Dawn crept through the arrow slits of Old Drakon Castle like a thief testing locks, grey light revealing a world wrapped in mountain mist that clung to stone walls with stubborn persistence. Ryelle woke to the sound of boots echoing in distant corridors—not the organic rhythm of people going about their morning business, but the measured cadence of synchronized movement, like clockwork given martial form.

She dressed quickly in the pre-dawn gloom, trading her travel clothes for the practical leather and wool that marked her as someone who expected to work rather than observe. The kanabō's familiar weight settled across her back like an old friend offering silent counsel, though she doubted this day would call for its blunt eloquence.

Through the narrow window, the castle's morning routines unfolded with unsettling regularity. Knights emerged from the barracks to begin their exercises at precisely the same moment they had yesterday, their movements following patterns so exact they might have been carved from the same template.

No variation, no individual expression—just thirty-odd men performing identical sequences with the coordination of a military parade.

"Sleep well?" Lorne's voice drifted from the common area, already dressed and examining a map spread across the rough wooden table.

"Well enough." Ryelle joined him, noting how his purple eyes tracked the castle's layout with the methodical attention of someone building tactical assessments. "You?"

"Like a man who knows he's being watched." Lorne's finger traced the corridors they'd walked yesterday, marking guard positions and sight lines. "Nothing overt, but this place has more eyes than a spider's web."

Kaela materialized from the shadows near the door, her appearance so sudden Ryelle's hand twitched toward her weapon before recognition caught up with reflex. The woman moved like smoke given form, all fluid grace and silent intent.

"Guard rotations are exact to the minute," Kaela reported quietly. "Same routes, same timing, same individuals. Either they're the most disciplined soldiers I've ever seen, or something's enforcing that kind of precision."

"Discipline's one thing," Lorne said, rolling up the map. "But even elite units show individual variation in routine tasks. This feels more like..." He paused, searching for the right comparison.

"Like watching clockwork figures dance," Ryelle finished. "All the right movements, none of the life behind them."

A knock at their door interrupted the observation—three measured raps that somehow managed to sound both polite and peremptory. Lorne answered to find a young knight waiting in the corridor, his crimson surcoat bearing the Order's burning shield device.

"Commander Ardeunius requests your presence for the morning meal," the knight announced. His voice carried the flat inflection Ryelle was beginning to associate with the Order's current incarnation. "If you would follow me?"

They followed him through corridors that echoed their footsteps back with peculiar clarity, as if the stone itself wanted to announce their passage. Tapestries hung along the walls depicted the Order's traditional victories over supernatural threats, but something about the imagery felt subtly wrong—angles that didn't quite align, proportions that suggested rather than depicted, colors that seemed drained of their original vibrancy.

The great hall sprawled larger than Ryelle remembered from yesterday's brief glimpse, its vaulted ceiling disappearing into shadows despite the morning light streaming through tall windows. Long tables filled the space in orderly rows, each one occupied by knights breaking their fast with the same methodical efficiency they brought to everything else.

But it was the silence that struck her most forcefully. Thirty-some warriors sharing the morning meal, and the only sounds were the precise clink of utensils against wooden bowls and the measured scrape of benches against stone floors.

No conversation, no laughter, no casual banter—just the mechanical consumption of food by men who seemed to have forgotten that eating could be anything more than necessary fuel.

"Good morning," Ardeunius greeted them from the high table, his voice carrying clearly in the unnatural quiet. "I trust you slept well?"

"Very well, thank you," Lorne replied, though his eyes swept the silent hall with obvious unease.

They were seated at the high table, a position that offered an excellent view of the assembled knights. Ryelle studied the faces turned toward their bowls, looking for signs of the men she remembered from inherited memories of the siege.

Some features seemed familiar—the shape of a jaw here, the set of shoulders there—but worn thin, as if someone had taken charcoal sketches of the original warriors and smudged away the defining details.

"Sir Garrett," Ardeunius called to one of the knights at the nearest table. "Perhaps you could join us? I believe you served during the siege alongside Commander Miradan's forces."

A man rose from his bench with the same measured precision as everyone else—mid-thirties, brown hair, unremarkable features that might once have held character but now seemed oddly smooth. He approached the high table with steps that fell in perfect rhythm, like a marching drill performed at half-speed.

"Commander Miradan," he said, offering a nod that managed to be respectful and entirely empty of warmth. "An honor to serve alongside you again."

