The northeast tower squatted against the mountain sky like a broken tooth, its ancient stones drinking moonlight without reflecting any back. Lorne climbed the narrow spiral staircase with careful steps, each footfall muffled by years of accumulated dust that suggested these upper reaches saw little regular traffic.

The air grew thinner as he ascended, not from altitude but from something else—a staleness that spoke of spaces sealed away from the living world below.

Behind him, the castle's evening routines continued as they had throughout the day: guards walking predetermined routes, knights attending their evening observances, the whole apparatus of military life grinding forward like clockwork that had forgotten why it was built to keep time.

He paused at the first landing, listening to the sounds drifting up from the courtyard through narrow arrow slits.

The evening observances had begun—voices speaking in perfect unison, words he couldn't quite make out but whose rhythm suggested recitation rather than genuine speech. Thirty-odd voices moving as one, rising and falling with the mechanical precision of a prayer wheel turned by steady hands.

But there was something underneath the unity that made his skin crawl.

No individual variation, no personal inflection, just the sound of human voices that had been stripped of everything that made them human.

It reminded him of things he'd seen in his mercenary days—soldiers who'd been broken by battlefield trauma, their personalities shattered and rebuilt around simple obedience. Except this felt deliberately crafted rather than accidentally achieved.

Three floors up, a door stood slightly ajar, revealing a slice of candlelight that wavered in the draft seeping through gaps in the tower's stonework. The flame danced with each gust of wind that found its way through centuries-old masonry, casting shifting shadows that made the narrow corridor seem alive with movement.

Lorne paused outside, listening for sounds that might indicate a trap, but heard only the whisper of wind through ancient stone and his own carefully controlled breathing. Somewhere below, the unified voices continued their recitation, the words still indistinct but carrying an undertone that suggested things better left unspoken.

"Sir Elena?" he called softly.

"Enter, quickly." Her voice carried the same tension he'd noted in the archives, but sharper now, edged with something approaching desperation.

The chamber beyond proved to be a circular room that had once served as an officer's quarters, judging by the faded tapestries and furniture that belonged to an earlier era. Dust motes danced in the candlelight, disturbed by his entrance, and the air held the musty scent of a space that had been abandoned to time and memory.

Elena stood near the single window, her silhouette framed against the mountain landscape, but she turned as he entered and he saw her face clearly for the first time without the mask of careful neutrality she wore in public.

The transformation was startling—where the public Elena had shown controlled composure, this version revealed the toll the past months had taken.

Fear.

Not the professional wariness of a soldier assessing threats, but the deep, bone-cold terror of someone who had seen too much and understood exactly how helpless she was to stop it. Dark circles shadowed her eyes, and premature lines bracketed her mouth with the kind of stress that aged people before their time.

"Thank you for coming," she said, though her eyes kept flicking toward the door as if expecting unwelcome visitors. "I wasn't certain you would trust the message."

"We need information," Lorne replied simply, settling into a chair that creaked under his weight. The furniture had seen better decades, but it held his weight without complaint. "You seem to be the only person in this castle who's still... themselves."

Elena's laugh held no humor, just the bitter edge of someone who'd watched friends become strangers. "For now. But that's changing, bit by bit, day by day. Soon there won't be anyone left who remembers what this place used to be."

She moved away from the window, settling into a chair across from him. In the candlelight, Lorne could see details he'd missed during their public interactions—callused hands that spoke of weapons training, a slight tremor in her fingers that suggested constant tension, and most tellingly, the way her eyes never stopped moving, always watching for threats that might emerge from familiar faces.

"Tell me what's happening here," he said, keeping his voice low despite the tower's isolation.

"Corruption." The word came out flat, matter-of-fact, as if she'd long since moved past the point of trying to soften uncomfortable truths. "It started small, maybe a year ago. Knights returning from patrols... different. Subtle changes at first—less talkative, more focused on duty, fewer personal interests. We thought it was just the isolation, the stress of maintaining this posting."

She paused, staring into the candle flame as if it might hold answers to questions she hadn't learned how to ask. The wax had melted into irregular pools around the base, creating abstract patterns that seemed to shift and change in the flickering light.

