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Yorinius’ eyes felt cold, like he was walking through a snowstorm with them open and without blinking.

That was because of the magic coursing through them.

“Give me one of those Owl Eye potions,” Yoreno had said when they were away from the others. Yorinius had obliged the young knight as he cut his own finger with the edge of his sword.

He had squeezed a drop of blood into the potion.

Not my favorite drink, he thought, but he had downed the vial of golden liquid, and now Yoreno’s scent was on the wind.

Literally.

Yorinius could see it. Appearing as a vaporous cloud of yellow smoke that left a trail that he could follow, he started moving. The trail was so distinct in fact, that he could see the older portion as the vapor became less clear. He followed that, keeping far enough back that neither Yoreno nor Sir Cedryk could be aware that he was in fact, following them.

Traversing the corridor after them, Yorinius kept a careful eye out for any signs of a lone man. Surely that man would be the killer, looking to attack them? Or would he be with another. Would he kill his partner to get to them?

The plan was not perfect—couldn’t be perfect. In a way Yorinius hated it, and so had Yoreno. But they were warriors. Warriors fought wars and were expected to die. This was a war.

Of sorts.

He thought he heard something, so he ducked low against the wall in a bedchamber as Yoreno and the captain of the guard continued their patrol.

A lot of hope and luck was riding on this plan.

If the killer did not want to attack them, he would remain hidden and their efforts, as well as the Owl Eye potion Yorinius had drank, would be for naught.

But the only other option was to wait for him to strike again at a time when they would not be ready for him—ready to counter him.

Yoreno and Sir Cedryk were both aware of the plan. If the killer attacked them, they would be ready and expecting the attack.

Surely Yorinius would spot him before it came to that and quite possibly he could get the first strike with a killing blow that would end all of this.

There was a noise out in the corridor. Yorinius stood up and peered through the open door, glancing about for any signs of—

Something hit him in the back of the shoulder. He saw blood splatter onto the doorframe before he even felt the pain.

Whirling, his short sword was out of its scabbard in an instant, his buckler on his right arm held defensively in front of himself.

Glancing about, he saw nothing. But the window was ajar.

He was there, he thought.

The pain stung at first. Then it began to blossom out into his shoulder. It was powerful, and Yorinius hoped whatever had hit him hadn’t been poisoned.

Without the assailant in the room, he decided to reach over his shoulder to pat his wound. It was warn and slick with his own blood, but his wound was not bleeding terribly.

He would be fine.

If he hadn’t been poisoned.

He lunged toward the window and jumped out of it as if he were diving off a rock into a deep pool of water.

Landing on the roof and using his open palms as supports to thrust himself into a roll that would break most of the momentum, the pain in his shoulder exploded but he managed to land on his feet and whirl around.

The surface below him was slanted and he slid a pace down the side of the roof as the killer—standing in a crouched position upon the ledge leading up to the window glanced at him.

He moved his hands and lunged something at Yorinius.

Being the top-tier adventurer that he was, he had no need to see what had been hurled at him. He raised his buckler and deflected the blur.

Whether what the killer was throwing were runic shards or full on magic, it didn’t matter. He lunged at the assailant, surprising him with his sudden burst of speed.

The man cried out hoarsely, sounding almost inhuman, but as Yorinius moved to deliver a lethal strike, his opponent lunged back and hurled more projectiles.

Sidestepping and deflecting with his buckler, he made to move in again, but this time the killer jumped and summersaulted into the air, landing behind Yorinius.

A narrow blade came out at him—a stiletto—that nicked his cheek.

“Tch!” he noised in frustration.

The man was hooded and in this cold darkness, his face was completely hidden in shadow. But the green glow in his eyes and the evil laugh that came forth, sounding not at all human, sent an eerie chill up Yorinius’ spine.