The granaries sat at the eastern edge of the capital—massive wooden buildings designed to store grain for the entire kingdom. By day, they were filled with bustling workers, the air thick with the scent of wheat and sweat. But at night, they stood silent, looming like ancient beasts curled in slumber.
Sabel crouched atop a tall sack of barley, the moonlight catching the shimmer of his cloak. He scanned the silent expanse below—four granary warehouses, three guard towers, and a suspicious lack of birds.
"No crows," he muttered. "Even the pigeons know to stay away."
He hopped down and landed with a soft thud. With one hand on his staff and the other holding a cup of magically heated espresso, he began walking along the perimeter.
At the north granary, he found the first clue: a faint shimmer on the ground, like oil glistening in moonlight. He knelt and sniffed.
"Pixie dust. High-tier glamour magic," he said aloud, flicking some of it into a vial. "And smells faintly of licorice… disgusting."
He followed the trail, which sparkled faintly when viewed with his illusion-breaking charm. The trail curved around the back of the warehouse and toward the fence. That's when he heard it: a soft, metallic clink, followed by a quiet grunt.
Sabel didn't hesitate.
In one swift movement, he hurled his cup in the direction of the sound. The magical coffee exploded mid-air into steam, revealing the outline of a cloaked figure climbing over the fence.
"Oh no you don't," Sabel muttered, and in a blur, he was sprinting.
The figure dropped to the other side and dashed into the dark alleyway, feet barely making a sound. Sabel was right behind, vaulting over crates and sliding under carts. The chase twisted through narrow lanes and across quiet courtyards.
Finally, the figure ducked into a small building—an abandoned stable. Sabel followed, staff raised.
He kicked open the door and entered cautiously.
Silence.
Only the creaking of beams and the faint smell of hay and… something else. Something sharp.
Blood.
Sabel's eyes narrowed. "I know you're here. You might as well come out."
A cough echoed from the loft above, and then a voice, young and trembling: "Are… are you him? The café man?"
Sabel looked up sharply. A small boy, barely ten, peeked over the wooden edge—dusty, scared, but unharmed.
"The commander's kid," Sabel breathed, stunned. "How did you escape?"
"He ran off. The man in the mask. When the coffee steam hit him, he said something about 'being seen' and ran. Left me here. I didn't know what to do…"
Sabel climbed up slowly. "It's alright now. I'm taking you back."
The boy looked relieved—but then froze, staring past Sabel's shoulder.
"He's back!" the boy whispered.
Sabel turned just in time to see a blade coming for his chest.
CLANG!
The blade met his staff. Sparks flew.
The attacker was tall, masked, cloaked in shadow, moving with eerie silence. He said nothing, but his strikes were quick and practiced.
Sabel blocked each blow, then muttered a quick incantation. "Decaf Illusio!"
A burst of dark smoke engulfed the stable. The attacker coughed, momentarily confused—and in that moment, Sabel struck his chest with the butt of his staff, knocking the wind out of him.
The mask cracked and fell.
Sabel's eyes widened. "You."
It was one of the palace guards—trusted, loyal, or so everyone thought.
"You were the traitor."
The man spat blood, smirking. "We're all just pieces on the board, Your Highness. Even you."
Sabel knocked him out cold with a flick of his fingers and turned to the boy. "Come on. Let's get you home."
Later, in the secret passage beneath the palace...
King Admound fell to his knees, hugging his son tightly. "Thank the stars…"
Sabel leaned against the wall, arms folded. "You've got a rat in the castle. One of your own men. You'll want to clean house."
The King nodded solemnly. "And you?"
Sabel sighed. "I need a long nap. And a stronger cup of coffee."