The Villain Professor's Second Chance-Chapter 740: Iron Blazing towards The Leaves (3)
"My old messenger," he whispered, voice raw with surprise he rarely allowed himself.
The owl blinked once—slow, deliberate. Then it stretched a leg, revealing a scroll no longer than Vostyr's finger, tied with silver thread so fine it shimmered like captured moonlight. The bird did not so much as ruffle a feather when he crossed the floor in two silent strides, nor when his calloused hand untied the cargo.
He turned the parchment in his palm, heart tapping harder. Wax, pale as bone, sealed it—a crescent moon bisected by a jagged lightning stroke. He traced the sigil with a thumb, feeling the indentations left by an old signet ring. Impossible. That seal had been shattered on a battlement the night Wraith‑Company burned. Yet here it was—whole, mocking the ruin of its owner.
He broke the seal. The crack sounded loud as splitting ice. Inside, three words marched across the thin vellum, penned in the same elegant, knife‑straight script he remembered from billets smuggled under siege walls:
I've found you.
No signature. None needed.
Heat tremored through his chest, strange twin to the fire of blackwine. Fingers tightened; a bead of ink‑dark liquid slipped over the rim of his cup and spattered on the desk, blooming into a black star against the dry grain. The message crumpled in his fist with a brittle sigh, parchment flaking at the edges like desiccated leaves.
Candleflame guttered, shadows snapping forward as though to eavesdrop. He sensed, absurdly, that the room leaned closer.
"Serik!" he barked, throat raw. The name ricocheted off timber and was swallowed by oppressive quiet. No bootfalls answered. He had dismissed guards to enforce solitude—irony sharp as flint.
He inhaled, forcing lungs to a slow cadence. The owl watched, unblinking, head cocked in what might have been curiosity or disdain. Then, with a whisper of feathers, it launched into the night. Moonlight caressed silver primaries before the bird melted into the bruise‑colored sky.
Vostyr remained at the window, hand braced on the sill. Below, lanterns dotted the palace's eastern wing in orderly lines. Somewhere, a patrol called the half‑quarter hour. Everything appeared secure, yet that single note shifted the ground under his boots. I've found you. Not we, not they. One hunter. One reckoning.
He pictured possible senders—names thought buried beneath treaties and mass graves. The Specter of Westfall. Captain Vaethe and her Red Knives. Draven Arcanum? No, the Ghost‑Hunter was myth, a fireside thrill. But so was the Silent Hunter two nights ago.
Fear—a sensation he customarily fed to others—brushed his ribs with cold fingers. He pressed it down. Fear could be hammered into vigilance if swiftly molded.
He moved to the desk, the lamp's ring of light narrowing his world to quill, ink, and codex. Rapid strokes produced new orders on fresh parchment: double the watch at every gatehouse; equip squads with alchemical flares; recall falconwardens to sky patrol. Lines of courier routes redrew themselves in his mind—redundant channels in case the primary road bled.
Yet strategy felt strangely weightless against the baleful gravity of that note. The crushed parchment in his left hand seemed to pull at his arm, anchoring him to a darker current.
He smoothed it open, studying the words again. The handwriting's confidence unnerved him—each letter surgically precise, like mapping arteries before a cut. Whoever wrote this had not merely located him; they anticipated the dread their revelation would sow.
He closed his eyes. Assess intent. The phrase echoed from training drills. Find motive, measure range of threat. If the sender wished him dead, poison or crossbow would serve. A warning instead implied leverage. Perhaps they wanted the elven princess, sensing the king's hunger. Perhaps they intended to barter the truth of Ironleaf for a seat at Auric's table.
Lightning flashed distantly, painting the curtains bone‑white for a heartbeat. Thunder rolled a slow drum across the rooftops. Rain began—a soft patter that thickened to a steady roar. Water streaked the glass panes, warping torchlight below into molten gold.
In the widow's sigh of the storm, he heard the faint scrape of claws. Glancing up, he saw the owl again, perched now on the roof beam inside the room. Raindrops jeweled its feathers. How had a creature of that size entered unheard? It regarded him with ancient calm.
"You serve him still," Vostyr murmured. The owl's silence agreed.
