Threads in the Dark

The sun over Neverland’s capital spilled down in long, golden strokes, painting the narrow streets and steep rooftops in warmth that felt almost too gentle for a world on the edge of chaos. The smell of baking bread and roasting chestnuts drifted up from the vendors below, mingling with the sharper tang of oiled leather from the nearby barracks.

From the open shutters of the third-floor inn, Kaori leaned lazily in her chair, boots hooked on the table’s edge, and grinned at Daelric. “You hear the whispers in the market today? They say a black market auction’s coming up. Rare artifacts, cursed steel, even… demon parts.”

Her tone was light, teasing — but her eyes sparkled with the thrill of forbidden curiosity. Daelric snorted, his mug halfway to his mouth. “Rumors. Most of those ‘auctions’ are just merchants hawking overpriced junk in smoke-filled basements.” Kaori gave an exaggerated sigh. “And here I thought you were a man of culture. What’s wrong with a little risk?”

“Risk gets you dead,” he said flatly, setting the mug down with a thud. “And I’ve had enough near-death encounters to last several lifetimes.”

“Spoken like a man whose idea of adventure is walking to the bakery before the bread sells out,” she teased.

Daelric’s brow twitched. “At least I come back with bread. You’d probably come back with a cursed amulet that tries to eat me in my sleep.”

Kaori smirked but said nothing, sipping her tea with exaggerated innocence.

The crackle from the hearth filled the pause.

From her spot near the window, Luneth’s gaze was fixed on the distorted reflection of the street outside. Her fingertips brushed idly over the rim of her cup, the faint scrape of ceramic against her gloves almost inaudible beneath the murmur of voices. She smiled faintly when Kaori cracked another joke, but the expression never quite reached her eyes.

When Kaori laughed again, Luneth’s attention flickered — just for an instant — toward the window glass, as though she could see something behind the reflection. Night crept in quietly, smothering the city’s warmth with a cold, damp stillness. The lamps in the inn’s common room burned low, their flames quivering in the occasional draft. Upstairs, Kaori’s snores seeped through the thin wall, uneven and human. Daelric had dozed off in the corner chair, arms folded, chin dipped toward his chest.

Luneth moved without sound, a shadow among shadows. She left her weapon behind. No armor. No clinking buckles. Only the small satchel slung across her shoulder, its contents shifting faintly as she walked. The candle in her room was still lit when she passed — a small, steady flame — until she reached out and pinched it dark. Outside, the city had transformed. Day’s bustle was replaced with echoing alleys and the watchful hush of curfew. Moonlight caught on the wet cobblestones, turning them into veins of silver threading between darkened buildings. The air was colder here, touched with the faint sourness of damp stone and the distant, briny edge from the river.

She passed a shuttered bakery, the scent of old flour lingering like a ghost, then skirted a pool of torchlight thrown by a yawning watchman at the corner.

The courtyard she reached was narrow, hemmed in by shuttered shops with peeling paint. The air here was heavy with the metallic tang of old rain.

A cloaked figure stood waiting, their face hidden beneath the fold of a deep hood.

No greetings passed between them.

Luneth drew a small sealed object from her satchel — one of the charms she had purchased the day before. Its surface caught the moonlight in a way that made the etchings seem to shift and ripple.

“East gate,” she murmured. “Before the third bell. You know where it goes.”

The figure’s head dipped in a single nod. Without another word, they melted into the alley shadows, vanishing as if swallowed whole.

Luneth remained a moment longer, listening. The city felt too still — like the pause between inhale and exhale. Her gloved fingers flexed once, then stilled. When she finally turned to leave, her steps were lighter, as though she’d left more than an object behind.

The royal palace was not a place that slept. Torches burned through the hours, staining the corridors with shifting gold and black. The scent of melted wax clung to the council chamber, where tapestries hung heavy on the stone walls.

The King sat at the head of the long table, crown casting fractured light over his stern face. His advisors were mid-argument when the chamber doors opened and an aide hurried in, breathless.

The aide bent close, whispering rapidly into the King’s ear. His jaw tightened. His fingers curled against the carved armrest.

“…assassinated, Your Majesty,” the aide concluded, voice hushed. “Border Commander Orlan. Killed inside his quarters. No sign of forced entry.”

The chamber erupted.

“Demons—”

“No, Eastern spies—”

“Perhaps a coup within the ranks—”

The King raised one hand, and silence rippled outward like a blade cutting through water.

“We will reinforce the borders. Dispatch senior mages to the frontier. And…” His eyes swept the table. “Prepare the special convoy.”

A murmur rose — the convoy was rarely ordered, reserved only for objects too valuable, too dangerous, to trust to normal channels.

“Failure,” the King added quietly, “is not an option.”

No one in the chamber knew that this order had already been set in motion hours ago in a shadowed courtyard. South of the city, beyond the outer wall, the night wind whispered through the grass with a restless hiss. A group of mercenaries clustered around two wagons, their torches pushing back only a fraction of the surrounding dark. The air was sharp with the scent of iron and faintly rotting meat. They worked quickly, unloading heavy crates reinforced with blackened steel bands. One slipped from a man’s grasp. The wood splintered with a muffled crack, and something rolled free — a faintly glowing core, threaded through with pulsating veins of red light, like it had its own slow heartbeat.

Silence fell.

The men exchanged uneasy glances. One muttered a curse under his breath. From the treeline, a cloaked figure stood watching. They made no move forward, yet the shadows seemed to deepen around them. The torchlight bent subtly away from their position, as though unwilling to touch them.

A distant shout — guards, drawn by the noise. The figure stepped back, disappearing into the forest before the light could reach them. When the guards arrived, the mercenaries tried to explain the strange object. The guards listened but kept glancing toward the trees, brows furrowed, as if they could feel the presence of something no longer there.

By morning, the guild hall buzzed with a tension thick enough to taste. Messengers darted between tables. Notices slapped onto the board were snatched up before the ink was dry. The words assassination and convoy floated like ghosts over every conversation. Kaori and Daelric were still finishing breakfast when a guild official strode over, holding a folded parchment.

“You three,” the man said, eyes briefly scanning Luneth as if weighing her reaction. “High-priority mission. Escort duty. You leave tomorrow at dawn.”

Kaori arched a brow. “Escort what, exactly?”

The official hesitated. “Cargo from the palace. That’s all you need to know.”

Before Daelric could press for details, Luneth set her cup down with a soft click. “We’ll take it.”

Kaori turned toward her, surprised. “Since when are you volunteering for glorified guard work?”

Luneth’s expression was mild, almost amused. “Since now.”

The official nodded, handed over the parchment, and left without further explanation.

Outside, the streets were bright again, the palace spires catching the light like spears aimed at the sky. Kaori and Daelric walked ahead, trading guesses about the mysterious cargo — a royal jewel, an experimental weapon, perhaps a barrel of something dangerously unstable.

Luneth trailed behind by a step, her gaze fixed on the palace in the distance.

In her mind, the board was already set. The convoy would depart as planned. The right people would be waiting at the right place. And when the last piece fell, the game would be hers.

A breeze swept down the street, stirring her hair. She let the faintest curve touch her lips. It wasn’t victory yet — but the rhythm of events matched the shape of her design.

Somewhere deep beneath the city, a clock ticked — a sound she had never truly heard, but always felt. Each turn of its hidden gears whispered that the game had started long before anyone else realized they were playing.

Everything was already moving.