Lorne studied the man's face intently, and Ryelle caught the slight furrow between his brows that indicated deep thought. "Sir Garrett. Yes, I remember you from the wall fighting. You held the eastern tower when the Asuran incursion threatened to overwhelm our position."

"Indeed." Garrett's agreement came without hesitation, but also without any emotional resonance. "Difficult fighting. Many lost. Victory achieved through... coordinated effort."

"Your captain then was Sir Willem, if I recall correctly," Lorne continued, his tone casual. "How is he faring these days?"

For just an instant, something flickered across Garrett's features—confusion, perhaps, or the mental strain of accessing a memory that didn't want to surface. Then the blank mask settled back into place.

"Sir Willem transferred to other duties," Garrett replied. "Several months past. I believe... eastern assignments... required his expertise."

"I see." Lorne's voice remained conversational, but Ryelle caught the significance of the exchange. Sir Willem had died during the siege—she could recall the borrowed memory of his funeral pyre, the speeches honoring his sacrifice. Either Garrett was lying, or his memories had been altered to remove inconvenient truths.

"Perhaps you could show our guests the morning training exercises," Ardeunius suggested, though his tone made it sound more like an order than a request. "I'm sure they would appreciate observing our... current methodologies."

"Of course, Commander." Garrett's compliance came instantly, automatically. "The morning sessions demonstrate our... refined approaches... to combat preparation."

They finished their meal in the same oppressive silence that had marked its beginning, then followed Garrett across the courtyard toward the practice yards. The knights they'd observed from their window were still working through their exercises, but seeing them up close made the strangeness even more pronounced.

Every movement was identical. Not similar—identical. When one knight raised his sword for an overhead strike, thirty others performed the exact same motion with the same timing, the same angle, the same follow-through. It was like watching a single fighter reflected in dozens of mirrors, each reflection performing its part in perfect synchronization.

"Impressive coordination," Lorne observed neutrally.

"Essential for effective unit cohesion," Garrett replied. "Individual... variations... can compromise formation integrity. Standardized responses ensure... optimal outcomes."

Ryelle watched one knight stumble slightly during a particularly complex sequence. Instead of continuing with his individual rhythm, he paused, reset his position, and resumed the exercise in perfect synchronization with his fellows. As if some internal mechanism had forced him back into compliance with the group pattern.

"Do you ever practice individual combat scenarios?" she asked. "Situations where soldiers might need to adapt to unexpected circumstances?"

Garrett's pale eyes—and she was noticing now that they were definitely paler than they should be, as if someone had mixed milk into the original color—fixed on her with uncomfortable intensity.

"Adaptation within... acceptable parameters... is incorporated into advanced training sequences," he said. "Excessive... individuality... can lead to... tactical complications."

The way he delivered the words made 'individuality' sound like a disease to be cured rather than a strength to be cultivated.

"Perhaps we could observe some of those advanced sequences?" Lorne suggested.

"Not scheduled for today's activities," Garrett replied without checking any kind of training roster. "Tomorrow's sessions may include... appropriate demonstrations."

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

They spent another hour watching the synchronized exercises, and Ryelle found herself growing increasingly disturbed by what she witnessed. These weren't soldiers training for war—they were components being calibrated for optimal performance. Whatever made them human had been sanded away in favor of mechanical efficiency.

When they returned to the keep, Ardeunius was waiting in the main hall with another figure Ryelle didn't recognize from yesterday's introductions. A woman, perhaps thirty years old, with auburn hair pulled back in a practical braid and intelligent grey eyes that held more life than she'd seen in anyone else since arriving at the castle.

"Sir Elena Thorne," Ardeunius said, and Ryelle caught the slight tightening around his eyes as he made the introduction. "One of our most... experienced... knights. Elena, our guests from Ebonheim."

"Commander Miradan," Elena said, offering a respectful nod that somehow managed to convey actual warmth. "Lady Ryelle, Miss Shadowhawk. Welcome to Old Drakon Castle."

Her voice carried normal inflection, normal emotional range—a striking contrast to the flattened tones they'd grown accustomed to hearing from the other knights. But there was something else there too, a carefully controlled tension that suggested someone walking on dangerous ground.

"Sir Elena," Lorne replied. "I don't believe we met during the siege."