"But it spread. And it got worse. Knights who'd served together for years stopped recognizing each other's mannerisms, stopped sharing old jokes, stopped being... human. They became efficient, obedient, perfect soldiers. But they weren't themselves anymore."

"Can you give me specifics?" Lorne asked. "Examples of the changes you observed?"

Elena was quiet for a moment, gathering her thoughts or perhaps steeling herself to speak truths that felt like betrayals of men she'd once called brothers-in-arms.

"Sir Garrett used to collect pressed flowers," she said finally. "Pressed them between pages of books, had hundreds of specimens from across the region. After one of his patrols, I found him burning the entire collection. Said it was 'unnecessary clutter' that interfered with mission focus."

She gestured toward the window, where moonlight painted the mountains in shades of silver and shadow.

"Brother Marcus used to write poetry. Not good poetry, mind you, but he enjoyed it. Shared verses about mountain sunrises and the changing seasons. Now he speaks only in military terminology and procedural language. When I asked about his writing, he looked at me like I was speaking a foreign language."

"What about Captain Belenton?"

"Belenton..." Elena's voice trailed off, and she shivered despite the room's adequate warmth. "Belenton was the worst change. Before, he was demanding but fair, hard but human. Cared about his men's welfare, remembered their birthdays, knew their families' names. Now he treats them like equipment to be maintained. Refers to casualties as 'acceptable losses' and strategic setbacks as 'resource optimization opportunities.'"

The unified voices from below reached a crescendo, then fell silent with an abruptness that felt unnatural. In the sudden quiet, Lorne could hear his own heartbeat and the soft whisper of wind through the tower's ancient stones.

"What's causing it?" he asked, though he suspected the answer would be more complicated than simple.

"Something in the castle's deep chambers. The old crypts beneath the original foundation." Elena's voice dropped to barely above a whisper, as if speaking too loudly might summon unwanted attention. "Brother Marcus discovered it first, during his archival research. Some kind of artifact left behind by the castle's previous occupants. He brought it to Ardeunius, said it was important, historically significant."

"And?"

"Within a week, Marcus was... changed. Still himself on the surface, but wrong underneath. Too focused, too controlled, speaking in phrases that sounded like him but felt like someone else wearing his voice." Her hands clenched in her lap, knuckles white with tension. "Then others started changing. Anyone who spent time near the lower levels, anyone who worked closely with Marcus or attended his 'research sessions.'"

Lorne felt pieces clicking into place like tumblers in a lock, forming a picture he didn't like. "Ardeunius?"

"He's fighting it. Harder than anyone else, maybe because he's stronger or maybe because he recognized what was happening before it could take complete hold. But even he's... struggling. Some days he seems almost normal, other days he speaks in that same flat tone as the others."

She rose from her chair, moving restlessly toward the window before turning back, unable to settle. The candlelight caught the tension in her movements, the way she held herself like someone expecting an attack from any direction.

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"Yesterday, I watched him stare at a tactical map for three hours without blinking. When I asked what he was studying, he said he was 'optimizing patrol efficiency for maximum area coverage.' The way he said it... It wasn't Ardeunius talking. It was something else using his voice."

A sound from the stairwell below made them both freeze—footsteps, measured and deliberate, climbing toward their hiding place. Elena's face went pale, and her hand drifted toward the sword at her hip with the automatic response of someone who'd learned not to trust familiar sounds.

"Did anyone see you leave your quarters?" she whispered.

"I don't think so, but—"

The footsteps continued past their landing, climbing toward the tower's uppermost levels. They waited in tense silence, listening to the measured tread fade into the distance above. When the sounds finally disappeared completely, Elena released a breath she'd been holding.

"Patrol check," she said, though her voice carried uncertainty. "They've been increasing security sweeps, especially around areas where people might gather privately."

"They suspect resistance?"

"They suspect... inefficiency. Anyone who doesn't show proper enthusiasm for the new procedures draws attention. Too many questions, too much individual thinking, too much attachment to 'outdated practices.'"

