The Villain Who Seeks Joy-Chapter 93: The False Flag

The notice board was crowded with end-of-term schedules and lost glove announcements. Lyra cleared a space in the center, right at eye level.

She pinned the parchment with four brass tacks.

EXPEDITED RECOVERY MISSION

Target: Sector 4, Devil’s Elbow.

Objective: Retrieval of Seismic Survey Array left during evacuation.

Notes: Device contains continuous vibration logs from the avalanche event. Data recovery priority: High.

Departure: Tomorrow, 0500 hours.

Lead: Cpt. Valcrey.

"Seismic Survey Array?" Gareth asked, reading over her shoulder. "We don’t have a seismic array. We have a sled made of dead bear."

"He doesn’t know that," I said. "He knows we had a lot of strange gear. And he knows that if we have vibration logs, we can prove the snow didn’t fall. It was pushed."

Lyra smoothed the paper. "It’s dry enough," she said. "Official seal. Pierce stamped it without asking why."

"Pierce knows when to look the other way," I said.

"The bait is set," Cael said from the shadows of the archway. He was leaning against the stone, sharpening a dagger with a rhythmic shhhk-shhhk. "Now we build the trap."

We took a transport wagon from the pool—an open-bed hauler, heavy and scarred. We parked it prominently in the main staging yard, right under the lantern post.

We loaded it with "supplies." Crates filled with rocks. A tarp covering a shape that looked like the Centurion but was actually a pile of firewood.

"It looks ready to roll," Mira judged.

"It looks vulnerable," I said. "That’s the point."

Night fell hard. The clouds from the pass had rolled down into the valley, bringing sleet that hissed on the cobblestones. The yard emptied out. Even the dedicated duelists packed up early.

We didn’t leave.

We set up in the hayloft of the stable overlooking the yard. It was cold, drafty, and smelled of horses and old leather. Perfect cover.

I lay prone near the loading door, the Bone Lantern shielded in my hand, giving off just enough hush-light to read the watch face.

Cael sat cross-legged behind me. Gareth was sleeping—or pretending to—on a bale of hay. Lyra was reviewing her ledger by touch, counting supplies in her head.

"He might not come," Pelham whispered. He was new to stakeouts. He kept shifting his weight.

"He’ll come," I said. "He’s a professional. Professionals don’t leave loose ends. If he thinks there’s a record of his footsteps on that ledge, he has to destroy it before we bring it down."

"Or he has to stop us from going up," Cael added.

We waited.

First bell rang. Then second. The sleet turned to snow, coating the wagon below in a thin white shroud.

At third bell, the side door of the faculty wing opened.

A figure stepped out.

He wore a gray cloak with the hood up. He didn’t carry a lantern. He moved with the easy, rolling gait of a man used to uneven ground. Climber’s walk.

He stopped at the edge of the light, scanning the yard. He looked at the watchtower—empty. He looked at the dorm windows—dark.

He walked to the wagon.

I nudged Gareth. He woke instantly, silent.

The figure didn’t go for the crates. He went for the wheels.

He knelt by the rear axle. I saw the glint of steel—a pry bar or a chisel. He worked quickly, jamming the tool into the lynchpin housing. He wasn’t trying to take the wheel off; he was trying to crack the pin so it would fail five miles up the road, under load.

"Sabotage," Cael breathed. "Classic."

"Wait," I signaled. "Let him commit."

The figure finished with the rear wheel and moved to the front. He pulled a small jar from his cloak.

Resin.

He began to smear it on the brake pads. Iron-pine. When the brakes heated up on a descent, the resin would glaze and fail. We would go off a cliff.

"That’s enough," I said.

I stood up in the loft door.

"Proctor Kellen," I said. My voice wasn’t loud, but in the snowy silence, it carried like a bell. "You’re using the wrong grade of grease."

The figure froze.

He didn’t panic. He didn’t look up immediately. He slowly capped the jar, tucked it away, and stood.

He pushed his hood back.

It was Kellen. Wiry, weather-beaten face, eyes like flint. He looked up at the loft. He saw me. He saw Cael. He saw the glint of Gareth’s spear.

"Valcrey," he said. His voice was calm, almost bored. "Curfew violation. Five points."

"Vandalism of academy property," I countered. "Attempted murder. Expulsion."

"I’m performing a safety inspection," Kellen said. "This wagon isn’t fit for the pass. I was marking the defects."

"With resin?" Cael called out. "And a chisel?"

"Standard marking fluid," Kellen lied smoothly. "You boys are confused. Go to bed."

He turned to walk away.

"Stop," I said.

I dropped from the loft.

It was a fifteen-foot drop. I pulsed the Anchor Step on impact—heel to stone. The shockwave absorbed the fall. I stood up without a wobble.

Cael dropped beside me, heavy and solid. Gareth took the ladder, sliding down fast.

We formed a line between Kellen and the faculty door.

Kellen stopped. He looked at us, assessing. He smiled, a thin stretching of chapped lips.

"You climbed the Elbow," he said. "Good work. I didn’t think you had the grip strength."

