fingers flexing. The earth answered the command with the same economy he admired in a well-sharpened blade. A shard of compacted ground rose, dense as a hammerhead and warm with the aftertaste of buried things. He did not hesitate. One clean motion—aimed, private, without flourish—and the shard struck. It was clinical, immediate. They slumped without the long, noisy business of pleading. Their hearts were pierced.

When the last breath slid quiet, Ludger worked quickly. He sank the bodies into the ground and packed stone over them until the surface looked undisturbed—just another patch of dark mountain earth. No ragged edges, no drift of scent for a scavenger to find.

Maurien watched without comment, the faintest shadow passing his face. Freyra spat once, hard, and said nothing; she had never been sentimental about this kind of work. Ludger kept his gaze even, not looking for praise. He wanted results, not theatre.

After that was done he returned to the tunnel mouth and moved down the other passage. It was kinder in a mechanical way—no traps, no manic rune-work—just a straightforward cut through the stone. The air here was colder, drier; the other side seemed closer than he’d expected. Another half-buried boulder sat like a lid at the throat, the sort of obvious camouflage meant to fool only those who did not look.

Freyra peered around his shoulder. “You opening that?” she asked, eager and clearly impatient.

Ludger shook his head. “No.” He crouched, running one hand along the rim of the rock, feeling the faint lines of wear. “If we leave this open and walk out, we leave a trail. Tracks, displaced sod, signs in the mountain that someone was here. If the people who run this network have allies, they’ll find the route and patch it. Better to leave nothing.”

Ludger rubbed dust into his palms. “With any luck their allies will check this place first,” he said. “They’ve got a bunch like this—waypoints and caches. If they expect to move things the same way twice, they’ll come back. If we don’t leave a trace, they’ll show up and bring their own signature. Then we know which houses or merchants touch it.”

Freyra’s grin was brutal and clear. “So we wait with a rock on our tongues and catch them like fish.”

“Exactly,” Ludger said. “We don’t chase ghosts blind. We make them walk into a trap of their own planning.”

They hardened the area lightly—no grand sinkhole, nothing loud—and covered the mouth again so it read as collapsed rock rather than an obvious entry. Then they moved back to the chamber, gathered the launchers and the runic scraps Maurien wanted to examine, and prepared to return to the surface. There should be other tunnels, other waystations—Ludger’s mind counted them like unpaid bills. He did not delude himself that this one action ended anything. It was a cut in a long string.

He accepted the cold in his chest as part of the job: a ledger item he would balance later, in private. For now, there was work to do—tracing metals, following names that might lead them from the mountain’s belly to the counting houses that bought those.

They retraced their steps through the death corridor—now quiet, the traps gutted—and climbed back to the shattered boulder on the Empire’s side. Night air rushed in, cold and clean. Maurien set the salvaged launchers on the rock, ran a thumb along its rune channels one last time, and let out a long, irritated sigh.

“Nothing I can hang a name on,” he said. “Basic latticework, borrowed sigils, cheap copper inlays. Any enchanter with a few winters under them could etch this. That’s the point—generic on purpose. No maker’s hand, no workshop dialect.” He clicked his tongue. “Another layer to blur the trail.”

Ludger studied the dull runes, then the older mage. “You have friends across the border? And… what do they actually call that country?”

Maurien’s mouth thinned. “The Velis League,” he said at last. “A tangle of academy-towns and city councils that pretend they agree more than they do.” He shook his head. “And no—‘friends’ is generous. I have a few contacts who won’t slam a door if I knock, but most of them hate the Empire and anyone who sounds like it. Old wounds. Old propaganda. Some of it earned.”

Freyra snorted. “Can’t blame them.”

“Didn’t say I did,” Maurien replied, weary. “I said they’ll make cooperation expensive.”

Ludger tugged his scarf a little tighter against the wind. “So: generic runes, a league that sells to whoever pays, and a network that expects to be chased.” He glanced back at the black mouth of the tunnel. “They built this to survive us.”

“Mm,” Maurien grunted. “Which means we don’t oblige them by being predictable.”