"I was assigned to eastern patrol duties during that time," Elena explained. "Only returned to the castle about six months ago when my... previous assignment... concluded."

"What brings you back?" Ryelle asked, curious about this apparent exception to the castle's general strangeness.

Elena glanced quickly at Ardeunius, then back to them. "Personnel... adjustments... required additional experienced knights for castle duties. I was... selected... for the position."

Again that careful choice of words, as if she was navigating around topics that couldn't be discussed directly.

"Perhaps Elena could show you our archives," Ardeunius suggested. "I believe Brother Marcus is occupied with... other duties... this morning."

"That would be helpful," Lorne agreed. "Understanding your intelligence-gathering methods could improve our coordination efforts."

Elena nodded, but Ryelle caught the brief flicker of something—concern? warning?—that crossed her features before the polite mask settled back into place.

"The archives are quite... comprehensive," Elena said carefully. "Brother Marcus maintains very... detailed... records of all regional activities."

They followed her through corridors that grew progressively older as they descended into the castle's lower levels. The air here carried a different quality—damper, colder, with an underlying scent that made Ryelle's nose wrinkle. Not decay, exactly, but something that suggested things better left undisturbed.

"The archives occupy the castle's original foundations," Elena explained as they walked. "Some records date back to the Order's founding, though most of our... current documentation... focuses on more recent developments."

The archive chamber proved to be a vast, vaulted space lined floor to ceiling with shelves bearing leather-bound volumes, scroll cases, and filing boxes arranged with excessive needness. But what struck Ryelle immediately was the wrongness of the energy here—a chill that had nothing to do with being underground, and everything to do with something that felt fundamentally unnatural.

Her divine senses recoiled from whatever presence lingered in this place, like touching something that looked like stone but felt like ice wrapped in shadow. The sensation made her teeth ache and set her nerves on edge.

"Impressive collection," Kaela observed, though Ryelle caught the slight tension in her voice that suggested she felt the wrongness too.

"Brother Marcus is very... thorough... in his documentation efforts," Elena replied, and this time the pause before 'thorough' carried clear meaning. "Perhaps too... comprehensive... for practical purposes."

She led them between the towering shelves, pointing out different sections organized by subject matter. Regional intelligence, personnel records, tactical assessments—everything a military organization would need to maintain operational effectiveness. But something about the organization felt off, as if the filing system had been designed by someone who understood categories but not their purpose.

"Here," Elena said, stopping before a section of more recent files. "Current intelligence regarding regional activities. You might find these... illuminating."

She pulled several folders from the shelf, but as she handed them to Lorne, her fingers brushed against his in a way that seemed deliberately meaningful. When he looked down, Ryelle caught sight of a small piece of parchment pressed between the folders—a message passed so subtly it might have been accidental.

"These should provide good overview of our current... concerns," Elena said, her voice carrying the same careful neutrality as everyone else's, but her eyes holding depths of meaning that suggested she was fighting to communicate something she couldn't say directly.

They spent an hour reviewing the files, which proved to contain exactly the kind of intelligence reports Ryelle expected from a competent military organization. Bandit activity, trade route disruptions, unusual migration patterns among local wildlife—all meticulously documented and cross-referenced with maps and timelines.

But there were gaps. References to incidents without details, personnel transfers without explanations, decisions made for reasons that weren't recorded. And throughout it all, that sense of something missing—as if the most important information had been carefully edited out.

"Very thorough," Lorne said when they finished, though his tone suggested professional appreciation rather than genuine satisfaction. "Brother Marcus clearly maintains high standards."

"He is very... dedicated... to accuracy," Elena agreed, but her words carried undertones that made 'dedicated' sound ominous rather than admirable.

As they prepared to leave the archives, Elena lingered near the entrance, ostensibly straightening files but actually positioning herself where she could speak quietly without being overheard by anyone who might be listening from the corridors above.

"The castle has... changed... since my return," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "Many familiar faces... reassigned... to other duties. New procedures... implemented... for security purposes."

"What kind of procedures?" Ryelle asked, matching Elena's quiet tone.

"Regular... evaluations... of loyalty and commitment. Enhanced meditation sessions for... spiritual development. Dietary modifications for optimal... performance." Elena's careful phrasing couldn't quite hide the concern underlying her words. "All designed to improve... unity of purpose."

"And those who don't show sufficient... improvement?" Lorne's question carried the weight of experience with organizations that demanded conformity.

