Chapter 125: The Watcher (2)

The baron would pause. Mid-step. Mid-sentence. His eyes would focus on something he couldn’t see. His lips would move. He would nod, frown or smile. But it was always that.

He was talking to someone. But there was no one there.

He watched closer.

The baron would be in his study. Alone. The door closed. The windows shuttered. And he would speak. Not to himself. To something.

What is he saying?

He crept closer and pressed himself against the window, trying to listen.

"—not enough. We need more. The village is still struggling. The repairs are slow. The Guild is quiet. Too quiet. They’re planning something."

Silence.

"I know. I know. But I can’t do everything at once. I need to prioritize."

Silence.

"The farmlands? The marshland is drained. The crops are planted. We’ll have a harvest in a few months. That will help."

Silence.

"Fine. I’ll check the eastern fields tomorrow. But first—the well. The village needs clean water. That’s the priority."

Silence.

"Thank you. For the advice. I know I don’t say it enough. But thank you."

He pulled back.

He’s talking to someone. But there’s no one there. Is he mad? Or is there something else?

He filed it away. That was another interesting bit of information for his employers.

By the third week, he was already getting bored.

He had watched the baroness all day.

She was in the garden. Alone. Her chair was positioned near the roses. Her hands were in her lap and her eyes seemed distant.

He watched from the shadows as a few trickles of tears rolled down her cheeks.

She quickly wiped them, making sure no one saw.

But he did.

She was tragically beautiful. He had noticed that the first day. The way her cheekbones rose when she was excited and how her eyes were far too invasive for his liking. But there was something else. She was depressed and broken inside. Or at least that’s what it looked like from the outside.

She’s in pain, he thought half to himself. Apart from her current state, there was something else.

He watched her for a long time.

She didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Just sat there. Looking at the roses. Looking at nothing.

He pushed the thought of her rationale and motivations away.

This was his target. He was not supposed to care about what made them tick. Simply, observe and report back. He wrote another entry in his diary and concealed himself in the shadows.

That night.

He returned to his camp. A small hollow in the hills that was hidden and safe from prying eyes. Like his daily routine, he had built a fire, ate dried meat and drank water.

This assignment was pooling unwanted memories for him.

---

He had been born in the far north. A cold place, and a merciless place in the mountains. His home was filled year round with snow and ice covering the whole region. His people were warriors. Hunters. Survivors.

He had been a warrior once. A respected one. A feared one. He had a wife. A daughter. A home in the mountains.

Then the warlord came.

A man named Dothar the conqueror. But that was a cover. He was nothing but a butcher. He had swept down from the eastern steppes with an army of mercenaries and monsters. He had burned the villages, slaughtered the people and taken what he wanted.

His wife had been killed. His daughter—six years old—had been taken. For "labor." He never saw her again.

He had tried to fight. Tried to save them. But he was just one man. What could he do against an army?

He had fled, lived in the shadows and honed his craft to kill. This was how he learned to survive.

I will never be helpless again, he had sworn. I will never let anyone take from me again.

He had become an assassin. A ghost and a weapon for hire.

But the memories never faded.

He closed his eyes.

The Baron and his wife were good people. They were actively trying to make life better for their subjects. If only he had such people. Maybe they would have been protected better.

He pushed the thought away again. He was getting sentimental tonight.

It doesn’t matter. I have a job. I’ll do it. Then I’ll leave, he told himself.

He could not afford to grow attached to these people.

"Get a grip Ren." He said, slapped his face with two hands.

He was worried. The people who had hired him were bad people. If they wanted information on the baron, he knew it couldn’t be good.

He sighed, stuffing a dried piece of meat in his mouth as he tried to remain concealed in the bushes. He was in the garden and she was here again. She sure loved this place.

He noticed a few maids scattered around here at reasonable distances.

He crept closer, renaming silent and staying invisible.

Stealth was an assassin’s greatest skill. Honing it took years and the level of an assassin’s stealth determined how well they performed at the job. It was really that simple.

She was reading what looked like a book of poems. She turned the pages slowly. Her lips moved like she was reciting the words on the paper in front of her.

Then she stopped.

Her head lifted and her eyes narrowed. She looked—not at him but near him. Like she sensed something in that general area.

Ren froze.

She can’t see me. She can’t.

Her eyes lingered. Searching. Then they moved on. She returned to her book.

But something had changed. Her shoulders were tense. Her hands gripped the book tighter.

She knew something was there.

She just didn’t know what.

---

Ren’s heart was beating furiously now. He pulled back, disappearing into the shadows.

His heart was still pounding.

She almost saw me. She almost—

He shook his head and pushed the thought away.

Maybe it was a fluke.

Boy, this family was full of undiagnosed freaks, he told himself.

He had a job to do. He would do it then leave after.