Gunmage
Chapter 95: Unseen eyes

Chapter 95: Chapter 95: Unseen eyes

Somewhere in Lindhollow, Selene didn’t see the face, but she heard the voice. A strange, disjointed voice that sounded like it belonged to a chorus of people speaking at once.

The person seated across from her wore no mask, yet their features remained utterly indiscernible. Not even gender could be inferred.

Just like Emrys, this figure was one of the Whispered.

Explaining the events that had unfolded was nerve-wracking. Selene wasn’t sure how they would react.

A full squad, including two of their strongest members, had been dispatched to exploit the chaos, only for all of them to end up dead.

A comical situation, no doubt.

"The research was a success. I know it,"

Selene insisted, eyes sharp.

"We just need to find those who survived and—"

"Selene."

The layered voice cut through her words like a blade.

"Finding the Ring of Nyx is our top priority. Without it, we stand to lose not just power and influence—but the very foundation of what we’ve built."

Selene bit her lip. The sting of humiliation still throbbed. She had suffered at the hands of those disgusting humans. Letting this slide was unthinkable.

"I could take a handful of mages,"

She offered,

"And infiltrate the enemy capital. Hunt down the survivors from Drakensmar. Quietly."

It was a solid idea. But it was shot down before it could root.

"No."

She blinked.

"What?"

"Ophris is not like Heieg."

A pause. Then:

"Pyrellis is... not safe at the moment."

For the first time, Selene could have sworn she heard fear woven into the otherwise soulless voice.

"This conversation is over."

...

While Lugh rode in the carriage, his eyes took in the world through the narrow slit between the curtains.

Outside, Pyrellis bustled with life.

Cobbled streets curved between towers of white stone, their façades brushed with silver and blue mosaics.

Priests in vermilion robes walked alongside smiths still dusted in soot, and children darted between vendor stalls overflowing with exotic fruits and brass trinkets.

The air held the scent of roasted chestnuts, stone, and incense.

Suddenly, his stepmother murmured,

"Oh,"

And began fishing through one of her velvet-lined drawers. She retrieved a small feminine veil of deep blue.

"Come here,"

She said, beckoning Lugh.

He slid forward in his seat, the movement unhurried.

Then she draped the veil over his head, letting it fall gracefully to obscure his features.

"What is this for?"

He asked.

"It won’t do any good if you’re seen in public."

"...Why?"

She hesitated.

"You don’t need to know that yet."

He leaned back, fingers toying with the embroidered veil. A faint floral perfume lingered on the fabric.

Subtle, refined, undeniably feminine.

"Is this yours?"

He asked.

"Yes."

"Why do I have to wear it?"

"You don’t need to know that yet,"

She repeated, in the exact same manner.

There was a beat of silence. Then—

"Does the veil belong to you?"

"Yes."

"Why am I wearing it?"

"Oh my god, Lugh, quit it."

"You haven’t answered my question"

"Fine!"

She sighed.

"Like I said, it’s because we can’t let the people outside see your face."

"But they’ve already seen my face."

"They didn’t know who you are,"

She countered, frustration peeking through as she explained.

"You’re in my personal carriage, with my procession. If anyone connects us, it could cause problems. Big ones."

"Problems?"

"Yes. Problems I can’t tell you about yet."

"I see."

To her great relief, he kept quiet after that.

...

In the shadowed corners of the street, a group of beggars lifted their heads, their sunken eyes tracking the procession with unnatural stillness.

Merchants hawking their wares paused to look, some whispering among themselves. This was the capital city, carriages of nobles weren’t rare, but something felt off.

Construction workers, painters, even bystanders on balconies momentarily stopped. The white city suddenly seemed saturated with unseen eyes.

At a quiet outdoor café, a man lounged lazily, sipping from a cup filled with a dark roast imported from the southern Highlands.

The clouds above thickened—rain was imminent, the café would close soon—but he wasn’t done yet.

"Any updates?"

he muttered, seemingly to no one, his eyes idly scanning the pages of a well-worn novel.

"The target appears to be heading to the church."

He nearly spat out his drink.

"The church?"

"Yes."

"Well, damn. Observe for now. Don’t get too close. No—stay as fucking far away from there as possible. There’s no rush."

The church loomed like an ancient sentinel, its obsidian towers flecked with veins of red crystal that pulsed faintly in the dimming light.

Gilded braziers lined the entrance, their flames dancing wildly.

Lugh and Isolde stepped down from the carriage. She wore an exquisite gown lined with golden embroidery, her heels clicking softly against the sanctified stone.

Lugh followed behind her, still veiled, in muted civilian clothes that did little to diminish the quiet mystery of his presence.

Their entrance did not go unnoticed.

Though the veil concealed his face, Lugh’s presence was magnetic. The acolytes, the guards, even common worshippers—all found their eyes drawn to him, curiosity flickering like moths to flame.

As they made their way down the walkway, Lugh’s attention settled on a solitary figure in the garden.

An old man stood under the shade of a flowering tree, his grey hair billowing down like white smoke, reaching all the way to his knees.

His hands, calloused and skilled, moved with delicate precision, trimming the bushes into perfect shapes. His gardening clothes were simple, stained by earth, yet nothing could suppress the noble aura that clung to him.

"Some people derive joy in volunteering,"

Isolde whispered quickly. She didn’t know why she felt the need to explain, perhaps it was nerves.

Lugh didn’t reply. He watched the old man, his gaze steady.

As if sensing the attention, the gardener looked up. Their eyes met.

The old man smiled and offered a nod. Lugh returned it, polite and brief.

That should have been the end of it.

But it wasn’t.

The man stood, doffed his gloves, and walked toward them, his movements unhurried, as if greeting an old friend. His gait, though aged, carried the grace of a lifelong dancer.

His smile broadened, and it was then that Isolde’s nerves snapped taut.

Her heel tapped the stone twice.

A signal.

The hidden guards around the courtyard tensed, blades half-drawn beneath their robes.

The man continued his approach, undeterred.

In one fluid, almost reverent motion—he shot his hand towards Lugh.