“Good,” Ludger said, dry as stone. “I hate being predictable.”

He looked downslope, toward the dim smear of the village and the farther dark where their recruits were waiting with the horses. “We regroup,” he said. “We don’t open the east exit; we don’t stir the pond. We carry the toys home, let Yvar put names to crests, and decide which thread we pull first.”

Maurien lifted the dead launcher and slung it under his cloak. “And you get to write a very vague report for your guildmaster.”

Ludger’s mouth twitched. “Dad probably loves those.”

Freyra rolled her shoulders, the promise of more trouble already bright in her eyes. “Next time,” she said, “we hunt the ones who send men like these.”

“We will,” Ludger answered, turning from the wind. “But first we teach our kids to keep their mouths shut, and we make sure the mountain forgets we were ever here.”

Ludger used his earth magic to fix the boulder that Maurien chopped off and then put it back on its place. He never did something like that before, but it was possible, but it cost a lot of mana. After that, he started down the path, the other two falling into step.

They linked up near a split in the road by midmorning, sun burning off the last of the mist. The recruits were trotting back from the third village with dust on their boots and the look of people who’d asked careful questions and gotten carefully useless answers.

Rhea spotted them first. “Boss!”

Ludger raised a hand. Maurien’s cloak hid a bundled launcher. Freyra looked like she wanted an excuse to break something.

They dismounted in a shallow copse. Ludger didn’t bother with ceremony.

“Short version,” he said. “Hidden tunnel in the mountain. Old mine spurs turned into smuggling routes. A crew armed with foreign rune-weapons tried to stop us. They failed.” He tapped Maurien’s bundle. “Weapons are generic by design—no maker’s marks worth a damn.”

Mira blew out a breath. “So… we found the nest. That is the only thing I got it.”

“An entrance to the nest,” Ludger corrected. “And not the only one. Regardless, we are going back home.”

Derrin scratched his jaw. “We’re heading back already? Isn’t that—uh—soon? We haven’t actually solved the problem.”

Ludger met his eyes. “The problem’s bigger than a patrol and six trainees. Whoever’s behind this expects to be found eventually. They’ve layered the operation with cut-outs and throwaways. If we keep wandering around with a banner on our backs, we start rumors—and the wrong ears will hear ‘Lionsguard.’”

Taron glanced toward the ridge. “So what now?”

“Now we go home,” Ludger said. “We hand the gear to Yvar, let him pull crests and coin trails. We brief Dad and Lord Torvares in private. Next time we come back with a tighter plan and fewer footprints.”

Callen frowned. “Fewer footprints?”

“More stealth,” Ludger said. “No tavern speeches, no visible teams. Quiet entries, quiet exits, quiet questions. If we’re loud here again, they’ll salt the routes and we lose the thread.”

Freyra huffed, but nodded. “Then we come back to cut deeper.”

“We will,” Maurien said, voice like gravel. “Perhaps not all of us, but some.”

Mira slung her bow. “We did pick up one thing—two ‘investigator’ groups passed through the village months apart with different house emblems. People noticed, but… nobody talks now.”

“Matches what we saw,” Ludger said. He mounted, adjusted his scarf. “Keep what you heard to yourselves. No camp gossip, no tavern retellings. From here on, this is need-to-know.”

The recruits nodded—uneasy but resolute.

“Good,” Ludger added, dry as ever. “Because I’m not paying hazard rates for people who can’t shut up.”

That earned a few thin smiles. He turned his horse west.

“Line up. We ride. We’ll head home by dusk tomorrow if we keep pace. Then more work starts.”

Before riding it, Ludger eased his horse closer to Maurien.

“What about you?” he asked. “You staying or riding back with us?”

Maurien watched the mountain a beat longer, then shook his head. “I’ll stay on this side a while. Circle the passes, test a few things, see if any of our ghosts have patterns. If I turn up anything solid, I’ll send word.”

He paused, then added, almost an afterthought, “And you can consider me Lionsguard from here on. I’ll sign whatever Arslan wants when I come in.”

