Sorcerer's Shadow

* * *

We'd nearly bridged the gap between us when they started sprinting. For a moment, I believed they'd halt and get into a defensive stance, waiting for our move, just like we had when they came at us. In hindsight, that might've been wiser. They were armed with spears, and a steady stance with those weapons could have made things difficult for us.

However, their strategy was different—they charged straight toward us, perhaps thinking we might get cold feet and retreat. It wasn't the best tactical decision, but it made sense emotionally. To be honest, the sight of them heading our way frightened me to my core, a fear slightly soothed by recalling the adrenaline rush of ascending a hill in charge.

Stopping wasn't an option; the beat of our war-drum surrounded us, urging us on, transforming us into an unstoppable force, moving rapidly with determination. There came a point when fear abandoned me. My emotions numbed. I just pressed on, driven not by choice but necessity. My personal objectives faded, replaced by the group's momentum: we'd engage and overpower them because that was our mission. For some time, the larger purpose eluded me, making me focus only on the present.

The whole experience felt alien. I'm not just talking about this encounter, but warfare in general. It still felt unfamiliar. Can one ever adjust to it? And if yes, how? Except, of course, for individuals like Speransky, but he was an exception.

I always knew that open combat would be a stark contrast to covert operations or the occasional street scuffle I'd encountered. Experiencing it was a different ballgame altogether. I am accustomed to the cold precision of my job, but war was a heated whirlwind. The main goal shifted from eliminating the enemy to ensuring survival.

Our footsteps, combined with the sound of the war-drum, formed a persistent beat, resonating with an echoing "Why?" in my mind, which, considering the circumstances, was a tad too introspective. I've come to understand that soldiers, like us, engage in deep thoughts when in camp and switch to a pragmatic mindset on the battlefield. Another thing I've come to learn is that while waiting, whether filled with humor, philosophy, or just plain boredom, this is essential. It's an art both the Dragons and Vorgan understand well: the art of patience.

* * *

Patience isn't our strongest suit. Personally, if events are set in motion, I'd rather they unfold sooner rather than later. I guess I was fortunate in the early days, especially during Drevolan's task. There was no waiting involved. We got news from Platov the day after we laid out the psychic bait.

I was easing into my seat, relishing the seldom joy of a clutter-free desk. A cluttered desk often spells pending tasks for me. Just as I was about to ask my assistant for a cup of Brevan, Thorne, who I hadn't noticed walking in, said, "Viktor, one of the weapons is missing."

"Piers!" I shouted. "Could you fetch me some Brevan?"

"Coming right up, Boss," his voice floated in from the adjacent room.

Thorne tried again, "Viktor—"

"I heard. Let me first savor my Brevan. After that, we can discuss."

"But if you need direct information, Platov can—"

"No."

"So, you mean you don't want Platov to—"

"Thorne, let me enjoy my Brevan. After that, jest all you want. Interrupt me now, and it won't end well for you."

"I see. Well, your well-being is my priority."

I shut my eyes momentarily. When I reopened them, Thorne had left. A few moments later, Piers quietly placed a hot cup before me and stealthily exited.

"Feeling a tad prickly today, Boss?"

"I was perfectly alright when I arrived."

Sipping Brevan requires a particular lip posture to prevent scalding. Like everything, it's an acquired skill. As I mulled over life's lessons and my brewing irritation, I took my time with my Brevan. Once done, I summoned Thorne.

"All right, spill the details."

"Platov informed me that his psychic alarm was triggered last night. He apologized for not waking up, implying the thief might be skilled."

"Let's head over and identify the stolen item."

"He's certain it's a broadsword. Large but not too powerful. Basic handle with brass ends, a leather grip, sharp on one side and partially on the other, sufficient for thrusting."

Opal helped me visualize it. I recalled it vaguely, a standard piece among many, not even well-crafted by Norsanti standards.

"Thorne, I'm guessing this was a trial run, not the actual weapon they desired. Thoughts?"

"They might be after its hidden history or potential magic."

"Possibly. Your next move?"

"Perhaps employ Liora to retrieve it?"

"And risk revealing our knowledge for a possibly insignificant weapon? Got a better plan?"

"We need to identify the thief. I bet Platov can help."

"Good. Make it happen."

"Me?"

"Indeed. You'll be our liaison with Platov."

"Such an honor."

"I always try to align tasks with my team's abilities."

"Not now, Viktor."

To some extent, that comment held weight, but just a little. Being in charge taught me the art of delegation, distinguishing tasks I could hand off from those I needed to handle personally. Actually, another incident made this clear, but that's a tale for another time.

After Thorne left, I lost myself in thought. Opal inquired, "Something on your mind, Boss?"

"I tend to overthink," I replied.

With not much on my plate that day, my mind wandered. Ideally, I would've paced my room, restless, but showing vulnerability wasn't an option. So, I sat reminiscing about culinary creations, past romances, and shared light moments with Opal.

Lunch was a much-needed break. I dined at Terran, a joint run by Anya, and enjoyed roasted duck in cherry sauce and garlic bread. Though the bread didn't match up to Noish-pa's, it was still palatable. Anya joined post-lunch, and while I indulged in sorbet and orange liqueur, she lamented over the cost of ice. I was thankful for her company; eating alone wasn't my thing.

Back at the office, Thorne awaited. His cloak was a giveaway. I took my seat, striving to appear nonchalant.

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