She returned to her chair, but perched on its edge as if ready to flee at a moment's notice. The fear in her eyes had deepened, and Lorne realized she was walking a knife's edge between maintaining her cover and preserving her sanity.

"The artifact—what is it exactly?" he asked.

Elena shook her head. "I don't know. Marcus keeps it secured in the deepest chamber, says it requires 'careful study' and 'proper protocols.' But I've seen the effects on those who spend time in the lower chambers. They come back... different."

"Different how?"

"Less themselves. More focused on duty, less interested in anything that doesn't serve the Order's mission. It's subtle at first—they just seem more disciplined, more committed. But over time..." She trailed off, staring into the candle flame as if watching friends disappear into its depths.

"How many are affected?"

"Maybe half the knights show clear signs. Some more advanced than others. Captain Belenton, Brother Marcus, Sir Garrett—they're the worst. But it's spreading. Each week, more knights volunteer for 'advanced training sessions' in the lower chambers. And they always come back changed."

Elena stood again, moving to a small table where a pitcher of water sat beside a simple wooden cup. She poured herself a drink with hands that trembled slightly, then offered the cup to Lorne. The water tasted of mountain springs, clean and cold, but did nothing to wash away the bitter taste of the conversation.

"What new procedures?" Lorne asked, remembering her earlier mention.

"Extended evening observances. Mandatory meditation sessions. Dietary modifications for 'optimal performance.'" The way she said each item made it sound ominous rather than beneficial. "All designed to improve unity of purpose."

"The evening observances—I could hear them from the tower stairs. They sounded..."

"Unnatural? Yes. Thirty men speaking in perfect unison, moving with identical timing, breathing in synchronized rhythm. It's not prayer or meditation—it's conditioning." Elena set down the cup with a soft clink that seemed loud in the chamber's quiet. "They stand in formation and recite... things. Pledges, I suppose, though not to anything I recognize."

"What kind of pledges?"

"Commitment to order. Rejection of chaos. Embrace of unity over individuality. Acceptance of guidance from... higher authorities." Each phrase came out like she was tasting something unpleasant. "All perfectly reasonable concepts, but the way they say them... it's like listening to an echo of human speech."

"And those who resist?"

Elena's grey eyes met his directly, and he saw the kind of terror that came from witnessing horrors that couldn't be fought with conventional weapons.

"Are provided with additional guidance until they achieve acceptable standards."

"Meaning?"

"Extended sessions in the lower chambers. Individual consultations with Brother Marcus. Intensive meditation periods where they're... helped... to understand the benefits of proper thinking." Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper. "They always emerge more compliant. More willing to embrace necessary improvements."

The implications settled over Lorne like a shroud. This wasn't simple military discipline or even cult indoctrination—it was systematic personality modification, turning individual human beings into identical components of a larger machine.

"We need more information," he said quietly. "About what's happening in those lower chambers, about who might be coordinating these changes."

"It's dangerous. Marcus has increased security around the archives, and the lower levels are restricted to authorized personnel only. Guards who don't sleep, don't show fatigue, don't question orders." Elena returned to the window, looking out at the mountain landscape as if searching for escape routes. "But there might be ways to observe without being detected."

"What are you suggesting?"

"The old servant passages. This castle has hidden corridors that most of the current knights don't know about—they were built during the original construction, used by staff to move through the fortress without interfering with military operations." She turned back to face him. "If we're careful, we might be able to see what's happening during the evening observances."

Lorne considered the risk versus the potential intelligence value. They needed evidence of what was happening, concrete proof they could take back to Ebonheim. But getting caught would likely mean becoming victims of whatever process was changing the other knights.

"There's something else," Elena said, her voice even quieter now. "Something that suggests this goes beyond the Order."

"External coordination?"

"Messages. Coded communications that arrive via courier at irregular intervals. Marcus receives them personally, shares them only with Belenton and the other fully... committed... knights." Elena's hands twisted together in her lap. "I managed to see part of one before it was secured. References to 'regional stability initiatives' and 'coordinated efficiency improvements.'"