A twisted thought surfaced: kill the bird, send back a bleeding corpse as answer. But symbolism cut both ways. A mutilated messenger might be read as fear or rage—either nourishing to the sender. Better to return nothing, mask agitation behind a wall of routine.
He approached, arm outstretched. The owl remained motionless until his fingers brushed its breast; then it hopped to the offered wrist, talons pricking through linen. He felt its steady warmth, the hammer‑beat of a predator's heart.
"You will fly back empty‑clawed," he told it. "Let that silence trouble him more than threats."
The owl tilted its head, as if weighing the order, then flapped to the sill again. Vostyr unlatched a hidden hinge, widening the window. Wind hauled rain into the chamber, speckling the floorboards. The bird vanished into the downpour without sound.
He shut the window, re‑latched it, and dragged a heavy chair beneath the crossbeam—an impromptu brace against stealthy return. Unseemly paranoia, perhaps, but tonight no measure felt excessive.
Returning to the desk, he dipped quill in inkstone dark as midnight seas. Lines bloomed: To Captain Reave—tighten patrol routes along the Cedar Run. To Orvath—prioritize divinations on unknown agents bearing lunar sigils. To Serik—initiate Cold Shadow protocol. Protocol Cold Shadow—conceived for rooting out internal traitors—had never been invoked. Implementing it would rattle every officer; loyalty interrogations, ledger audits, sudden relocations—all disruptive, all necessary.
Ink pooled at the nib. His hand paused mid‑stroke as lightning boomed again, closer. The resulting rumble quivered in his chest cavity.
A memory intruded unbidden: young Lyran Vostyr beneath that frost‑rimmed pine, breath fogging as he handed over a scroll to a man in ranger leathers. They spoke of cleansing corruption from the crown, of forging a realm where strength bowed to honor. Then came sieges, betrayals, Auric's rise. Ideals scorched away until only command remained.
"I've found you." The words were accusation…and invitation. Had the past tracked him through war smoke to claim its due?
Rain hammered harder, as though the sky meant to drown the palace. candle‑flame trembled, threatened to die, surged again.
Vostyr pushed the quill firmly across the page, signing with a flourish that felt like driving a stake. Orders done, he sprinkled sand to dry the ink, then rolled and sealed each directive with his personal mark—a wolf devouring a crown.
At last he unclasped the door, thrust the packet at a waiting runner—where had the eerie silence gone?—and snapped, "To the courier master. Now." The youth bolted, slippers slapping wet stone.
Alone once more, Vostyr faced the room. The cup of blackwine cooled, oily film skimming its surface. He lifted it, drank deep. The bitter tang grounded him better than any mantra.
He cleared the desk save for one object: the crushed note, now smoothed but creased like old scar tissue. He weighed it in his palm. Such a frail thing to bend a man's night.
The storm began to ebb; rain thinned to fitful taps. Distantly, the palace bell tolled the third hour. Another day already clawing toward its blood‑dawn.
Decision settled in his bones. He retrieved his chestplate from the rack, wiping it with a cloth until the crimson sigil glimmered. Let no servant see him shirk steel. Control was visibility, too.
He donned it piece by piece, the ritual slowing his breath. Pauldrons next, cinched tight. Gauntlets buckled. Last, he drew on the cloak of wolf‑hide, the head turned into a hood that framed his scarred cheek like a crescent moon of its own.
Only then did he tuck the note inside a hidden pouch against his ribs, paper cold through cloth.
Vostyr surveyed the chamber: the steam‑ghost of wine, the splatter on the desk, the rain‑specked floorboards. Evidence of a crack. He wiped the blot with a sleeve; tomorrow a servant would scrub the wood with lye, and no stain would remain.
Control restored, he extinguished the lamp, plunging the room into a darkness broken only by distant lightning. He opened the door. Hall sconces cast long bars across the corridor, empty except for echoing footfalls of roving guards. freewёbnoνel.com
As he stepped across the threshold, he glanced back once—half expecting silver feathers to gleam in the dark. Nothing waited except his own reflection in the bleary pane.
He shut the door gently. The latch clicked.
Still, as he turned back to his desk, the crushed parchment felt heavier than iron.