Elena's grey eyes met his directly, and for just an instant, the mask slipped enough to reveal genuine fear. "Are provided with... additional guidance... until they achieve... acceptable standards."

The words hung in the cold air like a death sentence delivered in bureaucratic language.

"Sir Elena," came a voice from the archive entrance, flat and emotionless as winter stone. Brother Marcus stood framed in the doorway, his pale eyes fixed on their small group with uncomfortable intensity. "I was not informed that you were conducting archive tours today."

"Commander Ardeunius requested that I assist our guests," Elena replied, her voice immediately returning to the careful neutrality that seemed to be the castle's default mode. "I was showing them our filing organization."

"I see." Marcus stepped into the chamber, and Ryelle felt the temperature drop another few degrees. "I trust you found our records... adequate... for your research purposes?"

"Very comprehensive," Lorne agreed diplomatically. "Sir Elena has been most helpful."

"Excellent. However, I must now request access to the archives for my own... duties. Perhaps your tour could continue... elsewhere?"

It wasn't a request, despite the polite phrasing. Marcus stood waiting for them to leave with the patient stillness of a spider watching flies approach its web.

"Of course," Elena said quickly. "Perhaps you would like to see our defensive preparations? The walls have been... substantially improved... since the siege."

They followed her from the archive chamber, leaving Marcus alone among his comprehensive records. But as they climbed back toward the castle's upper levels, Ryelle caught Lorne discretely palming the small piece of parchment Elena had passed him earlier.

The rest of the morning passed in a blur of professional courtesies and careful observations. They toured the defensive positions, examined the weapons stores, and discussed tactical coordination with various knights whose names Ryelle promptly forgot because their personalities had been compressed into the same bland functionality.

But it was during the midday meal that the pattern became impossible to ignore.

Three separate knights told them identical stories about recent bandit encounters, using the same words, the same inflection, even the same hesitations. When Lorne asked follow-up questions about specific details, their answers came back word-for-word identical—not similar, but exact copies of each other.

No three people remembered the same event in precisely the same way. Not unless their memories had been... edited.

"Fascinating," Ryelle murmured to Kaela as they watched another synchronized exchange between knights discussing patrol schedules. "It's like someone took real people and replaced them with copies made from the same mold."

"Not copies," Kaela corrected quietly. "The same people, but with all the individual bits carved away. Like sculptors working on thirty different statues but following the same template."

When they finally returned to their quarters in the late afternoon, Lorne immediately unfolded the piece of parchment Elena had passed him. Written in careful, tiny script that suggested someone trying to convey maximum information in minimum space, it contained a single line:

Evening meal. Third bell. Northeast tower. Come alone.

"Well," Ryelle said, reading over his shoulder. "That's not ominous at all."

"Could be a trap," Kaela pointed out pragmatically.

"Could be our only chance to talk to someone who still has enough personality left to provide real answers," Lorne countered. "Elena's the first person we've met here who seems to be fighting whatever's happening to the others."

"Or she's bait to see how we react to potential allies," Ryelle added. "Either way, we need to know what she has to say."

They spent the remaining daylight hours reviewing their observations and comparing notes. The picture that emerged was deeply troubling—an elite military organization gradually being transformed into something that looked the same from the outside but had lost everything that made it human on the inside.

"The question," Lorne said as evening shadows began to gather outside their windows, "is whether this is happening by design or by accident. And if it's by design, who's behind it."

"Does it matter?" Ryelle asked. "Either way, we need to stop it before it spreads beyond the castle walls."

"It matters for how we stop it," Lorne replied. "If it's some kind of magical contagion, we need arcane solutions. If it's deliberate manipulation, we need to identify and eliminate the source."

"And if it's both?" Kaela asked quietly.

"Then we're dealing with something much more dangerous than simple corruption," Lorne said grimly. "Something that combines magical compulsion with political manipulation. The kind of threat that could destabilize the entire region."

As the third bell tolled across the castle's courtyards, announcing the evening meal and whatever revelations Elena might provide, Ryelle felt the familiar tightness in her chest that preceded combat. Not the physical kind—though that might come later—but the more complex battle of trying to understand an enemy who wore familiar faces and spoke in trusted voices.

Because if there was one thing she knew from their day among the Order's knights, it was that the enemy was already inside the walls, and it wore the same colors they did.

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