Kairos lingered in the village that morning, knowing his "lost Prince Aerion" act was still fresh, ripe for chaos. He couldn't stay long, doubts would creep in, and his mask would crack.
For now, he sat in a shadowy corner of Marta's tavern, nursing watery tea that tasted like dirt. His eyes roamed, sharp, catching every whisper, every glance.
The villagers were open books, their fear, rage, and defeat scrawled across their faces.An old blacksmith at a nearby table grumbled, spitting on the floor whenever Therion's name came up.
His hands, scarred from the forge, clenched tight, cursing taxes and missing iron. Kairos watched through the steam of his tea, a smirk tugging his lips.
Angry. Useful.
Across the room, a young woman, Marta called her a Lyceum widow, stared out a grimy window, her eyes hollow, lost in grief.
Broken. Maybe too far gone.
By afternoon, Kairos knew it was time to move. Lingering invited trouble, and he'd squeezed enough from this place.
He stood, joints stiff from sitting, and approached Marta, slipping her another silver coin.
"I'm heading out," he said, voice heavy, practiced regret in his tone. "Looking for… family, maybe survivors."
Marta pocketed the coin, her hawk-like eyes flicking over him. "Watch yourself, Aris. Roads ain't safe. Don't trust nobody—not Therion's men, not Vaelgard's, even if they smile."
Her warning was blunt, but her loyalty was clear: she cared for coin, not causes.
Kairos nodded, stepping outside, the tavern's stuffy air replaced by the village's mix of mud and smoke. He didn't head back to the swamp, that'd be too obvious.
Instead, he skirted the village's edge, eyes scanning the forest for a quiet path. Between two gnarled oaks, he spotted it, a faint hunter's trail, overgrown, snaking northeast.
Perfect. It could lead deeper into Therion's lands or graze Vaelgard's borders. Either way, closer to Etheleum, Therion's nest.
The capital's name burned in his mind. He needed raw intel, names, alliances, cracks in Therion's power. Aerion's memories were too soft, too scattered.
Kairos would find the truth himself, carving it out if he had to.
That afternoon, he left the village behind, carrying only Aerion's rusty knife and a few leftover coins, worthless to him but useful for humans. His steps were steadier now, muscles waking up, responding faster.
The forest hummed, crickets chirping, wet earth underfoot, faint tracks of deer in the brush. His senses drank it all in, sharp as a blade. He was a hunter, and this was his training ground.
He stuck to shadows, avoiding main roads where patrols might lurk. His movements were fluid, blending with the trees, silent as a predator stalking prey.
Dusk painted the sky orange and purple when he found a small cave tucked into a hillside, hidden by thick bushes. He slipped inside, checking the space.
Damp walls, dry at the back, smelling of earth and roots. No tracks, no bones, its empty and safe.
Kairos sat cross-legged in the dark, back against the stone, eyes closing. His core's fire swirled, warm, steady, like a heartbeat.
He replayed the village's intel, sorting it cold and quick. Bren, the one-eyed Vaelgard scout.
The Iron River bridge, Therion's convoy next week. Duke Malkor's betrayal, leaving the west wide open.
The blacksmith's spit, the widow's stare, Marta's bitterness, seeds of rebellion, ready to bloom. Names like Baron Varkos flickered in Aerion's memories, tied to Therion's court. Puzzle pieces, snapping together.
His plan took shape: hit the convoy, spark a clash between Therion and Vaelgard, fan the village's anger into fire.
But this body, still too weak, had to be sharper, tougher, a true weapon for his draconic soul. He'd train it, break it, rebuild it.
A sound, barely there, snapped him alert. Not insects, not wind. A faint crunch of gravel outside, past the bushes shielding the cave.
His eyes opened, pupils wide, cutting through the dark. Starlight and moonlight leaked through the leaves, painting faint shapes.
His fire stirred, spinning faster, a predator waking. He didn't move, breaths shallow, silent. His senses locked on the noise.
Sweat, sour and human, hit his nose, mixed with worn leather and rusted metal. Fear, sharp and bitter, laced the air.
Three of them, he counted, catching their careful steps. Not soldiers, too sloppy, but dangerous enough.
They stopped just outside the bushes. Whispers, low and rough, drifted in.
"…here? Looks like a dead end."
"Tracks led here. He's gotta be hiding."
"Or eaten by something. This place feels wrong."
Kairos's lips twitched, almost a smile. Greedy fools. They'd seen him leave the village, a battered noble with silver to spare.
Easy prey, they thought. He stayed still, a shadow in the cave's depths, waiting.
A knife, rusted, glinting, parted the bushes. A face followed, grimy, eyes small and hungry, squinting into the dark.
The man's gaze hadn't adjusted, blind to Kairos's silhouette against the back wall.
Then, it did. His eyes locked on Kairos, sitting calm, unmoving.
"He's here!" the man hissed, voice cracking, half-fear, half-greed. "Alone, you bastard!"