Dragon Heartstone > Chapter 39–Cat Eyes

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An aide walked into Dathon’s chamber, boots echoing against the worn stone floor. “Quorous is here to see you, your Excellence.” Dathon looked up from the war maps spread across his mahogany desk, candlelight casting deep shadows across the hollows of his face. His ink-stained fingers lingered on the border between Cazidoor and Bretagne. “Send him in.”

The stocky mercenary commander entered, his leather armor creaking with each deliberate step. Road dust and the smell of horse and sweat clung to him.  Without preamble, he dropped an empty coin bag onto the desktop, scattering several carefully placed markers. “I have eight thousand men ready to march.”

Dathon studied the displaced markers, each representing hundreds of lives he would soon command. Eight thousand mercenaries plus twelve thousand Cazidoran conscripts—barely enough for what lay ahead. The candlelight caught the silver threading in his sleeve as he repositioned the markers. “Good. We leave tomorrow.”

Quorous gave a curt nod and turned on his heel. As he reached the doorway, he nearly collided with Viperious, who seemed to materialize from the shadows of the corridor. The mercenary commander dropped his gaze and hurried past.

Dathon’s hand stilled on the map. “What do I owe this honor to?” The words came out sharp enough to cut.

“The Council wishes to make an example of its enemies.” Viperious glided across the chamber, his gray robes whispering against the floor. His voice carried the dry rustling of dead leaves. “All prisoners will be executed at dawn.”

The quill in Dathon’s hand snapped. Ink spattered across the corner of his map, bleeding into the parchment like spilled blood. Struggling to keep his tone even, he replied, “The Enforcers have stuffed half the population of Wolfbern into the dungeons. It is hard enough to get cooperation from the remaining city dwellers when we are murdering all their relatives.”

“You heard the decree.” Viperious reached for the stack of diplomatic correspondence on the desk’s corner. His pale fingers seemed to glow in the candlelight.

Dathon pinned the stack of papers with his left hand and shifted them out of Viperious’ reach. The parchment crinkled.

Without acknowledging the gesture, Viperious turned toward the door. He paused on the threshold, one hand resting on the carved doorframe. “Oh, by the way, I will take Brecc with me.”

“Excuse me?” The words escaped before Dathon could master his tone, climbing higher than he intended.

“He will need to claim the throne of Bretagne once I—” Viperious paused, his thin lips curving into what might have been a smile, “—we capture Landros. You, of course, will maintain control of Wolfbern.” His dark eyes glittered. “Do you think that is possible?”

The taste of copper filled Dathon’s mouth as he bit the inside of his cheek. His fingers dug into the edge of the desk, but he kept his voice steady. “I’m quite capable of controlling the city.”

“Good.” The word floated back as Viperious disappeared into the shadows of the corridor.

Dathon stared at the doorway long after the other man had gone. How much simpler it would have been without Viperious or the Council’s influence. Their meddling threatened carefully laid-out plans, upsetting important potential strategic alliances. His eyes fell to the map, to the ink stain spreading across the border into Bretagne.

What will come of it?

“Send for the Enforcers,” he called to the aide hovering beyond the doorway. He would do what he must, but his way, regardless of who approved.

* * *

Larah crept along the shadows, her whiskers brushing rough stone as she pressed against the wall. The southwest gate loomed ahead, towering impossibly high from her current vantage point. She’d spent days watching the gates, noting how this one opened most frequently for the steady stream of rough-looking men and supply wagons.

The familiar creak of hinges made her ears twitch. As the gates swung open, revealing two men in dark robes, she drew in a steadying breath. “Corpus mutaverit in felem,” she whispered.

The transformation rippled through her body like a wave of pins and needles. The world stretched upward, buildings suddenly as tall as mountains, while smells intensified into an overwhelming tapestry of information—horse sweat, leather, metal, and hundreds of human scents she could now distinguish individually. Her newly sensitive whiskers trembled with each slight breeze as she darted toward the gate, every movement feeling foreign and instinctual. A nearby wagon offered shelter, and she slipped beneath it, her night vision cutting through the shadows with crystalline clarity.

The two dark-robed men approached the gate. Larah’s ears swiveled at the sound of boots on stone as several Enforcers materialized from the darkness, their leather armor creaking. Her nose twitched at the acrid scent of their fear.

“Show yourself,” an Enforcer demanded, his voice booming painfully in her sensitive ears. The robed men remained silent, their hearts beating faster—she could smell their anxiety now. “You heard me.”

