Kyle slipped into the shadows of a narrow, damp alleyway tucked between two crumbling warehouses. There, cloaked in darkness, he leaned against the cold stone wall and allowed himself a rare moment of gleeful satisfaction.A wide grin tugged at his lips.
Whoever had said a man couldn't stroll into enemy territory unarmed, unbothered, and grinning like he belonged—well, that person was clearly a fool. Probably the sort who lacked either the brains, the audacity, or both. But not Kyle. Never Kyle.
In his mind, gears were already turning—swift, precise, methodical. He began replaying every detail, every step the behemoth had taken, every word, every pause. Earlier, both the brute and the mysterious woman had arrived on foot, and now Mount had left on foot once more. That fact alone was a gem.
They hadn't come from far.
And nobles—true nobles, the kind that inspired fear in seasoned officers—were not known for their love of casual strolls through gritty port cities without carriages or entourages. No, this woman was important. Powerful. And that towering brute was her escort. Which meant her estate, or wherever she had come from, had to be nearby.
That, coupled with the terror she'd instilled in the chief dock officer—the same man Kyle and his companions had fleeced earlier—confirmed it. She was a noble, and a dangerous one at that.
Kyle's mind raced. He began mentally charting out all the noble holdings and estates within walking distance of Dock E—mansions, embassies, private manors—any place that fit her demeanor and influence. He narrowed the list down further, excluding anything beyond a certain radius. From Mount's gait and size, and the casual pace he'd observed, Kyle could estimate with eerie precision the time it would take for the brute to return to any of those locations.
Factoring in walking speed, the most probable route, and subtracting distractions—because a true bodyguard wouldn't dally—he arrived at a solid window.
Fifteen to twenty minutes to reach any of the viable noble residences. Add another ten minutes for the conversation Mount was likely having now, reporting to his lady whatever business had just concluded. Then tack on the return journey, and Kyle had approximately fifty minutes, give or take.
Fifty minutes before the real Mount would be expected back at the docks.
Or better yet, before Kyle, posing as Mount, could return with fabricated orders from "his lady."
The very idea made his chest swell with pride.
Just the first phase of the plan—just the setup—already felt like a masterstroke. The same scholars who once scoffed at him, who dismissed him as a troublesome boy with no discipline, no future—they would never be able to conceive of something like this. They couldn't see the poetry in his methods.
******
With time ticking and opportunity freshly bought, Kyle turned to the next phase of his ploy—refinement.
First on the list: attune his voice to match that deep, rumbling baritone of the towering brute.Second: mimic his gait, posture, and that ridiculous swagger that seemed to shake the cobblestones beneath him.
Neither task was beyond Kyle's considerable skill set. He had, after all, impersonated dignitaries, court officials, even highborn ladies with silk-lined diction and dainty habits. Mimicking a towering, thick-necked lummox of a guard was almost beneath him in comparison. The trickier part—the real challenge—was not the voice or the posture.
It was the sheer, unreasonable size.
The illusion ring had never been designed for perfect impersonation. It was a tool of deception, not replication. Stretching the illusion to match Mount's sheer bulk—those tree-trunk limbs and mountainous shoulders—would be a mental strain. The moment Kyle reached too far, his body would scream under the illusion's weight, his concentration fraying with every second. And gods forbid something unexpected happened to delay the plan—the risk of the illusion unraveling mid-act would spike.
But did that stop him?
Hardly.
What's a plan, he mused with a grin, without a few loopholes and risks baked into the crust?
He pushed forward anyway.
From the safety of his alleyway haven, Kyle began practicing. He muttered in that gravel-thick voice, cracking and adjusting, deepening and flattening, each attempt sounding more like a beast than a man. He stomped a few paces, shoulders puffed and chin angled, attempting to capture the full brute-like arrogance of Mount's stride.
On more than one occasion, a soft snort escaped him. Then a chuckle. Then a low, stifled laugh.
Why in all the realms, he thought, do these mountain-sized fools always walk like kings with invisible crowns? As if the very earth were honored to be trampled beneath their boots.
Still, he kept at it. Over and over. The voice. The walk. The presence.
Because soon, Kyle wouldn't just be impersonating a man.
He would be him—if only long enough to pull the wool over thirty guards and steal back what was his.
*******
Before long, the fleeting window of borrowed time slammed shut.
Kyle slipped further away from the dock, darting rapidly through the winding alleys of the city. He reemerged once more on the path Mount had followed earlier as he left.
No longer Kyle.
But Mount, loyal brute and bodyguard to Princess Mira of the Blue Pearl Empire.
The illusion ring, pushed to its ragged limits, bore down on his mind like a storm cloud made of iron. His concentration teetered on the brink. His muscles burned from phantom strain, his breathing tight and shallow beneath the weight of maintaining such a gargantuan form.
And yet, his steps never wavered.
What's a man without grit? he reminded himself, teeth clenched and heart steady. A husk. A ghost. A coward.
So he walked—no, he strode—back into Dock E with the confidence of a man who belonged there. His chest out, head high, expression as hard and impassive as the steel that lined the docks.
The Eye of Misfortune pulsed with a soft, angry red behind his illusion—shimmering faintly, a storm on the horizon. But Kyle ignored it.
Let it burn, he thought.
Just as expected, the guards—tense and razor-alert—moved swiftly to intercept him. Eyes narrowed. Hands brushed hilts. Confusion cut across their expressions like jagged lines.
Why's he back already? their body language all but screamed.
But Kyle, ever the wordsmith, the silver-tongued phantom, struck first.
"Important message to the chief docking officer—from her ladyship!" he barked, his voice grating and cold, perfectly grumbled to match the brute's unrefined tone.
He didn't give them time to think. Didn't allow doubt a single breath.
He kept the words intentionally vague, carefully structured: her ladyship—a term dripping with ambiguous power. He didn't need to know the woman's actual title; they would assume he did. And no one questioned someone who invoked nobility with such casual authority.
Besides, the message was going up the chain—from someone above them to someone above them. Questioning him now would risk overstepping their station and insulting not one, but two superiors.
And so, like dominos collapsing under the weight of their own uncertainty, the wall of guards faltered.
They parted—reluctant but obedient, eyes averted, hands withdrawn from hilts. Kyle—no, Mount—walked through them as though the dock had been built solely to accommodate his stride. Beneath the illusion, his grin stretched ear to ear, hidden but hungry.
This, he thought, savoring every heartbeat, this is the art of the word. The blade that never dulls.
His arrogance inflated with every step. Pride bloomed in his chest like wildfire through dry fields.
And oh, how amusing it all was.