Rashan had hoped for ten percent. Eight or nine thousand would've been enough to matter.
By morning, close to twenty-seven thousand people were preparing to leave.
He watched from the upper terrace as the city shifted. Wagons moved with purpose. Packs were secured with worn rope and layered cloth. Families gathered at gates or moved in small clusters down the main roads. Fighters kept to the edges, scanning side streets, weapons already strapped and ready. The rhythm was sharp. Focused. A city pulling itself apart before the walls did.
Fourteen thousand of them were able-bodied adults—fighters, tradesmen, survivors with something left to protect. Nine thousand were children. The rest were elders still moving or those sent off with kin before it was too late.
Not everyone left.
He saw more than one old warrior packing up his family, lifting a grandchild onto a cart, or tying provisions to a pack before sending them off. Some stayed behind after—watching from the rooftops or leaning on spears they clearly hadn't held in years. They believed him. They just weren't going.
And he could respect that.
They had lived their whole lives in this city. They'd bled for its stones. Some would die on them. But with fewer innocents around—and if they chose to fight smart—he figured they could do real damage. Especially if they used the river as a battle line.
He planned to turn the bridge and the port into a pile of ash.
That would help them more than they knew.
Of course, there were others who stayed for different reasons. People who didn't believe a word he said. That was their choice, too.
But thirty percent had acted. That was real.
He turned from the edge of the terrace and started toward the stairwell.
The carts would keep rolling.
His part was just beginning.
Rashan closed the study door behind him and locked it with a practiced flick of the latch.
The blackout gear waited in its place—three full sets, laid out with care, exactly as he'd left them.
He'd finished them months ago. Not for show. Not for ceremony. These were built for the kind of work where no one could afford to be recognized. Where the mission mattered more than the man. Everything about the gear had been designed for efficiency, silence, and survival.
He had spent years studying enchantment, but not the kind taught in court libraries or guild lecture halls—his focus wasn't raw power, it was function. He didn't chase spectacle or rely on broad spellcasting. He studied structure—how soul energy moved through material, how enchantments overlapped, how runes could be shaped to guide power without distortion.
Most enchanters avoided layering effects. It led to failure, conflict, instability. Rashan approached it differently. He treated each suit of armor as a single instrument. Every rune, stitch, and soul binding was calibrated to work in harmony—a unified system, not a collection of parts.
He used lesser soul gems not out of necessity, but as a restriction. Their limited capacity forced him to sharpen his technique. Each gem held a single, focused effect—no more, no less. He learned how to bind them cleanly, reinforce them through material flow, and weave multiple enchantments without collapse.
After years of study and failure, he had succeeded. Each blackout suit carried three enchantments, woven across the full set and tuned to each other:
—Sound dampening, integrated into the soles and seams to mute vibration and impact.
—Chameleon blending, carried in the weave of the outer layers to distort outline and match ambient tone.
—Temperature regulation, embedded in the lining to hold a stable core through movement, heat, and cold.
They weren't dramatic. They were quiet. Stable.
And this was only the beginning.
Now that he had achieved functional layering—enchantments that held under motion, sweat, and pressure—he could push forward. Stronger bindings. Specialized tools. Smarter enchantment systems. He'd sacrificed speed in his magical education to get here. Years lost chasing this method. But now that it worked, it opened everything else.
The armor itself had been commissioned months earlier—stitched from treated whale skin, cured and layered by a coastal tannery that supplied sailors and deep-sea harpooners. The hide resisted moisture and temperature swings, and the interior was threaded with insulation to help bind the enchantments cleanly across the frame. Tough. Flexible. Built for long movement and bad conditions.
Each suit had been tuned by hand. Every rune carved by Rashan himself. Every loop tested under motion, wind, and field use.
Jalil entered first. Tall, broad-shouldered, clean in his movements. He stripped down and stepped into the gear like he'd done it a hundred times. The armor sealed into place across his frame. No shifting. No drag. When he dropped the veil, only his eyes remained.
Cassia followed. Quiet, sharp, all control. Her frame was lean, agile. The armor folded around her like it belonged there. The hood came down. The red vanished beneath the dark veil. She didn't adjust a thing.
Rashan dressed last. Every piece slid into place exactly as intended—tight at the ribs, balanced at the spine, light across the joints. He lowered the hood. The veil dropped.
Three figures stood ready. No faces. No names. Just movement and presence.
It was time.
The light had turned copper by the time the operation began. Shadows stretched long over the granary's pale stone walls, and the last of the loading carts rolled off into the merchant quarter.
Rashan crouched near the rear access point—cloak drawn, face veiled, gloved fingers resting on the old stone arch. His team was already inside. They'd slipped in at shift change, when the work crews rotated and twilight softened the watch.
The granary stood like a sleeping giant—vaulted halls flanked by stacked grain chambers, dry air thick with husk-dust and the low creak of settling wood. The outer guards remained casual, bored, half-focused. Inside, workers finished late-day tasks—sweeping, securing ropes, tallying barrels. Routine. Nothing out of place.
The building offered everything he wanted. Heavy on food, light on steel.