Ludger nodded once. Mission done. Not clean, not pretty—but done. “Good. That was the job.”

The recruits traded quick, satisfied looks; Freyra pretended she didn’t care and failed at it.

“Still leaves a mystery the size of a mountain,” Ludger said, dry again. “We have threads and a mess of layers. No clean names.”

Maurien’s mouth twitched. “Welcome to real work.”

“I’ll speak with Lord Torvares when we’re back,” Ludger went on. “Quiet channels. If anyone can grease wheels behind curtains and not tip the bowl, it’s him. At least from the people that I know. Maybe he can lean on a ledger or two without making a scene.”

Maurien grunted approval. “The old bull? Not making a scene? Use the Bull’s shadow wisely. You’ll need it.”

Ludger turned in the saddle, raising his voice just enough for the group. “We move. Keep it steady. No chatter about the mission.”

Freyra snorted. “And me?”

“You’ll not start fights along the way,” Ludger said, stone-flat. “That would be a start.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corner of her mouth tugged upward.

They set off, the line stretching west. Behind them, the mountain kept its mouth shut; ahead, Lionfang and politics waited. Ludger tightened his scarf against the wind and filed the day under victories that didn’t feel like it—one new ally, a dozen new questions, and the quiet promise that the next time they came east, they wouldn’t be walking in with their names on display.

The road home would take at least a week if they kept a steady pace and didn’t stop to be clever. That suited Ludger. Long miles meant long thoughts, and he needed the space, which threads to tug first without yanking the whole mess down on Lionsguard.

They made camp the first night in a shallow windbreak of scrub pines. Horses cropped at cold grass; a small fire snapped; stew did its best to taste like something other than boiled road. Ludger ate in silence and let the others talk. The recruits circled the same points. turning fear into humor and back again.

Freyra stared into the fire a long time, then said, too casually, “I won’t mind joining your guild.”

The conversation stumbled. Three spoons paused midair. Ludger looked up, studied her face like he was waiting for the punchline.

She met his stare head-on. “As long as I can punch assholes,” she added, as if clarifying an item on a contract, “I’ll work for the Lionsguard.”

There it was.

Ludger wiped his spoon, set it down. “We don’t focus on punching assholes,” he said. “That’s a side effect. Occasionally a perk. Not a job description.”

Freyra scowled. “What else is there?”

“Logistics,” he said. “Contracts. Escorts. Training schedules. Supply chains. Politics you can’t solve with an punch. We need people who follow orders and use their heads.” He gave her a pointed once-over. “Aside from headbutts.”

Mira snorted. Derrin coughed into his sleeve.

Freyra folded her arms, chin lifting. “I can follow orders.”

“You can follow impulses,” Ludger said, dry as tinder. “Different skills.”

She bristled, then hesitated. “If it helps me break the people behind those tunnels, I’ll learn your… logistics.”

“Good start,” Ludger said. “You’ll also learn to keep your voice down, your fists, and your temper on a leash until it’s time. If you can’t do that, you’ll be a liability and I’ll send you home. Actually, I am pretty sure I am being too lenient here.”

Her jaw worked. The firelight threw stubborn gold across her eyes. “Fine,” she said at last. “Leash. Orders. Thinking.” A beat. “And punching, when permitted.”

“When permitted,” Ludger agreed.

The tension cracked into a few quiet laughs. Talk drifted back to lighter things: whose stew was worst (Callen took offense), who snored (everyone accused Freyra; she accused the horses), whether Mira could really hit a sapling from two hundred paces in the dark (she could).

Ludger rolled onto his bedroll at the edge of the firelight, scarf pulled high against the chill. Above the treeline the stars were hard and bright. He worried about the work for tomorrow—and the next six tomorrows after that.

Behind him, Freyra muttered, “Permitted,” like she was testing the shape of the word with her teeth.

“Good,” Ludger said without turning. “You’re learning vocabulary. We’ll get to numbers next.”

“Pipsqueak,” she growled.

“Vice Guildmaster,” he corrected, and let the fire do the rest of the talking.

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