CHAPTER 764: HOME BY SHADOWS (1)

The wind lay low over the castle walls that night, sliding through gaps in the battlements like a thief who had forgotten what it wanted to steal. The air smelled faintly of wet earth and cold iron. From the treeline, the lamps along the outer ward looked like cautious eyes—hooded, tired, unwilling to draw too much attention. Each one cast a dim circle that stopped just before touching the next, leaving strips of shadow wide enough for anyone clever to pass unseen.

Mikhailis crouched low, one knee pressed against the frozen grass. He had been watching the guards long enough to memorize their steps. Two on the north parapet, one cutting the angle by the gatehouse, then another who preferred to linger near the herb garden where the wind didn’t bite as much. The pattern looped like clockwork, predictable—something he could appreciate. He smiled faintly to himself. "They still haven’t changed shifts properly," he murmured under his breath. "Three months and they still haven’t realized the north man counts the wall torches when he’s bored."

The small construct beside him shifted, its rounded body reflecting only the faintest light. If you reveal yourself too soon, people will panic. Also, I need time. Power and sense lines took damage. Give me one night.

Mikhailis tilted his head at Rodion, lips quirking into a grin. "One night. That’s all you’ll get. I’d give you more, but I’ve already learned what happens when I let you take a ’short rest.’ Last time, you recalibrated half the castle pantry."

I fail to see how improving their organizational efficiency was a problem, Rodion replied, voice even as ever.

"They still accuse me of moving the wine barrels to ’improve airflow.’" Mikhailis rolled his shoulders and adjusted his cloak. His steps pressed into the damp earth without leaving much of a mark, each motion deliberate and light. His eyes—sharp and restless—studied the wall ahead. Home. But not the way I wanted to return.

"Plan stays simple," he whispered, scanning the space. "Old postern by the herb beds. Two routes open—the gutter shadow or the dry channel."

He crouched lower, fingers brushing the rough ground. Frost crusted the stones near the base of the wall. It crackled softly beneath his glove. "We go through the dry channel. Less echo. Stone gives us away."

Understood. I will deactivate extended sensors and maintain only local awareness.

"’Local awareness,’" Mikhailis repeated, shaking his head with a faint chuckle. "You always make everything sound like a laboratory manual."

Your tone suggests disapproval. Would you rather I communicate like a minstrel instead?

"That would be terrifying," he muttered.

He gave a small hand sign, two fingers flicking forward. The ground beneath the shrubs stirred as three dark shapes crawled into view—necromantic ants, their chitin gleaming dull in the low light. Their movements were clean, silent, precise. No smell, no waste motion, no clatter.

"Reconnaissance only," he murmured. "No contact, no risks. Mortar seams, not hallways. Watch for new wards." The ants froze for half a heartbeat, then darted in three directions like shadows remembering they once had bodies.

Mikhailis watched them vanish into the earth. Even they look restless. They can feel the change in the castle’s air.

He adjusted his cloak and began to move, keeping low. Rodion followed, soft as a thought. Between them, only the sound of breath moved the air.

The orchard trunks made a jagged fence, black against the faint lamplight. They slipped between them, following the uneven ground until the walls loomed near. The dry channel stretched out like a wound in the soil—gravel, roots, shards of snail shells that gleamed like teeth. Mikhailis ran his hand along one edge, noting where moss had grown back over cracks. It had once been a small creek, feeding the brewhouse, but now only the ghosts of water lingered.

He placed his boot on a flat stone and shifted his weight forward slowly, testing the noise. It didn’t protest. Step by step, he followed the channel, using each rise of shadow like a friend’s shoulder to hide behind. Rodion moved behind him, limbs folding close to his round frame, the faint hum of his body reduced to a pulse.

The castle wall rose high above, a ribcage of grey under moonlight. The closer they came, the colder the air felt. The stones gave off a faint chill like an old tomb, heavy with the smell of rain-soaked dust. Mikhailis looked up. The rampart edge caught a thin gleam of silver—the frozen line of frost that hadn’t yet melted since dusk.