"Any idea who's sending them?"

"No specifics. But the timing is suspicious—all these changes started shortly after we received new directives about 'enhanced cooperation' with regional authorities. Someone wants the Order more... compliant."

"For what purpose?"

"I don't know. But yesterday I overheard Belenton briefing a squad about 'potential security operations' requiring 'absolute precision' and 'elimination of destabilizing elements.' When he noticed me listening, he said they were discussing bandit suppression tactics."

The pieces of a larger puzzle were taking shape, and Lorne didn't like the picture they formed. If the Order was being systematically corrupted and prepared for specific operations, the most likely targets would be Ebonheim's other allies or Ebonheim itself.

"Tomorrow night," he decided. "We'll observe one of these sessions and see exactly what we're dealing with."

Elena nodded, though her expression remained troubled. "I can show you the hidden passages, the best observation points. But Commander... once you see what's happening down there, you'll understand why I'm so frightened. It's not just changing them—it's preparing them for something."

They spent another quarter-hour discussing logistics and safety protocols, with Elena providing detailed descriptions of the castle's hidden architecture and the guards' patrol patterns. As they prepared to part ways, she caught his arm with fingers that felt cold despite the chamber's warmth.

"Commander? When this started, I thought I was imagining things. Seeing problems where there weren't any. Thank you for listening."

"We'll figure this out," he promised, though privately he wondered if they were already too late to save the men who'd been completely changed.

The journey back to his quarters proved more nerve-wracking than the ascent. Every shadow might conceal a watching guard, every sound might herald discovery. But the castle's corridors remained empty except for the predictable patrols, and Lorne reached the guest quarters without incident.

He found Ryelle waiting in the common area, her golden eyes reflecting the dying embers in the fireplace. She'd positioned herself where she could watch both the door and the window, and her hand rested casually near the kanabō propped against her chair.

"Learn anything interesting?" she asked quietly.

"Too much and not enough," he replied, settling into the chair across from her. The familiar weight of decision settled on his shoulders—how much to share, how quickly to act, how to balance caution with necessity.

"What about you? Notice anything during the evening observances?"

"They're not observances," Ryelle said flatly. "They're conditioning sessions. I watched from our window—thirty knights standing in perfect formation, speaking in unison, moving like parts of the same machine. It was..." She searched for the right word. "Unnatural."

"How so?"

"No individual variation. When one knight shifted his weight, they all shifted. When one turned his head, they all turned. Like watching one person reflected in thirty mirrors." Ryelle's expression turned grim. "And the smell was stronger afterward. That cold, metallic scent I mentioned before. It clings to them now, like they've been marked."

Lorne felt cold certainty settling in his stomach. "Elena confirmed our suspicions. Something in the castle's lower levels is changing people, making them more compliant, more uniform. And there's external coordination—someone outside is directing the process."

"Any idea who?"

"Not yet. But we're going to find out tomorrow night. Elena knows ways to observe without being detected."

Ryelle's smile was all teeth and anticipation. "Finally. I was getting tired of playing diplomat."

"This isn't a fight we can solve with your kanabō," Lorne warned. "If we're right about what's happening, direct confrontation could mean losing ourselves to the same corruption that's claimed the others."

"Then we'll be smart about it," Ryelle said. "But we will stop it. Whatever's happening here, it ends with us."

A soft sound from the adjacent chamber announced Kaela's return. She appeared in the doorway like a shadow given form, her dark clothing blending with the room's shadows until only her pale face was clearly visible.

"Productive evening?" Lorne asked.

"Educational," Kaela replied, settling into the remaining chair with movements that made no sound. "The castle has more hidden spaces than I expected. And some of them are being used for purposes that weren't on the original architectural plans."

"Such as?"

"Storage chambers that hold materials I don't recognize. Meeting rooms where the walls show signs of... unusual activity. And passages that lead to areas the current inhabitants seem very interested in keeping secret."

"Did you see any of the evening observances?"

Kaela's expression darkened. "I saw enough. Whatever they're doing down there, it's not military training. It's something else entirely. Something that makes human beings into... something else."

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