She started to creep past but froze when movement caught her eye, her tail instinctively lowering for balance. The men exchanged glances before pulling back their hoods.

“An elf?” The Enforcer’s surprise carried a tang of steel. “What are you doing here?”

Riasean’s throat-clearing sounded like thunder to her feline ears. “I have business with the Brotherhood, as does my companion here.” Gall nodded, his movement causing air currents that ruffled her whiskers.

“Very well.” The Enforcer stepped aside, but Larah’s whiskers detected the subtle shift in air pressure as others moved closer. Her muscles tensed instinctively as the Enforcers struck, ramming short wooden rods into the men’s sides. The devices flashed—painfully bright to her sensitive eyes—and both men crumpled.

“Take them to the dungeons and put them with the others.” The dragging bodies left an easy-to-follow scent trail. Her padded paws moved silently across the stone as she tracked them to a set of low buildings near the palace, the smell of damp earth and fear growing stronger.

Metal scraped against metal as an Enforcer unlocked a heavy door. Larah darted inside, pressing her small body against the wall, whiskers quivering as she gauged the narrow space. The staircase echoed with boot steps and dragging sounds as they descended into darkness that posed no challenge to her feline eyes. The hallway below reeked of unwashed bodies and despair; the cells filled with rough-looking people of various ages.

They tossed Riasean and Gall into an empty cell, the door’s clang making her flatten her ears. An Enforcer turned, his boots scraping stone. “Hey, a stray cat got in here.”

His companion’s scent carried disinterest. “Who cares? It will keep the rats under control.”

Larah settled into a practiced feline pose, lifting a paw to her mouth. As she pretended to groom herself, her keen ears tracked the Enforcers’ retreating footsteps while her nose cataloged every scent in the dungeon. She had found what she was looking for—now she just had to wait.

* * *

Riasean’s head throbbed as he forced his eyes open, his muscles still twitching from the stunning rod. The cold stone floor beneath him pulled warmth from his body, and the dank air tasted of mold and rust. “What hit me?” He rolled over, his leather jerkin scraping against the rough floor, and nudged Gall’s shoulder. “Hey, wake up.”

Gall groaned, his face pale in the dim light filtering through a narrow window above their cell. “What happened?” He pushed himself to sitting, wincing as he touched his side where the rod had struck. “Where are we?”

“I guess telling them I was a member of the Brotherhood was a mistake.” Riasean squinted through the gloom at the neighboring cells. Familiar faces peered back at him through the bars, some bearing fresh bruises, others looking gaunt from extended captivity. “A fair number of my brethren are also in here.”

“So, the Council has turned against the Brotherhood,” Gall said, his voice barely above a whisper. The words echoed slightly in the stone corridor. “I am not surprised; they do not share power with anyone willingly.”

Water dripped somewhere in the darkness as Riasean approached the cell door. The iron bars were slick with condensation, and rust had begun to form at the joints. He rattled them experimentally, studying the lock mechanism. Simple enough—or so it appeared. His fingers brushed the hidden pocket in his jerkin, finding, to his surprise, that the guards hadn’t discovered his tools during their rough handling. “I think I can handle this.”

He withdrew the thin leather pouch, its familiar weight offering a glimmer of hope. The finely crafted picks caught what little light reached them as he carefully selected two. Threading his arms through the bars, he inserted the picks into the lock, feeling for the tumblers. Minutes crept by as he worked, sweat beading on his forehead despite the chill. Something felt wrong—the mechanism refused to engage properly. Frustrated, he withdrew the tools and tucked them away. “I can’t unlock the cell; the mechanism won’t turn. Do you have any ideas?”

Gall pushed himself up from the wall, his movements still stiff. “Let me have a look.” He approached the door but stopped short, frowning. “Something is wrong. My hands are tingling.” When his fingers brushed the lock, blue sparks crackled across his skin. He jerked back with a yelp, shaking his hand. “They’ve enchanted the lock so it can’t be tampered with.” A bitter laugh escaped him. “Give the Council credit. They think of everything.”

He rubbed his chin, pacing the narrow confines of their cell. The sound of guards’ boots echoed from somewhere above them, followed by a distant scream. “They probably have also enchanted the keys, so they must be used to open the lock. Unless we get the keys, there is no way out of here.”

Riasean pressed his forehead against the cool bars, watching rats scurry along the far wall. Beyond their cell, other prisoners huddled in corners or lay motionless on thin pallets. The Brotherhood’s influence counted for nothing down here in the darkness.