He touched the wall with his fingertips. Same stone, same scars. It felt the same, yet it carried a different silence now. The kind that warned instead of welcomed.

At the postern door, he stopped. The old wooden arch still stood, but someone had laid a trap of subtle threads across it. Fine, near invisible bell-lines stretched from hinge to lintel, tied to a small brass hook beyond. He leaned closer, squinting. The faintest tremor in the line caught the corner of his eye.

"Cute," he muttered. "Someone’s been taking lessons."

Rodion’s light blinked once. Detection wires. New installation. Estimated within the last seven days.

"Yeah," he said, half amused. "Probably Cerys’s idea. She loves anything that looks like it’ll keep people in line." He reached into his coat and drew out a strip of worn cloth and a dull-headed iron pin. He rubbed the cloth between his fingers, feeling for a tear that wouldn’t catch the line. With slow, steady precision, he lifted one of the threads. The tension barely changed.

Still got it, he thought.

He guided the thread up and slipped the cloth under, whispering, "Easy now..." His tone was light, playful even, but the focus in his eyes was sharp. He slid the pin into the hinge and wedged a sliver of leather under the far tack, balancing the pull perfectly.

"Don’t learn to sing," he told the bell softly.

You could have simply cut the wire.

"And wake half the castle? You forget I like my entrances quiet."

You like them dramatic. Quiet is merely your compromise.

Mikhailis smirked. "You’re getting bold."

I am learning from you.

"That’s what I’m afraid of."

He pushed the door open just enough for his shoulder to pass. Cold air breathed out from the corridor beyond, carrying the faint smells of grain and soap, mixed with old smoke. It was the smell of a lived-in castle, of meals served late and fires that never quite went out.

They slipped inside, shutting the door gently. The latch clicked into place with the weight of habit. He tapped the jamb twice with his knuckles—a quiet superstition from a past no one remembered but him. Two knocks for safe steps. Three for when you want ghosts to listen.

The hallway was narrow and dark. The walls seemed to lean inward as if listening to every breath. Even the air felt disciplined here. Mikhailis exhaled slowly, adjusting to the rhythm of silence.

"Lower corridor," he said under his breath. "We go left."

Proceed. I am downscaling locomotion noise.

"Now you sound like a poet," he muttered, pulling his cloak tighter. "A boring one."

The passage led them toward a narrow stair that branched near the kitchen halls. The torch brackets were empty—oil had been rationed, clearly—but the faint blue of moonlight from the high slit windows painted enough for his eyes. He paused at a corner, glancing toward the kitchens. The familiar clatter of ladles and muffled talk was gone. Only the quiet scrape of a spoon against a pot broke the silence.

Three cooks moved around a low fire. They worked in rhythm but without music—each motion practiced, measured. Their faces were tired, but not frantic. There was no wasted effort. He noticed one of them had tied a rag around her wrist, a small sign of a burn treated in haste. On the nearest barrel, chalk marks showed ration counts. The letters were square, sharp—Cerys’s handwriting again. He smiled faintly, pride flickering through exhaustion. "Still policing even ink. That’s her."

He passed without a word. The cooks barely glanced up. In a castle under pressure, one more servant carrying papers was nothing new.

He followed the narrow service lane toward the infirmary annex. The air changed before he even reached it—vinegar, cloth, sweat. He stopped at the corner and peeked in. Extra cots lined the wall, filled with sleeping or unconscious soldiers. Two were empty, folded blankets on top, ready for whoever came next. A young healer worked by candlelight, cleaning a wound on a boy’s hand. Her tone was calm, practiced. On the shelf behind her, jars of vinegar and lint were counted by the hour, not the day.

Riska’s touch, he noted silently. Count, not complain. Always the same. He let out a quiet breath. Pressure, not chaos. That’s how she keeps them alive.