"We had help," I said. "The snow was loose."

"Avalanches happen," he said. "It’s a dangerous mountain."

"Especially when someone digs a trench on the overhang," I said. "We found the boot print, Kellen. Custom sole. Maker’s mark."

His smile didn’t falter, but his eyes went dead.

"A boot print isn’t a confession," he said. "I teach climbing. My prints are all over that mountain."

"On the overhang?" Cael asked. "Where there’s no route?"

"I scout new paths."

"With bait?" I asked.

I held up the evidence bag Liora had given me—the rock stained with Royal Stag scent.

"We found this," I said. "Scent lure. Restricted. Expensive."

Kellen shifted his weight. His hand drifted toward his belt. He didn’t carry a sword. He carried a climber’s axe—short-handled, wicked pick.

"You kids are playing a game you don’t understand," he said softly. "The Foundation isn’t just money. It’s structure. You don’t break the foundation without bringing down the house."

"Then we live in a tent," I said.

"Surrender," Cael said. "We have the resin. We have the print. We have you tampering with the wagon."

Kellen laughed. "You have nothing. I’m a Proctor. You’re students. Who does Pierce believe?"

"Me," a voice said from the shadows of the stable.

Pierce stepped out. He was wearing his night coat, but he held his slate like a weapon. Liora was with him.

Kellen’s face changed. The arrogance drained out, leaving something cornered and ugly.

"You set me up," he snarled at me.

"We laid a line," I said. "You clipped in."

Kellen looked at Pierce, then at the open gate behind him. He did the math.

He moved.

He didn’t attack us. He threw a flash-pellet at the ground—standard climber’s flare for signaling distress.

FOOM.

Magnesium white blinded the yard.

"Eyes!" I shouted.

I shut mine, relying on the leash.

"Marrow—track."

The hound didn’t need eyes. He smelled the fear. He smelled the resin.

I heard running steps—crunching snow, heading for the wall, not the gate. He was going vertical.

"He’s climbing the watchtower!" Gareth yelled.

I opened my eyes. Spots danced in my vision. Kellen was already ten feet up the rough stone of the tower wall, moving like a spider. No rope. Just fingers and toes finding cracks in the mortar.

If he reached the parapet, he could drop to the river side and vanish into the Warrens.

"Hollow," I said.

The bird launched from the loft.

"Harass," I ordered. "Don’t engage. Just slow him down."

Hollow dove, snapping at Kellen’s fingers. Kellen swatted the bird away with one hand, never losing his grip with the other. He was fast.

"He’s getting away," Pelham panicked.

"No," I said. "He isn’t."

I looked at Cael. "Launch me."

Cael didn’t ask how. He laced his fingers together, creating a stirrup. He dropped into a squat.

"Ready," he grunted.

I ran. Two steps. I planted my boot in Cael’s hands.

"Up!"

Cael heaved. He used his aura, exploding upward.

I flew.

It wasn’t flight. It was ballistics. I soared twelve feet up, grabbing the stone ledge of the first window slit.

My fingers screamed, but I held. Anchor pulse to the fingertips. Stone became skin.

I hauled myself up. Kellen was five feet above me, reaching for the next hold.

I didn’t try to climb him down.

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the coil of copper wire—the leftovers from the dinner shunt.

I whipped it upward.

It wasn’t a lasso. It was a whip. The wire wrapped around Kellen’s ankle.

"Got you," I gritted out.

I wrapped the other end around the window bar and pulsed the Anchor. The wire locked.

Kellen tried to step up. The wire jerked him tight. He dangled, one foot tethered to the wall.

He looked down at me. He pulled his axe. He was going to cut the wire. Or my hand.

"Drop it, Kellen!" Pierce roared from below. "Wardens are on the roof! You have nowhere to go!"

Kellen hesitated. He looked at the axe. He looked at the drop.

He looked at me, hanging grimly from the window ledge.

"You’re a nuisance, Valcrey," he said.

"I’m a mechanic," I said. "I fix loose parts."

He dropped the axe. It clattered on the stones below.

"I yield," he spat.

I didn’t let go of the wire. I waited until the wardens leaned over the parapet and hauled him up by his harness.

Only then did I unwrap the coil.

I dropped back to the snow. Cael caught my arm to steady me.

"Nice jump," he said.

"Nice throw," I answered.

Pierce walked up to us. He looked at the resin jar Kellen had dropped. He looked at the sabotaged wheel.

"Academic probation is off the table," Pierce said dryly. "This is a criminal referral."

"Add it to the file," Liora said. She looked cold, furious, and satisfied.

Lyra came out of the barn. She had watched the whole thing from the safety of the feed room. She walked up to me and checked my hands.

"Wire cuts," she noted.

"Gloves next time," I said.

"Next time," she repeated, shaking her head. "There’s always a next time with you."

"That’s the job," I said.

I looked up at the tower. They were marching Kellen away.

The Foundation had lost a pawn. But the King was still on the board.

"Let’s go," I said. "We have class in the morning."

"Boring," Gareth said, but he was smiling.

"Perfect," I said.