Daruis didn't wait for the investigation to tighten further.
By the time the town settled into the kind of silence that only came well past midnight, when even the last conversations in the common rooms had died down into low murmurs or nothing at all, he was already moving.
The inn wasn't difficult to locate, he always knew where his lackey's lived.
It sat slightly off the main street in Eldor, the kind of place that balanced anonymity with just enough comfort to attract people who didn't want to be noticed but also didn't want to sleep rough. He had chosen it for that exact reason when assigning the man his tasks.
Now, it worked both ways. Daruis entered without drawing attention, passing through the lower level with the same unremarkable presence he had worn for days.
No one stopped him. No one looked twice. By the time he reached the upper floor, the quiet had thickened, broken only by the occasional shift of wood underfoot and the distant sound of someone turning in their sleep.
He stopped outside the door. With little hesitation and just a brief stillness as he listened. The lackey's breathing was steady and slow.
He pushed the door open with controlled pressure, enough to avoid the hinge protesting, and stepped inside, closing it behind him without sound.
The room was dim, lit only by the faint spill of moonlight through the narrow window. It was enough.
The lackey lay on the bed, turned slightly to one side, one arm draped loosely over the edge as if he had fallen asleep without care.
His chest rose and fell in a rhythm that matched what Daruis had heard from outside.
For a moment, Daruis simply stood there. Not watching for movement instead he measured the distance. This wasn't necessary. That part was clear even to him. The man had already exposed himself. Already become irrelevant in any larger calculation.
But that wasn't why Daruis had come. He moved closer. Each step placed with the same care he had used entering the room, weight distributed, no sudden shifts.
By the time he reached the bedside, there was no sign he had been there at all beyond his presence itself.
He drew the blade from inside his cloak. It was a simple sharp knife with no ornamentation.
"This is good, many of my servants will be deterred from pulling a stunt like this guy pulled on me" Daruis muttered as he planned to make an example out of him
He was referring to the previous night with an elaborate plan to expose his lackey as a traitor by sending in a fake him. The fake him got killed instantly by assassins which confirmed his suspicion that he's working with the enemies.
His hand moved—but the lackey moved first.
Not a startled reaction or the clumsy scramble of someone woken too late.
Rolled off the bed in a single, controlled motion that carried him out of reach before the blade could descend. His feet hit the ground already set for movement, body angled, eyes open and clear in a way that had nothing to do with sleep.
Daruis didn't chase immediately. He stepped back instead, just enough to widen the space between them, his gaze sharpening as the room adjusted around the new reality.
"You really—" the lackey started, breath slightly uneven, though whether from fear or anticipation wasn't clear, "—you really came yourself."
There was something off in his tone. He wasn't reliefed per say or even afraid, not in the way it should have been.
He had an expression of expectation instead. Daruis said nothing. He didn't need to. The answer was already forming.
Suddenly two presences filled the room without the door opening, without the window moving.
They were just there, positioned, one to his left, one to his right. Daruis didn't turn his head fully. He didn't need to see them clearly to understand what had just happened.
The lackey exhaled, something like tension releasing from his shoulders as he straightened slightly. "I figured…" he said, a faint, strained smile pulling at his mouth, "you'd think I was stupid enough to stick with the first plan."
So that was it, The street assasination had been a test for him not them.
"They needed to believe it," the lackey continued, words coming a little faster now, as if saying them out loud justified something. "That I'd already— that you were already—"
"Dead," Daruis finished quietly with an impressed gaze.
The lackey nodded once. "Yeah."
Daruis let his gaze shift, finally acknowledging the two figures properly.
Identical in build, in presence, in the way they held themselves—not rigid or relaxed, but balanced on a line that suggested immediate action without wasted movement. Their eyes were on him, not with curiosity, not even with hostility in the usual sense.
As he assessed their power he looked back at one of the books he read at the library about the power structure of this world
It described three pillars that governed all advancement. The first was the body—the vessel. Without a body capable of enduring strain, no amount of energy could be sustained. Muscles tore, bones fractured, organs failed.
Many who attempted to force their growth met quiet ends, their deaths attributed to illness rather than ambition.
The second was energy itself. It was not passive. It resisted control, shifting and pressing against the one who tried to contain it. To draw it in was simple in theory, but to hold it, to guide it without losing form, required time that could not be shortened. Those who rushed found the energy turning against them, unraveling whatever fragile control they believed they possessed.
The third was experience, though the text did not name it so directly. Instead, it spoke of pressure—of moments where control was not optional, where failure meant death. Only in those moments did many truly begin to understand the limits of what they could do. Training could shape technique, but it could not replicate the weight of consequence.
The early stages were described with a kind of quiet indifference. Initiates learned to sense energy, to draw it in through repetition and stillness. Progress was measured in patience rather than results. Months could pass with little change. Years, in some cases. Many abandoned the effort long before anything meaningful took hold.
Advancement beyond that point was less forgiving. The body had to change, slowly adapting to greater strain. Energy had to be compressed, directed, held without loss. There were accounts—brief, almost dismissive—of those who pushed too far. Internal damage, paralysis, sudden death. The text did not linger on them.
It noted that most who reached a certain level remained there indefinitely. Skill improved, experience deepened, but something essential refused to shift. The reason was not always clear. Some lacked the necessary pressure. Others lacked the understanding. Many simply lacked the capacity, though the text did not state that outright.
Those who advanced further did so under conditions that could not be easily recreated. Prolonged conflict. Near-death encounters. Emotional extremes that forced change where discipline alone could not. Even then, it was not guaranteed. The transition was described less as a step and more as a fracture—something that either held under strain or broke entirely.
At higher levels, the language shifted. Less instruction, more observation. It spoke of individuals whose control no longer appeared strained, whose use of energy seemed natural, almost inevitable. They did not simply wield power; they imposed it. The distinction was not explained in detail, only implied through scattered accounts of battles that ended too quickly to fully understand.