Rashan slipped through the back door—left ajar just wide enough to pass. Cassia moved ahead on the east side, her outline blurred by faint illusion magic. Jalil walked down the central line, hands relaxed, posture matching the workers nearby. They didn't speak. Every motion followed rehearsed sequences—split, plant, extract.
Rashan crossed to the west wing and knelt behind a timber brace. The layout unfolded in his memory. Two rows of grain chambers. Four on each side. Vaulted arches above. Rope pulleys on the flanks. Guards up front. One worker pacing near the central chute. Another finishing rope-coil duty on the far end. Everything tracked.
He unhooked the first flask from his belt—sealed glass, soft wax top with the inner beaker set beneath. He pressed the cap until it cracked, then gave the flask a light shake. The mix began reacting. He had thirty minutes.
He placed the flask beneath the western support and drew the accelerant bottle—hand-sized, thick and sharp-scented. He poured it directly over the grain base and along the exposed timber. It soaked fast, quiet.
Across the corridor, Cassia placed hers near the eastern struts. She didn't glance his way. Her accelerant swept in fast strokes across the floor and lower beams.
Jalil reached the central column and crouched beside it. One flask. He poured a wide coat beneath the main vertical brace—clean arc, proper depth.
Three targets, three charges. The granary was ready.
Then came the break.
A worker rounded the corner—young, arms full of bundled cloth. He wasn't looking for anything. Just unlucky.
Rashan raised a closed fist. Freeze.
Cassia melted between crates. Jalil didn't move.
The man slowed—confused. Then turned just enough to register what he saw.
Rashan closed the distance in three steps. One arm caught the man by the shoulders and turned him. Jalil struck fast—palm to the side of the neck.
The body dropped limp.
Still breathing. No blood. No sound.
Rashan caught him, eased him down, checked his pulse. Then gave a quick nod.
Jalil lifted the body over his shoulder.
Back out through the corridor. Into the alley. Up the warehouse stairs.
The rooftop lay open and cold beneath the eaves. An old straw bin sat under the overhang—dry and undisturbed. They laid the man inside, padded him with spare cloth, and tucked him deep in the straw.
Once the worker was settled, Rashan pulled a narrow glass vial from his belt. The potion shimmered faintly, dark green with a swirl of gold sediment. He uncorked it and poured it gently into the man's mouth. It would keep him under for hours—unmoving, untouched by panic or pain.
The man's breathing deepened, steady and slow.
Rashan wiped the edge of the bottle and stowed it.
They didn't linger.
The moment the worker was secured in the straw bin, Rashan gave the hand signal. Cassia moved first, silent across the ledge. Jalil followed. Rashan took the rear, cloak drawn tight, boots soft against stone.
They cut east across the city.
Twenty minutes.
That's all it took to cross Taneth's rooftops and slip down along the harbor's outer fringe. The city's noise thinned as they approached the water—distant bells, evening chatter, creaking moor lines. Familiar sounds. None of them urgent.
They moved like memory. Every turn pre-planned. Every step accounted for.
The docks opened before them.
They dropped from the rooftops and flanked around the last stretch of stone wall—then crossed into the jagged outcrop that edged the southern quay. Black rock layered and uneven, shaped by centuries of tide and wind. These were the original bones of the port—older than any foundation, untouched by builders. And perfectly placed.
The rocks pressed tight against a lonely merchant house, creating a natural blind. From here, they could see the drydock in full.
Dozens of barrels. Carts. Crates. Four cranes. Workers finishing shift. Torches being lit. Sentries shifting position along the many ships that sat in port.
This was the spine of Taneth's naval repair yard.
Rashan dropped to one knee behind a slanted boulder. Jalil lay prone beside him. Cassia tucked herself between the rocks and the wall.
They didn't speak.
The wind from the sea curled through the stones, cold and brine-sharp.
They waited. Breath even. Timing exact.
And ahead of them, the second target waited—still, the people unware a predators waited in the shadows in waiting.
They waited.
Rashan crouched low on the warehouse roof, eyes fixed on the granary.
The high hit full force.
Excitement never cut it. This ran deeper.
Every breath came slow. Muscles stayed loose. His mind sharpened like a blade just honed. This was the zone. The edge. The space where control met chaos.
He lived for this.
This made the SEALs worth it. This made every nerve, every scar, every night sweating through his sheets worth it. Planning. Precision. That perfect thread of risk you could grip with steady hands.
The granary flared.
Flames curled up the outer wall—tight, hungry. Smoke surged through rooftop vents. Dry grain and accelerant fed the fire like fuel dropped on a spark.
It worked better than expected.
Then came the breath—the deep, heavy whoosh of something huge pulling air through its ribs.
Wood groaned. Barrels burst. Light bled through every window like molten gold.
Then the bells.
One. Then two. Then shouts.
He didn't flinch. He watched it all unfold.
Guards sprinted from posts. Dockhands bolted toward the fire. Buckets passed. Orders flew. The city's rhythm shattered and shifted—all of it bending where he wanted.
The sun slid beneath the southern ridge. Clouds rolled thick across the sky. No glow above. Darkness draped everything in silence.
He glanced to Cassia. Then Jalil.
No words. No signals.
They moved like ghosts.
The docks and drydocks waited.